Sniper Elite: One-Way Trip

CHAPTER 34

Crosswhite and the four wounded SEALs were all rushed into surgery moments after the returning Black Hawks had set down on the tarmac. No one from the top brass had been there waiting to ask them any questions, and as far as anyone else on the airbase still knew, Bank Heist had been a sanctioned operation.

By now, night had fallen, and still no one from the SOG brass had arrived to arrest Crosswhite or even to debrief him. He sat propped up in his hospital bed still feeling loopy from the anesthetic and the pain medication he’d been given. The bullet wound to his leg wasn’t particularly serious, but an Air Force spinal surgeon had been called in to remove the bullet from his back near his spine. After the hour-long procedure, the surgeon had gravely informed him that he’d come a mere five millimeters from being paralyzed.

He looked over at Gil and Steelyard, who’d come to sit with him after having first visited their wounded shipmates. “Know what?” he said. “I’m going to recommend Doc for the DSC. He saved Blane’s life. If our medics in Somalia had been trained to do a cut-down like that in the field, Jamie Smith probably would have survived that fucking battle.” Corporal Jamie Smith was the US Army Ranger who had bled to death on October 3 back in 1993 during the infamous Black Hawk Down mission to capture Mohammed Aidid in the city of Mogadishu. Smith had been shot too high in the upper thigh for either a tourniquet or direct pressure to stop the bleeding from his severed femoral artery.

Gil rolled his eyes. “That’ll go over like a fart in church.”

“Fuck ’em.”

Steelyard waited for Crosswhite’s nurse to finish taking his vitals. When she was gone, he said, “We’ll be lucky to avoid landing in the brig after this fucked-up mission, you idiot. And you want to start making recommendations for the Distinguished fucking Service Cross?”

Crosswhite winked at Gil. “Would you remind your mentor there that he’s addressing a superior officer?”

“I’m pretty sure he knows,” Gil said grimly, the bullet wound to his ass still very sore.

“What’d Captain Metcalf have to say about that rapist prick we brought back?” Crosswhite suddenly wanted to know. “He hasn’t even dropped by to see how I’m doing.”

Steelyard grimaced, signaling for Gil to push the door closed. “Captain Metcalf knew nothing about the mission — that was the agreement. The onus was on us to pull it off… and we failed.”

Crosswhite sat almost straight up in the bed, his many IV lines pulling against the steel post where his IV bags were hung, threatening to topple it over. “Hey, Chief… we didn’t fail at a goddamn thing. She wasn’t fucking there!”

Gil sat forward to put his hand on Crosswhite’s leg. “Dan, that’s not what he meant. Relax.”

“That’s the morphine talking,” Steelyard muttered, crossing his arms. “Listen, Dan, you’re right. I misspoke. We took our shot, and the fuckers moved the target. That’s just how the cookie crumbled this time. The silver lining is that you brought that rapist son of a bitch back with you — that and none of our people got killed. This way we may at least stand a chance of avoiding the brig.”

The door suddenly opened and in strolled General William J. Couture, wearing a starched ACU with four black stars down the front. He was flanked by Captain Metcalf of the United States Navy and his aide-de-camp, a tall, hard-nosed looking army major with a Ranger tab and a .45 caliber Glock pistol suspended beneath each arm.

Gil and Steelyard got quickly on their feet, snapping to attention. Gil had heard one or two tall tales about General Couture being somewhat Pattonesque, but the sight of his aide-de-camp’s non-government issue pistols gave him pause to believe the tales might not have been so tall after all.

Ignoring the wounded Crosswhite, General Couture trained his attention on Gil and Steelyard. He was over six feet in height and wore his graying hair cropped close to his head. He had merciless, piercing gray eyes and a wicked scar that ran up the left side of his face. Everyone in the theater knew the scar was the result of an RPG attack on his Humvee during the early days of the Second Iraq War, back when he was still just a major general with two stars.

“Shannon,” he said in a deep, contemplative voice. “I seem to remember hearing that name recently. Been to Iran lately?”

Gil remained at attention. “My apologies, sir, but I’m not at liberty either to confirm or deny such a thing.”

Couture grunted. To Steelyard he said, “Master Chief, how much of this mess was your doing?”

“All of it, sir. I accept full responsibility.”

Crosswhite sat back up in the bed. “General, with respect, sir, the master chief is a liar. The entire mission was my idea. I ordered him and his men to assist me in a mission to—”

Steelyard cleared his throat, cutting him off. “Sir, I’m afraid that Captain Crosswhite doesn’t know what he’s saying at the moment… it’s the morphine, sir.”

“The hell I don’t!” Crosswhite said.

A faint light began to show behind the general’s eyes. “Should I take it, then, that when the time comes both of you two hardheads are willing to fall on your swords for the good of everyone else who participated in this misbegotten bank heist of yours?”

“Yes, sir!” both men said in unison.

“Excellent,” Couture said, somewhat dryly. “That makes my job a hell of a lot easier than I expected it was going to be.” He turned to Captain Metcalf. “Captain, it looks like we have a head from both Army and Navy to offer up to the president. I think that should probably cover it, don’t you?”

Metcalf stole the very briefest of glances with Steelyard. The two men shared a lot of history. “Yes, sir. I think that should probably cover it.”

“Very well, then,” Couture said. “As you were, gentlemen.” He paused before leaving the room to meet eyes with Gil. “Well done over there, Master Chief.”

“Thank you, sir,” Gil muttered, dropping his gaze.

The general’s aide pulled the door closed after them, and the three warriors sat in the gathering silence until Crosswhite finally sat back with a sigh. “Fuck ’em,” he said again, smoothing his blankets. “Now I’m definitely going to recommend Doc for the DSC.”

Gil leaned over to rest his head against the wall. “I got a better idea. Why don’t you do Doc a favor and leave him out of it?”