SEAL Forever (10 page)

A needle pierced him, and a blessed release zipped through his body, the pain floating away. Suddenly, sound burst like a bubble. He could hear it now. A helo was laying down suppressor fire. Explosions shook the earth.

Miller slid down a bank and Leaper grabbed Declan, yanking him up. They carried him together as desert sand collapsed into the ground behind them like a drowned ant farm.

Declan watched the desert turn into a giant sinkhole as bombs blew from under the ground.

Bunks pulled him into the helo, the whole Team tucking around them. A needle was pushed into his arm and fluids were being pumped. It made Declan want to puke.

Whup. Whup. Whup.
The sound of the helo lifting brought his eyes open.

Someone was trying to get a second needle into one of his veins. It wasn't working.

“Quit,” he managed to say.

“You need fluids,” said a short, broad-shouldered, blond PJ (a United States Air Force Pararescue Jumper) that looked too young for such a job. “Hey, the SEAL's awake.”

Going in and out of consciousness, Declan felt intense, hot pain. He punched out with his left arm, landing a shot on the PJ who was drilling an IV hole into the bone of his right humerus.

“Crap!” said the PJ, losing control. “Help me out here.”

Another pair of arms held Declan down. A brunet guy with a bristle of whiskers on his face braced his body so Declan couldn't move. “We're the good guys, Master Chief Swifton.”

The blond handed a kit to his partner. “See if you can get a line on the other arm. He definitely landed a shiner on me.”

“It's in,” said the other PJ. “Let's get those fluids moving.”

Adrenaline pumped through Declan's body, making him want to move, making him anxious to get off the helo. He knew he needed to stay here and let them take care of him, but it felt like he was climbing out of his own skin.

“Easy does it,” said the blond PJ. “We've got you. We're almost to the field hospital. Just stay with us.”

“Hang in there, Dec.” Leaper's face appeared before Declan, and then everything went black.

The sound of an air conditioner was blasting in Declan's ears.
Someone turn that damn thing off! Don't they know my fucking ears hurt!

Not an air conditioner. That wouldn't make sense
. Am I in the desert?
The sound reverberated in his brain, forcing him to open his eyes.

The world was blurry and there was a cot above him.
Why am I here? I shouldn't be here. I'm supposed to be with my Team.

Pain ripped through his body.

His eyes tried to focus and take it all in. There were bandages and tape on his neck, chest, and face. One side of the lower half of his body was searing with pain. His arm was partially bandaged around the shoulder, and there was an IV in his arm pumping steadily. Blood slid down the tubing at an alarming rate, and there was a smaller bag, probably an antibiotic, dripping liquid.

Turning his head to the side, he saw more cots.
A C-17.
His brain sped through the conclusions.
Air Force plane. Hospital. What the fuck happened?

Turbulence sent his body into the air, but the safety straps held him suspended, and then the plane was through the air pocket, restoring gravity and shoving him back into the fabric of the cot, sending waves of intense pain throughout his body.

He groaned. Then the world divided into individual round blotches, like a series of odd-sized dots converging at once, until everything went black.

Light. A cool hand was on Declan's forehead. He wanted to smell her perfume. He bet it was sweet. He tried to sniff, but there was a mask on his face. Rubbing his face against his shoulder, he tried to pull it off to tell her she seemed familiar.

“Don't move,” she chided him. “You need to stay still, Master Chief.”

“I know you. Don't I?” he asked. His voice sounded gravelly, but he grinned anyway, and then he lifted his head slightly. His throat hurt and his skin itched.

She yelled over her shoulder. “Who gave him codeine? He's allergic. Someone get me some epinephrine.”

A gorgeous brunette with tanned skin, kind brown eyes, and a gentle way walked up and handed a needle to the blond. “I didn't see it on his chart.”

“Yeah, I don't know why it isn't in there. I know him.”

“You do?”

“Yes, Declan and I met years ago, three days after he finished Hell Week. He'd broken his arm racing motorcycles in the desert, and I had to treat him. He caught hell from his CO about his actions and was put on report. The Navy tends to hold its sailors to a pretty tough standard.”

The brunette tilted her head. “Fascinating… Were you and he serious?”

“Not really. Bad timing, mostly.” The blond stuck the needle into the tubing and pressed the plunger, pushing the medicine in. She leaned over. Her face was hazy. “Hang in there, Dec. You're not going to like this ride, but I'd rather you have a long and healthy life.”

Declan's mind put the pieces together like a puzzle, finally remembering her and their brief sojourn together. “Cam…Camilla?”

“Yeah, I'm here.” She squatted down so their eyes were level. “You okay?”

“I liked you too, for a time.”

She held up her hand. “You're sweet, Dec. I married the man I love. I wasn't too straight with you back then. I was dating a Seabee at the same time we were together. We have a baby girl now. Her name is Lidia.”

“Happy for you…” He couldn't hang on to the rest of what she was saying. “Can't stay…in my body.”

Convulsions filled his torso, and he heard shouting in the background. His mind drifted, first hovering over his apartment, and then switching to Maura and her maddeningly lovely visage.

* * *

Sunlight streamed into the open windows. Maura stood in one of the beams, bathed in the golden glow. She knew the next few minutes were going to be challenging.

“This way.” She directed the group of people to her office and didn't say another word until she was seated behind her desk.

“You know this place is for the community. It is the only gym in all of San Diego that accepts barters such as time or babysitting or maintenance help in exchange for use of the equipment. We teach gymnastics to aspiring athletes and have a full parkour gym. Your acts of vandalism stole from your community, so this is your chance to give back.” Maura kept her tone even, no matter how badly she wanted to yell at them.

Here she was, facing a parole officer and the four gang members who had totaled her gym. The kids couldn't be more than fourteen or fifteen. How hard it must be, to have such a challenging life at a young age? She wanted to bring this situation to a pleasant resolution.

“Let the judge know I will accept these four young men into the gym as part of their probation if they agree to follow our rules.” She stared each of them down in turn. “There are no gangs in here, only individuals.”

A couple of the boys shifted uncomfortably.

“This is your last chance. If the gym is hit again, I will press charges. This is your opportunity to change the conversation and start a new relationship with this place. If you play by our rules, you might even like it.”

The parole officer looked at the kids. “She's cutting you a break. If you don't do right by this lady, it's off to juvenile hall for each and every one of you. Listen to her and do as she says. Got it?”

The sullen youths nodded their heads. They didn't look too thrilled to be there, but Maura was pretty sure it would work. The place was fun, and belonging to something as unique as this gym could work miracles.

“I will be checking on you every day to make sure you all are following her direction.” The parole officer stood up. “You have my card, Ms. Maxwell. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call.” He looked each kid up and down and then left.

She stood up and walked up to the kids. “You are going to start your time here by painting the walls you vandalized. I don't want you interacting with the members or playing on the equipment until you've earned that right. It all begins with doing a good job on each task. Got it?”

They nodded their heads and then followed her out to the janitor's closet. Inside the kids found paint, brushes, and a tarp.

“It ain't going to be as much fun painting as it was tagging,” said Martin, the smallest of the bunch.

“Who knows, if you do a good job, I just might give you a tagging wall outside,” said Maura, remembering a street she'd walked down in Paris that had an ever-changing wall of graffiti art. She'd been intrigued by the concept. “Inside the gym, this is for athletes. Now, get to work.”

The boys moved slowly, pushing each other and joking.

She cleared her throat and they looked over their shoulders at her. Straightening up, they hustled to the wall she'd indicated and got to work.

* * *

Declan's body jerked. He opened his eyes, but couldn't speak. His tongue felt large and dry as he tried to swallow; it felt like cotton balls were stuffed in there.

Looking down his body, all he could see were bandages on the lower part of the right side of his body. His leg throbbed.

Camilla stood over him. She brushed back his hair with her cool hands. He wished she would put those cold hands on his body and relieve his skin. Too hot.

She leaned down and kissed his forehead. “This is where you get off. Be well, Dec.” She paused, her eyes traveling over him.

He couldn't make his vocal cords work to say thank you.

“I'll try to check in when I'm back in San Diego next.” Her eyes held his. There was something there. Sadness, yes. Pity, maybe? She smiled at him, contrary to what was in her eyes, and then she gestured, calling people over.

What the hell's going on?

Two burly corpsmen leaned over his cot. When they moved it, pain ripped through him. This time he willed darkness to come, but it didn't. Instead he was consumed with endless heat and throbbing pain.

“You're at Walter Reed now. You must have slept through the stopover at Germany. They stabilized you there and sent you here. I'm Fitzpatrick with SOCOM. Master Chief Swifton, can you hear me?” A gruff voice pierced his brain.

A wave of smells penetrated his senses: disinfectant, urine, sweat, and apple juice. None of the scents appealed to him. He frowned. Why didn't any of this make sense?

Declan cracked an eyelid, staring into the image of a somewhat overweight, balding, barrel-chested Army Master Sergeant. The man's hazel eyes were bloodshot and the lines on his face looked permanently etched. Looked like this guy had had a rough day.

“They finished your surgery yesterday. They say you'll be on your way back to San Diego in a month or so.”

“What? Why?” Declan was alarmed. “When did I have surgery?”

It was the Master Sergeant's turn to look shocked. His mouth gaped and then he stuttered, “D-d-don't tell me no one has talked to you yet…about your injuries or the surgeries?”

“No.” Declan's brow furrowed.
What the hell?
He shifted his shoulders and hips trying to sit up, but pain split through his leg and torso, halting the movement. “What happened to me?”

“Damn. That's not how things usually work. Uh, let me get the doctor.”

Outside the door, which hadn't completely closed, Declan could hear voices. “Why hasn't anyone done a drill down? You should have told him that he lost his leg! This is unacceptable. We're here to help these guys, and it's impossible for us to do our job if you haven't done yours.”

“Don't go down that road, Fitzpatrick. You know how things go. Patients heal at their own rate, and we respond as they need help or healing, not by your timetable. We assumed he was briefed in Germany.” The female voice with the soothing tone got firmer. “The surgeon will make rounds this afternoon. In the meantime, we'll make him comfortable and answer questions as they arise. This is the first time he's been awake.”

Declan didn't like people talking about him. He wanted to know the truth ASAP. He sat up fast, waves of dizziness swept his head, and he didn't care. He threw back the covers and swung his legs over the bed.

Cold tiles stung his toes as they reached the ground. His left foot flexed as he noted the rough texture.

He looked down. Something was wrong.

He stared. Incomprehensible. The lower part of his right leg was gone, from the knee down. Mounds of bandages covered the stump.

His hands rubbed over his thigh and the stump. His mind couldn't make sense of it.

The SOCOM guy's head popped back in right then. “Someone will be in to talk to you shortly.”

“Get the hell out! I don't want to talk to anyone.” Anger punctuated the spitfire barrage of words. Bubbling under the surface was an overwhelming pit of bile waiting to spew. A part of his brain didn't recognize the depth of the emotion. He'd never been one to be angry. Instead, Declan had always prided himself on being steady. In this very moment, there was no way to pull back from the edge. His leg. His passion for being a SEAL, for being outside and doing a zillion athletic things, and his entire identity—everything was wrapped up in his good health and physical abilities.

The Army man paled and withdrew. The door closely completely this time, clicking shut.

“Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.” He breathed out slowly through his clenched jaw, trying not to scream at the top of his lungs. There were no words to describe this moment, his anger, and the pain.

“He what?” asked the nurse. More angry voices came from outside, but Declan didn't give a shit right now. Brain overload was mashing his capacity for communication.

His hands moved down his body, running over his torso and then going down his leg again. “This can't be real.” As his hands reached the rounded wad of bandages, the pain told him it was more than true. It was a fucking horror story that he was never going to wake up from.

Touching the stub a second time didn't change anything. It just fueled the questions.
What happened? Where are my Teammates?
Now he regretted asking the SOCOM Liaison to leave.
This wasn't his fault. He was probably a good guy. And I'll bet he had some answers.

Declan slammed his hand down on the railing and felt it give under the pressure. The plastic cracked all the way down the railing, splitting it wide open. His fingers throbbed.

He lay back on the bed and tears stung his eyes. He pushed his fingers into his eyeballs, but it didn't stop them from leaking. He wanted to punch something so bad, hurt someone, anyone, and most of all he wanted to know where his Teammates were.

A nurse entered the room. “I need to give you this.”

He took a deep breath and steadied. “What?”

“This will ease the pain.” She pushed the medicine into his IV tubing. “The doctor's in surgery and will be with you at 1600. He'll have more answers than I do.” Checking the IV monitor, she placed another bag onto the stand. “I'm sorry…for how this happened. You shouldn't have learned about it this way.” She paused at the door. “Is there someone you want us to call?”

“I'd prefer to do it,” he stated flatly. He picked up the phone and put it on his chest.

She nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Images slammed through his brain. Maura. How could he ask her to love him now? He thrust the worry aside and dialed Leaper's number.

The phone came alive on the other end. “Go for Leaper!”

Emotion released in his chest. “Man, it's good to hear your voice.”

“Hey, guys, this is Swifton. Dec, how's it going?” His Teammates yelled into the phone as one, talking to him like nothing was different. They chewed the fat for ages, each one checking in. They were fine. He changed the subject when they asked about his leg. He didn't want to talk about it, and quite frankly he didn't know what the next step was going to be.