Taking Fire. Lindsay McKenna

was extraordinary. No human voices. Chances were, the Taliban retreated back to that rock fort and were making tea and eating. Probably arguing like hell among one another for their major losses this evening. She grinned.

      Once more on familiar territory, five miles down the slope, Khat guided her horse into a group of thick bushes and trees. The horse pushed through the vegetation, coming to a halt at the entrance to a large cave. Khat dismounted, walking in front of the mare, her hand on her .45 pistol. This was one of her safe caves, but she never, ever took for granted that the Taliban wouldn’t find it someday. Worse, make camp in it. The mare’s small feet moved through the fine silt dirt on the cave floor.

      Turning to the right, Khat walked half a mile, went into another cave and through it. Her NVGs no longer worked when a cave was completely black. She halted, pulled them off her eyes, switched them off and reached into her cammie pocket. Flicking on a laser flashlight, the whole area lit up.

      They were safe now, and she breathed a small sigh of relief. Making a few more turns, at least half a mile deep within the mountain, Khat finally came to the pool cave. She heard the musical sounds of the twenty-foot waterfall. Water. Even Mina picked up her pace. She was thirsty. So was Khat.

      Once inside the last tunnel, she could see the small pool of water and the waterfall above it. Khat dropped Mina’s reins. Grabbing a kerosene lamp, she picked up a box of matches and lit it. The warm yellow glow highlighted a twenty-foot radius. Moving to the other side of the tunnel, she pulled out a sleeping bag and laid it out on the floor. Grabbing two other blankets, she quickly rolled them up. One for the SEAL’s neck and the other for beneath his knees. She grabbed her paramedic ruck, opening it up and placing it next to the sleeping bag. Pulling out a pair of latex gloves, she also retrieved a bottle of sterilized water.

      Moving quickly to the SEAL, he was close enough that if she angled him just right, he might fall directly onto the sleeping bag.

      Hooking him beneath the armpits, Khat pulled. He slid off a lot faster than she was prepared for, and she just about had him fall on her. Using her arms, Khat turned him over as his legs slid off the saddle. Breathing hard, she positioned him on the bedroll. By the time she got him on it, Khat was huffing.

      For the first time, she got a good look at the SEAL. He had a square face, strong chin and a nose that looked like it had been broken at least once. She liked his mouth. Even unconscious, it was well shaped, the lower lip a little fuller than the upper one. His brows were straight across his well-spaced eyes.

      Taking a battle dressing, she wet it and began to blot away the congealed blood at his temple. He had taken a terrific concussion wave from that RPG exploding so close to him.

      For fifteen minutes, she cleaned the wound. There was swelling, but not massive, which was good. A cut at least two inches long was the culprit—a scalp wound, and they were notorious for heavy bleeding. In no time, Khat had the cut stitched up and closed. Rubbing antibiotic ointment on the dressing, she gently pressed it against the wound and wrapped gauze firmly around his head to keep it in place as well as clean.

      Quickly, she started from his neck down to his feet, feeling, squeezing, gently moving his other joints to see if anything was broken. When she moved her hands to his lower forearm, even in unconsciousness, he jerked. Brows dipping, Khat used scissors to cut open his sleeve. Grimacing, she saw a bone pushing up. It had not come through his sun-darkened skin, but it was a bad break.

      Turning to her medical bag, she pulled out a bottle of morphine and a syringe. The only thing to do was give him just enough morphine to dull the bone setting she would have to perform. With head injuries, morphine had to be used very carefully.

      Cutting the sleeve to his shoulder, she pulled it open and administered the shot. Watching his face, she saw his features begin to relax as the morphine eased the pain in his arm.

      Khat took a deep breath, one hand above the bone, near his elbow, the other below the break. This was going to hurt him like hell. She made two quick motions. He groaned, his brow wrinkling, the corners of his mouth pulling inward with pain.

      “Sorry,” she whispered, seeing the bone was set. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. His face was darkly tanned and he had longish black hair. He almost looked Middle Eastern to her.

      Shaking her head, Khat was exhausted, sure that her mind was playing tricks on her. Quickly splinting his lower arm, she wrapped it and then made a sling to hold it against his chest. She tied the ends of the cotton sling around his strong, thick neck.

      Khat found no other injuries during her thorough examination, except a lot of bruises, swelling and scratches. She pulled off the latex gloves and threw them near the wall. First things first. She had to give him a shot of antibiotics. After giving it to him, she quickly cleaned up and put the medical ruck away.

      Getting off her knees, she walked over to Mina who stood patiently watching, her ears flicking back and forth. Taking the sat phone, Khat had to make a call to J-bad and alert Hutton she had one of the SEALs in her care. She hoped she was in time so that no wife and parents of this man would get a call from a casualty officer, telling them that he was missing in action. Pushing a strand of red hair off her brow, she punched in the numbers.

      Hutton came on the other end, and Khat told him what had happened. The best news was the other three SEALs were picked up down at the bottom of the slope an hour later by a Night Stalker helicopter. And Hutton was surprised to hear about her patient. Everyone thought he was missing in action.

      “That’s Petty Officer First Class Michael Tarik,” he told her. “He was leading the team.”

      “I rescued him out of a wadi. He’s unconscious. I’m hoping he’ll wake up pretty soon.” She chewed on her lower lip, watching him beneath the glow of the lantern. Even now, he looked hard. A warrior.

      “Report in tomorrow morning. I hope he makes it. There’s no way we can drop a Medevac in there to pick him up. We just got a drone up, and that mountain you live on is crawling with Taliban. We’ve counted about a hundred so far, so keep a low profile.”

      Khat snorted. “Don’t worry, I will. I’ll contact you tomorrow. Out.”

      Walking back to her mare, she tucked the sat phone away in the huge leather saddle bag. “Come on, girl, your turn. I’ll bet you’re starving.” Khat led the mare to the other side of the tunnel, about ten feet away from where Tarik lay. She stripped the mare of her saddle, the SEALs gear, brought her a bucket of water, curried her and then retrieved a flake of alfalfa hay from a nearby room. She shut the gate because Mina would wander in there and eat herself into colic. Khat didn’t need one more emergency on her hands right now.

      It was her turn. She grabbed her small towel, a washcloth and Afghan lye soap from a hole in the cave wall. She smelled of raw-fear sweat, and she could feel the grit of dirt chafing her flesh. Grabbing the kerosene lamp, some unscented shampoo, a comb and brush, she walked the fifty feet into the waterfall cave. She had fashioned a bench out of rocks with a piece of wooden plank across the top of it a long time ago. Laying her towel over it, she quickly stripped herself of boots and clothes. The water was going to be seventy-five degrees because that was the cave’s temperature.

      Stepping into the sandy bottom of the small pool, the coolness felt wonderful against her hot, sweaty body. Closing her eyes for a moment, she pulled the rubber band out of her hair and allowed it to swing free. Soon she would be clean. This was one of the few perks of living in the Hindu Kush that she looked forward to. The light spread out, eventually graying at the edges as she moved into the clear green, waist-deep water beneath the waterfall.

      Every once in a while, Khat would look in the direction of the SEAL to see if he was conscious yet or not. She hoped he would awaken. With head wounds, one never knew.

      Tipping her head toward the falling water, she groaned with pleasure as the wetness soaked into her long, thick hair. In moments, it would be soaped up, the grit and dirt cleaned from her strands and scalp. This luxury didn’t happen often. Tonight was a special gift to her.