Airbourne is one of my favorite bands! I pop Black Dog Barking in the CD player…yes, I still buy CD's...and drive aimlessly!
My favorite band's song on one of my favorite TV shows! Woot-Woot!
Trent sat slouched in a chair, feet on a desk, ankles crossed, staring at Clay who, limbs-akimbo, was sprawled on his belly, peacefully sleeping on his bunk. The little son-of-a-bitch wasn't exhibiting any signs of blue lips, coughing or troubled breathing now. No, of course not. Not when Trent was around to see it.
The. Prick.
He was exhausted, his head was killing him, his phone was blowing up, he was pissed, he was hungry and here he sat, doing absolutely nothing and ignoring everyone because he was intrigued - and somewhat worried; okay, scared - by the medical marvel who currently had his full attention.
He still didn't know why Clay had passed out the other day or suffered a coughing fit that had landed him in the infirmary after his lips had turned blue from eating an exotic fruit and he didn't like it….oh, no he didn't. Not. One. Bit.
The asshole in the infirmary had flat out refused to speak to him; refused to say why he'd felt the need to put the kid on oxygen, or what medication he'd given him.
He'd arrogantly informed Trent that he did not discuss patients and their medical conditions with a 'mere' medic and no amount of wheedling and/or threats had gained Trent any insight.
The asshole had an 'air' about him, a tilt to his chin, a way of looking over his glasses and down his nose that made Trent want to break those polycarbonate glasses by smashing them against his condescending face with a closed fist.
It had taken both Jeff and a suddenly alert and aware Clay to remove Bravo's medic from the infirmary.
Trent sighed, glanced at his left hand, made a fist, sighed again, opened his hand, rubbed his stomach when it growled its discontent over being denied food, shifted his weight from one hip to the other.
Blackburn was in the process of assigning a doctor to the team permanently. Trent hadn't been too sure about that, had been hesitant and apprehensive about working closely with a doctor, but one should never doubt Blackburn. At their first meeting however, after identifying Trent as the team medic, Doc, as he preferred to be called, had pulled up a chair, plopped right down with a beer and proceeded to engage in a topic no one else had wanted to be part of – bodily functions.
How the hell Blackburn had managed to find the one doctor capable of befriending Trent Sawyer while following a SEAL team around - just, you know, the entire Earth - was beyond anyone's comprehension, but like the pilot and the driver and the mechanic, he'd scored.
Having gotten over his initial misgivings about confiding in the man, Trent had come to find he quite liked the gruff doctor, even if he did constantly complain.
His past history as a military medic with an uncontrollable urge to learn had caused more than one doctor to put him firmly in his place, but never Doc. Doc was neither impatient nor scornful. He never informed Trent that as a medic, medical information and explanations were beyond his ability to understand. He answered every question, listened intently without judgement, corrected gently when needed, shared his knowledge and never ridiculed - though he did like to tease.
Case in point? Yeah, today.
Trent growled just thinking about it...Grrrr...rawr...grrr...rawr...He ran into that punk-ass fucking jerk again...those glasses were going to break!
It had taken Blackburn calling Doc and Doc conference calling with the infirmary management staff and officially verifying who he was – credentials and security clearance level included – to get the doctor who had seen Clay, on the phone. Then, and only then, with Doc's promise he would be landing in two hours and heads would roll if Trent didn't have the information he sought by the time Doc got there, had the man grudgingly told Trent what he wanted to know.
And armed with that knowledge, after all that drama and trouble, Trent still knew….absolutely nothing.
"Hey," Brock breezed in, plate of fresh danishes in one hand, bottles of water, iced tea and soda in the crook of his other arm. "Brought you a snack."
Brock and his sweet tooth.
"Hey," Trent responded, shifted slightly. "Thanks,"
"Been decided they're gonna leave at first light." He set the plate on the desk, Trent reached for a Coke, "Cherry or cheese?"
"Apple?" Leave at first light? Oh. Right. Yeah, Jason's fucked-up idea to take Clay and Sonny camping. Pfft. Yeah, that was gonna go well.
Brock nodded, put a danish on a napkin, handed it over, sat down. "So, all good?"
"Seems so." He took a bite….mmmm, decent. Not stale anyway and it hadn't come in cellophane packaging. "Don't see any signs they said landed him in the infirmary."
"What kind of fruit was it again?" Brock asked. "From where?"
Trent flashed him a photo he had up on his phone. "Malaysia. Indonesia." He finished the apple danish in two bites, reached for a cheese. Best to leave the cinnamon on the plate, they were Brock's favorite and Trent valued his fingers.
Brock nodded, South East Asia. "Cudda been sprayed with pesticide. Not washed properly." He took the last cinnamon danish, flashed Trent a goofy grin of thanks for leaving it for him. "Just, what the hell's it doing here?"
Trent shrugged. He had no idea and he knew Brock didn't expect an answer, but he ventured one anyway. "Variety?"
"Yeah, no. Apples and oranges, you know?" He opened a bottle of sweet tea. "Boss taking Clay on surveillance," He waited, watched Trent watch Clay who was showing signs of waking up. "You good with that?"
They both knew if he wasn't, and he said so, Bravo's rookie wouldn't be going 'camping'. Not when it wasn't a critical mission and doing so, made the medic cranky.
"No reason he can't go." Trent finally responded. "Get him away from Ellis, he might get some sleep."
"You think that's his only problem?"
"Dunno."
So, no. Brock let it go. Trent did shit in his own time, no rushing him.
"One hella-uv-a bruise." He teased when, disturbed by the voices, Clay turned his head, itched his chin against the sheet and his bruised jaw was in full view.
Trent flushed, scowled. "I barely hit the pansy-ass."
Brock nodded. Yeah, Trent knew how to throw a punch, they all did, and he believed his friend when he claimed it'd been a glancing blow not meant to knock anyone off their feet.
Trent tended to lash out when he was scared. He didn't know what was wrong with Clay - if anything - and when Clay hadn't been able to identify either his boots or his feet, Trent had flipped.
He'd yet to figure the kid out and when Trent couldn't figure shit out…he hit, slapped, smacked, punched because he was, you know, panicked. Not that he would ever admit to it and no one would ever call him on it.
No one dared. It would cause a fist-fight and who wanted a dental bill or their jaw wired shut for 6 to 8 weeks?
And since they'd gone and got Clay….well, Trent was a walking, ticking time-bomb. But Blackburn, bless the man, had already found a solution and had confided he was waiting final approval for additional funding that he expected any moment and Doc would be assigned permanently to Bravo.
The man was on his way now, so Trent wouldn't have to handle this latest issue with Bravo's very own 'Dennis the Menace' by himself.
"Any blueberry?" Clay, still on his belly, was up on his elbows. He yawned, knuckled his eyes, finger-combed his unruly hair.
"How you feeling?" Brock handed him the requested pastry on a napkin.
"Ass hurts." He shot Trent a dark look. "Ow."
"Cause you're a pansy."
"Fuck you." He juggled the napkin as he turned over and sat up. He winced, hissed and eased most of his weight onto his hip, bit into the pastry. "Time is it? Time to go?"
"Dude...it's 5:30."
"P.M.?" Clay finished the danish, slid off the bed, stood up. "Time for dinner then."
"Yeah, hey, how about no fruit?"
"Sure." Clay agreed easily. He stretched, looked down to see what he was wearing, decided shower shoes would do, frowned. "You don't mean peaches, though, right? I can have a peach for dessert?"
"Yeah," Brock chuckled, gave him a playful punch back of his knee. "If I can identify it, you can have it."
"You allergic to any medications?" Trent asked out of the blue.
Clay blinked, looked up, shrugged. "None I know of."
"What have you taken for pain?"
"Uh, aspirin. Advil." He headed for the door. "I like the gel caps."
"Anything stronger?"
"Does it matter?" It very well might, but Trent refrained from saying so out loud, remained silent and waited. The look on his face though, prompted a response. "Morphine a time or two." Clay concluded. "Not often."
"No adverse reaction?"
Clay shook his head at his medic. "No."
"Be thankful." Brock clapped him on the back. "Better take a bottle of those gel caps with you, you're going camping with Jason." He grinned at the face Clay made. "And Sonny."
"Who the hell made that decision?" Clay wondered. The very last thing he wanted to do, was suffer through Sonny's presence.
Trent made a face. What the hell? Oh yeah, right...the camping trip. Sonny tended to tease and mock and never knew when to back off. Didn't really matter, Jason would be there to put him down, he over-stepped.
"Jason can handle Q-ball." Trent decided. Their boss would end any argument before it got physical. He was still hungry, decided to join Clay for supper, invited Brock along. "Where we at with the info Ellis got?"
***000***
Finally relieved by Sonny who had insisted on rough-housing despite Clay's obvious reluctance, he returned to camp, flopped down on his sleeping bag, more than ready to turn in for the night. The air held a chill, more damp than cold and the fire was both welcoming and soothing. He remained sprawled on his back for several moments, then sat up to take off his boots. He had every intention of crawling into the downy, weather-proof, sleeping bag and not opening his eyes until morning.
Sonny hadn't been rough, but he hadn't let up either: Noogies, bear hugs, chokeholds, playful throttling. By the time Clay had managed to escape from his overzealous teammate, his head was spinning and he was out of breath. His ass still hurt from landing so hard on an unforgiving floor when Trent – for a reason still unknown, at least to him – had popped him in the mouth.
If Trent had given him the look everyone on Support had warned him about, he'd obviously missed it. If he had seen it, he would have ducked, fled...hell, done something.
"FYI? It's not a fruit we can identify, you don't eat it," Jason tousled his hair as he walked by. "Got me?"
"Uh, okay?" He gave his boss, who sounded just like Brock who had made a spectacle at supper over identifying a peach, a quizzical look. He'd just spent 8 hours on his belly, viewing a building through scopes and binoculars and camera lenses, and instead of asking if he'd learned anything of interest while on assignment/duty, his boss wanted to tease him about fruit?
Whatever.
"Stick to bananas, oranges." Jason was digging through a duffel, pulled out a sneaker, pointed it at Clay, tossed it aside, resumed rummaging. "Kiwi, if you want something exotic."
Kiwi wasn't an exotic fruit, but Clay wasn't about to correct his boss. He was just too tired to care. He thought about undressing before crawling into his sleeping bag, but didn't have the energy or desire. He'd be warmer clothed anyway.
Bar of chocolate between his teeth, Jason asked "You good?" He zipped his bag and slung it over a shoulder. "Couple hotdogs left, you're hungry." He chewed and swallowed. "Drink something, water if nothing else." He glanced around the camp, was satisfied all was in order. "Get some sleep."
Like he was going to do anything other than sleep? "Right, sure." Clay muttered.
Sonny on surveillance of the building suspected to be harboring illicit activity until dawn, Jason would patrol the perimeter of both the camp, and Sonny's perch.
He was confident Clay had given Sonny a full report when the Texan had relieved him, so Jason saw no need to make the kid repeat it. He'd simply stop by Sonny's location and get it from him.
Clay, now between the layers of his sleeping bag reclining on his elbows, gave his boss a mock salute, laid down, snuggled into the depth of the bag until only a tuft of blonde hair was visible, let his eyes close. Yeah, he'd something eat later. Like dawn, maybe.
Jason shook his head, moved out.
The surveillance overlook spot wasn't far from where they'd made camp. If people were talking normally, no conversation would be heard. But if someone were to yell or shout, camp could be reached in less than, oh say, 15 seconds.
"Howdy-Doody make it back okay?" Sonny asked when Jason joined him. "Not lost is he? Cerb ain't here to find him, he falls down a well."
"Hit the hay soon as he came into camp."
"Wonder why he's so wiped." Sonny mused. "You think membe Trent's not telling us everything?" He recalled Clay had half-heartedly returned the playful wrestling Sonny had attempted to engage him in until he could escape, but said nothing to his boss.
"No." Jason shut that down real quick. "Trent would never put the team at risk by keeping quiet about an injury or illness."
"Right, he's not Ray." Sonny muttered.
Jason heard him, have him a sharp look, let it go. "Fill me in, he get anything?"
"You didn't ask him?"
"Nope." He plopped down on the ground next to Sonny, who proceeded to tell him that Clay had seen, observed, heard, nothing. Absolutely nothing.
"You good?" Sonny finished. "Got a minute? Need to visit a bush."
Jason nodded, held the binoculars to his eyes, waved Sonny on his way. No movement, nothing. Not even a shadow due to wind. He sat and watched, but….nothing. Not even a raccoon or possum…if such night wild life existed over here. How utterly boring.
Sonny was taking his sweet time, but Jason had nothing to do, nowhere to go. He'd make a lap around the perimeter when Sonny returned, then check on Clay. There was really no need to hurry…all was quiet, peaceful.
He'd just opened a bottle of Gatorade when blood-curdling shrieks caused him to jerk, jump, spill the contents down his chest.
Training, instinct, experience, made him react….the bottle went airborne, flew one way, the lid the other and he was off his ass, on his feet and off at a dead run before either landed.
He bolted. Literally. Bolted.
Propelled by screams of pain and panic; Jason ran through the briers and he ran through the brambles, and he ran through the bushes where a rabbit couldn't go; he ran so fast, the hounds couldn't catch him…..* (Johnny Horton: Battle of New Orleans.)
Somewhere, somehow, as he ran pell-mell towards camp, he lost his side arm, maybe he'd never had it, he didn't know, just barreled wild-eyed into a smoke-filled camp armed with a desire to kill whoever had dared to invade his territory...even it had to be with his own two hands.
He skidded to a stop amid kicked up ash and dirt, just in time to see Clay go ass-over-heels with an assailant through what had been the fire….ash, embers, coals, still-lit logs were strewn all across the clearing….obviously not the first time the grappling duo had rolled and tumbled through it.
And the reason for the screams that had sent Jason on his mad dash….just he didn't know from whom.
Wearing both his fire-retardant pants and long-sleeved camo shirt, Clay was protected from the worst of the damage from the fire. The man who had attacked him, not so lucky.
Somersaulting yet again, Clay landed on his back with a thud. The force enabled the man to break free and Clay rolled, scrambled on hands and knees after him, grabbed an ankle.
Sonny came running, shouting to get down. He came to a halt further away than Jason had, assault rifle ready to separate whatever limb from body he managed to hit, but Clay was a whirl of activity, didn't give Sonny a clear shot.
Ankle in hand, Clay yanked, dragged, grabbed hold with both hands, managed to straddle the man, who rolled onto his back before Clay was able to pin him firmly to the ground.
A punch to his temple, a fisted grip on each ear, a sickening thump against the hard ground and Clay rendered the man unconscious.
"CLAY?!" Sonny bellowed.
"Scout!" Jason ordered, helped Clay climb off and stand up. "The hell happened? Who the hell's that? Where the fuck did he come from?"
"Uh," Clay shook his head, coughed, but the cobwebs remained. Funny, he didn't recall hitting his head. "Um."
Jason took the time to roll the unconscious man onto his belly and hogtie him, then ignored him, stepping after Clay who was wandering aimlessly in small circles.
"Hey, hey, hey." Jason grabbed an elbow, drew the kid to a halt. "Careful, you don't have shoes on, don't go stepping in the fire."
Clay glanced down, wiggled his toes through his wool socks, coughed.
"Here…sit. Breathe." Jason guided his rookie away from the embers and smoldering wood, turned a bucket over, sat the kid down. "Can you take a deep breath? No?….okay. Hey, look at me….know who I am?"
"Huh?" Clay blinked, slowly coming back to his senses. He pressed a palm against his chest, coughed. Weird, it hurt to breathe, hurt to swallow. Ow.
"Who am I?"
"Boss." He licked his lips, mouth and throat so dry he started to cough and couldn't stop. "Fuck….." He gulped, heaved, wondered if it were possible to vomit smoke. "Ow."
Jason thumped his back. "My name. What's my name?"
"Uh, Bravo….um…One?"
Keeping a hand on Clay's knee so he'd stay put, Jason managed to snag the cooler handle with his finger-tips, drag it closer. Flipping the lid, he grabbed the first bottle he touched, withdrew it – red Gatorade.
"Here." Jason cracked the lid off. When Clay didn't reach to take it, he picked the kid's hand up, put the bottle in it, closed his fingers over Clay's until he held the bottle, guided it to his mouth. "Say my name Clay. Hey," he patted Clay's cheek a bit harder than he had to, but he was fighting panic. "Tell me my name."
The coldness against his chin, he parted his lips, took a sip….oooh, that felt good…..very good...against a raw, burning throat. "Jay," he swallowed, groaned, "son." He rolled the bottle against his forehead, down his cheek, over his chin.
"Good, okay, stay put." He looked around for the first aid kit. "Sonny!?" He shouted. "The fuck you doing?!"
"Yeah, yeah! Coming!"
"You swallowed smoke." Jason told Clay whose eyes decided to burn, water, tear, spill. "Inhaled, whatever." The kid shook his head, shrugged, coughed. "Yeah, you did."
Since Clay was still sitting obediently, Jason dug his fingers into sooty curls, searching for lumps, bumps, goose eggs, gashes. The kid didn't flinch, wince or recoil in pain nor did he resist or attempt to block Jason's perusal.
"Spenser? You with me?" Jason held one eye open with his thumb, flashed his light directly against his rookie's pupil. Nothing. No response, no reaction, other than a normal attempt to blink. Jason repeated the action with the other eye. Again, nothing.
Trent would be having a fit Jason wasn't using a pen light, but the blasted medic wasn't around to bitch.
"Yellow and red make what color?"
Clay squinted, forehead furrowed. Bottle in his left hand, he rubbed his eyes with his right, coughed, took another drink….leaned forward and promptly spewed red Gatorade between his feet.
Jason sighed.
Clay spit, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Orange." Smoke remained in his nostrils, his ears, his mouth, his eyes. "I'm good. Nothing scrambled." He'd been warm and comfy in his sleeping bag when a snapped twig, shift in the direction of smoke and clank of metal had brought him alert. By the time he'd lifted his head, he'd been dragged in his bag until he fought his way out of it.
He wasn't, something was and Jason knew it, but didn't call him on it.
Satisfied the kid wasn't sporting a concussion, Jason paused, hands on his hips as he searched his brain what to do for smoke inhalation.
And really, how much smoke could the kid have inhaled? It'd been a smoldering campfire, not a raging house inferno.
"Chest hurt?" He questioned, moving around to kick the remnants of the fire back together. He hadn't forgotten the screams that had prompted his mad dash back to camp, decided they had come from the bound, unconscious man, wondered if he cared.
Yeah. He did.
"Uh…dunno. Bit maybe." He let Jason take the bottle away. "No?" He wondered what answer Jason wanted, searched his muddled mind to find it. Failed.
"Either it does, or it doesn't." Jason said impatiently. "Which is it?"
"Uh." He rubbed his eyes with his palms. "What?" He squinted, blinked, tried to bring the blurry form of his boss into focus so he could see who it was. "What?" He repeated hoarsely, he was focused on his sleeping bag, wondered if it had avoided damage, 'cause he really, really, wanted to lie down.
Sonny finally returned, reported he'd seen nothing, not even a trace of approach by the assailant to the camp, had reported the incident to HAVOC, was waiting for further instruction from Blackburn.
"Brock," Bravo's dog-handler and tracker, "would know more." He finished. "What the hell happened Clay?"
Wanting to see Clay better, Jason built up the fire, lit the camp lanterns, "He doesn't look blue, does he?" He asked Sonny. The LED lamps were bright, but cast an artificial hue against the darkness. "He does." He decided, scowled. "He's blue."
"Who? Him?" Sonny demanded, pointed. "Blue? What the fuck would he look blue for?"
"Smoke inhalation."
"From a dying camp fire?" Sonny scoffed. "Tender foot much?"
Jason motioned towards the prisoner. "Check him out." He told Sonny, who groused but moved to obey. "Look for a weapon."
Clay was staring at his palms, ignored Sonny, paid Jason little attention. He frowned, ability to focus on blurry forms and condition of sleeping bags abandoned, wondered when he'd gone and skinned his palms.
"Ow." He hissed. Odd, his hands hadn't hurt before. Not until Sonny had returned to camp and called him names. He pushed to his feet, stumbled, found his balance, went for the first aid kit. "Knife." He swallowed hard, coughed. Man, his chest didn't want to heave in rhythm with his racing heart….the hell was that shit?
"He say knife?" Sonny called impatiently. "What kind of knife? Huh? That what I should be looking for? Hey, waiting on an answer here!"
"Now what?" Jason wondered, approached Clay, took an elbow, returned him to the bucket. "Sit." He kicked dirt over the mess Clay had made. "Just look for a weapon Sonny. Any weapon." He paused, tried to think where the first aid kit was. He knew they'd brought one….just…damn.
"Ow." Clay repeated, raised red, sooty, tearing eyes to peer through swollen lids and 'ashed-together' lashes at Jason.
"Damn Spenser, wha'tcha go and do?" Sonny huffed. "Bloke's bleeding from his nose." Jason could hear him move around, but didn't look over. "You go and crack his skull? Really? Was it necessary?"
Suddenly alert, Clay snapped, "He'd be bleeding from his fucking ears, you asshole."
"I really don't need your attitude, golden boy…" Sonny growled. "You think….."
"Enough!" Jason finally found the first aid kit. "Nothing serious." He told Clay when the blonde tensed, hissed, digging for saline and wipes. "Won't even blister." He dunked a clean cloth in the cooler of half melted ice, wrung it out slightly, placed it over Clay's upturned hands. The water was a bit colder than Trent would have liked, but it would help soothe the sting.
"Cold." Clay muttered, curled a lip in distaste. "Don't." But he was told to 'leave it for a bit' when he tried to shake it off.
"Any rings?" Jason was checking fingers before Clay could shake his head. "Watch?" He tugged on the band to loosen and remove it. "Just in case your wrists swell, okay?" Clay nodded, shrugged, let Jason remove his watch, didn't seem to care where it went.
Sonny came to stand behind Jason, showed him the knife he'd found, related HAVOC had reported Dutch had set out with Seth and Matt to retrieve the prisoner who appeared to have bad burns, though he didn't think they were severe, and bleeding from the mouth and nose.
"Headbutt to the nose." Clay informed him. "Ow. Jesus Jason, I've lost enough skin."
"He sure does like that word. What'd he do?" Sonny brought a lamp closer. "Burn his hands?"
"Now you care?" Clay bit out. "Go away."
"Aah," Sonny nodded. "Just sting like hell." He squatted next to Clay, opposite Jason. "He don't look blue to me, seems to be breathing okay."
"Just coughing up a lung, is all." Jason wryly pointed out. "Feeling better?" He asked after several minutes. "This is an aloe spray. Some kind of soap, gonna scrub your hands, remove any dirt, okay? Just sit still."
"Yeah." Clay licked his lips, bit his bottom with his top teeth – a gesture Trent would soon recognize as a tell-tale sign he was in pain – hesitated. "Uh, wet rag for my eyes?"
"Sure." Sonny moved to dunk a square of white cloth from the first aid kit in the same cold water from the cooler Jason had used. He wrung it out slightly, tipped Clay's head back by a finger under his chin, allowed the water to drip over his closed eyes, laid the cloth over his upper half of his face. "Better?"
"Mmmm,"
It wasn't Jason's nature to be gentle. His job was to get done whatever the deed was as quickly and as efficiently as possible. Clay, befuddled and stunned, hissed and winced and ow'd, but remained seated on the bucket while Jason sprayed soap and scrubbed with the wet cloth until he was satisfied the minor burns, scrapes and road rash were thoroughly cleaned.
After Jason finished applying an aloe vera/petroleum jelly ointment, he wrapped gauze around first one palm, weaving it between Clay's fingers and thumb, taped it off, then did the same to the other hand. He wrapped both in ace bandages, patted his knee, stood up.
"Maybe he needs oxygen or something." Sonny said to Jason while Clay suffered through another coughing fit.
"Don't have any."
Sonny was quiet. "Trent is going to kill us."
Jason grinned, gathered trash, tossed it on the fire. "We don't gotta tell him."
Sonny merely pointed at the pale, coughing, wide-eyed blonde who simply sat and stared at his hands, hunching a shoulder to cough against.
"Do. You. Not. See. Him?"
"Take him to the creek, dunk his head, might help clear the cobwebs. I'll check on Dutch's status. Bring him back, he should be ready to tell us what happened."
Clay, doubled over with his arms crossed over his stomach, managed to flip off his boss. The position didn't ease the desire to cough, as he hoped, and a palm over his chest, pressing hard with the heel of his hand, didn't help either.
In truth, complete with stinging palms, he felt….truly awful.
Sonny stood and fumed. He did not want to be Clay's babysitter, didn't feel it should be his responsibility but another look at the kid's soot-streaked face and tousled curls had him ushering the blonde towards the creek, all the while muttering the dog was less work then 'this here rookie'.
***000***
"Hey," Randy popped his head around the doorframe. Trent and Ray were playing chess, Brock was sprawled on his bunk, dog between his feet, reading. "Uh, Sonny just called in, camp was attacked."
Ray moved his rook. "Everyone okay?" he calmly asked.
"Took the guy alive. Dutch was sent to bring him back." He hesitated. "Clay got in a fight, minor burns to his hands."
"From a fight?" This from Brock who had yet to put down his book. He didn't even look up from it, but he no longer saw the words.
"Hand-to-hand combat rolled them through the fire. He was fully dressed, but the other guy suffered serious burns."
"They coming back?" Ray asked, moved his king to avoid being checked but it was blatantly obvious, he was gonna lose the game.
"Just Clay. Dutch took Seth and Matt, they're gonna stay with Jason and Sonny."
"Okay." Ray again moved his king. "Thanks."
"You bet." With a jaunty wave, Randy was gone.
"Another long night." Brock commented.
The game over, Ray pulled his phone, moved off to call Jason, get the full story. Trent sent a text, received a reply, sat down on his bunk with a medical book.
Brock grinned, scratched Cerb's haunch who rolled over onto his back for a belly rub. His handler obediently obliged.
His best friend, the one without four legs and a tail, was in his glory: A doctor who allowed him unlimited questions and satisfied his thirst for knowledge without labeling him morbid; a teammate who often found himself in some situation or escapade of some sort that usually – if not always – ended in illness or injury, and willingly, if reluctantly, submitted to his gruff and rough administrations; a team leader who could care less if his medic wanted to sew, staple, stitch his teammates when an infirmary or hospital was available; and a Lt. Commander who arranged the opportunity to acquire whatever the hell medical equipment he wanted – even if it was to satisfy a simple desire to have what he didn't need and would never use.
Oh yeah. Trent was happier than a pig let lose to wallow in shit.
Ray hung up, relayed what he'd learned from Jason, decided to head to Ops, see what Mandy was able to find on the man being brought in.
"His injuries are worse, so Clay will be seen by Doc." Ray told Trent. "He said you can join him, you want."
Trent nodded. He wasn't finding much about injuries suffered after somersaulting through a campfire, but he was only on page two.