First Do No Harm – Chapter 2
In his years as an operator, Brock had seen the horrors of war up close and personal. He knew its' smells, sounds and images.
He knew the difference between the smell of blood and the smell of death. He could tell simply by a man's cry whether a wound was fatal. He knew what grenades, 50 caliber rounds, rifles and automatic weapons could do to a person. He'd seen bodies fall in a cloud of pink mist. Limbs torn apart by IEDs. Before even joining Bravo, he'd seen friends die, holding them as they took their final breath.
As an operator, he'd spent almost his entire adult life taking lives from various distances. And when shit got really real, he'd taken lives with his bare hands in order to save his own and those of his brothers.
It was primitive, inhumane, grotesque, and soul destroying.
When the nightmares came, and they came often, he'd wake up screaming, shivering, breathless. And grateful.
Grateful for the nightmares. For it meant that there was still a part of him, the real him, that remained. A remnant of he used to be. Who he hoped he still was and that he would be again when all this was over.
He'd never said it aloud, but he clung to that hope. In his darkest moments, he was terrified that a day would come, sometime in the future, when his nightmares would stop, and what that would mean. Would he be able to live with himself? Would he be lost forever?
Brock had joined the military thinking he needed a challenge, wanting to make a difference to his country, defending the helpless, protecting the vulnerable, ridding the world of evil and the constant threats to humanity. To save lives. To somehow try to forget that he'd been unable to save his own brother. Rationally, he knew that he'd done all of those things and then some. He told himself that for every life lost at his hands, by his weapon, that he'd saved countless others.
He did this job so that others didn't have to. He was the sin eater.
And if the day ever came that his nightmares stopped, where he no longer felt the weight of his actions in his soul, he promised himself that he he'd walk away from it all and never look back. That he would spend the rest of his life atoning for his sins. Finding other ways to better the lives of those in his community and the world around him.
But until that day came, he had to believe, as a matter of self-preservation, that his actions made a difference in the world. That innocent lives were saved. And even when he didn't understand or agree with the mission, when he questioned its' value, he'd still be there, doing everything he could, and everything that was needed, to keep his brothers safe. To ensure that they always came home. That was the job. Not just the job. His purpose.
Brock was constantly looking for ways to atone, to save lives and tip the scales away from the lives he took. Yet despite his years in the field, everything he'd seen and done, he'd never been in the position that he now found himself in.
Brock had watched Trent perform countless procedures over the years. He'd seen in-the-field blood transfusions, skin stitched up without anesthetic, bones reset, lungs inflated, wounds cleaned, and improvised tourniquets applied to prevent massive blood loss.
It hadn't taken long for Brock to become Trent's unofficial assistant medic. Trent respected that Brock never hesitated and he was never rattled by what he saw. Where Sonny, Clay and Jason were explosive and reactionary. Brock had an ability to keep his emotions locked away. He processed adrenaline differently.
Brock had the enviable ability to detach from the horror around him without losing his compassion or humanity. He didn't panic or lash out. He could do whatever Trent asked of him and their bond meant that they could communicate with few words.
With his calm personality, unending amount of inner strength, and limitless self-sacrifice, Trent firmly believed that Brock would have made a very good medic if he hadn't already found the thing he was always meant to be, the Navy's top K-9 handler.
Assisting Trent over the years, Brock had done everything from holding wounds open so Trent could clamp damaged arteries, to applying pressure to various wounds while the blood soaked his hands, and administering chest compressions until the sweat poured off him and his arms went numb. But, Trent had always been there to guide him. To tell him when to stop. When to keep going. What to do next. The decisions were Trent's alone. Trent had the training, the years of experience, and all the skills, knowledge and history.
But Trent couldn't help him now. Because it was Trent that was lying there in the dirt, shrapnel having ripped apart part of his neck, the swelling causing his throat to constrict. The lack of oxygen having turned his lips blue as he lost consciousness.
Brock had never even seen what it was that he was about to attempt. Trent had tried his best to explain the procedure in the short amount of time, between gasping breaths, before he lost consciousness. But how could those few minutes possibly be enough?
Trent didn't have to say just exactly how dangerous this procedure was. It was obvious to Brock. He was having a hard time not focusing on the worst-case scenarios that ran through his mind on a vicious loop. There were just so many risks, with the potential to damage the vocal cords, the larynx, and the important nerves in the neck. And there was no one else here.
He was alone with no one who could help talk him through it. No one to tell him whether his incision would be too deep or not deep enough
His comms had been destroyed in the explosion. He didn't have the time to think about the rest of Bravo and where they might be. Whether any of them had even survived the blast. He didn't have time to think of his own pain, that was just starting to announce itself in his chest. He had to act.
As he made the incision, slicing the razor-sharp scalpel through his best friend's throat, he felt himself detach from the scene, and an inner strength took hold. He didn't hesitate. He didn't stop. He didn't second guess the surprising lack of blood left by the incision. He used his fingers to slightly push open the incision, carefully threading the thin tube into the trachea. He carefully sucked at the tube to test it for air coming back at him. Believing that he could feel it, that air was getting through, he checked for a pulse and was relieved to find it. Although it was weaker than he would have liked.
He had no idea what to expect. How would he know if it had worked? How long would it take? Would he need to try it again? Could he breathe into the tube for his friend? Would that even work to get him the oxygen he needed to keep him alive? Brock wasn't normally one to panic, but he could feel the unease and doubts swirling through him. He needed to do something, but he didn't know what that was. He really needed Trent to tell him. Taking hold of Trent's hand, he begged him to open his eyes. "come on brother, come back to me".