Masters at Arms - By Kallypso Masters Page 0,53
You’re at it, get the rest of my units the fuck out of Fallujah in one piece.
* * *
“Orlando?”
Marc’s throat was raw. His chest burned as if a fire-breathing dragon had taken up residence there. The nurse looked down at him with a puzzled look on her face.
“What, sweetie?”
“How’s Orlando?”
“I don’t think we have a patient here by that name, but I’ll check when I get back to the desk. Maybe he’s already been taken to Ramstein.” She put the blood-pressure cuff around his arm and inflated it. When he opened his mouth to ask another question, she admonished, “Don’t talk.” After she recorded the information in the chart, she said, “You’ll probably be heading to Germany yourself in a few days. We’re just waiting for your lung to re-expand fully before we fly you out.”
Pneumothorax. That explained why his chest hurt so badly. He didn’t remember anything other than trying to stabilize Orlando. The nurse stuck a thermometer under his tongue. Marc closed his eyes. Keeping them open required more energy than he could muster. Why was he so damned tired?
“Your master sergeant came by to visit earlier. I told him you’d probably be up to having visitors tomorrow.”
Marc didn’t even know where “here” was. Must be the CSH in Fallujah, if Montague was here. His eyelids grew so heavy he didn’t try to open them again, even after she pulled the thermometer out of his mouth.
“Temperatures up a little.” The nurse patted his forearm. “That’s right, sweetie. You just get some sleep and let your body heal. A hemo-pneumothorax isn’t anything to mess with.”
Hemo, too? Blood in the lungs. Shit.
When he awoke again, the room was dark. Marc knew he wasn’t alone, but didn’t know who sat in the corner until he heard him speak.
“’Bout time you woke up.” Master Sergeant Montague moved his chair closer to Marc’s bed.
Marc smiled. “Getting lazy in my old age, sir.” His voice sounded raspy and weak.
Montague grunted. “Don’t tell me about old.” Marc looked at his top sergeant and thought he did look older than the last time he’d seen him. Dark circles under the man’s eyes told of sleepless nights. Worry. Or worse.
Miller. Oh, Dio, they’d lost Miller. But what about Orlando? The others? Had anyone else died? Is that why the master sergeant had come to visit him personally? Marc couldn’t form the words to ask.
“How you feeling?”
Marc shrugged. His chest didn’t burn as much as it had earlier.
“You’ve been out of it a couple days. Quite a fever. They said they’ll keep you here until they know there’s no more infection.”
Marc nodded. Even that small exertion made him tired. He tried to take a deep breath, but couldn’t quite fill his lungs. He closed his eyes and took several shallow breaths, fighting the panic over feeling smothered all the time. Why didn’t the Top tell him about Orlando? Had the kid made it?
Christ, he had to know. “How’s Orlando?” he whispered.
Montague ran a hand through his hair. Marc’s heart hammered against his chest, reigniting the fire. Oh, Dio, no! He took several more shallow breaths, trying to regulate his heartbeat and relieve the stress on his heart and lungs. Was he ready to hear the words he’d been dreading since he’d come to?
“I should have said something sooner. I’m sorry. They couldn’t reattach the foot.”
The breath Marc had held whooshed out, releasing some of the burning from his chest. “He’s alive?”
Montague’s eyes opened wider in surprise. “Oh, hell, yeah, Doc. Shit. I thought you knew that much.”
As best he could, Marc breathed a sigh of relief.
“You did great work. You always do. Grant told me you shielded Orlando and took the brunt of the mortar attack yourself.”
Marc looked away. If someone had told him a year ago he’d have been prepared to lay down his life for another, he’d have said they were crazy. But for the first time in his life, with this small band of Marines, he felt a part of something so much bigger than himself. A noble cause. A desire to think of his buddies before himself.
The master sergeant looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know why I didn’t make the connection sooner. You’re Gino D’Alessio’s brother.”
“Yeah.” Marc had been wanting to ask Montague about him since before they deployed, but there never had been an opportunity.
Fire burned the backs of Marc’s eyes. He closed the lids before he embarrassed himself. He’d always wanted to know the details about