Time: A Matter of Life or Death
By Adalanta
Disclaimer: All of the characters in this story are owned by the producers of JAG and probably a whole lot of other people. In other words, not me.
Author's Note: Hi! This is my first JAG fanfic. I'd never considered writing one before, but I was so pumped after the Season Eight Finale that my mind just went into overdrive. This story concentrates on Gunny and Webb and what happened to them after the end of the show. Please, let me know what you think (since this is a first) by leaving me a review at fanfiction.net or emailing me personally at adalanta14@yahoo.com. Oh, yes. The whole story will be probably be three to four chapters in all. Enjoy!
Chapter One: Running Out of Time"Mr. Webb, can you hear me? Mr. Webb?" Gunnery Sergeant Victor Galindez, Gunny for short, glanced worriedly to his right at the slumped, bloody figure in the passenger seat, trying to ascertain whether or not the man was conscious.
Time was of the utmost importance right now – a true matter of life or death. There had already been a twenty-minute delay at the checkpoint, twenty endless, nerve-racking minutes watching the Paraguayan soldiers practically take apart his Landrover in search of any possible reason to arrest him or kill him on the spot. They'd searched the entire vehicle, top to bottom, and had even gone so far as to insert a long wire into the gas tank to ensure that the Americans were not smuggling drugs in there. Gunny had answered what questions he could without blowing his cover, appearing to cooperate fully, but when the captain in charge ordered him to remove Webb from the car, he'd vehemently objected, insisting that any at all movement could cause the death of the seriously injured man.
Galindez shifted his dark eyes back to the road and rubbed his bruised, aching jaw with one hand. His "insistence" had earned him a rifle butt to the jaw as well as the stomach by a large, ape-like sergeant, something he did not want to repeat. Although his jaw hurt fiercely whenever he tried to talk, he was sure it wasn't broken, just badly bruised. His stomach, on the other hand, was one solid mass of pain; by some vicious stroke of bad luck, the gun had slammed into the exact spot where he'd been shot just a couple of days earlier, an area that was still inflamed and sore. Black spots had momentarily danced in front of his eyes as he'd hunched over, clutching his stomach and gasping for air, but he'd refused to back down, firmly pushing the flaring pain aside to accomplish his mission.
Slowly straightening up, he'd raised his chin and glared defiantly at the captain, unwilling to back down no matter how high the cost. Commander Rabb had made him responsible for Mr. Webb's safety. And then there was the fact that he owed him big time for saving his life just days before. For some strange reason, the captain had released them a minute later and allowed them to continue their urgent journey. Gunny still didn't know why the man had suddenly changed his mind.
And he hadn't stayed around to ask.
The vehicle bounced hard as it hit another pothole in the middle of the dusty, dirty path that the locals called a "road." Frowning, he looked over at Clayton Webb out of the corner of his eye, concerned by his prolonged silence. When he'd first started the drive back to Ciudad del Este, the nearest city, every pothole or large bump in the road had caused Webb to moan weakly, the abrupt movement too much for his tortured, damaged body to handle. Even though Galindez was a Marine (and one who'd seen combat in Afghanistan at that), the agonized sounds torn from the CIA man's throat affected him deeply. For Clayton Webb – a man who appeared to have no feelings – to be reduced to a moaning, bloody wreck…
The moans were disturbing enough, but the heavy silence that had fallen was much worse. The last time he'd heard any sound come out of the agent's mouth had been at least fifteen minutes ago. He knew that Clayton was still alive, his ragged breaths were still coming, but they were getting more difficult to hear and seemed to be more shallow and uneven than before. I've got to hurry. I don't think he has a lot of time left. If he doesn't get help soon…
A shudder rippled through his sturdy frame at the thought of how close he'd come to being in Webb's position. If Webb and Colonel Mackenzie hadn't stormed the terrorists' camp to rescue me…If I hadn't been careless enough to be captured in the first place…He shook his head to clear it, nearly groaning from the pain that ripped through the whole left side of his face. Gritting his teeth, he mentally berated his recent actions, from getting caught to allowing so much time to pass at the roadblock. If something happens to Mr. Webb because we were delayed, I'll never forgive myself, he thought angrily but then clamped down on that particular thought. All right, Victor. Calm down. Remember what the Admiral always used to say, "Don't deal with 'if's.' You'll only drive yourself crazy that way." You're right as usual Admiral, but that doesn't make it any easier.
Another pothole, this one even larger than the last, jolted the Landrover badly. Galindez whipped his head as a weak groan came from the passenger's seat. "Sir? Mr. Webb? Can you hear me? Talk to me, Webb."
With one eye on the looming city and the other on the injured man beside him, he saw Clayton Webb lift up his head slowly inch by inch, as if his neck were unable to hold the slight weight. With the beating he took, that wouldn't surprise me, he thought bitterly. Gunny's heart clenched when he saw the man's ashen, bloodless face and the glazed, pain-filled eyes that stared up at him, the huddled body trembling slightly where he reclined against the back of the seat. "Gunny…" he wheezed, the word nearly inaudible.
"Welcome back, Mr. Webb," he replied, deceptively calm, while rapidly thinking, I've got to keep him awake and talking. He can't afford to loose consciousness again. He might never wake up. "How're you doin' sir?"
Webb took a couple shaky breaths before he answered weakly, "Just…great."
"That's good to hear. Guess we don't need to hurry so much, huh, sir?" His joking instantly disappeared as the other man's eyes fluttered closed. "No, Mr. Webb, you've got to stay awake!" he said urgently. His worry increased drastically as he noticed the sweat that beaded the pale forehead, a sure sign of advanced blood loss. The sight only confirmed his worst fears – Webb was hemorrhaging internally.
"Can't…" he mumbled, body beginning to shiver uncontrollably.
Swallowing hard, Galindez shook his head, ignoring the flash of pain the movement caused. "Yes, you can! We're almost there! The hospital's only a few minutes away! Don't give up now! You got to fight!" He broke off his improvised pep talk as Webb began to cough deeply, wrenching, wet coughs that shook his limp frame and left him spewing up blood. The dark red liquid splattered his light colored pants and shirt and oozed out of his gaping mouth, leaving a shocking trail of crimson on the otherwise colorless face.
"Webb?" he called frantically, wanting more than anything to pull over the Rover and do something – anything – to help him, but he knew if he gave in to that irrational urge, Clayton Webb would surely die. That last coughing fit – one of his broken ribs must have punctured his lung, he realized, stunned. "Webb, stay with me here! Stay awake! You're gonna make it!" Weaving the vehicle through the streets like a madman, Gunny continued to plead with the CIA operative while literally pushing the accelerator to the floor.
Chest heaving, Webb desperately gasped for the air that his damaged body was denying him. About two blocks from the hospital, he tried to speak one last time. "Gunny…," he whispered thickly, coughing even more from the effort, blood spurting from his mouth with the force of each cough.
Gunny couldn't look at him, too busy watching the traffic he was flying by, and could only listen with a heavy heart to what he hoped would not be Webb's last words. "You're gonna be all right, Webb," he said reassuringly, his voice wavering a bit at the end, and gripped the wheel with two white-knuckled fists, helplessness threatening to overwhelm him.
"Tell…Sarah…" he rasped, his breathless voice scratchy and hoarse from endless screaming. "She…w-was," he gurgled and stopped to spit out a mouthful of blood, his breathing rapid and shallow. "…worth…….it," he breathed. Like a puppet with its strings cut, Webb collapsed bonelessly down onto the seat. He gasped a few more times and then grew silent and still.
TBC………………