Jameson (In the Company of Snipers #22) - Irish Winters Page 0,2

same. Like two fuckin’ idiots, they shoved off the sand with the terrified boys in their arms and beat feet back to their team, dodging a hail of gunfire, with Boyington screaming ‘what the fuck?’ in their headsets all the way. Yeah, they had a butt-reaming coming, but Jameson flat didn’t care. He’d done his duty today. And he’d do it again. God and country, man. But God and kids always came first.

That brick wall sure felt good and solid when he slammed his ass against it, though.

“For fuck’s sake!” Derby growled. “Why didn’t you save the donkey?”

Breathing hard, Jameson licked his lips, a profanity laced answer on the tip of his tongue for the man who hadn’t the balls to save anyone. By then, Chief Boyington was running toward them, his face a contorted, red mask of rage, his jaws jacking, and Hell flashing in those fierce black eyes. Satan couldn’t have looked meaner.

Jameson passed the boy in his arms off to the Air Force PJ, the medic who’d dropped into this nightmare with them. He’d come to treat the geologists. Guess he was earning his paycheck today. He already had hold of the kid Shakespeare rescued.

When Boyington ground to a full stop, his square head turned, staring into the desert.

Jameson did a double-take. His LT was watching Eeyore. The scared donkey was now running back to the mudbrick wall. Only he’d taken a circuitous route, dodging ISIL gunfire. It was almost funny how his stiff legs propelled him forward with all the grace of, well, an ass. He looked like he was hopping.

Jameson took a step forward. “Come on,” he urged the frightened little guy. “Run faster, damn it. Run!” Too late he realized the ISIL fighters weren’t aiming at Eeyore, only near him. They were herding him. “Fall back!” Jameson bellowed as—

BOOM! The poor little donkey disappeared into dust and smoke.

Then BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! The scared little guy had triggered a daisy-chained line of explosives that were headed straight for the wall and the SEALs. There was no time to run or think. Only duck, cover, and—

BA-BA-BOOM! The world condensed into a slo-mo firestorm of raw fury. Wicked unleashed energy. A crippling wave of intense heat slammed into Jameson. His arms and feet extended straight ahead of him. Pounding kinetic energy blasted him backward into the wall. He hit hard. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. But he’d be okay. His tactical vest and helmet were intact. No shrapnel hit him. No pain in his extremities. No pain anywhere. Halleluiah! He’d just survived a gawddamned daisy-chain of improvised explosives. His ears were ringing, but that was no big deal.

As fast as it hit him, the blast wind let go. He collapsed like a scarecrow in the middle of a Nebraska cornfield when the stick got pulled out of its ass. His heart pounded like a mother. Overheated ash and dust swirled around him. Over his team and his buddies. Into his eyes and nose. His ears. His face. God, the pain in his head was screaming. Possible concussion. He was going to have one helluva headache. Again, no big deal. He could live with that. What SEAL hadn’t had one? Or two?

He slapped his gloved hands to the ground beside him, searching for the men who’d been standing with him. Had Shakespeare survived? Had Derby and those poor little boys? The Air Force PJ? Boyington? Where was everyone?

The oddest slivers of tumbling, falling stars rained down. They were everywhere. It was almost pretty the way they mingled with the clouds of swirling, inky black ribbons in his eyes, so dark they sucked the light from those stars.

It was Sunday. Mom always fixed a big Sunday dinner. He wished he were there. Not here.

Jameson woke to muffled sounds of anxious, harried people working around him. Stringent antiseptic smells filled his nose. Voices talked, using big, important, medical terms that made no sense. His aching head still hurt. He must’ve been taken to the nearest FOB, forward operating base. Probably because he’d blacked out. No big deal. They’d give him a quick physical check, then send him back to Boyington for a butt chewing. Jameson couldn’t wait.

He cocked his head, listening. A door had closed and the noise ceased. Someone had separated him from the busyness of what sounded like an emergency room, where injured guys and gals were triaged, patched up, then sent home or back to work. Like any hard-assed Navy SEAL, he wanted to get back to