Page 26 of Point of Contact

Around him, men were rushing up, breathless, calling out.

“Who is it?”

“Is he alive?”

“It’s Patsy, oh my God.”

Then, “Get that fucking camera outta his face, bitch!”

Jesse looked up to see Silvera, who’d been Patterson’s closest friend, advancing threateningly on Kimi. Riley leaped to restrain him.

“Calm down, Sil,” Riley murmured in his ear, wrapping around him. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

“She get a good picture?” Silvera screamed, struggling to get free. “She get a good fuckin’ picture? Get that camera outta here! Get it out.” His voice trailed away as he sagged in Riley’s arms, sobs wrenching from his chest.

Kimi backed off, tears streaking her own ashen face, her eyes dark with emotion and the lingering remnants of horror.

The Apaches still swarmed angrily overhead, driving the Taliban back to their hidey-holes deep in the mountains. Someone laid a poncho liner gently over Patsy’s ruined face, and Silvera sank to his knees beside him, placing his hand on his shoulder.

“Rest easy, brother,” he whispered hoarsely. “Rest easy. We’ll finish this.”

“Hey, Doc!” one of the Scouts called out from the woods. “Got a live one here for ya.”

He and another member of his team came into view dragging a body between them, and they let him fall unceremoniously to the road. It was a young Taliban fighter.

“Where’s he hit?” Smitty called back, his voice hoarse.

“Fuck if I know,” the man said carelessly. “Saw pieces of his brain all over the place back there, so I’d guess head. He’s still breathing, though.”

The Scouts loped off, and Jesse glanced over at the enemy. He wasn’t much more than a teenager, skinny, with a little bit of peach fuzz on his upper lip and chin. The top of his head was a red, gelatinous mush, and every few seconds his chest jerked up and down with wet-sounding, labored breaths.

Smitty sat and finished his cigarette before walking over to the body to stare down at him for long minutes. The agonal breathing continued, and finally Smitty knelt and wrapped a length of gauze loosely around his ruined head.

“Goin’ to see if the other medics need any help,” he muttered, grabbing his medical pack, shouldering his weapon and striding back toward the main conflict area. Riley followed him, so Jesse sat next to Patterson’s body, keeping watch over it, the dying Taliban in his peripheral vision. Soldiers walked around the wounded boy, every now and then prodding his leg with their boot.

The breathing grew more labored, with a horrifying sucking sound to it, and at last the body twitched violently two or three times and went still.

Smitty returned clutching a black body bag, and Jesse helped him zip Patterson into it. When they were through, Silvera appeared to help Smitty bear him gently away.

Jesse gathered up Patterson’s bloody ammo belt and slung it over his shoulder, along with his ruck. Just as he climbed over the rock wall, the man in the road twitched again, his chest heaving with another long, gasping breath. Nausea welled up in Jesse’s throat, and he doubled over. He didn’t have anything in his stomach, but clear, acidic bile burned its way up to splatter at his feet. When the spasms stopped, the tears started.

Suddenly Riley was there, slipping his arm around his shoulders. “Gotcha, buddy. Come on, brother. I got you.” He was solid and warm against Jesse’s side. Jesse clung to him, soaking up the comfort he offered as the adrenaline of the firefight leached away, leaving him weak.

“God, Riles,” he choked. “Oh, my God. What the hell are we doing here?”

Riley tightened his arm. “I don’t know, Jess.”

“This fuckin’ Valley. It’s not gonna let us leave here alive, is it?”

Riley didn’t reply as they stumbled down the path toward the rest of their platoon, leaving the enemy to finish dying alone.

* * *

“Hero Flight on station in forty minutes.” Lieutenant Farrell’s voice was quiet, subdued, as he addressed the group slumped outside the command post. Nobody spoke, although there were a couple of jerky nods in acknowledgment. “It’ll be a hot landing, so we won’t have a chance to do final respects the way we normally would.” Farrell took a deep breath and blew it out, the picture of weariness. “So we’ll do it now.”

Again, nobody spoke, but at last Silvera pushed away from the wall he was leaning against, squared his shoulders, and with ramrod straight posture, slow-walked to where Patterson lay in his body bag. Not wanting to just set him on the ground, someone had dragged several ammo crates out, arranged them together and made a sort of bier for him.

Silvera rendered a crisp, perfect salute and reached down to touch the edge of the bag, his shoulders drooping as he said his goodbyes to his friend. After that, each man took their turn, saluting their fallen brother and saying their farewells. By the time it was done, the beating of the rotor blades could be heard in the distance. Silvera and five other men arranged themselves as pallbearers, three on each side of Patterson.