The Grey Area (Book 1)

Sandstorm

 CHAPTER 7

"Freedom is never more than one generation away from extinction. We didn't pass it to our children in the bloodstream. It must be fought for, protected, and handed on for them to do the same." -

Ronald Reagan

12th February 2009

           

"Attention on the compound: Mass-Cal, Mass-Cal, Mass-Cal."I had just arrived at the CSH and reported for duty, and I hadn't even had time to ditch my sidearm and body armor before a Mass Casualty warning went over the intercom. I sprinted through the main tent of the 391st Combat Support Hospital, drawing more than a few stares, and out into the glaring Kandahar sun. I shielded my eyes and turned away as a Blackhawk settled on the landing pad a few meters away from the one I'd arrived in ten minutes ago. As the rotors died down, I sprinted towards the casevac bird alongside my new fellow trauma surgeon, Captain Jason Caddock. Two soldiers jumped out of the Blackhawk and helped lift the litter with the wounded infantryman onto the waiting wheeled litter.     

"What happened?" Caddock shouted to the shorter of the two men, a medic called Morton.          

"Multiple GSWs to the left arm, left leg, and a GSW to the neck. Received eight of morphine and a liter and a half of fluids"         

I jogged behind the pack as the wounded soldier was rushed into the tent.       

"Hey! Stop there!"       

I slowed and turned towards the shouts. The taller of the two men from the Blackhawk, a lieutenant, had stopped a young boy by the landing pad and was yelling at him. I recognized the kid. He was a translator for us with his uncle, Caddock had told me when I'd asked about him. I'd asked because he reminded me of a kid in Iraq I'd met on my first deployment. He was a good kid, herded goats and sheep in the mountains. He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, like a lot of kids in war zones, and was caught in the crossfire when some muhajideen attacked a group of Canadian soldiers. He was brought to me by his brothers and died in my arms before I could have done anything, even though I couldn't have done anything to help him. I saw him sometimes, in my dreams. He always stood before me, covered in blood and asking why I let him die. I shook my head and looked at the boy and the irate soldier.     

"What are you doing here?" he asked the boy, who couldn't be much over ten years old. Karim was about nine years old.        

"I told you, I am a translator. I am not a terrorist."   

The lieutenant didn't seem convinced. He shoved the kid to the ground and pointed his rifle at the kid.       

"Hey!" I ran back over to the landing pad. "Leave the kid alone!"          

The lieutenant, whose name was Smith, looked at me. "What? Who are you?"          

"Major Pendragon. Leave the kid alone, I know him. He's fine, he's our translator." I stopped a few feet away from him.       

Smith didn't move. "He tried to put a bomb on the bird."      

"No, he didn't." I was starting to get angry.

The kid was crying."Please don't shoot," he whispered in Pashto. "No, don't shoot me."        

"Yeah he did." Smith chambered a round. "Stand back."        

Like hell I would. No more kids were dying on my watch. "Stop it right now. He's just a little kid!" I shouted.         

"No!"