No. 27 OK, Who Had Natural Disasters On Their 2020 Bingo Card?
Prompt: #27 extreme weather
The sandstorm hit them like all things seemed to hit in this war-ravaged, sun-baked desert: out of nowhere. One minute, they'd been struggling up a steep slope, Strike getting jostled about in the Jeep's backseat. The next, they'd been engulfed by a cloud of sand, barely managing to roll up the windows in time. The landscape around them vanished as the storm howled over them, rocking their vehicle with gale force. They had no option but to sit it out. Listening to the sand pelting the windows, they held on to their seats, as if the Jeep was a boat being tossed about on an angry sea.
Strike's knuckles went white, one hand braced against the backrest in front of him, the other clutching the strap of his automatic rifle. With the air conditioning shut off, the inside of the vehicle became hot and stuffy very quickly, and under the heavy flak vest his t-shirt stuck to his skin. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face, itching in his late-afternoon-stubble. A vicious gust shook the Jeep, and Strike's stomach lurched when the car seemed to lift off for a second and dropped down again.
"How long is this gonna go on?" he yelled in Farsi, addressing their driver through the hellish noise.
Behind the wheel, thin brown hands resting in his lap, Nael shrugged.
"As long as it takes," he replied with practiced fatalism.
"These bloody storms can last for hours," McLoud commented from the passenger seat. "Or be over in a few minutes. Impossible to tell."
The compact, heavily muscled Scotsman looked more annoyed than worried but cursed loudly when another gust made the windows rattle. Strike knew that the red-haired Special Forces captain was on his second tour in the Middle East and grateful to have such an experienced soldier accompanying him on this trip to a small Army camp higher up in the mountains. A violent incident that looked suspiciously like homophobia in the reports needed investigating, and Strike was looking forward to pushing for a jail sentence on top of a dishonorable discharge once he'd identified the culprits - if they ever arrived at the camp, that was.
But the storm eventually passed, quicker than feared, and Strike, McLoud and Nael clambered out of the Jeep. They had to wriggle through the windows - the vehicle was buried in sand up to its headlights, and the doors wouldn't open.
"Unbelievable," Strike murmured, catching a shovel that McLoud tossed him from the top of the car.
And then they dug.
It didn't take long for Strike to be slick with sweat and coated in a fine layer of sand. He felt parched even though taking frequent sips from his water flask. He didn't mind the hard work - his Army training had perfected his natural boxer's physique, and he was at the peak of his physical fitness - but the midday heat was relentless, the sky a painful blue that made him squint even behind his Aviators. He'd shucked his flak vest inside the car - he never would've fit through the window wearing it - and had divested himself of all extra weight in favor of mobility. Stripped to his t-shirt and fatigues, he still felt impossibly hot. The olive cotton was soaked through, and he felt tempted to take his shirt off. After weeks of exposure to the Afghan sun, his English skin had stooped to a reasonable tan, but, from painful experience, he knew better than to push it.
Digging next to him, the Scotsman stopped to wipe his dripping brow.
"Bloody fuckin' heat," he cursed, cheeks almost as red as his hair.
"Tell me about it," Strike huffed back.
On the other side of the Jeep, Nael's turban bobbed up and down behind the hood. The man was half Strike's size, and yet he hadn't slowed down and was working in a steady, efficient rhythm.
Strike stood to stretch. Pressing a hand into his back, he groaned and scanned their surroundings. They'd been halfway up a set of hills, the ridge's sand-blasted tips glinting in the sun. There was no sign of life anywhere in sight - no dwellings, not even fences, only a beige, rolling landscape strewn with rocks and sprouting the occasional patch of skeletal shrubbery. The Army camp was another hour or two out, and, not for the first time, Strike had the eerie feeling of being stranded on a foreign, uninhabited planet.
Strike bent back down and rammed the shovel back into the sand with a grunt. The left back tire was almost free, and the prospect of making it out of this furnace spurred him on. When he changed position to focus on the rear of the car (letting it roll out of its trap backwards was their agreed-upon plan), he felt a prickle at the back of his neck. It wasn't sweat. It was the primeval part of his brain telling him that something was wrong.
Strike turned around, neurons firing alarm.
He heard a bullet whizz toward him, a split second before it ripped into his side. The pain was so sharp, it stole his breath, and, dropping the shovel, he stumbled against the back of the car. At the front, McLoud grunted in surprise and vanished from view. Nael shrieked.
Combat training kicked in, and Strike lurched behind the Jeep to take cover. His hand reached for the gun tucked into a holster at the small of his back. He yanked it out, ignoring the stinging wetness above his hip, and released the safety catch. Nael, squatting in the sand two steps away from him, stared at him with big eyes.
Another bullet dug into the Jeep's exposed side with a metallic clang. Again, Strike hadn't heard the shot. It had to be a sniper's rifle, muffled to hide the shooter's position.
"McLoud!" Strike hollered. "McLoud, you alright?!"
Strike's heart beat in his throat. He prayed the Scot wasn't dead.
"McLoud!!"
"Shit, Strike!" A ginger crew cut and then the rest of the Special Forces man appeared as he scrambled behind the car, low to the ground and trying to blend in with his surroundings. "Stop yelling!"
Strike gasped in relief. Sparks flew and he flinched at another projectile glancing off the Jeep.
McLoud had risen and, gun in hand, was trying to spot the shooter. Judging by the shots' trajectory, they had to be situated on the ridge above them. Strike startled when he saw blood soaking through the soldier's trouser leg.
"You're bleeding," he stammered.
Ducking as another shot whizzed past them, the Scot cast a perfunctory glance at his thigh, then at Strike.
"Yeah?" he said, clucking his tongue. "Seems I'm not the only one."
Strike followed the man's gaze to his own bloody side. His t-shirt stuck to the wound, the dark stain around it impressively wide.Gingerly, he pulled his shirt up to reveal a long and deep furrow just above his left hip that was leaking sluggishly. Strike looked at it with strange detachment. As a boxer, he was used to pushing through the shock and pain of an injury, but a gunshot wound was definitely a new experience.
"Your first injury on the job?" McLoud asked.
Strike nodded, feeling a little faint.
"Flesh wound," the Scot informed him. "You'll live. Just don't go into shock for a bit, alright, mate? I'll need your help to get us out of this lil' foofaraw."
As if on cue, a hail of bullets - loud shots this time, from an automatic weapon - slammed into the front of the car. Glass splintered and rained into the sand. It wasn't a good sign. Whoever was shooting at them was coming closer.
"Bastards!"
The captain ripped his sweaty bandana from his neck and tied it around his thigh with an angry growl. Then he peeked through the broken windows to scan the ridge. Strike, doing likewise, saw at least three men sneaking down their side of the hill, using ditches and rock formations for cover.
"What are we gonna do?" Nael, hands protectively clutching his head, stared at the two soldiers in fear. He was a civilian, not a soldier, and clearly not built for the stress of an ambush.
"We're gonna give these fuckers a run for their money" McCloud spat. "But we need more firepower. Strike!" He turned to him. "Where's your rifle and ammo? On the backseat?"
Strike nodded, his pulse thrumming in his ears.
"Mine's up front. Shit!" Angrily, McLoud slammed one fist into the sand. They shouldn't have left their weapons in the Jeep, but there was no time for self-blame now. "Think you can get yours if I cover you?"
Swallowing, Cormoran tried to push through his fear and the pain in his side and think. All three of them were huddled behind the Jeep's rear, the hostiles approaching them from the front. If he made it to the back door and opened it quickly, the metal plating would shield him from bullets. He pictured his rifle and its position on the seat, the flak vest and spare ammunition beside it, and his radio set. The latter, he knew to be useless - they had no reception in this isolated part of the desert. They'd have to fend for themselves.
"Strike!"
Cormoran blinked - and made a decision. He nodded.
"Right then." McLoud locked eyes with him, face a determined grimace. "On three."
He took position, ready to pop around the rear. Strike grabbed his own gun tighter, surprised that his hand wasn't shaking.
"One. Two... Three!"
The instant McLoud started to lay cover fire, Cormoran flattened himself around the side of the Jeep. The Scot's gun belched round after round uphill, casings plinking off the Jeep's side. In answer, a salvo of wild shots kicked up the sand around Strike's boots. He slid forward, yanked the car's rear door open and ducked behind it. Then he threw himself across the back seat to grab what he'd come for. A trio of bullets punched into the backrest as he pulled himself back out, rifle, belt and vest gathered in his arms, and he tried not to drop his gun when he stumbled back behind the car.
Before he dove for cover, he'd seen five men advance, yelling in Arabic. They would be upon them in a matter of seconds.
McLoud snatched the rifle out of Strike's grasp and, with a battle cry, cocked and emptied it in direction of the hostiles. Cormoran almost fell, and he caught himself on their cowering driver, Nael, curled up protectively behind the bumper.
"Strike! Three o'clock! Engage!"
Cormoran's brain automatically reacted to the military command. He cradled his gun in a secure two-handed grip and stuck it around the other side of the Jeep. Sure enough, a fierce-looking man in mismatched camouflage, brandishing a rifle, was heading straight for him. Strike flinched as a bullet zinged past his ear, but he steadied himself, aimed and pulled the trigger of his gun. One - two. Double-tapped, the man dropped with a grunt.
From McLoud's side, he heard the ratatat of an automatic weapon and yelps of pain, but he had no time to check who was hit. Another attacker had sprung up from behind the Jeep's hood. He was too close for Strike to bring up his gun in time. The man hurtled himself at Strike with a scream - and with a knife. On reflex, Cormoran blocked the man's forearm and held on to his wrist. Stepping back to bring him off-balance, he pulled him to the ground, knife first. A deft twist of the arm, a nasty crunch, and his attacker was writhing on the ground with a dislocated shoulder.
His wounded side on fire, Strike whirled around to see how Nael and McLoud were faring. The Afghan driver was still crouched in his fetal position but looked unhurt. McLoud, however, was engaged in a wrestling match with a dark man equaling his size and in danger of losing. His injured leg was threatening to give out underneath him, and he was breathing hard in a headlock. Seeing no further hostiles coming, Strike took two steps and drove his right fist into the attacker's kidney. When the man sagged with an oof!, releasing McLoud's neck, Strike plucked him off the Scotsman's back and spun him around. The rest was deeply ingrained choreography: One blow to the dark man's stomach, followed with an uppercut, and the hostile fell in a heap.
Adrenaline still firing, Strike looked around and braced himself for more. Where was his gun? He found it in the sand and picked it up to train it in a wide arc, searching for a target.
"Nice." On the ground, McLoud coughed and pulled himself to a sitting position. "But I think you can stand down, sergeant. We got'em all."
For a prolonged moment, Strike was unable to let his weapon sink. It seemed glued to his hand as his eyes skipped over the Jeep, the sandy slope and the bodies now littering it. Five men were strewn around them, either dead or too injured to fight. Chest heaving, Cormoran had to force his arms to relax and tore his gaze away from the bodies, to McLoud.
"Hell of a punch you got there, Strike," the Scot said, grinning crookedly through a film of dirt and sweat. "Ever thought of a career in boxing?"
Strike would've laughed, but he didn't have the energy left. Adrenaline suddenly waning, he pressed a hand to his stinging side and sank down between the captain and their catatonic driver.
"Right." McLoud nodded, clutching his own wound. "Let's take a moment to breathe. And then let's uncurl our shell-shocked friend here, slap a band-aid on and get this show back on the road, shall we?"
Sitting now, his whole body twitching, Strike had enough air to chuckle at the absurdity of it all. He squinted at the bright-blue sky, at the bullet riddled jeep, then at McLoud.
"Yeah," he slurred. "But you're driving."
XXX
The Army doctor who patched Strike up a few hours later couldn't be much older than him, but his deft, sure hands spoke of experience. He observed Strike closely while he worked.
"Feel that?"
He poked at Strike's injury, but it might as well have been someone else's. The local anesthetic had done its job, and Cormoran, propped on his side, eyed the cleaned wound dispassionately. In the last few hours, exchanging saturated gauze pads several times as they rocked back to base camp, he'd become used to the sight, and to the pain.
"No. I don't feel anything."
"Good. Now keep still and think of something pleasant."
As the doctor bent over him and began to sew his wound shut, Strike tried to stop the film that was playing back over and over in his memory: The sandstorm; the ambush; the trek back to camp. Thank God they'd almost dug the Jeep out when the attack happened. Without Nael, revived by gentle words and a slug from McLoud's secret hip-flask ("Only for emergencies, Strike, dinna rat me out!"), they never would've managed to finish their shoveling and get moving. As useless as Nael was in a fight - he was a magnificent driver and wriggled the Jeep free, working the clutch and the gearshift like a magician.
Reluctantly, they'd left the two wounded hostiles behind; there wasn't enough room in the Jeep for a safe transport. They'd left them with bandages and water, and neither man was fatally wounded. Eventually, they would make it back to whatever transport they'd used. As to the bodies… Strike hoped they'd take care of them as well before the desert did.
He shuddered.
I've killed someone.
It hadn't sunken in yet. But it would.
"You alright, soldier?"
The doc had stopped sewing and was eyeing him with concern.
"Yeah." Cormoran nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine."
The surgeon gave him a dubious look that Strike answered with a defiant stare.
"I'm fine, doc. Just- how long will I be out of commission?"
He was thinking of the case now on hold because of today's incident.
Turning back to his stitching, the young doctor addressed his words to Strike's hip.
"Not long," he said. "I'd like to keep you here overnight, load you with antibiotics and top up your fluids." He flicked his head at the IV Strike had been hooked up to. "Normally, I'd suggest another three days of bedrest, but none of you hard-arses ever listen to me anyway, so I'll just hope you'll take it easy for a while and have a medic remove those stitches in ten days - a medic, not one of your pals with their pocket knife." He threw Strike a warning look.
Cormoran nodded obediently.
"Duly noted."
"Good man."
The young surgeon cut the last thread just as McLoud hobbled into view behind him. The Scot was on crutches, a thick bandage peeking out from under his cut-off trouser leg. He pulled up beside Strike's cot and peared at the row of black stitches in his side.
"How many, doc?"
"Eight," the surgeon replied automatically, but his brow furrowed in disapproval when saw who was talking.
"And it's not a contest!" He slapped a bandage over Strike's wound, then he got up from his stool and glowered at the Scotsman. "What are you doing out of bed, Captain? And where is your IV?"
Pulling the stool towards him, McLoud dropped onto it. He waved a dismissive hand at the opposite end of the room and otherwise ignored the doctor's questions.
The surgeon sighed in defeat. "Suit yourself." He gave up and walked away.
McLoud rolled his eyes and scratched his red stubble, carving a trail into the dirt on his face. Then he stretched his injured leg out with a sigh of his own and looked at Strike.
"How you doin', Strike?"
Cormoran shifted on his cot, unable to find a comfortable position.
"Fine. You?"
"Peachy."
They both acknowledged each other's bravery with a manly nod.
"You saved our arses back there," the captain continued. "Not bad for an SIB guy."
Taken aback, Cormoran shook his head.
"Nonsense! I nearly froze. You took charge. And you took out half of them. If it hadn't been for you, we'd all be lying dead in that sandpit now."
"Bullshit!" The Scot said loudly. "You saved my fuckin' life back there, and I owe you for that."
He offered his hand. "Thanks, Strike."
Awkwardly, Cormoran took his hand and shook it. He felt a strange mixture of embarrassment and pride.
"Got something for you," McLoud added and reached for his back pocket. When he brought his hand around, he was holding the hip flask he'd offered Nael. By now, Strike knew that it held a surprisingly fine Scottish whisky. McLoud tucked it underneath Strike's pillow, out of sight.
Cormoran tried to reach for the flask and give it back.
"No, Captain, really, I don't-"
"You'll want it, believe me," McLoud cut him off. His blue eyes went suddenly serious. "Tonight, when it's quiet and you can't sleep, that face will come to haunt you. He was your fist kill, am I right?"
Cormoran's stomach suddenly dropped. Until now, he'd been too distracted to truly think about what had happened. About what he had done. About what he'd had to do. It had seemed so easy. Disturbingly easy.
"Yeah," he admitted quietly.
"Thought so."
McLoud pointed at the hidden flask.
"This'll help."
"Thanks."
The two soldiers locked eyes for a moment, and although Cormoran barely knew the other man, he felt a strange bond with him. They'd fought together. They'd killed together. They'd had each other's backs. Brothers in arms. Cormoran had always thought the term a bit melodramatic, but now he knew where it sprang from.
"Watch your six, Strike."
Laboriously, McLoud struggled back to his one good foot and clamped the crutches back under his armpits.
"You too, Captain."
With nothing left to say, the Scotsman hobbled back to the other side of the medical tent.
Soon, night fell across the camp. Though never completely quiet, noises died down, and the bustle of patients and doctors coming and going trickled off until only a core shift was left for the night. A nurse stopped by to hang a new IV, check his blood pressure and cover Strike with a blanket. When she left, she pulled up a curtain between him and the next, unoccupied bed to give him more privacy.
"Shout if you need anything," she said with a quick smile and disappeared.
Strike, alone now, his wound stinging, stared into the descending darkness and waited for sleep - or whatever else - to find him.