Page 148 of Whisper

“No!” Kris bellowed. “No!”

“And one was taken. Al-Qaeda penetrated the base and took a hostage.”

The medic strapped him to a board and loaded him into a helicopter forty-five seconds later. As they rose over the base, Kris saw another two choppers taking off from the airfield and circling the base, searching the perimeter, the roads.Have to find the hostage, Kris thought.Have to find him. Who? Who did they take? David—

His thoughts were interrupted by the slip of meds into his veins, the medic pumping his IV bag full of sedatives. The last thing he saw was a helicopter sprinting away from the base, following the dirt road past the fallow farmland and rising over the village.

He woke briefly in the US Army hospital at Camp Seville as the surgeon was calling out orders to the surgical team. “The patient has a nicked artery and a collapsed lung, along with broken ribs. We stabilize the bleeding, treat the lung, package the ribs. Secondary team, you work on removing shrapnel embedded in the dermis. Any human body parts, bones, teeth, skin, that you pull out as shrapnel, save for identification and packaging for the mortuary team. I can see he’s got someone’s shattered bone splinters embedded in his thigh. All right, let’s begin.”

A tear slid from his eye as the nurse pumped his IV bag full of sedatives again.David, where are you? Are you alive? Please, be alive. Please, please, be alive.

Washington DC

One Hour After the Blast

Director Edwards looked up as a tentative knock sounded on his doorjamb.

No one in the CIA knocked like that unless it wasbadfucking news.

George hovered in the doorway, looking like he was five years old and his puppy had just died. His hands wrung together. “Director,” he started. He looked away. Swallowed. “Director, there’s been an incident. He licked his lips. “At Camp Carson.”

“The Hamid op? Caldera?”

George nodded. “Sir, thirteen officers are dead. And al-Qaeda stormed the base. They took a hostage.”

“Fuck.” Rage bloomed within Edwards, a nuclear reaction of despair and fury. “Find out everything. I have to call the president.”

Camp Seville

Afghanistan-Pakistan Border

Afghanistan

Eight Hours After the Blast

Kris woke to a steady beeping.

Bandages covered his chest, tight enough that he could barely breathe. He felt a pull in his abdomen, constriction in his chest. He pushed at the bandages and saw a line of stitches running from his belly button to his sternum. More bandages wrapped around his thigh, his arms. One arm was in a sling. An IV line stuck into the back of his hand.

Where the fuck was he?

Where the fuck was David?

Please, be alive. Please, please be alive.

He tore at the IV line and flung the needle over the side of his bed. Ripped the EKG monitors from his chest. The machine’s steady beeping stopped, input not detected. He forced himself to the side of the bed, his arms and legs shaking.

Step by slow step, he pushed himself to the end of the line of beds, filled with silent, unmoving bodies wrapped in bandages and casts. Most were missing limbs, legs or arms or both. The ward could have been a morgue. He clutched his belly, his ribs, and kept walking.

An Army nurse spotted him and ran to his side. “Sir, you cannot be out of bed.”

“How long have I been here?” he asked the man, a young kid probably no older than nineteen.

“You have to get back to bed, sir. You’ve been in surgery for four hours, recovering for only another four. You need to rest.”

“Fuck you,” Kris spat at the young soldier. “I need to get back to Camp Carson.” Eight hours since the attack. Eight hours since the blast.

“Sir, you were seriously injured and you need to let your body heal.” The soldier tried to push Kris back toward his bed, as if he were an invalid.