Ain't War Hell?
By: Maximillian von Fischgeist
Chapter Seven
Medic
04:30. Lowlight and Scarlett hadn't shown. They should've made it with time to spare. Lifeline had
heard gunshots, all from the same gun, one right after the other. Someone emptying a clip rapidly.
Perhaps a signal? That had been about fifteen minutes ago.
______________________________________________________
Continued in Part Eight!
"Time to go," Clutch reminded the medic.
Lifeline turned to see him sitting calmly in the jeep, finishing off a yawn. He met Lifeline's stare, and
to make his reminder more vivid, started the engine. Lifeline walked to the jeep (he'd gotten out
when hearing the shots), not sure what he meant, exactly, to do. The idea of taking a punch at
Clutch had crossed his mind, however.
Before he could ponder the merits (or lack thereof) of such an action, a new sound drifted into his
awareness. He stopped and looked over the treeline to see a flash of metal in the distance, struck
by the pale light of the full moon. A helicopter (a big one - a transport), its color the signature
Cobra blue, descended and disappeared into the trees.
"Cut the engine," Lifeline said, allowing a tinge of the annoyance (anxiety, really) he felt to color his
voice.
Clutch revved it. "Orders are orders. It's time to go."
Lifeline shot a stern glance at Clutch. "Cut the engine."
Clutch ran his hand over the stubble of a new beard. "You getting in?"
Lifeline grabbed his medical pack (which, as always, was stocked with all the necessary supplies,
including - for this assignment - several packs of blood plasma of the types owned by Lowlight
and Scarlett) from the passenger seat. "No, I'm not getting in," he said, his voice edged now with
anger. "I'm going to take a walk." He drew his pistol from its holster, ejected the clip, checked that
it was full, replaced the clip to the pistol and the pistol to its holster. "I think those shots might have
been some kind of signal. They weren't that far off. I'm going to check it out."
"Suit yourself," Clutch said with a nod of his head. He killed the engine. "I'll give you five minutes.
Then I take off. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand..." Clutch continued
counting. He could be quite annoying when he chose to be. Which was almost always.
"Thanks a lot," Lifeline muttered as he turned and started toward the trees. He hadn't gotten more
than a few steps when the helicopter re-emerged and rose above the forest, lurching its way east.
He watched it float off into the night and disappear.
He looked back at Clutch, who had also been keeping a thoughtful eye on it. The jeep's headlights
sparked to life and the engine roared back into readiness. He pulled the jeep up to Lifeline.
"The snakes have scattered," he said in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the engine.
"You're right. Those shots came from one of ours. Get in."
Relieved that Clutch had deigned to humor the lowly man of medicine (no, that wasn't fair; he was
a soldier following orders, and, for all his callousness, he did finally realize that orders were less
important than lives), Lifeline started climbing in and was promptly slammed back into his seat
when Clutch veered the jeep into action before his passenger had assumed a proper sitting
position. He reached for his seatbelt only to remember that there wasn't one. Clutch had had them
removed ("If I crash bad enough to need a seatbelt to live, I deserve to die," he had said earlier
when Lifeline questioned the seatbelts' absence. Lifeline's subsequent inquiry as to the safety of
Clutch's passengers was answered with an unamused grunt).
As the jeep entered the cover of the trees (jolting violently over the uneven terrain), Lifeline set his
mind to hoping for the best, preparing for the worst. A fluttering began in his stomach. He focused
on it, trying to gauge it. Was it the one that a man feels when consumed by the excitement of
victory? Or was it the one that a man feels as he removes the American flag from a patriot's
casket, folds it, and hands it to the deceased's closest loved one?
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