A second Black Hawk appeared, the gunner hanging out the side, firing into an area fifty yards to the left of where the SEAL team hunkered down.
The gunner in the backup helicopter unloaded hell on the source of the RPG that had taken out the first aircraft.
Soon, the second chopper lowered to the ground near, but not too near, where the other had crashed.
“Move! Move! Move!” Collins yelled into Maurice’s ear. “We’re outnumbered ten to one, and they have RPGS.”
Maurice rose, pulled his charge over his shoulder and ran toward the helicopter as it touched ground.
“Collin’s hit!” Scott yelled into Maurice’s headset.
“Can you get him to the chopper?” Maurice barked into his mic.
“Got him,” Scott grunted. “Son of a bitch is heavy as fuck. But I got him.”
“I’m almost there. Tingle and Rusty, cover and get your asses to the bird.”
Maurice ducked as low as he could as he approached the Black Hawk’s whirling rotors.
The gunner, hanging halfway out of the door, watched for the rest of the team.
Maurice lowered the soldier onto the floor of the helicopter and looked up into the face of the medic. His heart sank deep into his gut. Anger rose quickly to follow. “God damn it, Sandy. What the hell are you doing here? Jordan was supposed to cover this mission.”
“He fell and broke his hand on his way to the chopper. Someone had to take his place. I was there. I came.” She helped him drag the soldier deeper into the helicopter.
“Got another incoming,” Maurice said and turned to help Perez load the injured soldier into the aircraft.
The gunner jerked the machine gun around and fired rounds over the heads of the rest of the team racing for the Black Hawk.
Once the soldier was in, Sandy moved to check for a pulse.
Maurice spun around and added his firepower to the gunner’s, shooting over the heads of his teammates at the Taliban soldiers pouring out of the edge of the village.
Scott lumbered toward the chopper, carrying Collins. Tingle and Rusty close behind, backs to the chopper, firing at the enemy.
Maurice met Scott halfway. Between the two men, they slid Collins onto the floor of the aircraft.
Sandy went to work on Collins, applying pressure to the wound on his thigh.
The gunner aimed the full force of the M240A machine gun at the enemy while Maurice and Scott helped Tingle and Rusty aboard and jumped in after.
Maurice was barely inside when the Black Hawk rose from the ground, rocking with a sudden wind shear.
Sandy knelt beside Collins in the doorway, ripped open the medical bag and pulled out a saline IV bag. “Hold this!” she yelled over the roar of the engine, rotors and the blasts of the machine gun.
Maurice moved past her to give her room, hooked his hand in a cargo strap to stabilize, then grabbed the saline bag and held it while Sandy eased a needle into Collins’s arm with quiet, determined efficiency. Calm, focused and good at what she did. That was Sandy. She didn’t unravel in the heat of battle.
God, he loved her.
“Incoming!” the gunner yelled.
A flash erupted outside the open door, shooting sparks like a magnesium fire. The force of the explosion rocked the helicopter, immediately followed by a thick white cloud rushing into the craft along with the sound of something, not shrapnel, pelting the metal sides of the fuselage.
The scent of garlic, chemicals and burning hair assailed Maurice’s nostrils.
Sandy jerked, her back arching violently. She screamed as a flash of fire rose from the back of her helmet.
The Black Hawk lurched sideways.
