Chapter 51
Derek lay face down on the table, covered with a clean, white sheet, which Yusuf had provided. The young man had found a fully stocked supply room, adjoining a barracks-like room with rows of bunk beds, empty footlockers, and a communal lavatory.
"Very definitely U.S.S.R. government issue.... Looks like the quartermaster's stores," Ginge had declared, after having hobbled down to see if there was anything else they could use for the coming surgery and recovery. "One thing's for sure... they didn't leave in a hurry. Everything's ship-shape in Bristol fashion... spare uniforms, undies, boots, blankets, anything ol' Vladimir might need.... Even in the mess hall, every single chair turned over on the table tops and the old piano is draped in plastic... like the place is closed up for the night. My guess is that they had limited transport, which is why they left anything at all."
Nick stood at the sink, scrubbing his hands, nodding, barely listening to the Brit's chatter. His mind was elsewhere. He smiled reassuringly at the precept. "We'll get this over real quick.... Bet you'll have one hell of a hangover."
Derek offered them all an inane grin that extended to bleary eyes. A warm sensation of well-being was spreading outward from his stomach. "Piano?" he mumbled.
"Yeah... an old upright," Ginge said over his shoulder.
Yusuf nervously paced back and forth, watching the corporal's inspection of the surgical instruments. Did the Englishman even know what they were for, he wondered. He was well aware of the torture those devices of healing could inflict.
"OK." Ginge turned to the Afghan and spoke quickly, then nodded to Nick. "You and Yusuf hold him still."
Nick braced himself between the sink and the table, while Yusuf positioned himself on the other side, ready to throw himself across the older man's legs if need be. Both gripped his arms firmly, prepared to use their weight to hold his shoulders down. The SEAL met Ginge's eyes and nodded.
Picking up a pair of forceps, the SAS man went for the largest of the puncture wounds. The metal fragment was clearly visible. He inserted the probe, gripped the object, and moved it slightly.
Derek shifted uncomfortably. A loud groan escaped from between clinched teeth. When the Brit pulled the jagged metal free in a single, swift motion, the precept muttered a vehement protest in Dutch. Ginge suppressed a grin. Despite his gentlemanly bearing, Da'reek Raheen could have the mouth of a sailor.
The Brit squeezed the edges of the wound to encourage bleeding, then poured the antiseptic straight from the bottle. Again, Derek groaned and gritted his teeth. The table shook as his body trembled with the pain. The wound was quickly covered with a sterile, gauze pad, taped loosely in place.
"One down... not so bad," Nick encouraged, releasing his hold for a moment. "You want another drink?"
"Might be a good idea," Ginge recommended. " This one looks nasty.... I can't see the shrapnel.... It's buried deep...."
Derek sat up with Nick's help. He swayed backwards, but Yusuf held him tightly, while Ginge produced the bottle. "Sssgoot...," Derek announced, trying to focus on the vodka in front of him. He reached for the bottle, but missed and grabbed only vacant air.
"You're well pissed," Ginge laughed, helping the precept to take another swig
"Nooo...," Derek disagreed. "'S... fine... not fissed... not pissed," he corrected himself.
"Sure," Nick agreed, as he helped his friend to lie back down. He met Ginge's eye. "Do it now."
Ginge hunkered down and gave the precept a rolled cloth to place between his teeth. "Bite on this... if the pain gets too much," he advised.
"Here we go." He pulled at the lips of the wound. Fresh, crimson blood oozed forth. He wiped the flow away, took the forceps, and began to probe.
Derek stiffened. His hands and arms shook as he clutched the SEAL's wrists. He groaned and tried to move, but Nick and Yusuf fought to hold him.
Ginge continued to dig into the raw, open gash. "For Chrissake, keep him still!" he snapped at the others. "Bloody 'ell!... I can't see anything.... Where the fuck is it?"
Derek bit down hard on the cloth. He forced his trembling body to lie still, but was unable to suppress a muffled scream of pain.
"Shhhh... I know." The SEAL held tightly, watching as Ginge continued to dig into the thick muscle. They could all see the white bone that was the edge of the shoulder blade. "Jesus!... Hurry up!"
The soldier frantically wiped at the freely flowing blood. "I'm trying," he growled back. "It hit the edge of the scapula, chipped it, and went in deeper. He extracted a small, white fragment and wiped it off the forceps onto the sheet.
At last, Nick felt his friend's body go limp. "He's passed out."
"Thank God." The SAS man swiped at his brow with his sleeve. "Indy... I can't find it.... Maybe we'll have to cut him. It might have gone in deeper than we thought.... Son-of-a-bitch!" he swore. "These shoulder muscles are loaded with nerves, but I've no idea what the fuck they're s'posed to look like."
"Jesus...," Nick repeated. "Let me try.... You hold him." Nick took the forceps in a shaking hand. He paused a moment for focus, steadied himself, then pulled the wound open. "It'll be OK.... Boss.... Promise," he spoke to the unconscious form.
Suddenly, Yusuf cried out in alarm and ran to the corner, where they had dumped their wet coats in a heap on the floor. In a static moment, the two soldiers watched in amazement as he frantically beat out a small fire of bright blue and scarlet flames that danced in the air above their discarded clothing.
"What the hell?" Ginge threw the remains of the bowl of water over the small blaze. "How'd that start?... We didn't spill any alcohol, did we?... That's what it looked like.... You know... like when a waiter lights up the booze on a Crepe Suzette."
Yusuf examined the clothing, then shook his head in absolute confusion. "Nothing seems burnt," he informed the SAS man.
"Short circuit?" Nick lamely suggested, knowing in his mind that the fire had another explanation... one less rational... one the hard-headed Brit would probably never accept.
As the SEAL turned back to the task at hand, the room once more grew silent. At last, he said, "I see it.... Ginge... help me." He stretched the wound as wide as he could, then instructed, "Hold this open." He then dug around the coarse muscle, wincing at the injury he was doing his friend. "Got it!... Thank God." Nick dropped the chunk of metal, which clinked onto the concrete floor.
Still holding the wound open, Ginge studied it closely. "Indy... we better flush this one out real good.... Those hunks of metal probably took a lotta crap in with 'em.... I see a bit of fuzz from in there from his clothes.... Get that out."
Nick took the tweezers and plucked out the tiny thread. "Wish we had one of those magnifying glasses with light all around it.... You know... like what dentists and gynecologists use."
"How do you know what gynecologists use?"
"OK... what guys that build boats in bottles use," Nick revised, as he squeezed the wound to get the blood flowing. "What's this?" he asked, pointing to a small, dark lump along the edge of Derek's left shoulder blade. "Doesn't look like shrapnel."
"Dunno," said Ginge, looking closely. "Looks like a little growth... maybe a mole."
"Didn't used to be there," Nick said, recalling how familiar he'd become with the precept's body during his coma.
"Maybe he needs to get it checked when we get outta here.... A new, dark, odd sort of mole.... Gotta be careful.... Let's roll him on his side," he said. Afterwards, he poured half the bottle of antiseptic into the gash. The tinted liquid flowed through the wound and onto the table. Yusuf quickly mopped it up.
"We'd better stitch it up... the other one too.... You want to do it... or you want me to?" Ginge asked.
"You're the seamstress," said the SEAL. "What about his head?"
Ginge stooped down to examine the cut just below Derek's scalp line. "I think tape'll do it.... Don't want to leave a scar... poor bastard's got enough of 'em.... While he's out, we'll can doctor these other cuts, change the dressing on his arm, and take a look at his hip."
The two men traded places. While Ginge stitched, Nick unwrapped the bandage around Derek's arm.
* * *
A few minutes later, the SEAL knelt by his friend's limp body, took his wrist to check his pulse, and held on. "Strong, even pulse," he told the others. "Boss?..." he called softly. "It's over.... Derek...."
The heavy lids slowly opened. Nick withheld a smile as hazel eyes struggled to focus. "Nick?..." the precept murmured. "Nick... s'done?..."
"Yeah.... All done.... How do you feel?"
A smile curled the older man's lips. "Fine," he announced with a slur. "Little dizzy.... Must be blood loss...." He struggled to sit up, while Yusuf and the SEAL supported him.
"Nothin' to do with half a bottle of vodka on an empty stomach?" Ginge asked, straight-faced.
Derek tilted his head in acceptance and reached up to touch the taped gash on his brow. "Just a little... maybe.... Gotta ssssleep."
"Where do you want to go, Boss?" Nick asked. "There's a couple of beds here, in the next room.... Sick bay type beds.... Or do you want a regular bed in one of the dorm rooms down the hall?"
"Not here," Derek said firmly. "Real bed... please... not hos...pi...tal."
"'K, Boss.... You got it... a real bed," Nick agreed. "You can get some rest, while we do a recon of the joint." He and Yusuf slipped under each arm and eased Derek off the table. Together they walked down the dimly lit corridor.
Ginge limped ahead to throw open the door of an austere room. "This is the luxury suite," the SAS corporal announced. "Must've been the directors'... or the party officials'. You got your own bog." He indicated a door leading to a small bathroom.
The austere room reminded Nick of Derek's room in Wells Ward, although this one was more humanly furnished with two beds, a couple of dingy, overstuffed armchairs, and a desk with a multitude of cigarette burns upon its surface.
"We all need rest," said Derek, to emphasize his point, he gripped Nick's arm as they steered him onto a chair. "You all need sleep," he insisted, refusing to let go. "You're dead on your feet."
"We gotta make a thorough recon.... See if our 'nasties' are here... or anything else," Nick responded.
"No!" the precept objected. "We all need our strength.... Whatever's here has been here for fifteen years.... Another few days won't matter."
"What about your 'friend' and the choppers?" Ginge asked.
"Kincaid?... He'll keep." Derek looked closely at the two soldiers, and the young man beside them. He struggled to clear his mind... to convince them. "I know you have a mission.... You won't complete it in this state.... Remember your training.... Rest can be as effective a weapon as endurance, speed, or strength.... The storm outside will keep the choppers grounded.... No one knows about this place.... We have enough supplies for a few days.... We're safe.... We have some time.... Take advantage of it.... Rest.... Rest for three days.... Heal.... Rebuild your strength.... Then we'll be able to comb this place twice as fast"
"Sounds right," Ginge agreed. "We can't afford another cock up."
"Nick?"
"Yeah.... OK...." The SEAL shuffled his feet uncomfortably and stared at the floor.
"Nick...." Derek repeated, reading the rebellion in his friend's face. "Please... three days."
The young man nodded... finally accepting the request reluctantly. It would at least give him the opportunity to keep an eye on Derek. "OK," he sighed. "I'll bunk down with you... if you don't mind sharing?"
Derek watched while the three men stripped the beds of their plastic sheeting, then laid out the blankets and pillows that Yusuf had found. "Ginge," he said, "ask Yusuf to see to the horses.... We've got some fodder... but it's not enough...." His voice wearily trailed away. They might have to consider shooting the animals. He hated the thought, but if they turned them loose, would they starve... or find their way home... or find their way back into the minefield?
"Sufficient onto the day... Rayne," he lectured himself. That will keep. You have a few days. You need sleep. Your mind's muddled... not as sharp as it should be... and it's not just the wound and the vodka.
Nick waited until the precept had fallen into a deep sleep. He found the gentle snores reassuring. After listening to their even rhythm for a while, he went in search of Ginge and Yusuf... to make sure they were OK. He found the Brit in the next room, sitting on a bed, still shrouded in plastic. The red head drooped, as the soldier slept.
"Ginge," he called. "Ginge!" He gently shook the other man's shoulder.
"Mmmm...," the SAS man murmured, then dragged himself awake. "Indy.... Everything OK?"
"Yeah...." Nick glanced around. "Yusuf?"
"He's a busy, little bugger, isn't he?" Ginge smiled. "I must've dozed off again.... He said he was gonna check the horses... then check on Da'reek Raheen.... After that he'd make us some tea... and something to eat."
"OK... so we come after the horses... and after Da'reek." Nick managed a grin. "'Bout right."
"How's he doin'?" the Brit asked.
"Sleeping.... He's still feverish.... I don't like that," Nick said. A worried frown crossed his face, but he shook off the anxiety. "Come on.... Let's get these beds ready." They removed the plastic, shook open the blankets and sheets, and made the two beds. "God.... It looks good, doesn't it?" he sighed, as he fluffed a pillow.
The door opened and Yusuf entered carrying two precariously balanced cups, along with plates of steaming stew and rice. He spoke quickly to Ginge, left the food for them, and hurried away.
"He's gone to sit with Da'reek." Ginge grinned. "Your Derek has something about 'im, doesn't he?"
The SEAL crinkled his brow in puzzlement.
"Come on... Indy.... You'd obviously walk through fire for 'im.... He gives orders like a natural.... He didn't get those scars in a library... or pissing away Daddy's money.... I know battle scars when I see 'em... the chest... the shoulder... the ribs... and he sure as 'ell don't belong in a looney bin.... He's good.... Bloody hell!... He got here... overland... then took out 'Nelson'."
Nick smiled and looked down at the floor for a moment. Was he that transparent, he wondered. "He's one of a kind.... That's for sure. He's the one you should call 'Indy'.... The things he's done... the adventures he's had.... I think George Lucas borrowed his life... and turned it into a movie.... Shit!.. He's even got the hat and a leather coat, but he prefers swords and crossbows to bullwhips.... But despite all that dough, it's been a hard life.... His choice... says it's his destiny.... It can be pretty deep, scary stuff, if you let it get to you."
The SEAL paused.... That sounded too much like a eulogy.... He wasn't ready for that... not now that he had Derek back again. "He's no saint.... Sometimes I could deck him.... He's an arrogant son-of-a-bitch.... I'm his Security Officer.... He's even called me his right hand... but he keeps me in the dark.... Keeps us all in the dark.... Pulls crap on me.... Makes me feel downright stupid.... He takes crazy risks... with his own life... and other people's!"
Nodding, Ginge saw the real affection, behind the words. "Yeah.... Well, there's obviously stuff you aren't tellin' me... 'bout what the hell you guys do. You're arse deep in something.... Fair 'nuff.... I know about secrecy... the need-to-know principle.... I judge as I find... and I find 'im a top bloke."
Nick patted the SAS man on the back, steered him back to the bed, and placed a
plate in his hand. "Let's eat and get some sleep," he said. "We're gonna be busy.... Your
'top bloke' will see to that.... God willing."
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