Authors Note: Thanks to all who reviewed! Time for the plot to unravel a little bit. ;)
Two: Charlie Don't Surf
Day Two: 1937:46
United County Specialized Hospital, New York
12 hours after detonation
"Multiple fractures in your thigh bones, two cracked ribs, a minor concussion. Knee fragments, kidney failure, and high blood pressure were a result of the rudder blade lodged in your lower back. We found a bullet in your shoulder, and removed it as best we could, but nerve damage was already imminent. And lets not forget the tons of bruises, burns, and scars you have. You're a lucky man, Sergeant." The doctor said.
Jackson lay in a bed of pale green, looking up at him, his hands folded. "Lucky, huh?"
"To be alive? Yes."
He rolled over, facing the window, staring out at the business of the hospital. "A nuke went off, Doctor. Radiation poisoning? Distortion? Will I glow in the future?"
The doctor coughed, fiddling with his folder. "The… The radiation… Well, Mr. Johnson-"
"It's Jackson, Doctor."
"Right. Jackson. Well, the radiation poisoning is what I'm really here to talk to you about." He said, smiling sadly. "We're concerned about the level of radiation your body was exposed to."
"Concerned? You don't even know my name, doctor."
The doctor paused. "A… slip of the tongue, Sergeant."
Jackson looked at him. There was a long silence in which the Sergeant and the doctor stared at each other.
"You aren't concerned for me. You're interested in me." Jackson said, sighing.
The doctor cringed a little. "All those bullet wounds-"
"I've been shot eleven times, doctor." Jackson said, simply. "Old news. What about the radiation poisoning?"
"Your body was exposed to almost six hours of radiation poisoning, about half an hour after the bomb detonated. You were found limping heavily for the road, to either end your life or get away. It's irrelevant. The fact is, you were alive, moving, and remained alive until you got in our care. It's amazing. You can move freely, minus the Injuries to your leg. The fact that you survived this long is…"
"How long?" Jackson asked, looking at his hands. His middle finger had a bit on the end missing, from shrapnel wounds.
"You have about… ten years left, without treatment." The doctor smiled softly "With treatment, we can extend it to fifteen." The doctor sighed. "You're probably the only case we have that didn't die from the bomb blast, sever radiation poisoning, or both. You are a rare case where your body shows some sort of… immunity, towards extreme radiation. Well, Rare is the wrong word. You are the sole case that your body shows immunity. In all cases, you should be dead."
"Damn right!" A booming voice said, and the door to the room slammed. Inside stepped Captain Jeffery "Duff" Black, a big eastern Indian man, and Jackson's mentor. "Never met a man who could take a bullet like Paul Jackson. Hell, if he was immune to cancer, I wouldn't be shocked." He took a seat beside Jackson, grinning from ear to ear. "How ya doing, kid?"
"Fine, sir." Jackson said, smiling at the doctor. Captain Black was a little odd. He had been Jackson's mentor since boot camp, had given him a promotion, and had been with him on his first assignment. After all that, Jackson hated him no less than at the start of camp.
"You don't know, do you, boy? Doc! How's the lad doing?" Black said, grinning at the doctor.
The man coughed. "He has internal bleeding, nerve damage in his shoulder, and mild depression. In other words…" The doctor smiled. "He's fine. One of the most durable bodies I've ever seen. Lots of entry scars from bullet wounds."
Jackson shrugged. "Sometimes I zig, when I should zag."
Black laughed. "Or you're too busy carrying pretty pilots around to do either. Thanks, Doc. You can go now."
The doctor cleared his throat. "But, about the radiation poison-"
"Later, Doc. You can see the Sergeant later." Black turned towards Jackson, his visage hardening.
The doctor made his exit, confusedly. He then checked his logbook, sighed, and went to find the family of the late Lieutenant Vasquez.
Black looked down at Jackson. "Look, I ain't gonna lie, kid. It's bad. Operation SHOCK was a total failure; Al Asad was nowhere near the target city. The SAS has claim on his whereabouts now, and they aren't' sharing. Staff Sergeant Griggs and his crew has been assigned to work co-op with them for the time being."
Jackson almost laughed. Griggs, working with brits? THAT was a site to see.
But laughing turned to hurting, and he had had enough of pain.
"How many choppers burned? I saw at least three get hit by the flames, but…the others were all in front of us. They made it… right?" He was a little too hopeful.
Black sighed. "'Fraid not, kiddo. Six choppers, not including yours, went down. The ones further ahead rammed into buildings. Zero survival rate. Those that didn't die of radiation died of burns and bullets." Black stood, facing the window.
"What about other survivors?"
"Two from your plane. Vasquez made it here before flat lining. You were flown in unconscious, bleeding everywhere, but you looked great. That Mary Williams came in conked out as well, but her radiation was extreme." Black sighed. "You three were the only ones to make it out of the crash site."
The news hit hard. A twelve-man crew, two pilots, and a navigator. Plus Williams made sixteen. Three had survived.
"The other choppers… the choppers we found, that is… nobody. Not a damn soul left. Whatever we didn't get to, the Iraqi's got." He shook his head. "We want the bastard that did this to us. We want him now."
Jackson sighed. "The British have him, though, right?"
"Yeah." Black said, sitting down again and inching closer. "That's why I'm here. How do you feel about…" He looked away for a second, and then looked back. "…Covert ops?"
Jackson's stomach fell. "No." He said, simply.
"Come on, Jackson. We need someone to guide the SAS in the right direction-"
"You have Griggs." Jackson said firmly.
"In one division. Captain Price, the guy's name is. He wants Al Asad just as badly as we do."
"Then let him have him."
"If the united states capture Al asad… The military will be reknowned! The marines will get more resources, less cuts…"
Jackson stared for a while. "Is this what it's about, Black? A nice promotion and a fat paycheck?"
Black sighed, looking at him. "They move in on Asad in six hours."
"And they'll move in with Griggs." Jackson growled.
Black's eyes were icy. "Don't make me order you to go, Jackson."
"ORDER ME?" Jackson exploded, making Black jump. "I'm fucking wounded! I have ten years, Black. Ten years to live. And I am not, under any circumstances, spending my ten years working with british snobs, running around an unknown territory, with no idea who's my enemy and who's my ally."
"Jackson-"
"The answer is no. Get out." Jackson said, violently.
Black stood, glaring. "I'll give you some time. Once Griggs extracts them, you'll have a choice. Either you go with them, or leave the military."
Jackson shook his head. "Get out, Captain." He said, breathing hard. His left eye was glossy, seemingly blinded. Black made his exit, and Jackson shook his head, trying to rid himself of his anger. He felt lightheaded… so… very lightheaded…
Day Two: 0816:32
Ten minutes after detonation
He woke up, smoke billowing around him, to coughing.
Wet, wheezing coughs, coming from his left.
He tried to roll over, but was lying in a pool of blood. He checked his hands. Wet, sickly with red.
He tried to speak, but more of his life juices poured out of him.
To his left, he heard a choking sound. He shifted his eyes, and saw a helmet slump against the wall.
His hand found the source of his back pain. A rudder. Through his stomach. Pulling it out would not be fun.
His leg was numb, broken at the knee. He crawled forwards on his stomach, grunting in pain.
Vasquez was leaning against the wall, his eyes closed, but he was still alive. Somewhere, he heard a crash of metal on metal, the sound of a building de-stabilizing, brick thumping on the roof of the chopper.
Or what was left of it.
Groaning, he pulled himself over to Vasquez. He decided against waking him, but could tell he was still alive. However barely.
He pulled, hand over hand, until he hit the edge of the helicopter ramp. He flopped downwards, landing on his back and giving a hard grunt.
Blood and bile spewed forth. He swallowed it back, sitting up.
He was lying on dirt. Red tinged his vision, probably his bloodshot eyes.
He was crawling now, desperate to get away from the sound of fire and the smell of smoke. His gun was forgotten.
He wasn't escaping. He wasn't hoping for a rescue or a friendly family. He wasn't looking for a cure for his wounds.
He was looking for an Iraqi.
He was looking for death.
He was on his feet, dragging his left one, gritting his teeth.
He couldn't move his neck, and all he heard was a faint ringing noise, as if shell-shocked. A ringing that plagued him.
The red tinge to his vision amplified, and he tried moving left. It worsened. He moved to his right. It lessened slightly.
Radiation. His red vision must've been from radiation.
Over the ringing, he heard the faint sound of helicopters. Men roped down, in E-VAC Rad suits, grabbing him by the shoulders. He put up a mild fight, but once he saw the USMC emblem on the side of the helicopter, he relaxed.
The site never looked so welcoming.
Black came back, two hours later, announcing that Al-Asad was dead. He handed over entry forms to Jackson, reading that if signed, the signer would be accepted into the Spec-Op Marines.
As of 3 AM, June 21st, day three of the resistance to Al-Asad, Sergeant Paul Jackson was accepted into the Special Forces division, working alongside the SAS. He was released from hospital care two hours later.
A/N: Wow! Didn't know I'd see reviewers in the first 48 hours. That's more than my other stories combined. Heh.
I know I'm stretching the radiation bit of the story, but it's a what-if story, right? Might as well go all out.
Chapter 3 coming soon.