Howdy Ho ALL!
I admit to being a fan of David Boreanaz and will give anything he's in a go. Doesn't mean I will like it and stay with it, but I do like him enough to give it a try.
SEAL Team has some quirks, but I like it, I really do. Here's hoping the behind the scenes turmoil with writers and show runners settles down for a great season 2!
"Got him."
Jason heard the two words crackle in his ear piece, pausing a split second to send a silent thank you heavenward then continued the assault until he emptied the clip.
Ray heard the two words crackle in his ear piece and took a split second to lower his head in a silent prayer then continued the assault until he emptied the clip.
Sonny heard the two words crackle in his ear piece and threw his head back to give voice to the scream of frustration over the entire situation then continued the assault until he emptied the clip.
Him. Not the package, not the cargo, not the object, but him.
The humming whumpwhumpwhump ofchoppers were heard, the air around them began to kick up and spin and swirl as the first to reach the cleared land descended and arms of the crew inside reached out to accept the cargo tossed their way before the chopper could land.
Trent went down on one knee to provide cover as Brock finished handing off Clay, nearly falling and smacking his head against a runner when his vest was grabbed and he was hauled into the bobbing chopper that still hovered, not having landed. Brock struggled for his freedom, eyes on his team still on the ground, holding off advancing hostiles until the chopper could take off and the other land…he frantically sought his team leader, fighting to swing his feet to the ground, when Jason threw all caution to the wind and stood up straight, waving the chopper off, somehow giving Brock a thumb's up, his permission to go, while still waving like a madman.
Brock went limp and offered no further resistance. He was hauled safely into the depths of the chopper, the command to GO was given and the chopper rose, slowly at first, then when cleared of the only copse of trees in the vicinity, wouldn't you know, that was their luck, nosed down and hit a faster yet safe speed.
Chest heaving, breath stuck, Brock scrambled to his knees, worry and concern for the team left behind pushed down as he crawled up to the medic hovering over Clay. He knew better than to get in the way, but had to see with his own eyes, the rise and fall of Clay's chest, only then would he believe Clay still breathed. Once he was convinced, he sat back on his heels and watched and listened. He wasn't satisfied, wouldn't be until they landed and Jason arrived to demand and receive answers.
Looking out the open door, from the way their chopper had banked, he could see the other chopper circling, waiting to land and retrieve the remaining four members of Bravo Team left behind. He shook his head to clear the image and responded to the command to hand over a pair of scissors from the bag on the floor next to his knees.
It was amazing really, how fast two medics could rid a man of his armor and gear and hell, all his clothes. Course, they'd also had both a knife and scissors to help them with their speed. He wished Derek had been on board then mentally chided himself for the selfish thought. His eyes searched the growing pile of discarded gear, searching for holes, tears, stains, blood…..anything, but there was nothing. He looked at Clay, really looked. No bruises on his face, no cuts or scrapes or rash from road burn, not even a split lip.
Huh.
Brock continued to silently watch as hands weaved and threaded their way through Clay's mop of hair, searching, feeling, for lumps and bumps, gashes or lacerations. Negative.
Eyelids were lifted, pupils checked with a pen light. Mouth was opened, teeth accounted for, tongue still there…..Brock shuddered, the thought of anyone having their tongue cut out made him ill…nothing down his throat, up his nose or shoved in either ear, which thankfully, remained intact and attached.
"He's barefoot." Brock said suddenly, stupidly.
"Two feet, ten toes." A medic said dismissively.
"Not a priority." The other said.
"But he has no boots." Brock couldn't get past that. He simply couldn't. He'd been briefed about all kinds of torture, had seen it, had experienced some of it. Clay wasn't missing his boots because someone had wanted a nice pair of shoes. These bloody insurgents didn't care about obtaining information, they tortured for the fun of it. Granted, they hadn't had possession of Clay all that long – and Brock wasn't going to be anywhere around to be found when the chopper carrying Jason returned. Oh no. Nope. Jason would be out for blood and if Ray couldn't rein him in –and Brock seriously doubted Ray would even try this time – and calm him down, no one could. Heads had already rolled.
Don't anyone go getting Brock wrong. When the information had come down that Clay hadn't returned from what was supposed to have been a simple mission escorting a D.C, dick to a public market – a desk lackey who had no business landing in Afghanistan and who had overridden Jason's objections and outright refusal over taking Clay with him – Brock had stood firmly and proudly behind Jason when he'd informed every higher ranking official in the room that he was going after Clay with or without permission. With shoulders set squarely, chest out, head high, eyes straight ahead, Brock, with the rest of the team had followed behind when Jason had stalked out after whipping the door open so hard, a hinge had fallen off.
He'd heard the arguments against Bravo Team taking on the rescue mission; had sat quietly with the rest of his team while the fucking schmuck had labeled it a recovery mission; had done nothing when, with a single punch, Jason had knocked several of the assholes teeth lose, one completely out of his mouth. Someone had finally given consent, so said Blackburn, but it hadn't mattered. If the team had had to travel by camel in civilian robes, to town they would have rode.
He reached for Clay's hand and when neither medic stopped him, took hold, joined thumbs and squeezed his fingers in a comforting gesture. Clay squeezed back, but didn't open his eyes. Brock wanted to push, but knew better and once again sat back and watched. The kid was in there somewhere and Brock would be patient until Clay was ready to come out and greet him. He was just thankful Clay remained in possession of all ten fingernails.
The examination of Clay's head done to their satisfaction, the medic's moved their attention down to his neck, shoulders and chest, searching for broken or dislocated bones. Brock saw the telltale marks of tight restraints on Clay's wrists, but there was no lacerations or severe bruising…the skin wasn't even broken…..so, woot!
The kid now dressed in only boxer briefs, Brock could see the sunburn on Clay's shoulders, wondered what his back looked like. On cue, they rolled Clay to his side. Ouch. Shoulders and back sunburned. Yeah, the kid was a blondie, so fair-skinned. Hope it didn't blister. How long did it take to blister? Brock didn't know. With his complexion, he tanned, never burned. Still, even with ointment and creams, it was going to cause the kid some serious discomfort.
Brock blinked, what was that? Oh, a needle. Common sense told him no one on board the chopper would intentionally hurt the kid, but still, he didn't like needles. And any needle poking into a vein hurt, he didn't care what anyone said. He didn't have a phobia, he just didn't like them. So when the medic, and with no gentle touch mind you – Brock got it, he did, haste was the importance here – pierced Clay's skin for an IV, Brock winced, even if the kid didn't.
"What's that for?" Brock asked, knowing he shouldn't but did so anyway. He wasn't in their way, what harm could a question or two cause.
"He's dehydrated." Came the reply. "White tongue."
"Oh." Brock nodded.
Brock fidgeted, wanting to know everything they were doing, but Clay was quiet, unconscious probably and Brock had been trained to stay out of the way. Good God, the tongue lashing Jason would serve if word got back to him that Brock hadn't behaved as befitting an elite Navy Seal. But fuck, the exam was taking forever!
It wasn't really though, the medics knew their job and performed it efficiently, working as a team. They worked together and communicated with each other quietly; grateful Brock was simply sitting and staying out of their way. These elite Seal teams had an uncanny connection to one another and more often than not, when one was injured, got in their way.
The chopper dipped and swayed, nothing to be concerned over, but Clay stirred, frowning as he came to, blinking cloudy blue eyes open to stare up at two unfamiliar faces.
"You're okay buddy, relax."
Yeah, those words offered with no comfort were not at all reassuring, so relax he didn't. He tried to sit up, felt a pull on his arm and reached with his hand to pull the needle from his arm. When the medic tried to stop him, Clay lashed out with a fist, knees coming up.
"Whoa!" Brock reacted without thought. He bit his lip, darting a glance at the medic, expecting a reprimand but none came. "Clay, hey there kiddo, I'm right here. Ya see me?"
Clay blinked, turned to gaze blearily at the voice he knew. "Brock."
"Yup, lie back and let them have their way with you."
Silence. "Okay." Clay shrugged and obeyed.
"Well, damn me." The medic said. "That just beats all."
"All it takes is someone we trust." Brock said and once again sat back and let them continue their all over body search for injury.
Whumpwhumpwhump, the sound and motion lulled Brock into a feeling of sleep. He was exhausted, they all were. No one had gotten any sleep the previous night, even though they had retired to their bunks after being ordered there by Jason, who had even joined them in their quarters, sitting hunched over on Clay's bunk, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. No one had said a word, but being all together, Jason with them, had made the night bearable. Even Blackburn had poked his head through their door two or three times, had brought them coffee and scones. They'd been up before dawn and on the road before complete sunrise.
Would this flight ever end? Brock rubbed his eyes, grinding the sand deeper, causing a red, swollen appearance. A packet landed in his lap. Eye wipes…..oooh that felt good.
Clay was still quiet, no bruises or wounds visible to Brock's eye, so he laid his head back and let the soothing wet-wipe soak into his abused eye lids. He'd pay attention when he heard the medics say they'd reached Clay's unimportant feet.
Oh, they were all in trouble. Big trouble. Wouldn't have been if they had obeyed orders from those over Jason, but they hadn't, they had all followed Jason out of the command center in silent support. Let someone else go after Clay? Not be angry Clay had been taken in the first place? All would have been different if they'd all been on the mission and one of them had been captured. Then yes, return to base and send another team after Bravo's missing team member. That is the way it was done. But to override Jason's objections and send the kid on some stupid assignment simply because Clay was young and new and his dad was a dick? Not cool.
Brock had seen his team leader, his boss – call him whatever – angry and pissed off before, but nothing like yesterday. Not even Ray had been able to talk him down. Not that Ray had tried all that hard. He was just as pissed as Jason. Brock had seen Jason upset, grief-stricken, eaten up with guilt and remorse and seen him grind to a halt with second guessing and self-doubt, but never, never had he seen him so out of control.
"You are not going to tell me what to do." Jason had the man up against a wall by his tie, twisting it in his fist until the man, blood dripping to his chin, gaped for his breath. A tooth lay on the floor but Jason showed no signs his fist hurt. "No one here is. Let me make myself clear." He dragged the man away from the wall, smacked his head against a shelf then with one hand, threw him down upon a desk. "I will tear that town down, take homes apart brick by brick, there won't be an inhabitable building left standing…..I will shoot the men in the legs, corral the woman, remove the children until someone talks. I'm coming out of that market with that kid and no one….NO ONE is going to stand in my way."
And Bravo Team had followed their leader and done just that.
Brock accepted a bottle of water, answering a question or two about Clay's ability to adapt to heat. He replayed that scene in his head over and over. He could imagine the interview, court hearing, review…whatever by Blackburn's superiors.
"Please tell us why you left the room."
"I followed Jason."
"Please tell us why you went on this mission."
"I followed Jason." Ooh, they didn't like him calling Jason, Jason. Tough shit.
"And do you always follow Master Chief Hayes?" aah, trying to prove a point.
"Yes, sir."
"Why do you do that?"
"Because he is Jason."
Brock chuckled…oh, in some ways he couldn't wait for that meeting!
"He doesn't like that."
The medics' calm tone jerked Brock back to the reality in the chopper. What the….? Oh. Right. The kid. Their kid who didn't yet realize that, despite orders from Jason's superiors, you obeyed Jason. Clay might have known what Jason's orders had been, if he'd been present in the meeting where Jason had threatened 'war at their front door' if anyone took Clay or any member of his team on a mission Jason deemed stupid and useless.
Brock sighed. He couldn't fault Clay for following orders. Jason didn't blame the kid either. The fault lay with the man who'd ignored Jason and took Clay on a stupid, senseless mission anyway when Jason's back had been turned, so to speak. And Jason wasn't used to being ignored or overruled. He'd said no and to him, that was the end of it. He'd left the meeting without another thought. Looking back, a good other thought would have been to tell Clay to ignore any orders other than Jason's own. Brock knew, despite being uncertain and cocky, oh yes, their kid was indeed cocky, that Clay would have refused those direct orders had he known better. That was on Jason.
"Jesus."
That one word uttered in that tone had Brock on his knees and crawling forward. The medics let him crowd in, the heel of Clay's left foot in the palm of one medic and Clay was squirming, jerking on his foot to break the hold.
"Kid, enough." Brock commanded gently. "Be still."
And Clay stilled.
Wow, foot holding medic thought. If only all their patients were so accommodating upon command. Well, he conceded, his current patient only was so compliant because of the Seal kneeing beside him. He wished all team members were as accommodating as this one, but they weren't. This one hadn't even asked if his fallen team member was going to be okay. He let them do their jobs and trusted them to call upon him if needed.
"Knife, you think?"
"Maybe to peel the skin off. Razor though, for all those cuts."
"Kid ain't gonna be walking anytime soon."
"Put a time on 'anytime'." Brock ordered, remaining calm despite the dips and swirls in this belly that weren't caused by the motion of the chopper.
"Two weeks."
Brock nodded. That was acceptable. Never was not.
"No broken toes."
"He'll hobble about. Cuts aren't deep."
No, just covered every possible inch of the bottom of both feet. And that was after the first layer – perhaps two, even three – of skin had been peeled off. Brock shuddered. He was never peeling a carrot again.
"Anything in them?"
"Yeah, tweezers. Looks like maybe glass."
Brock moved back. He'd stepped on glass and pebbles, hell, even staples that had caused small cuts on the bottoms of his feet. The smaller, the more they stung. Those kinds of cuts, though shallow, always burned. And when sweating, which they all did daily, they itched. And as they healed, the skin was tight and every twitch of a toe made the skin pull. Of course, Brock had never had the skin flayed off his feet either. Or had anything imbedded in those little paper-like cuts. And he'd only had one or two on one foot.
So, fuck it. He really had no idea how the kid felt.
Brock lifted a bottle to his lips, savoring the cold, wet water. Better than warm, dry water. Yes, there was such a thing, but after hours in the hot desert, eating sand, any moisture was ambrosia.
"…some….."
Brock blinked, looking around, gaze resting on blue eyes that stared at the bottle of water in his hand. Aah, Clay wanted his water.
"Can he?" Brock asked the medic. Had they been in the field, he wouldn't have asked anyone's permission. Oh, Clay was theirs but Clay wasn't his patient.
"Small sips, pause in between." Came the distracted response. "He spits it out or can't swallow, don't panic, let him wet his tongue much as he wants."
"Okay kid." Brock moved up to kneel beside Clay's shoulder and with one hand, lifted his head from the floor. "Ready?" he tipped the bottle and Clay parted his lips and moved his tongue to accept the offer of water. The medic was watching, nodded when Clay swallowed and Brock pulled the bottle back then returned it to offer more and returned his attention to Clay's foot. "Yeah, okay, you play." Brock said when Clay let the water dribble over his lips, chasing it with his tongue. "I'm okay with that."
"Chopper?" Clay winced, pulling his foot back slightly. "Ow."
"On our way to base." Brock replied. "You're good."
"The team?"
"Right behind us." Brock lied. He hoped they were. Hoped the chopper, with its own crew, had enough room for all four of their team. If not, Jason would have stayed behind, which meant Ray had, which meant only Sonny and Trent would land and beat him up when he failed to deliver the information they wanted to be told: Clay was okay, no harm had befallen him and they could all go out for a drink.
"Cerb?"
"Left at base. Not needed on this mission." Brock said lightly. Oh no, no dog needed. Not with Jason on the rampage. And boy, had he been. Whew.
"Brock?"
"Yeah kid?"
"I know….team motto is…keep to yourself….what…how…you feel." his eyes rolled and he jerked so violently, the medic holding his foot fell back. "….not so good."
Yeah, Brock thought, you don't feel so good, I know. He was about to break his own vow to stay out of the way and ask if Clay could have something for the pain when the medic produced a needle and quickly injected it.
Good grief, I hate seeing a needle!
"Do flayed feet really hurt that much?" Brock asked, knowing they probably did. No, no probably about it. "Sorry kid." With Clay unconscious, he moved to sit back against the wall of the chopper, letting the violent whump-whumping vibration clatter his teeth and make his tail bone go numb. He didn't deserve comfort when Clay was in so much pain that he required morphine or the like to remain quiet.
He let his eyes close, new cleansing wipe over his eyelids, massaging with his thumbs. This damn flight was taking hours. It was never going to end.
"How long we been in the air?" he asked quietly. Had to be at least half an hour.
"7 minutes."
Well, fuck. It took him that long to get off just his vest and in less than half that time, two medics had stripped Clay to his underwear and checked every inch of skin and bone the kid possessed.
Well, that proves it, Brock ole buddy, you'll never make it as a medic.
The chopper landed and Brock waited until Clay had been off-loaded then pushed his butt along the floor to the open doorway. He swung his legs over and climbed out, off, whatever, wondering how his butt had managed to go numb in what had been probably 60 seconds.
