Ebb Tide Ch. 02

Dabney had slowed down as she crossed the living room, still leading me by the hand. I moved my body against her, wrapping both arms around the gentle curve her stomach below the beltline until I linked my fingers right about her pubic region.

"You aren't little anymore," I whispered into her ear. She started faint rumbles of lust.

She worked out a serpentine motion starting at her ankles and unwinding all the way to her neck. Dabney's body rubbing against me was an incredible turn on.

"Do you think I'm a whore," she sighed.

"Yes," I responded softly. I could feel her soul diminish slightly, so I turned her around.

I tilted her chin up while keeping my left hand on the small of her back, our crotches pressed tightly together.

"I admire whores, Dabney," I explained. She teared-up. "Whores are survivors. Whores are fighters and they discard trivial shit like honor and morality because those don't pay the bills."

"Dabney, I'm not ethical. I couldn't live with someone who was. I couldn't be honest with them, but I can be honest with you," I finished. Two tears tracked down her cheeks.

"You haven't changed," she sniffled. "You are still watching over me, Vance."

"It is way tougher 'just' watching," I teased her. My left hand squeezed a butt cheek while my right hand moved to the back of her head and drew her into a passionate kiss.

"It took you long enough," she sighed happily when we came up for air. She was back to using little movements of her body to further arouse me.

"I should warn you," I murmured as my lips planted small kisses across her cheek and around to her ear. "I haven't had sex in three months. I'm really ready to go."

"Oh," she giggled. "Three months? I was happy for making it without sex for three days. You must be in agony."

"Save me," I mumbled as I sucked on her earlobe. "Save me Dabney," and she did.

{That first big step}

That first time...it happened in a place no one can remember, in a fight no one even knew we were in and it certainly didn't make the evening news. It was East Timor, November 1999 ~ my first assignment. I was tagging along with my platoon commander while we were making a sweep of a village and its environs, close to the E. Timor/Indonesian border.

The noises from the company frequency was buzzing in the background. Suddenly shots rang out somewhere I wasn't. We all flinched. Our Staff Sergeant had been in Kosovo. The rest of us were green, young and switching from boredom to fright. With me was one fire team, the Staff Sergeant, Platoon Guide (Sergeant), our radio specialist and the Lt. who was affable and smart; just out of his element at the moment. We were all learning.

I don't think anyone besides the skipper of the USS Belleau Wood even knew were Timor -- East or West -- was before POTUS decided that we, as in Golf Company, 2nd Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment, 31st Marine Expeditionary Unit (MEU), should go there and stop one group of locals from killing the other.

The Lieutenant was trying to get everyone to calm down so he could figure out what the hell was going on. I heard a Corporal screaming over the air waves about 'Conway' being hit. I was five weeks in the unit, so didn't know most of the guys by name. I'd learn from that mistake as well. One of our fire teams (a Corporal and 4 Marines) had been ambushed by an unknown number of hostiles, a man was down and they couldn't get to him.

The Lt. had to juggle putting a picture of the action together, possible fire- and/or air-support requests while calling in a medevac helicopter. Our intelligence briefing 'suggested' that there 'might be' Indonesian soldiers out of uniform supporting the pro-Indonesian militias operating in the area.

The tempo of the fire fight 'suggested' that there 'might be' professional soldiers on the other side of that ambush. I deduced by the volume of rifle fire going off that our guys were in serious trouble. Before that moment, I considered myself an asset -- a tool for the platoon leader to use. In that moment, my instincts took over. I was a corpsman and one of my Marines needed me.

I glanced over to the SSgt. He clearly had pierced the sound baffling caused by the walls of the buildings around us and was looking off in the direction of the firefight. That was another trick I'd pick up in time. I created a mental map of our platoon's patrol area (I paid attention) and figured out where the action most likely was.

"I got this," I said to the Staff Sergeant before sprinting off. I could have sworn my Lt. glared at me, his only corpsman, racing away into the unknown (in his opinion). The SSgt. didn't say a word, though I quickly figured out one member of the team, Lance Corporal Arroyos, was right on my heels. Ten buildings later, we found the Cpl. and three of his four Marines.

One was on the far side of the main thoroughfare, nervously looking back and forth, up the street and down the alley at his back. The Corporal was struggling to control events and failing. We all could tell. He was trying to communicate his situation to the Lt., who was trying to vector the other teams in the platoon to converge on the rebel militia position.

The other two members of the fire team were alternating taking pot shots up the road...at who, I couldn't see. The fourth member of the fire team (the Cpl. didn't count) was 12 feet up the road, lying on his back and trying to keep his bloody right arm attached.

"Where are they?" I ask the Marine who wasn't currently shooting.

"Top of the road -- both houses this side of the pigsty," he responded without breaking rhythm.

"Okay." It all felt surreal. I knew I should have been scared. I really don't know why I wasn't. I wasn't angry with those Indonesians for shooting at me, or wounding that Marine. Somehow, this was my job and I had to do it. That was the sum of my existence in that instant.

"Get ready," was my only warning.

I stepped half way around the Marine currently shooting and squeezed off 3 round bursts, switching randomly between each house until I emptied the mag. I slipped my M-16A2 on my back, then ran for it. I wasn't sure why no one shot at me and I didn't care.

I slid to a stop by the wounded leatherneck, knelt and began doing a rapid assessment of his condition. The man was alert, in a great deal of pain and in danger of losing his right arm just above the elbow. He had been trying to tilt his head back and around so he could see who was shooting at him, even though he couldn't fire back, so my appearance surprised him.

"What...what are you doing here?" he babbled.

"Can I interest you in Mary Kay?" I smarmily replied. "I'm a Navy Hospital Corpsman, you dumb jerk. What do you think I'm doing out here?" That's when the Indonesians started shooting at me. I no longer flinched. I would never flinch again.

I was on the clock, especially if I was going to help this man keep his arm. I decided with my minimal experience that I could move him. I picked up his M-16A2, put it on his chest and then put his battered arm over that. When I did, he screamed -- no surprise there. A bullet grazed the top of my helmet...which felt odd. I couldn't fireman carry him with his arm in that shape.

My right arm went between his legs and under his butt while the left cradled his head and right shoulder. Bang! Something hit my shoulder. No penetration, so I yanked the Marine tightly to my chest, stood up and started running back to the Corporal's position. That's when I noticed that all five Marines where shooting back up the street around and passed me.

It felt good to have friends. When I got him safely behind the building that sheltered the rest of the team, I gently laid him down and started applying my first responder trauma training.

"Dude, you're nuts," L.Cpl. Arroyos, the Marine from the Lt's fire team, laughed nervously. I was too busy to reply.

"God, it hurts," the wounded man groaned.

"That's what your sister said last night," I blathered. A gentile bedside manner was never my strong suit.

"That's sick, Man," he griped, clearly upset. "My sister is ten." That was okay. His anger was focused on me and that helped keep him from going into shock.

"Well then," I began, prepping his arm for immediate transit, with the hope the doctors could save it. They did. "I'm glad you are the one who's wounded and I'm the one who ain't."

"Ah...oh...sorry..." he mumbled as the absurdity of his ten year old sister being anywhere near this dump occurred to him.

"No worries," I chuckled. The bleeding had been contained, so it was pain-killer time. I didn't want to slow his heart down too much as I was worried about blood loss. "I'm giving you something for the pain," I advised him. He nodded. His adrenaline was crashing, the blood loss was kicking in and, while my work had saved his arm and life, it still hurt like a bitch, or so I've been told.

The only part of the ordeal that felt weird to me was the after battle crap. When a Marine Lt. tells a Navy Corpsman that he (me) did something stupid, what else can you say but 'Yes sir'? I had run off in the heat of battle (yes), I hadn't waited for orders (yes) and I'd exposed myself to enemy fire recklessly when I was the 'only' available corpsmen, not a Marine (that was one way to look at it).

The SSgt. was a different story -- he didn't chew me out. First he talked to Arroyo, the Marine who was sent to watch over me. Arroyo gave him the blow by blow, quips and all. Then the SSgt. turned on me.

"Did you realize that people would be shooting at you?" he started questioning me.

"Yes Staff Sergeant."

"Were you afraid?"

"No, Staff Sergeant."

"Why not?"

"No clue, Staff Sergeant."

"Are you looking for a medal?"

"For doing my job? No Staff Sergeant."

"Would you do it again?"

"That depends, Staff Sergeant; am I still the platoon's Corpsman?"

"Yes."

"Aye aye Staff Sergeant."

"Good job. I'll take care of this," he motioned to the Lt., who was busy talking to the Captain while we loaded the wounded Marine into a Hummer. From there, it would be a short ride to a waiting helicopter and then a hop over to the real doctors on board the Belleau Wood.

Word got around about what I did ~ the Marines looked at me differently after that. Even ones who I hadn't served with earlier. The next day, even the Marine Lieutenant 'corrected' (he couldn't really apologize) his opinion of my participation in the firefight. I eased things for him and the others by requesting that he keep me with his platoon.

I clearly did the right thing with the LT., because the Staff Sergeant came up to me later and gave me the first of several 'you did good kid's'. One of the surgeons gave my permanent record a 'gold star' too. When we got back to San Diego, my Marines (all of Golf Company) took me out for drinks. I paid for some, despite their protests and my poverty.

I reminded them that I was only doing my job and that the five guys who gave me cover fire had done just as much to keep Conway alive and whole as anything I'd done. Apparently my reputation as 'a solid team player' followed me around, as well. It turned out that those factors, along with that 'gold star', came in real handy when I applied for SEAL training, but that came later.

{Don't you dare call me a Hero, damn it!}

Third day on the job. Same old stuff. Our first call was a fifty-two year old woman, riding a bicycle, drunk off her ass at 9 AM, who decided to play chicken with an oncoming Jeep Wrangler. Between the Jeep driver's excellent reflexes and her blood alcohol level of .21, she was only slightly banged up and was feeling no pain.

She asked for my phone number while insisting she was 'always up for a good time'. I broke her heart by telling her Lorenzo and I were married. Lorenzo and the four LMVPD officers didn't know what to make of that, until my partner vocally (in their presence) reminded me that he and his wife were looking forward to me coming over Saturday and meeting her sister. That made everyone laugh, female cop included.

A heart failure that turned out to be recurring angina and a lesson in why you always keep up with your prescribe drug doses came next. Following that false alarm, we had an eleven year old boy who learned the hard way why you don't run around the edge of a pool. Lorenzo told him that chicks dig scars (the cut on his forehead).

I told the kid that he could tell his on-line buddies it was a shrapnel wound, which he found to be much cooler. I gave him the name and address of a hospital in Gaza, along with the name of an ER physician who worked there -- on his phone for memory's sake. The important thing was the kid being occupied while we stitched him up.

He could claim to have been treated in a real warzone replete with supporting evidence. Yes, I, who planned to never be a father, was better at understanding the pre-teen male mind than my younger partner.

The number four call was a disaster: a running gun battle over fourteen blocks that had started out as a botched kidnapping and bad timing for two police officers and several trigger happy Playboy Bloods. Six ambulances were responding. Dispatch pointed us at the center of the action -- as the back-up to the back-up medical team, because I was still the 'trainee'.

We were greeted by the sound of automatic weapons fire. I made sure my body-cam was activated. Maybe I could learn something new in the after-action replay. As we pulled to a stop two blocks away, I opened the door and leaned out the door for better acoustics. My experienced ear made out the sounds of AK-104's, Mac-11s, and Mossberg's; 9 mms and .40 cals were zinging about.

"Lorenzo, turn this ambulance around. I want you to drive backwards toward the action," I demanded in my detached manner.

"Vance, that's not...you have a gun?" he gasped. I did and it complemented my thick, bullet proof vest I was putting on. It was dark blue with 'EMT' spelled out in big white letters on the front and back.

"Yes -- do it, now," I stressed. So that's what he did, bringing us within three houses of the action.

Upwards of twenty patrol cars had responded. In the background radio traffic, another MedicWest wagon was at the original crime scene. One cop dead, one in critical condition. They were stabilizing that guy as they were rushing him to the Summerlin Hospital's ER.

Dead cop ~ not good. When Lorenzo braked to a stop, I opened the back doors from the inside and slipped out. Striding God-like over the battlefield is a great way to cash in all your chips, only to have St. Peter tell you they ain't legit. No, I kept my body bent as I sprinted over to the closest two police cars.

They formed a 'V', pointing toward this single story dwelling that seemed to be at the center of the action. The four guys closest to me weren't firing at the moment. The people in the house weren't as accommodating, taking random shots off in three directions. For a few seconds, I let myself absorb the action then created a plan.

A patrol car had rolled into the curb in front of the house. One officer was unresponsive on the passenger's side. Facing my way, the driver's door was open. The driver was out of the vehicle, sitting up against the back driver's side door. The black officer had a nasty wound in his hip and was bleeding profusely.

No one was rushing to save him because in the middle of the road was a Cadillac, riddled with bullets. The driver was dead and the front passenger had a pistol, but was in a bad way. In the rear seat was the jackass with the Mac-11. He was alternating between shooting out the already blown out rear window, then out the already shattered front window. Those three guys were Hispanic ~ Playboy Bloods were black. Gang war.

You couldn't reach the downed policeman without risking fire from those two. On the far side of the conflict, SWAT arrived at the same time we did. On the lawn of the main house were a small collection of bodies. One black male, face-down, was halfway up the concrete stairs that led to a walkway and then the house. Another black male was in the far corner of the yard, on his back. Beside him, on her side, was a Hispanic female, 8 ½ months pregnant (by my estimation).

The police were formulating their own strategy. Four TV vans were there and setting up ~ letting this tragedy play itself out on live feed. The cops weren't reacting fast enough for the black cop bleeding out as he sheltered behind his ride. I ran (bent over) back to my ambulance.

"Lorenzo, let's get the gurney to the cop cars," I told him. I meant the 'V' shaped ones.

He prepped the gurney to roll while I added a few extras to my kit, plus two bags of plasma and two Saline in a satchel.

"What's the plan?" he asked nervously.

"We go to the cops. I'll cover the ground, block that bleeder then bring the man back to you. We hand him off to another ambulance," I informed him.

"Man...Vance, they are still shooting," Lorenzo pointed out. "It is against company policy to be active participants at a crime scene."

"That officer isn't going to make it much longer," I explained. "I go, or he dies."

"Ummm...okay," my partner muttered.

I outlined my analysis of the situation and my future actions to the senior patrolman. While another officer rounded up two spare ballistic vests, he relayed my information up his chain of command. I knew the lead officer on the scene would nix my intentions because law enforcement can't condone sending 'civilians' into harm's way. I crouched down and started running. I rounded the trunk of the farthest police cruiser, then raced for the downed officer.

By that time, the wounded Hispanic male in the front seat was too far gone to care. The guy in the back seat didn't react fast enough, though he still threw some lead my way. The officer was Sgt. C. (Cedric) Dunston. His hash-marks suggested a 20 year veteran. His dark, dark black complexion was turning waxy and pale. His breathe was coming in ragged gasps. I put my case and bag down. I'd leave them there for the moment.

"I'm going to cut open you pants leg, apply some 'sealant' that will hurt like a bitch. You've suffered too much blood loss and your pulse is too weak (I had my fingers on his wrist) for me to safely apply a sedative. The second I have your bleeding under control, I'm putting one vest over your head and another over your legs. Then we are getting you out of here. That's the bad news," I remained totally professional.

"The good news is you've just won the Publisher's Clearinghouse $5000 dollars a week for life give-away."

He snorted at that.

"Bad...tough...wife...tell her...my partner?" he mumbled.

"You first, Sgt. Dunston. This wound didn't sever the artery, but it's been gashed pretty badly," I told him. Had it been severed, he'd already be dead. "I'll be back for your partner in a second." Dunston made a feeble protest. He knew his partner was in a bad way. It worked out pretty much that way, except when I placed the vests firmly in place, I drew my .45 leaned out from behind the cover of the patrol cruiser and put two bullets into the maniac with the Mac ~ left side jaw and left eye tear duct. The exit wounds were much larger and very fatal.

Now I could get back to Lorenzo without too much risk. I holstered my pistol, positioned the Sgt. for a fireman's carry and off I went. As Lorenzo and I were handing off the wounded officer to two of our MedicWest co-workers, the senior officer on my side waved me over.

"The Lieutenant in charge wants you to know you might have killed that man in the car," he warned me.

"I put two bullets into him," I informed the officer. "His prognosis isn't promising. Excuse me, I've got to get Sgt. Dunston's partner now." Lorenzo had doused the two vests with disinfectant by that time. I didn't want to pass the blood from one patient to another. The senior officer didn't try to stop me. He even warned the other policemen that I was making my move.