Page 34 of Point of Contact

There were shouts of “Lame!” as some of the men hurled empty water bottles or trash in Watty’s direction. He ducked, laughing, and Jesse heard the sick, hollow snap a split second before a bullet slammed into the sandbag inches from his head.

“Jesus!” he yelled, diving to the side and eating dirt. The report of two gunshots echoed through the air a split second later, sending a flock of birds screaming from the nearby trees. Men scrambled for their helmets, vests and guns, shouting, as the guy in the observation tower unleashed hell with the .50.

“Where’d it come from?”

“From the south, I think! Go, go!”

Tracers flew in both directions as the platoon hunkered behind the sandbag wall and engaged with the enemy, who were suddenly raining down a withering fire on them from a narrow spur they’d never used before.

“Estes? You okay?” Watkins’s voice behind Jesse sounded strange, choked, and Jesse whirled around to see Riley slumped against the HESCO, one hand clasped to his throat. His knees folded as he slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood on it.

“Riley!” Jesse screamed. Riley’s green eyes were wide, shocked, and as he crumpled his hand fell away from his neck. Blood gushed out in a red flood, and Jesse leaped toward him, slamming his own palm over the wound in Riley’s throat.

“Get him in here now!” Smitty beckoned to Jesse frantically from where he was crouched inside the command center, already gloved up and with his medical bag at his side. Jesse couldn’t pull him and let go of his neck at the same time, so Watkins ran to grab Riley’s arm and leg, helping to haul him behind the plywood and sandbag barrier before disappearing to join the fight.

“Keep pressure while I get an IV started,” Smitty instructed Jesse tersely as he ripped some packages open and stuck a needle in Riley’s arm. “Now hold this.” Jesse held the bag of fluid up in his free hand, squeezing it, as Smitty tore into some packets of Kerlix, shoving Jesse’s hand away from Riley’s neck in order to pack the wound.

It immediately turned red as it soaked through, and Smitty kept packing in more, feeling beneath Riley’s neck and shoulders with his other hand. “No exit wound, goddammit,” he grated.

“What does that mean?” Jesse demanded, and Smitty glanced up at him, his eyes stricken.

“It means the bullet didn’t come out, that it bounced around inside him doing fuck-all-knows what damage. He could be bleeding internally, and he needs surgery ASAP.” Smitty turned his head and bellowed, “Enriquez! Call it in! We need medevac now!”

No answer, and Jesse could tell the outpost was getting absolutely rocked. Outside the command center was chaos, men shouting, bullets flying, mortars exploding. A terrible realization turned Jesse’s body to ice: there was no way a helicopter was flying in, not with the situation like this. Riley’s eyes were glazing over, and they drifted shut, his head lolling to the side.

“Do what you can for him, Doc.” Farrell’s voice was grim, and he crouched next to them, his comms headset jammed to his ear. “We’ll have a B-1 on station in twenty minutes to try and break contact, and we’ll do our best to get him out of here.” He turned away, muttering into the headset.

“He doesn’t have twenty minutes,” Smitty whispered so Riley couldn’t hear, a thread of anguish in his voice. “He’s bleeding out, Byrney. I can’t stop it.”

Jesse looked down at Riley, a swell of nausea and grief choking him. His face was turning gray, his lips tinged with blue. He was still breathing, but even to Jesse’s untrained eye the breaths were too shallow, ineffective.

“No!” Jesse burst out. “No.” He dropped the IV bag and took Riley’s limp hand in his, chafing it. “You gotta fight, Riles. You hear me?” He lay down on his stomach and pressed his lips to Riley’s ear. “Hey, man. You told me you were gonna get that motorcycle, remember? What color is it gonna be? Red? Black? Oh, God, all those hot chicks are waiting for you back home, Riles. Waitin’ for you to rock their worlds on your sleek-ass bike. Don’t worry, we’re gonna get you out of here, buddy. Gonna get you to the hospital and fix you up, but you gotta keep fighting, okay?”

Riley didn’t move, or respond, and from outside there were more frantic shouts for a medic. Smitty sobbed once, grabbing his medical bag and heading out to help those who could be helped.

Jesse ignored his departure, talking to Riley, pleading with him to stay. Riley’s shallow breaths continued, and suddenly Jesse flashed back to the enemy fighter by the side of the road, bleeding out, dying alone, no one to comfort him in his last moments.

Jesse closed his eyes, gathering all of his calm and composure around him. He squeezed Riley’s hand again. “You know what?” he murmured, proud of how steady his voice was. “You did good, man. You did real good. We’re all safe, okay? Me, Watty, Enriquez, Smitty...” He cleared his throat, shoving down the urge to cry. He’d cry later. “All the guys are good, Riles.”

Riley’s breaths were spaced about twelve seconds apart, barely lifting his chest. Jesse kept talking, letting him know he was there, that he wasn’t alone. “We got this, brother. Everyone’s good. You don’t gotta look after us anymore. We got this.”

Jesse could hear the distinctive sound of the B-1 bomber engines overhead, and felt the shock waves and concussion of bombs being dropped. The plywood structure they were in shook, dust and debris raining down. He ignored it all, whispering in Riley’s ear, “Don’t worry about your dad either, okay? He loves you, Riley, and he’s gonna be okay. We’re all—we’re all gonna be okay. Let go if you need to, bud. Just let go.”

Riley’s chest wasn’t moving anymore. Ten more seconds passed, fifteen, twenty, a minute. Jesse pushed to sitting, still holding Riley’s limp hand in his, stroking the back of it with his thumb. He didn’t move as the B-1s made another run, the thunder of bombs and the roar of guns not even penetrating the haze of shock and grief that numbed him from the inside out.

“No!” Watkins rushed in at one point, his face twisted with horror. “Riley!” He fell apart at the sight of him, and eventually Silvera appeared to lead him back out.

“C’mon, brother. There isn’t anything you can do for him now. C’mon.”

One by one the men came in to see for themselves that the terrible news they were hearing was true, and at last Smitty appeared with something dangling from his hand. He crouched next to Jesse. “I gotta get him ready to go home, Byrney,” he said quietly. “Go on outside, okay? You don’t need to see this.”

The memory of stuffing Patterson into that black body bag—ruined head lolling, arms and legs flopping like a rag doll’s—slammed into Jesse like a ton of bricks, and a sob burst from his chest. He choked it back, not wanting Smitty to have to comfort him when he was dealing with his own grief, so he merely nodded and turned to trudge out of the hooch. As he did, he accidentally kicked something, and he looked down to see it was Riley’s helmet.

Jesse picked it up, and he sank to the ground just outside the doorway, turning it over and over in his hands. Something glossy tucked into the liner caught his eye, and he eased it free. It was a picture of Riley with his dad on the parade field at Fort Carson all those months ago, right before they said their goodbyes. Jesse rubbed the spots of blood off it before tracing his fingers over Trevor’s smiling face, his heart breaking for what the man would soon be going through. You have no idea you’re about to have the worst day of your life, Trevor, do you? I’m so sorry I couldn’t save him. God, I’m so fucking sorry.

Jesse tucked the picture back into Riley’s helmet, and then he buried his face in his hands and wept.

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