GWOT 2 - Lay My Head Down
Mar. 3rd, 2019 03:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT 2 - Lay My Head Down
I'd had entirely a too exciting return to campus, rushing from critical incident to critical incident. Along the way I'd been hurt.
I had a weird moment of deja vu as I walked - with that slight limp I probably would never lose - into the infirmary and waited for the triage nurse to get to me.
Go to infirmary, get patched up. Go to Security Control, figure out what to do next. Go back to my cage, get some sleep. Then get up and do it all again. Louder.
But I had to remember that my cage was out of service. Thanks Cartwright. Even dead you're still an asshole.
The triage nurse (a dental assistant, if you'll recall) returned with the vet surgeon, and both walked me into the exam room.
Prior to the Firecracker, the vet surgeon had treated exactly one human - a victim of a car accident - and one gunshot wound - a dog struck by buckshot.
But vets are comprehensively trained, and a surgeon is a surgeon. We were incredibly lucky to have her. Hundreds of people were alive due to her care. Including me, more than once.
They helped me strip down to underwear. The doctor's first concern was for my ribcage and gut, not for the obvious congealing gunshot wound to my left arm.
Body armor is like going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. It is not "bullet proof," it is "bullet resistant." The gap in between covered my aching ribs and bruised stomach quite nicely.
Fortunately for me, I hadn't had time to tighten my gut as one would for a punch. That helped the armor absorb the shock and spread it out. Still felt like being punched - hard, by a champion boxer - in the gut. Then in the chest.
She reluctantly agreed -- after listening to my lungs, palpation and examination - that I was merely bruised and winded. The bruise on my ribcage was already starting to purple nicely.
Then and only then did she turn her attention to the arm. They unwrapped the dressings carefully - to boil for reuse as training aids - and then she poked and prodded further.
She smiled. I knew that smile.
"I need to irrigate and clean out this wound. It's going to hurt a lot. In ordinary practice we'd give you lots of pain meds."
And nothing about post-Firecracker medical care was ordinary.
The trauma nurse handed me another boiled item. A mouthpiece. To keep me from damaging my teeth.
I put it in. The vet surgeon began her work.
When she was done, sweat ran down my face in rivulets. She dusted the wound with sulfa, as opposed to giving me a broad-spectrum antibiotic. We had them but had to save them for those for whom it would be life and death, not prevention.
As another assistant bound up the wound, the vet surgeon showed me a metal tray - repurposed ashtray - with some bits in it. Mostly fragments of cloth from my uniform.
"You're awfully glad I did that," she muttered.
Not my friend. In fact she purely hated my guts. From her perspective, I alternated between giving her more work and sticking my nose where it didn't belong, in the operation of her infirmary.
From my perspective, of course, I had to poke frequently at and in her infirmary so that it would actually be capable of saving lives. I had no criticisms of her medical or surgical skills. But there was a reason her pre-Firecracker practice had been on the rocks, and it was poor management. That was a skill the site could supply in abundance.
She had a third reason for hating me. Instead of letting enemy wounded die peacefully, I'd insisted that she make every effort to save their lives. Not only was this correct practice according to Geneva and the Hague conventions, but it was excellent practice. As in the other meaning of practice - do it over and over again until you get it right. She had a lot more experience treating major GSWs, blast injuries and major shock-trauma patients than she would have otherwise. And that experience had saved the lives of our folks.
She had required me, however, to assist. Personally and directly. My license said Emergency Medical Technician, but the last two months had been a crash course in combat casualty care.
So me getting care in the infirmary had a flavor of busman's holiday, combined with the cobbler's children go barefoot.
She looked briefly at my right cheek and sighed slightly. Clearly she was also calculating the effects of a quarter inch further inward.
"We're done. Have us check the arm wound daily. You can take ibuprofen for the ribs. No aspirin. Come back if it hurts when you breathe."
"Thank you, Doctor. Please let me know when you have a moment."
"I have a moment now." Her demeanor changed like flicking a switch, from dealing with problem patient to dealing with unpleasant peer.
"How are your logistics since I've been gone?"
She sighed.
"I am low on everything you brought. We badly need more antibiotics and general opiates. Bandages and dressings are good. Instruments are good. Semi consumables such as IV sets and syringes, if we could get them. Apparently, the War."
"I'll see what I can do. Touchy subject: training and drills."
"Cartwright told me that you'd had no business getting involved in my department, and that he would focus his attention strictly on real security issues."
"Cartwright is dead."
She blinked.
"Quick work. Why didn't I see him?"
"Decapitation."
"Well, [Echo 18], I hope you're listening because I'm only going to say this once. You were right about the fucking drills. You were right about the in service training. You were even right about me needing to use NATO Emergency War Surgery as my new bedtime reading. Do you ever get sick and tired of being right?"
I was so tired I replied honestly.
"I hate it."
"Fuck me what?"
"I hate being right all the time. It makes no friends and many enemies. But these are matters in which there is no room to be wrong, because wrong is dead."
"Something else you were right about." She lifted up her blouse to show the butt of a concealed snub-nose revolver, then dropped it again. "One of Cartwright's people came here. He's a patient now. I shot him.
"Are we good?"
"Yes, Doctor, we're good. Let me or Doctor Rize know if you want to talk about it. Glad you weren't hurt."
She did not say the obvious rejoinder, but turned away.
"Doctor, how is Sarah Stewart?"
"Stable. Out of danger. I've got someone sitting with her to keep her awake. Bad concussion, she'll be out for a few days. Anyone else you care about?"
I thought about replying, and walked out instead.
Just outside the doors, I found a very upset Shane Shreve standing in the corridor, shotgun slung.
"Sir! You should have told me you were back!"
Never mind I had no way to do that, and that I was running from crisis to crisis.
"What post were you at?"
"I've been learning Dispatch. Cartwright's idea."
I carefully did not shudder. The pain in my ribs helped. Shane is literally dumber than a post. Putting him in the tight knit camaraderie of a control center would destroy their ... oh, right. More sabotage.
"Copy that. You're assigned back to me for the moment."
"Yes, sir."
He fell into step behind me as we walked to Security Control.
Seated at the command table at the back, in pride of place, was our Site Location Executive. He had maps and binders spread out around him. He'd been busy.
"Sir," I saluted as I entered. He remained seated.
"I've taken the opportunity to dig through your little kingdom here. I've been considerably impressed. If I thought we could spare you from your present duties, I'd want you for Human Factors Engineering."
I blinked.
"Your lead guard - Matt - felt this would be the safest place for me to remain. They've kept me updated on current events. Would you believe that piece of shit Cartwright rigged an IED in my bed?"
I had been wondering where Mo was. In the SLE's bed had not appeared in the same universe -- but a bomb tech goes where the bombs are.
"Yes, sir," I said.
"I seem to be without a Corporate Security bodyguard."
And I had an excess bodyguard I didn't want. I almost suggested that he take Shreve. Something subtle in his body language told me 1) that would be a really, really bad idea and 2) I really needed to look at Shreve again, badly, and right now. Suppressed eagerness? From someone with a double digit IQ? Or from someone who worked really hard, constantly, to make it look like he had a double digit IQ?
"Yes, sir. I'd suggest we assign an entire security team, headed by one of my leads. I know all of them are reliable. Perhaps start with Sharon."
"Very well. Do it. Once they are ready, I'm going to the cafeteria to reassure everyone I'm still alive and in charge."
We made it happen. This segued into an after action review and planning session. Food and drink appeared on the table; I ate and drank.
I left the room to answer a call of nature. I gestured to Wyatt to join me.
"Sir?" he asked while I was addressing the urinal.
"Shane Shreve. Unreliable. Dig deep in his background. Report only to me. But warn all the leads. He needs to be watched."
"Copy."
About an hour later, after I'd casually slipped in a reassignment of Shane Shreve to security control's own security post - on the argument that he'd already started cross training in dispatch - Brooke came storming in.
"Sir. Respectfully. I'm dead on my feet and I've had a much better day than you have. Call it."
I nodded.
"Arturo, take over. I'm going offline for six hours."
"Eight," Brooke corrected.
"Copy, sir, I've got the duty for eight hours. Rest well."
Brooke took me by my good arm and led me out. Took me to the employee gym. Explained briefly to the restroom attendant - an adult dependent whose job it was to control both access and water usage - that we were both way behind on our one shower per week, and that she would cover the duty so he could go take a half hour break. He blinked, saw that it was me, blinked again, and appeared to teleport out the door.
Brooke flipped the CLOSED sign and threw the deadbolt.
"Strip," she ordered, as she began taking off her clothes.
This seemed like a good idea. I took a little care to fold the clothes I took off. Although they would have to be laundered. Or maybe burned.
Brooke made a neat pile of her items. Soldier. Of course. She did not stop until she was unclothed. But she didn't come off as naked. Just without clothing.
She then wrapped my arm's dressing with plastic-wrap from the roll available for that purpose. It really had been a rough two months for a lot of people.
Then she dragged me in the shower and washed me. After a moment, with one arm, I washed her back as well. She took care of all the rest for herself.
It wasn't sexually charged, the way it had been with Sharon. It was a necessary function, that felt really good after so long in the dust and mud.
But the blood stays with you. Not just today. The lawnmower. The bikers in Utah. Gerlach.
We both needed human reassurance and human touch.
She gestured to a pile of clean uniform items, in my size. Plain white underwear. I bagged the dirty clothes, to transfer pocket contents and insignia when opportunity permitted.
She'd staged all this, I realized. Thinking about it in advance.
She dressed from her own pile of clean clothes, picked up her own bag of effects. Unlocked the door, left the sign "CLOSED" in the absence of the attendant.
Then Brooke led me to one of the unwanted offices on the 1st floor of A building. Way too close to the front gate. The corner office had been made into an observation post, intermittently staffed. The other offices had had their windows boarded up and then sandbagged. Until Cartwright's idea of pushing everyone out to the perimeter in tents, this had been guard housing.
It was again. Everyone saw us, no one noticed us.
The little wood-burned sign that had hung on the wall of my cage, "E18 Lair," was now screwed to an office door. Brooke handed me a key, then opened the door with her own key.
I keyed in. A pallet with bedding on the floor. A desk. This desk had a Client standard computer on it, but three monitors. Two repeated Security Control camera views. One was an ordinary desktop currently displaying a quad-split of the approaches to A One. Underneath was a safe, presently closed. I recognized it as the safe I had left my laptop in before departing the site for Utah.
This hadn't been set up in five minutes. They'd been planning it ever since I'd departed, and been ready to assemble it all on a moment's notice once I returned.
The pallet was oversize. Clearly meant for two. Two pillows. Two blankets.
Brooke's rucksack and personal Betty Boop backpack were in the other corner.
I blinked. She took off her shirt, bra and pants, leaving only her men's style briefs on.
Not panties.
That was a level of thoughtful I'd never before experienced.
"You're my roommate, sir. Let's go to bed."
With that she stretched out on the bed, faced the wall and immediately fell asleep.
With the door still open, and a crowd of guards discreetly not-watching and not-listening just around the corner.
If I were more awake, I could quote the Company non-fraternization policies from memory. This arrangement violated basically all of them.
The phone on the desk buzzed. Note: not rang. Customized ring tone.
"E18," I answered.
"Mo here. Device disarmed, disabled, and disassembled. Fucking Cartwright. That's why he kicked me off campus. Didn't want anyone taking apart his amateur 'I went to Special Forces school and now I'm a bomb maker' crap. My turn for a shower, I'm going to bed. Tell Brooke I said welcome back."
Click.
What else could I do?
I closed the door, threw the deadbolt, and went to bed.
###
I dimly half-woke. I'd had three and a half hours of sleep, my body told me. Everything ached. That meant I was healing.
Brooke was curled up under my good arm. She was sleeping peacefully.
When I tried to move my arm, she snuggled it closer and growled a little.
I held still until I heard her breathing become more regular.
Then I slowly extracted my arm, got up, checked my E-mail, answered several hundred messages - mostly with one or two word answers - and came back to bed.
This time, Brooke put her arm over me.
###
The morning was surprisingly un-awkward. Brooke's bra and T-shirt were within reach, she put them on without comment.
I checked more E-mails while she stumbled out in search of burnt bread crumbs, our current coffee substitute. Then we split in different directions - me to check posts, and her to check in with Control for her duty assignments.
I didn't need a bodyguard. I needed a keeper. And she'd appointed the most qualified person she knew to the task. Herself.
I'd had entirely a too exciting return to campus, rushing from critical incident to critical incident. Along the way I'd been hurt.
I had a weird moment of deja vu as I walked - with that slight limp I probably would never lose - into the infirmary and waited for the triage nurse to get to me.
Go to infirmary, get patched up. Go to Security Control, figure out what to do next. Go back to my cage, get some sleep. Then get up and do it all again. Louder.
But I had to remember that my cage was out of service. Thanks Cartwright. Even dead you're still an asshole.
The triage nurse (a dental assistant, if you'll recall) returned with the vet surgeon, and both walked me into the exam room.
Prior to the Firecracker, the vet surgeon had treated exactly one human - a victim of a car accident - and one gunshot wound - a dog struck by buckshot.
But vets are comprehensively trained, and a surgeon is a surgeon. We were incredibly lucky to have her. Hundreds of people were alive due to her care. Including me, more than once.
They helped me strip down to underwear. The doctor's first concern was for my ribcage and gut, not for the obvious congealing gunshot wound to my left arm.
Body armor is like going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. It is not "bullet proof," it is "bullet resistant." The gap in between covered my aching ribs and bruised stomach quite nicely.
Fortunately for me, I hadn't had time to tighten my gut as one would for a punch. That helped the armor absorb the shock and spread it out. Still felt like being punched - hard, by a champion boxer - in the gut. Then in the chest.
She reluctantly agreed -- after listening to my lungs, palpation and examination - that I was merely bruised and winded. The bruise on my ribcage was already starting to purple nicely.
Then and only then did she turn her attention to the arm. They unwrapped the dressings carefully - to boil for reuse as training aids - and then she poked and prodded further.
She smiled. I knew that smile.
"I need to irrigate and clean out this wound. It's going to hurt a lot. In ordinary practice we'd give you lots of pain meds."
And nothing about post-Firecracker medical care was ordinary.
The trauma nurse handed me another boiled item. A mouthpiece. To keep me from damaging my teeth.
I put it in. The vet surgeon began her work.
When she was done, sweat ran down my face in rivulets. She dusted the wound with sulfa, as opposed to giving me a broad-spectrum antibiotic. We had them but had to save them for those for whom it would be life and death, not prevention.
As another assistant bound up the wound, the vet surgeon showed me a metal tray - repurposed ashtray - with some bits in it. Mostly fragments of cloth from my uniform.
"You're awfully glad I did that," she muttered.
Not my friend. In fact she purely hated my guts. From her perspective, I alternated between giving her more work and sticking my nose where it didn't belong, in the operation of her infirmary.
From my perspective, of course, I had to poke frequently at and in her infirmary so that it would actually be capable of saving lives. I had no criticisms of her medical or surgical skills. But there was a reason her pre-Firecracker practice had been on the rocks, and it was poor management. That was a skill the site could supply in abundance.
She had a third reason for hating me. Instead of letting enemy wounded die peacefully, I'd insisted that she make every effort to save their lives. Not only was this correct practice according to Geneva and the Hague conventions, but it was excellent practice. As in the other meaning of practice - do it over and over again until you get it right. She had a lot more experience treating major GSWs, blast injuries and major shock-trauma patients than she would have otherwise. And that experience had saved the lives of our folks.
She had required me, however, to assist. Personally and directly. My license said Emergency Medical Technician, but the last two months had been a crash course in combat casualty care.
So me getting care in the infirmary had a flavor of busman's holiday, combined with the cobbler's children go barefoot.
She looked briefly at my right cheek and sighed slightly. Clearly she was also calculating the effects of a quarter inch further inward.
"We're done. Have us check the arm wound daily. You can take ibuprofen for the ribs. No aspirin. Come back if it hurts when you breathe."
"Thank you, Doctor. Please let me know when you have a moment."
"I have a moment now." Her demeanor changed like flicking a switch, from dealing with problem patient to dealing with unpleasant peer.
"How are your logistics since I've been gone?"
She sighed.
"I am low on everything you brought. We badly need more antibiotics and general opiates. Bandages and dressings are good. Instruments are good. Semi consumables such as IV sets and syringes, if we could get them. Apparently, the War."
"I'll see what I can do. Touchy subject: training and drills."
"Cartwright told me that you'd had no business getting involved in my department, and that he would focus his attention strictly on real security issues."
"Cartwright is dead."
She blinked.
"Quick work. Why didn't I see him?"
"Decapitation."
"Well, [Echo 18], I hope you're listening because I'm only going to say this once. You were right about the fucking drills. You were right about the in service training. You were even right about me needing to use NATO Emergency War Surgery as my new bedtime reading. Do you ever get sick and tired of being right?"
I was so tired I replied honestly.
"I hate it."
"Fuck me what?"
"I hate being right all the time. It makes no friends and many enemies. But these are matters in which there is no room to be wrong, because wrong is dead."
"Something else you were right about." She lifted up her blouse to show the butt of a concealed snub-nose revolver, then dropped it again. "One of Cartwright's people came here. He's a patient now. I shot him.
"Are we good?"
"Yes, Doctor, we're good. Let me or Doctor Rize know if you want to talk about it. Glad you weren't hurt."
She did not say the obvious rejoinder, but turned away.
"Doctor, how is Sarah Stewart?"
"Stable. Out of danger. I've got someone sitting with her to keep her awake. Bad concussion, she'll be out for a few days. Anyone else you care about?"
I thought about replying, and walked out instead.
Just outside the doors, I found a very upset Shane Shreve standing in the corridor, shotgun slung.
"Sir! You should have told me you were back!"
Never mind I had no way to do that, and that I was running from crisis to crisis.
"What post were you at?"
"I've been learning Dispatch. Cartwright's idea."
I carefully did not shudder. The pain in my ribs helped. Shane is literally dumber than a post. Putting him in the tight knit camaraderie of a control center would destroy their ... oh, right. More sabotage.
"Copy that. You're assigned back to me for the moment."
"Yes, sir."
He fell into step behind me as we walked to Security Control.
Seated at the command table at the back, in pride of place, was our Site Location Executive. He had maps and binders spread out around him. He'd been busy.
"Sir," I saluted as I entered. He remained seated.
"I've taken the opportunity to dig through your little kingdom here. I've been considerably impressed. If I thought we could spare you from your present duties, I'd want you for Human Factors Engineering."
I blinked.
"Your lead guard - Matt - felt this would be the safest place for me to remain. They've kept me updated on current events. Would you believe that piece of shit Cartwright rigged an IED in my bed?"
I had been wondering where Mo was. In the SLE's bed had not appeared in the same universe -- but a bomb tech goes where the bombs are.
"Yes, sir," I said.
"I seem to be without a Corporate Security bodyguard."
And I had an excess bodyguard I didn't want. I almost suggested that he take Shreve. Something subtle in his body language told me 1) that would be a really, really bad idea and 2) I really needed to look at Shreve again, badly, and right now. Suppressed eagerness? From someone with a double digit IQ? Or from someone who worked really hard, constantly, to make it look like he had a double digit IQ?
"Yes, sir. I'd suggest we assign an entire security team, headed by one of my leads. I know all of them are reliable. Perhaps start with Sharon."
"Very well. Do it. Once they are ready, I'm going to the cafeteria to reassure everyone I'm still alive and in charge."
We made it happen. This segued into an after action review and planning session. Food and drink appeared on the table; I ate and drank.
I left the room to answer a call of nature. I gestured to Wyatt to join me.
"Sir?" he asked while I was addressing the urinal.
"Shane Shreve. Unreliable. Dig deep in his background. Report only to me. But warn all the leads. He needs to be watched."
"Copy."
About an hour later, after I'd casually slipped in a reassignment of Shane Shreve to security control's own security post - on the argument that he'd already started cross training in dispatch - Brooke came storming in.
"Sir. Respectfully. I'm dead on my feet and I've had a much better day than you have. Call it."
I nodded.
"Arturo, take over. I'm going offline for six hours."
"Eight," Brooke corrected.
"Copy, sir, I've got the duty for eight hours. Rest well."
Brooke took me by my good arm and led me out. Took me to the employee gym. Explained briefly to the restroom attendant - an adult dependent whose job it was to control both access and water usage - that we were both way behind on our one shower per week, and that she would cover the duty so he could go take a half hour break. He blinked, saw that it was me, blinked again, and appeared to teleport out the door.
Brooke flipped the CLOSED sign and threw the deadbolt.
"Strip," she ordered, as she began taking off her clothes.
This seemed like a good idea. I took a little care to fold the clothes I took off. Although they would have to be laundered. Or maybe burned.
Brooke made a neat pile of her items. Soldier. Of course. She did not stop until she was unclothed. But she didn't come off as naked. Just without clothing.
She then wrapped my arm's dressing with plastic-wrap from the roll available for that purpose. It really had been a rough two months for a lot of people.
Then she dragged me in the shower and washed me. After a moment, with one arm, I washed her back as well. She took care of all the rest for herself.
It wasn't sexually charged, the way it had been with Sharon. It was a necessary function, that felt really good after so long in the dust and mud.
But the blood stays with you. Not just today. The lawnmower. The bikers in Utah. Gerlach.
We both needed human reassurance and human touch.
She gestured to a pile of clean uniform items, in my size. Plain white underwear. I bagged the dirty clothes, to transfer pocket contents and insignia when opportunity permitted.
She'd staged all this, I realized. Thinking about it in advance.
She dressed from her own pile of clean clothes, picked up her own bag of effects. Unlocked the door, left the sign "CLOSED" in the absence of the attendant.
Then Brooke led me to one of the unwanted offices on the 1st floor of A building. Way too close to the front gate. The corner office had been made into an observation post, intermittently staffed. The other offices had had their windows boarded up and then sandbagged. Until Cartwright's idea of pushing everyone out to the perimeter in tents, this had been guard housing.
It was again. Everyone saw us, no one noticed us.
The little wood-burned sign that had hung on the wall of my cage, "E18 Lair," was now screwed to an office door. Brooke handed me a key, then opened the door with her own key.
I keyed in. A pallet with bedding on the floor. A desk. This desk had a Client standard computer on it, but three monitors. Two repeated Security Control camera views. One was an ordinary desktop currently displaying a quad-split of the approaches to A One. Underneath was a safe, presently closed. I recognized it as the safe I had left my laptop in before departing the site for Utah.
This hadn't been set up in five minutes. They'd been planning it ever since I'd departed, and been ready to assemble it all on a moment's notice once I returned.
The pallet was oversize. Clearly meant for two. Two pillows. Two blankets.
Brooke's rucksack and personal Betty Boop backpack were in the other corner.
I blinked. She took off her shirt, bra and pants, leaving only her men's style briefs on.
Not panties.
That was a level of thoughtful I'd never before experienced.
"You're my roommate, sir. Let's go to bed."
With that she stretched out on the bed, faced the wall and immediately fell asleep.
With the door still open, and a crowd of guards discreetly not-watching and not-listening just around the corner.
If I were more awake, I could quote the Company non-fraternization policies from memory. This arrangement violated basically all of them.
The phone on the desk buzzed. Note: not rang. Customized ring tone.
"E18," I answered.
"Mo here. Device disarmed, disabled, and disassembled. Fucking Cartwright. That's why he kicked me off campus. Didn't want anyone taking apart his amateur 'I went to Special Forces school and now I'm a bomb maker' crap. My turn for a shower, I'm going to bed. Tell Brooke I said welcome back."
Click.
What else could I do?
I closed the door, threw the deadbolt, and went to bed.
###
I dimly half-woke. I'd had three and a half hours of sleep, my body told me. Everything ached. That meant I was healing.
Brooke was curled up under my good arm. She was sleeping peacefully.
When I tried to move my arm, she snuggled it closer and growled a little.
I held still until I heard her breathing become more regular.
Then I slowly extracted my arm, got up, checked my E-mail, answered several hundred messages - mostly with one or two word answers - and came back to bed.
This time, Brooke put her arm over me.
###
The morning was surprisingly un-awkward. Brooke's bra and T-shirt were within reach, she put them on without comment.
I checked more E-mails while she stumbled out in search of burnt bread crumbs, our current coffee substitute. Then we split in different directions - me to check posts, and her to check in with Control for her duty assignments.
I didn't need a bodyguard. I needed a keeper. And she'd appointed the most qualified person she knew to the task. Herself.
