The end is about to begin.
And for the record, Marines DO cry. They are human, and death is frightening - I don't care who you are or how brave you think you are.
One Hello
"Jim, what's happening?" Dave asked as he ran outside to the courtyard. He quickly scanned the area for the man he had put in charge.
"Dave, I'm not sure at the moment," the average sized blonde man replied. There was a minute of fear in his brown eyes, but determination hardened his features. Distorted sounds came through the walkie-talkie in his hand. "Repeat," he spoke into the receiver.
"We have a man down."
"What's your 20?"
"East wall. We took fire. Bronson's down!"
"We need to get over there," Dave announced.
"Do we have the fire power to hold them off?" Jim asked.
"We're not exactly rolling in ammo, but we have enough. Come on!" Dave took off toward the fight. Rounding the corner, he pulled up short. All of his training came back as his ears listened for anything out of the ordinary. His eyes moved over every object looking for threats – hidden or otherwise.
Weapon drawn, he cautiously moved across the manicured lawn to where two men were hidden under the large table. Holstering his gun, Dave knelt down beside the prone figure dressed in camouflage.
"Where was he hit?" Automatically he scanned the man's body for apparent injuries. His gaze rested on the red stain spreading quickly across the uniform jacket.
"It came out of nowhere. We were just standing guard when the explosion happened. I thought…"
"What's your name, son?" Dave asked the second Marine who appeared to be shaken by the recent event and who was frantically trying to help his comrade.
"Corporal Brandon, sir."
"Corporal, are you hurt?" Dave parted the material and pulled up the olive green shirt to reveal the injury. He tried to keep his expression neutral. The situation called for calm.
"No, sir. Is he going to be alright?"
Dave assessed the Marine's injuries. He had seen enough bullet wounds to know that the situation was grave, but they still had to do everything they could. "Brandon, I'm going to need you to help me move him into the embassy."
"Should we move him? I read that you shouldn't…" Brandon argued. "We need to get a doctor."
Dave reached out and grabbed the young man's arm. "Brandon! I need you to take a deep breath and remain calm because we are going to have to move him inside. Okay?"
His features ashen, the young man nodded.
"Follow what I do, so we can pick him up. Place your hands here and here." Dave instructed in his best Master Sergeant tone. "Then we lift him on three. Ready? One…two…three…"
Together, they carefully lifted the wounded man up from the ground. With purpose, the two men made their way toward embassy. At the door to the kitchen, Dave kicked twice to alert the person on the other side of their presence.
"How is he?" Jim threw the door open to let them inside. He closed it behind them and threw the deadbolts before following the trio down the hallway to the small annex room they had designated for triage.
While Dave and Corporal Brandon placed the young man on the table, Jim was busy gathering First-Aid supplies. In less than a minute the counter was covered with gauze, tape, and other instruments. He cast a wary gaze at the items. It wasn't going to be enough, but they had to try.
Dave was busy ripping Bronson's shirt off. Grimly, he shook his head. "It's not good. Get me something to stop the bleeding," he ordered. Jim pressed the item into Dave's hand. "I'm going to need your help. Press here."
"It's not stopping," Jim whispered in a growling tone.
"Go get a doctor." Dave's attention didn't move from the man on the table. "And get Ambassador Prentiss," he ordered. "Jim?" The man turned around. "Try not to let anyone know what is happening in here; we don't need hysteria."
"Got it, Dave." Jim closed the door behind him.
"I don't want to die," Bronson breathed on a sob. He was supposed to stay strong and maintain a sense of military bearing and etiquette, but right now his stomach was on fire. He hurt so much. No one had told him that bullets were like fire.
"It's okay, son," Dave soothed and tried to calm the frightened, wounded man. He silently cursed the bastards who had done this. Tossing the blood drenched gauze, he reached for more sterilized pads. He covered the wound and pressed hard.
"It hurts."
"I know it does. It's going to be okay." Where was the doctor?
"I didn't mean to step out…"
"You didn't do anything wrong. You were doing your job."
"I can't breathe…"
"Stay calm," Dave directed. "Talk to me. What is your name, Marine?"
"Charles Bronson, sir," came the breathless reply.
Dave felt a smile tug at his lips while his hands tried to staunch the flow of blood. "Are you sure?"
"My dad was a fan." Pain overwhelmed him, but he tried to focus on the man helping him. "He…he w-w-wanted to…to g-g-give me a n-n-name that I…I c-c-c-"
"It's okay," Dave assured him.
"…could live up t-t-to," Bronson finished.
"You did. Where are you from?" Distract the young man from the inevitable. It was cruel, but there was nothing else they could do at this point.
"Topeka."
"Kansas. I've been there."
"I'm going to die," Bronson sobbed unabashedly. Hard, wracking coughing shook his body. A tinge of blood appeared on his lips. Dave wiped it away. He gripped the dying man's hand and tried to will some strength to him. "Listen to me, son. It's going to be okay. Just breathe."
"It hurts." More blood on Bronson's lips let Dave know that the hemorrhaging had begun; it was just a matter of time.
"I know it does."
"Marines aren't supposed to cry. You know that."
"I do. But I think you can be forgiven, this time."
"Request permission to cry."
"Go ahead, son."
The sob came out as a rattle as Bronson tried to take a breath. The death rattle. The end was close.
"Sir," the man's whisper seemed to be coming from far away. Dave leaned in to hear the final last words of a hero.
"Yes, son?"
"Tell my dad…tell…" A soft sigh escaped as the life slowly departed his body. At that moment the door swung open and an older man rushed inside. He was followed by Jim and Em.
Stone silence filled the room while the doctor checked the Marine's pulse. He waited. Then he shook his head. His expression revealed nothing as his educated eyes checked the wound.
"GSW to the upper abdomen," he detailed in monotone. "From the amount of blood loss, it's possible that the bullet nicked an artery – or even severed it. Cause of death appears to be exsanguination." He looked at the trio with sad eyes. "There would have been nothing I could have done. It was a mortal wound."
Em stared at the lifeless body. She had seen so many during her time with the CIA and FBI, but this one was different: This one was a message to her and everyone she was protecting. Their time had run out.
Holding her head high, she blindly reached for the dog tags. "I need to email his information," she stated in a tight voice, her fingers shook as she tried to work the chain. A minute later, she had the small piece of tin that held all the young man's information. Her eyes avoided Dave's, but he wasn't looking at her. His focus was somewhere else.
"I'm sure you did your best to save him," the doctor consoled Dave with a pat on the shoulder. "We need to move him to the reefer until…" he left the rest unsaid. "If it helps, he didn't suffer."
It doesn't help, Dave thought bitterly. The young man before him had had his whole future in front of him, but terrorists had cut it short.
He let out a sigh full of sadness and relief. It was over for the young man on the table, but hell had just begun for the rest of them.