GO! GET OUT! WHERE’SJim? Escape and evade. No way Hall could have survived that explosion. Up, Swanson. Quit dogging it! Move your ass out of here. Where did I get this AK-47?
Kyle’s mind buzzed as the shock slowly wore off. He was grinding his teeth. The destruction spread before him like an enormous smoldering blanket. He shut his eyes, then reopened them, and things had not changed. The hood and mask had become a shield, and he was looking through his private window out onto a circle of hell.
A shadow ran by him. A man, running for his life… or toward something. Other movement. From the images taking form around him, Swanson began to piece together a logical pattern. He had made the kill shot, then he got out of the apartment and was chased cross the roof, then the car, then boom, and he didn’t remember anything after that until now. Waking after a dream, a period during which his body had accomplished things his mind could not recall.
Leaning against the overturned car, he did a personal inventory and was convinced that somehow he had just come through this thing without any broken bones. He could breathe. He was wearing body armor. The AK-47 with its folding stock had fallen out of the trunk of the car. Yes. The emergency kit. The memory was coming back, and with it, the knowledge that he was still in great danger.
He forced himself to his feet and grabbed the black nylon emergency bag that lay beside him. It would contain medical supplies and saline solutions and water, maybe even some dried food, and it could all help him escape. The AK looked ready to go, if need be.
Putting his priorities in order took a few more moments as he stood, wobbling. What about Jim? Swanson oriented himself until he was facing down the boulevard, directly across the crater. Loose ammo was still cooking off, zipping randomly around and ricocheting off obstacles. The building where Jim Hall had been perched was nothing but an empty shell, with the entire front wall collapsed. Fire raked the remains. It was a Marine thing, to never leave a buddy on the battlefield. This time a rescue, even of a body, was impossible. Jim Hall had to be dead in that mess. Bodies were strewn everywhere. Ashes to ashes.
The wail of approaching sirens registered as his hearing returned, and he could hear people yelling. Screams. Cries. It was time to move. His first few steps were halting and zombie-like, but then the well-trained muscles reacted. Kyle Swanson began to walk away.
THE PIRATED OUTFIT HE wore provided cover for hiding in plain sight. Swanson looked no different than any of the other cops, soldiers, and emergency personnel in the area. Many were stunned, just like him, and hobbled around aimlessly. Help was coming from all points, though, and the beams of flashing bright lights slashed through the hanging curtain of smoke and debris. The new arrivals were geared up for the emergency, and their hoods and hazmat suits lent even more credence to Kyle’s disguise.
He was on the opposite side of the city from the only allies he could count on, the Marine Guard at the U.S. Embassy in the diplomatic quarter. They were on the eastern edge of Islamabad, but if he could get some more wheels, maybe he could reach the Kashmir Highway or Fourth Avenue or the big Rawal Lake and vector in from there. Remaining exposed in this critical situation would not work. Kyle decided to reach the embassy compound first and worry about the questions later.
Swanson stepped out of the street as a fire engine howled past; then he turned a corner to start a long loop around the stricken area. He had tunnel vision now, his entire sphere of existence beneath the protective hood, and a severely limited view through the goggles. He could hear his breath as the air was sucked through the filter. With every step, he felt stronger, more energetic, more aware. Uniformed men were hurrying everywhere, and no one gave him a second glance, the boxy emergency kit strapped over his shoulder adding to his appearance as a first responder.
He was jogging now, making progress, sweeping his eyes over the terrain to look for threats and opportunities. He never saw the arm that tripped him and sent him sprawling on the ground. Swanson yanked his AK-47 semiautomatic rifle into position, rolled over, and pointed it. About three feet from the end of the barrel sat a child, a little girl no more than six years old, with a bloody cut above her ear, a filthy and torn black dress and ripped leggings, and tears of mud cutting through the grime on her cheeks. Her eyes were huge, but she was not staring at him. Her full attention was on a woman who lay facedown beside her, unconscious and partially covered by a pile of loose rubble. The child was crying and pulling on the arm of her mother.
Kyle registered the thought No threat and scrambled to his feet. This was not his problem. He was a trained killer, not a humanitarian aid worker. He had to leave. Now.
The woman coughed, and a small cloud of dust rose from her mouth. The little girl quit pulling the arm and jumped to the woman, brushing some hair away from the face and crying out a name. Not my problem, dammit! He hesitated, then turned his back on them and started to jog away again.
He stopped and looked back. The little girl finally gave him a heartbroken glance. Swanson stopped, turned, and walked back. Okay. Just a minute to get this sorted out. Just do this one thing, quick, then I’m outta here.
Swanson knelt beside her. She was in shock. He opened the nylon bag to get at the equipment, doused a large gauze pad with water, and gave her face a quick and gentle wipedown. She hardly knew he was there and continued pawing at her mother. Kyle began to whisper comforting sounds as he used another pad to clean away the blood above her ear. The ear bleeds a lot when it is cut, and that was the problem here. No scalp wound, just smeared blood. “Move over a little bit, honey. I’m here to help you. Let me look at Mommy,” he said softly, nudging in close but not forcing the child to release her grip. She gave way. He handed her the rest of the bottle of water, and she made a choice, reached for it, and drank it all. “Good girl,” he said.
The woman’s dark eyes were open, fluttering, and she gasped for breath. Kyle checked her for major wounds, found none, and opened her mouth to clear the airway. She was coughing up phlegm and dirt, which meant that she was able to breathe, but she was totally disoriented. He felt safe speaking English because the hood of the mask muffled the sounds. Just soothing tones. “I got you now. You’re going to be okay. Just relax. Your daughter is fine, too.”
Standing up again, he began clearing away the spill of rubble that entrapped her. “Hold on, lady. I’ve got to move this stuff.” Rocks and sticks and small chunks of concrete and dirt had been swept into a pile over her. She lay only a few steps from the front wall of an apartment house, which was heavily damaged, as if chewed by some monster. Still, it was a distance away from the explosion, and the main force of the blast had missed them as it was channeled elsewhere. The woman stirred, and when he cleared her legs, he saw a broken bone protruding through the flesh. “Damn,” he said. He pulled the emergency kit over and dug out a small web belt with a buckle that quickly became a tourniquet around her thigh to stop the bleeding. She began to groan as consciousness returned, and Kyle used a couple of small sticks in the debris to fashion a crude splint.
He found another bottle of water and splashed her face, wiping away the grime with broad strokes. “There. That should hold you until help arrives.” She blinked at the touch of cool water, and her daughter launched from beside Kyle and grabbed her mother in a tight hug. They smothered each other with love, but the woman suddenly tried to sit up and looked around wildly. She stared at the collapsed doorway that she apparently had just stepped from at the time of the explosion and screamed a name Kyle could not understand and began pointing, continuing to scream.
Somebody else! There’s another kid there! Swanson dove away from the woman and frantically began to throw away debris that led back into the building’s entry corridor. Suddenly, someone else, a young policeman, appeared at his side, also digging away at the obstacle. Behind them, Kyle heard someone talking to the woman, and several more uniformed men gathered and joined the search. Pull away now! Let them do it! He was about to release and go when his hand brushed flesh and he saw the hand of another child. He let out a shout, and the other men gathered to dig.
They had him free within thirty seconds, a boy who seemed about ten years old. The child was hauled out and laid beside the mother. Kyle stepped back, but the other men seemed frozen by the sight of the body. Do CPR! Somebody get down there! No one moved. Swanson went to his knees and pulled off his dirty gloves to clear the kid’s airways, levering out some wads of dirt. He felt a faint pulse. When he looked up, the others were only watching. He nodded to them to take over. One soldier lit a cigarette. The mother screamed. The daughter cried.
If I do this, I will have to remove the hood and expose myself. Right now, none of them realize that I’m an American. Why doesn’t someone get on this kid? It’s not that hard. He made his decision, stood up, and slowly began to retreat. The rest of them began to drift away. The boy was dead, and there were other people needing help. Live people.
A hand grabbed his, and he looked down. The woman had her daughter wrapped in an arm and was clinging to Kyle with all the strength she could muster. She called loudly to him, “Please! Please help my son!”
At the sound of the English language, the other men stopped in their tracks and looked back at the mother, the little girl, the unconscious boy, and the man in the gas mask. Swanson knew it was over. The disguise was ruined. Fight or flight, now… or stay and help.
“Okay,” he said, dropping his helmet, peeling back the hood and goggles, and throwing them away. “I’ll do what I can.” The men were moving closer, forming a circle. “Tell them to stand back while I help the boy,” he told the woman, and she barked at the others. Kyle rummaged around in the nylon kit again, grabbed the CPR kit, and tore it open to reach the little plastic dome and tube. He positioned the mask over the boy’s face, tightened the elastic strap for a snug fit, and began the process of resuscitation, alternating blowing into the tube and massaging the chest with powerful pressure from his crossed hands.
Time became irrelevant as he repeated the process, time and again, pausing only to feel the pulse. Something was blocking the passage. He pulled off the mask and rolled the boy over, hauling the child against his own chest and wrapping his arms around him. Once, twice, he pulled in suddenly and hard in the Heimlich maneuver, then a third time, and the boy gagged with a deathly sour groan and vomited a stream of mucus and dirt and a couple of small stones.
Swanson laid him down again and resumed the CPR, and within a minute the kid’s eyes clicked open, dark and surprised, and he started hauling in air to fill his lungs. The woman screamed in wonderment and grabbed the boy in a tight hug, calling to Kyle, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” Swanson sat back on his heels, exhausted. Several of the men clapped their hands and patted him on the back.
Kyle slowly raised his hands and placed the palms on his head. It was a new game now, back to being a Marine. Take a deep breath, stare directly ahead without expression, make no sound, and act totally unafraid. They were going to do whatever they were going to do, and if he had to die in this place, so be it. They would never see him scared.
It took only a moment before someone knocked him on the head with a rifle butt and he toppled over, seeing flashes of colors in the pain. They would be brave now and close in as a pack to have their fun, so cover up. He brought his ankles and knees together hard, ducked his head into his arms, and rolled into a tight ball as the first kicks slammed into his kidneys and back, then more rifle strikes pounded his arms and legs and head, and cuts opened and blood flew out and there was a lot of unintelligible noise and the woman screamed some more, her pleas keening over the curses of the men who were blaming him for everything that had happened on that awful day, and Swanson could do nothing but take the beating and let it all flow over him. He kept hoping for the black sea of unconsciousness but could not find it.