On Fire. Lindsay McKenna

jaw. His heart was tearing apart. Her clothes were wringing wet with sweat. Her skin was hot. Mike turned and shielded her with his body as the Black Hawk medevac landed. Eighty-mile-an-hour winds gusted and whipped around them, kicking up clouds of dust. He moved forward, head down. He reached the open door and transferred Khat to the nearest medic. Pulling out a piece of paper that listed important medical information, he thrust it into the hand of the other combat medic. Bailey transferred the IV bag to one of them. The noise was high. There was no use trying to talk. They turned, holding their hands against their faces to protect themselves from flying debris, crouching and hurrying away.

      Mike heard the medevac spooling up, its massive twin engines on the top of the bird roaring as it broke the grip of gravity. His chest was tight. Trying to swallow against a lump, he broke into a trot, avoiding the bodies, heading back toward the gate, Bailey on his heels. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he wiped them away. No one could see him crying. No one.

      * * *

      IT WAS BARELY dawn when Mike strode through the doors of the Bagram Hospital ER doors. He’d been released by his LT, and caught a flight out of Bravo to Bagram. Exhausted, scared, he was still in full battle dress, including his weapons as he walked into the busy ER. A nurse came up to him.

      “May I help you?”

      “Yes. A few hours ago my fiancée, Sergeant Khatereh Shinwari, was brought here. She had appendicitis. I need to know how she is and where she is. I want to see her.” Mike drilled the young nurse with a hard look. “Right now.”

      The nurse gulped. “This way...” she said and hurried toward the nurse’s station opposite the gallery of curtained cubicles. She explained to the supervisor who had gray hair and blue eyes what Mike wanted. The older nurse took one look at him and went to the computer terminal.

      “Your name is?” she asked him.

      Mike gave his name, barely hanging on to his patience. He tried taking some deep breaths, his anguish eating him alive. Was Khat alive? Dead? God, don’t let her be dead. That’s all he’d prayed for all the way in on the Chinook to Bagram.

      “Petty Officer Tarik,” she said briskly, “she’s just come out of surgery and is in ICU.” The nurse’s voice dropped. “Since you’re family, you can go up to that floor. I’ll ring ahead and tell the nurse’s station to expect you. Her surgeon is Dr. Bradley Mason.”

      “Thank you,” Mike said, turning on his heel. He knew where ICU was. He’d flown in with one of his team two years ago, shot up and not expected to live. He’d remained with Farley throughout the ten hours of surgery and then in ICU, staying with him while he fought to live. And he had. Pushing through the doors into the passageway, Mike headed for the bank of elevators. He got some surprised looks from people as he strode past them. Yes, he was dirty, he stunk, eyes red-rimmed and jaw tight. With his black beard and long, black hair around his shoulders, they knew he was black ops. They stepped aside to allow him to pass them in the hall.

      The elevator wouldn’t hurry fast enough. Mike took off his black baseball cap, tiredly rubbing his brow. The heel of his hand came back dirty. Nostrils flaring, the elevator halted and he threw his cap on and quickly exited, heading for the nurse’s station at the end of the hall. Before he ever got there, he saw a tall man about his height in a white lab coat, a green scrub cap on and green trousers.

      “Petty Officer Tarik?” he called.

      Mike nodded and halted. “Yes, sir. Dr. Mason?” The man was in his midforties, with blond hair and hazel eyes.

      “Yes. Can you step into the lounge with me for a minute?”

      “No,” he growled. “You can talk to me on the way to Khat’s ICU unit. Which one is she in?”

      Mason’s brows rose, but he nodded. “She’s in ICU 3. Come this way.” He gestured to another area beyond the nurse’s station. “Sergeant Shinwari just came out of surgery. Her appendix burst and we’ve removed it and flushed her entire abdominal cavity, trying to get every bit of bacteria out of there. She’s critical, and I frankly don’t know if she’s going to make it or not.” He gave Mike a look of sympathy. “What she has going for her is that she’s young and strong.”

      “My combat medic said something about her going septic,” Mike said, barely holding on to his emotions.

      “Yes. We’ve got her on maximum antibiotics. She was very dehydrated when she arrived. We’ve got her electrolytes stable now, but our main concern is her heart. With that much infection moving through her body for probably two or three days, it’s very hard on her heart. Plus, she’s got to beat that infection.” Mason halted at the plastic and glass enclosure. “You need to remember, even though she’s unconscious, she can hear you. So, be there for her? Inspire her? Nothing negative. Don’t tell her she could die.”

      “I got it, doctor.” Mike grimly pushed through the door.

      Mason stood there for a moment, as if maybe he wanted to say something about how dirty Mike was, and then turned around and left.

      Mike put his safed M-4 in the corner. He took off his cap, sitting at the end of Khat’s bed. Everything in there was white. The monitors were beeping. He looked at them. He knew how to read them. Her blood pressure was two hundred now, her pulse one-hundred and fifty. Watching the cardiac monitor, her heart rhythm was solid and steady. She had a chance to survive this. Khat looked hauntingly fragile, her skin so pale that he could literally see the small, fine veins beneath her eyes and across her closed eyelids. He touched her hand. Her flesh felt so hot. He noticed her neck was packed in something. Touching it, he realized it was dry ice. Yeah, to cool the blood flowing into and out of her head to save her brain from getting fried and destroyed by too high a fever.

      Leaning over, he caressed Khat’s parted lips. They felt coolish beneath his mouth. A sob wanted to wrench out of his chest, but as he lifted away, watching her face, he savagely stuffed his reaction down deep. “Khat, it’s Mike. I’m here, angel, and you’re going to be all right.” He picked up her hand, holding is gently. “You’re a fighter, and you’ve won at everything life has ever thrown at you. Now, just this one last time, Khat, throw your heart into this fight, beat this infection. Do it for me. Do it for us.” His eyes burned with tears. He blinked them back, hearing his voice tremble with barely controlled emotions. Mike wanted to touch her, but he was filthy. He needed to shower and get a change of clean clothes. He didn’t want to add contamination to what she was already fighting.

      “I’m going to get a shower, Khat. And clean clothes. Then, I’m coming back here. I’m going to sit this out with you. I love you...”

      The nurses at the station watched him warily as he strode toward the elevators. Mike knew where the men’s locker room was down in the basement of the facility. He’d packed a small duffle with a clean uniform, toiletry items, towel, soap and wash cloth. It was all that he’d need. His stomach growled as he entered the elevator. On the way back, he’d stop at the cafeteria, buy something quick he could eat on the way up to ICU to be with Khat.

      * * *

      WHEN MIKE ARRIVED back at ICU forty minutes later, he found a chair sitting beside Khat’s bed. It hadn’t been there before. He’d left all his weapons in a nearby armory locker, not wanting to scare the hell out of the medical staff. This time, he had on clean cammies and his baseball cap, and was wearing a sidearm only, plus his KA-BAR knife in a sheath on his lower left leg.

      When he entered, he moved to Khat’s bedside and picked up her hand. Because he was clean, he could trail his fingers across the high slope of her cheek, feel the velvet of her flesh beneath his pads. Her hair had been washed and someone had tried to comb it into order. He leaned over, kissing her brow. “I love you, Khat. I can tell you right now the food at the cafeteria is about on par with those MREs we were eating.”

      He heard the monitor’s beeping change. Looking up, he saw her blood pressure drop below two-hundred. Her pulse rate was going down, too. Now, he wondered if talking with her, holding her hand, threading his fingers through her hair, all helped in some small way.

      The