Blood and Steel
Make metal bleed.
Maria McAllen didn't know who'd coined that phrase. Well, sort of – she knew that the USAF had coined the phrase, but the USAF wasn't a person, any more than the United States Army was a person. Militaries were composed of people, but weren't people in themselves. The Army would continue to exist long after she was dead and buried. Conflict would exist as well. And maybe, a century from now, some historian would write a book on the conflict with the SRN and attribute the above slogan to whatever airman had coined it. But, regardless, the phrase had stuck. Stuck before Task Force 108 was deployed to Africa, stuck with it as long as they'd been in Africa, and would likely stick around long after they left Africa.
"Approaching target."
Or possibly not, she supposed, as she gazed out the rear hatch of the Black Hawk. Aircraft didn't usually make metal bleed – in this day and age, they usually carried out precision strikes against insurgent groups. Not that the SRN weren't insurgents, but insurgents didn't usually have access to MiGs and other antiquated Russian equipment. MiGs such as the one on the sands below the Black Hawk – one that had been shot down in an aerial skirmish with French fighters. Not that the French lacked group troops of their own, but Nomad Squadron had been closest, and had thus been given a retrieval order. Touch down at the crash site and extract the pilot – the SRN might have been armed thugs, but you couldn't fly a plane without some level of intelligence. Maybe enough intelligence to accept a deal and fill in NATO as to where the SRN was getting all their gear.
"Touching down in ten…nine…eight…"
She got up, as did the rest of their squad. Nomad Squadron was usually used for attack runs – the infantry in the helicopters were there to secure landing (or in rare cases, crash) sites, provide extra firepower if needed, or carry out quick retrieval operations. Milk runs like this were usually out of the squadron's purview. So, this time, only two Black Hawks were touching down – one platoon's worth, all for a single pilot. She got to her feet, as did the rest of the troopers. Sergeant Rowe took point. He didn't say anything. No-one did. Not when the craft touched down, not when the light turned green, not when Rowe gestured for the squad to fan out.
Christ it's hot.
It was winter, but Africa didn't know it. The air was dry, shimmering in the heat. Nonetheless, she took point – she was the squad's medic. It would be her job to treat the poor sucker in the craft and keep him alive long enough for interrogation. After that, it was out of her hands. She'd be back at base enjoying a cold one, while he'd be yearning for the African heat.
"Clear."
She barely listened. She should have been listening to their marksman, but she just didn't care right now. No-one was out here. Just scrub, dirt, and more dirt. That, and a smouldering fighter in said dirt.
"Move."
She followed Rowe up to the craft. It didn't look too bad, all things considered. Maybe they'd come home with a living trophy this time.
"Make metal bleed."
She looked at Rowe. "What?"
He shook his head. "Damn slogan. Still in my head."
"Yeah, well, planes don't bleed."
"What about oil?"
"Think metaphors are above our pay grade."
"Hmm." Rowe took out his flask and took a sip. Maria refused the urge to do likewise. Water, like blood, was precious. Water could wait until she saw the downed airman. Both she and Rowe raised their rifles and slowly made their way to the cockpit – if the pilot was stupid, he might take a pot shot at them. She wanted to tell the sergeant that they should send someone else up first, but she knew he wouldn't listen. No-one wanted to be out here, and Rowe had always been hands on. First in, last out, and all that. She however, was a medic. She was used to staying back, not plunging into the lion's den first. She-
"Shit."
She could see it. Even through the cracked glass of the cockpit. A cockpit that Rowe opened at her behest. She could see the blood pouring down from the pilot's face. The blood that was pouring from his abdomen, courtesy of a piece of shrapnel. Blood that continued to flow even as he looked up at them. Eyes wide, lips cracked. He was as good as dead. And given the look in the man's eyes, she could tell that he knew it.
"Can't we move him?" Rowe asked, when she told him that.
She shook her head. "We could, but he wouldn't last ten minutes with these kinds of wounds."
"You're a medic."
"Right. And if you want me to treat bullet wounds, fine. Burn wounds, fine. Pilots impaled on their own craft? Not so fine."
Rowe sighed, and took another sip from his flask. "Fine."
"Fine?"
"Fine," he repeated. He slung his flask in his suit and made a gesture to Corporal Hidalgo. "Wheels up in five. We're heading home."
Maria stood there, frowning – 'heading home.' Home was half a world away, unless one counted the airfield she was stationed at as being 'home.' But the frown wasn't just about that. It was the sneaking suspicion that something big was coming. So far, the skirmishes between Task Force 108 and the SRN had been just that – skirmishes. Both sides were caught in a game of chicken, and chances were it was NATO who would cross the road first. Go in guns blazing, be home by Christmas. A sound plan, given the greater firepower on their side, but still, when you shot at people, they shot back. Sometimes, they even hit you. And sometimes, body armour failed.
"Water…"
She turned her head round – she'd been ready to go to the helicopter, but John Doe was still alive. Given how he was stretching out a mangled hand, his flight suit interwoven with broken flesh, she could tell that he wanted-
"Water…"
"Water?" she asked. "I…" She unscrewed her own flask. "Right. Water." She climbed up onto the fighter's nose and slowly handed over the flask to the pilot. "Water," she repeated.
He opened his mouth, and she poured it into him. Slowly, so as to not choke him. Slowly, so that in his last moments, he might have some level of peace.
Why are you here? She wondered. What are you doing anyway?
She knew he wouldn't tell her. SRN's goal was a "free Africa," but what that actually entailed was anyone's guess. They didn't appear to have any ideology along religious, ethnic, or political lines. They'd just sprung up out of nowhere and started launching strikes against numerous east African states. Almost like mercenaries. Fighting for gold, not for glory. Thugs. But not so much that she would refuse a dying man last rites.
Or dead man. She could see that now. How his eyes closed, how his head slumped, how his shallow breathing stopped. Biting her lip, she reached under his flight suit and pocketed his dog tags. Maybe someone somewhere would know who E. Okafor was. Doubtful, but still, what was life without hope.
"Is he dead?"
She glanced back at Rowe. He was standing there, M-16 slung over his shoulder.
She nodded.
"And you used water on him?"
She nodded.
He sighed. "Well, that's your prerogative."
She scowled. "I'm a medic."
"And you're obliged to treat enemy combatants, I know." He gestured to her to join the troopers entering the Black Hawk. "Just don't expect any tears."
Silently, she joined him. One minute from now, they'd be up in the air. Forty minutes from now, they'd be back at base. Forty hours from now…she didn't know. But as she turned and looked at the smouldering MiG, she did know something…
Make metal bleed.
It was a stupid slogan. Metal didn't bleed. Human beings did. And blood flowed the same way in the same colour, no matter who it flowed from.
The Black Hawk took off, and she sighed.
Something told her far more blood would be spilt before this was all over.
A/N
So what does SRN actually stand for? And who the heck thought that "make metal bleed" was a good tagline?
Well, got me to write this at least, so maybe it paid off.