“I beg you take courage; the brave soul can mend even disaster.”
-Catherine II
It took only a few seconds to determine that there was no one left after the explosion. As soon as the noise from the Thunderbolt dissipated, he ordered his squad to move up by the numbers. Two by two and all together, they emerged from their tentative cover and worked their way up what used to be the entrance of the hospital. And not a single shot was fired in their direction.
“Looks like we got em all,” said Rickson once they were standing aside the large crater that once a road.
Braun examined the crater, then the front end of the hospital. In spite of the sickly feeling he had coming over him, he nodded his agreement. It was a pretty grim appraisal, but he couldn’t deny it. The enemy was now gone. The air run had blown the entire enemy platoon, its vehicles, and its weapon emplacements to hell.
As far as their orders were concerned, they had done their job. The hospital and its defenders were now relieved. Now all they needed to do was determine if any of them were left, and whether or not First Platoon was responsible.
He looked to his left and spied First Squad emerging from the tree cover. Whitman and Majorca were standing in front, weapons hanging from their sides and grim expressions on their faces. Behind them, the others appeared to be doing their best to get Saunders back on her feet. But at the moment, her head was buried between her knees, her body looking like it was going through a case of dry heaves.
He looked quickly back to Rickson.
“Sergeant, you’ve got Fourth Squad. Grayson, on me.”
“Sir!” Grayson bellowed and fell in behind him. Braun waisted little time in getting over to where First was standing. Between assisting their NCO and the devestation before them, they barely took note of his approach.
“Whitman, Majorca! What the hell happened here?”
Whitman didn’t respond. His rifle fell to the ground and he placed both hands on his helmet, eyes looking they might burst forth with tears at any moment. Majorca seemed to hear him and tried to fathom a response.
“We must have fucked up, sir. Missiles took out the enemy line, but then the whole goddamned front end went up.”
“Private, are you saying you lazed the front end of the hospital?”
Majorca turned white. He looked down at his feet and shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. But I don’t see any other explanation.”
That seemed to catch Whitman’s attention. Turning around, he started throwing rebuttals at Majorca, Braun, and anyone else on the scene.
“Hey, no way we’re fucking responsible for this, man! We did our job and sighted for those missiles just fine! How we do we know it wasn’t you’re platoon, sir. You were sighting from the other side. You could have lazed the building way more easily than us!”
“Wait just a damn minute there, Private!” said Grayson from Braun’s side.
“And what that fucking flyboy! They’re always dropping bombs where they aint supposed to!”
Grayson’s face went red and he raised his voice another few octaves. Things quickly degenerated into a shouting match between the two of them with Majorca trying to intervene. Within seconds, even he was shouting, pleading that they didn’t mean to while Whitman continued to insist that someone else was to blame. Things looked about ready to come to blows when Braun looked over at Saunders and saw her sitting on the hood, looking paler and sicker than anyone.
“Shut the fuck up!” he yelled. Grayson was the first to respond, followed quickly by Majorca, and more slowly, Whitman. Braun looked back to Saunders and ran to her side. He addressed those standing around her in haste. “Gentlemen, what’s the status of your NCO here?”
“Not good,” said Morris. “We think she’s got a concussion for sure. She’s passing in and out of consciousness.”
Braun felt another wave of that sickly feeling pass over him. She was barely able to stay awake, but had been pushing through regardless. In the heat of things, how easy would it have been for her to accidentally bring her sights off target and aim for the civilian structure instead?
No, he told himself angrily. This is your fault. You should have seen it. You should have pulled her from the line. What the fuck is the matter with you?!
Saunders took note of his presence and began muttering quietly. “Sir… sir, I… I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said, reaching under her helmet to undo the strap. He removed his right glove and placed it to her cheek, a gesture which might have seemed a little too tender were he able to give a shit about that right now. “This isn’t your squads fault, Sergeant. Don’t know what happened here, but I swear, this isn’t on you.”
She seemed to be taking that well, though right now he could tell she was barely able to register anything. Mainly, she was just trying to keep from passing out. He kept talking, uttering every comforting thing he could think of.
“We’re gonna figure this out. We’re gonna take care of this. We’re gonna get help too. We’re safe now, we can get you checked out and squared away.”
He could see tears forming. Her eyes lost the distant look in them and came to focus on him.
“Marshall…”
He didn’t flinch at the sound of his first name being used. It sounded warm and lovely to his ears right now. “Yes?”
She said something then, something he couldn’t quite make out. It was either something incoherent, or it was “I love you”. Given what she did next, he had little reason to doubt it was the latter. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to his, and then fell back against the hood.
“Saunders!” he yelled, hands scrambling to break her fall. He failed, and then moved to scoop her up as quick as he could. Next thing anyone knew, he had her head cradled in the nook one arm and her knees in the other. He spun around and began yelling in the direction of the hospital.
“Help!” he was yelling at the broken facade. “Help! We need help down here!”
He ran for several meters, approaching the broken front and spying the many floors that were now exposed to outside world. He was barely aware of the bootsteps that were following him. In addition to Grayson, just about every member of First Squad was following him from behind.
“Anybody in there?” he continued. “We need a medic! We need help down here!”
“Sir!” Grayson yelled to him. “We don’t know if anyone’s alive in there, sir. Hell, there might even be some enemy in there.”
“Fuck that. The Sarge needs help!” replied Whitman, cupping his hands to his mouth. “Hey up there! We need a doctor! Anybody alive in there?!”
From the edge of the first floor that was visible amidst the rubble, a figure stepped forward. Everyone who had their rifle handy trained on him when it became clear he was armed. His was covered in a thick layer of dust, an M4 hanging down by his side. And when he turned, they could see something going on with his left arm. Where his hand should have been, some weird metal glove dangled instead. It’s fingers looking like something robotic and menacing.
“Who are you?” yelled Greyson. “Identify yourself.”
The dusty figure laughed. “What’s the matter, LT? Has it really been so long, you don’t recognize me no more?”
Braun felt a new wave pass over him, this one warm and reassuring. “Aaron?”
Dezba smiled. He quickly lost it when he noticed Saunders hanging in his arms. “Shit! Is that – “
“Yes!” Braun replied. “She’s out and needs a doc! You got one in there still?”
“Plenty!” he replied, issuing them on. “But I’d be careful. They’re some pissed right now. Especially the one in charge!”
