A Man Alone

As Maya knelt there, holding the thick, blood-soaked dressings over the marine’s leg, she saw color starting to ease back into his pale, sweaty face. “I think he’s coming to,” she warned Angel.

“That’s okay…I’ve got him on morphine. He ain’t gonna feel a thing. Don’t worry, he won’t put up a fight.”

“Good,” Maya rasped as she watched the man’s dark, short lashes move. Angel didn’t always get painkillers into her patients soon enough, and they came back to consciousness swinging and fighting. And in a small helo like this, there wasn’t much space to dodge flying fists. Maya positioned herself so she could face him. He’d be groggy, in deep shock, and probably not very coherent around his surroundings. Reaching out, she gripped his bloodied, scraped left hand and held it firmly in her own. Angel quickly traded places with her in order to work on his leg, trying to sterilize it as best she could. Maya leaned closer to the marine.

The noise in the cabin of the Cobra was ferocious. Dove had redlined the engine to full throttle. The aircraft was old and shook like an old dog on trembling legs as it flew powerfully toward Cusco. Below them, the green velvet cape of the jungle spread outward. They were down below ten thousand feet and were beginning to wind among the loaf-shaped mountains clothed in green raiment. Wispy white clouds that always clung to the mountains blew like smoke across the windshield of the speeding aircraft.

“You’re alive,” Maya shouted near his ear. “Just take it easy. We’ve got the senator’s daughter on board. You’re both safe.” She squeezed his hand to drive home her words.

His eyes opened slightly, to reveal murky-looking green depths.

Maya held his vacant stare. His mouth opened, then closed. His pupils were huge and black—from the hit of morphine Angel had just shot him up with. Good. He didn’t need to know what had happened to his right leg. The marine blinked twice. She saw more awareness coming back to him. He had a strong mouth, and was used to being obeyed when he spoke, she was sure. There was nothing on his uniform to indicate his rank, but she knew instinctually that he was an officer.

“You’re safe. You’re on board my helicopter. We have your girl with us. She’s safe, too. Hang on. We’re flying you to Cusco, to a hospital there. You’re in stable condition.” That was a lie, but Maya didn’t want the marine freaking out if he learned the truth of his fragile medical state.

There was so much noise in his head that Thane could barely make out what the woman leaning close to him in the black, tight-fitting uniform was saying. Where was he? His mind was spongy and refused to work properly. He felt like he was half out of his body. Floating. She was wearing a helmet. She must be a pilot? Not a soldier, no…His mind searched. What? Yes. That was it. Helicopter. He was in a helo. He could feel a familiar shaking and shuddering going on around him. He could feel the constant sensation all though his back and limbs…except for his leg. His right leg. Why couldn’t he feel anything there? He could feel the shivering everywhere else.

Looking up into her face, Hamilton saw the grim set of her full mouth, the narrowed look in her eyes. She was a warrior, no doubt. There was a dangerous glint in her emerald eyes, too. The look of a hunter. Yet, for a moment, Thane saw something else in those slitted, feral eyes. What? He opened his mouth to speak.

“Captain Hamilton…” he croaked. The taste of mud was in his mouth.

She nodded. “Okay…good…we know who you are now.” On missions like this, the Recons wore no identification of any kind, not even their dog tags. “We’ll contact the proper authorities, Captain. I’m Captain Maya Stevenson, army spook pilot. You just hang on. We might look like a ragtag bunch, but believe me, you’re in the best of hands.” She grinned a little.

He tried to smile. He felt the strength of her hand around his. She was surprisingly strong—a big-boned woman, at least six feet tall, who was strong and confident. Right now, he needed that kind of reassurance. Thane became aware of another person. His eyes widened a bit. There was another woman, dressed in a similar black uniform, bent over his legs. She was putting white bandages on him. Funny, he couldn’t feel anything down there. What was going on? When he tried to lift his head, the captain gently pressed her hand on his shoulder and kept him lying down.

“Whoa, Captain. You’re in no shape to go anywhere. We want you to lie still, hear me? That’s my paramedic down there, Sergeant Angelina Paredes.”

His mouth was so dry it felt as if it would crack. He was thirsty. Barely moving his head to the left, he saw the red-haired girl. It took long moments to place her. His mind wasn’t working worth a damn. Closing his eyes, Thane let out a trembling breath of air from between his bloody, bruised lips.

“Thank God, she’s safe….”

Maya smiled and nodded. “You did good, Captain. You’re a real hero. None of us thought you’d survived that direct rocket hit. You’re one tough son of a bitch, for a marine.” Maya saw one corner of his mouth rise at her teasing comment. She felt heartened. Maybe this guy was going to make it, after all. Still, his blood loss was horrific. And her sergeant was working like a wild woman over his mangled, continually bleeding leg. Right now, the last thing Maya wanted this heroic officer to know was that his leg looked like hell and there was every reason to believe that, once they reached Cusco, the surgeons would remove it.

That was heartbreaking to her. A man like this, who had incredible courage, would now became an amputee. He didn’t deserve such a reward, Maya thought. Looking up at the girl who huddled in the corner, her eyes huge with tears, Maya felt for her, too. Life was nasty sometimes. Valerie Winston would never forget this. And Maya hoped she would never forget the men who had given their lives to rescue her. People like Captain Hamilton made the world a little better place to live in. A safer place for people like Valerie.

Leaning down, her lips close to his ear, Maya said, “Just try to rest, Captain. We’re going to be landing in Cusco in less than thirty minutes. I’ve got the best paramedic in the world taking care of you.”

Thane forced out the words. “Thank you…for everything.”

Angel looked up momentarily, her lean, angular, dark brown face tense, the corners of her full mouth pulled flat. Her hands were bloody as she wrapped his injured leg.

Maya looked down at the marine once more. He had lost consciousness again. That was good. “It’s sad, Angel. This guy deserves medals and it looks like he’s going to lose this leg instead as a reward for what he just did.”

“I dunno,” Angel rasped as she reached around Maya and dragged her paramedic pack toward her. “If Dr. Del Prado is the bone surgeon on duty there at the Cusco hospital, he might try and save this dude’s leg. He’s got the ability to do it, but he’s the only one in Peru who could pull it off.”

“Better hope our best bone doctor is on duty, then,” Maya said grimly.

“Captain?”

It was her copilot, Dove Rivera.

Maya lifted her head and looked toward the cockpit. “Yeah?”

“I’m receiving a top secret message for you, Captain. It’s from Rolling Thunder. You expecting something from them?”

“Yeah…” The mission they were currently on was run by Perseus, a covert agency that often collaborated with the government. “That has to be the head of the organization, Morgan Trayhern. This mission was his ops—operation.” She had never met Trayhern, but had worked with other officials within Perseus because it, too, operated in conjunction with the CIA, as did her base and operation in Peru.

“Oh, okay. Want me to patch it through to you over the private intercom?”

“Yeah, do it, Dove.” Maya didn’t care if her sergeant heard the message or not. They all had top secret clearances. Releasing the marine’s limp hand, Maya pressed her fingers to the ear of her helmet to listen closely to the incoming message. Sometimes, such satellite transmissions were broken up, particularly in the mountainous regions of Peru where they were presently flying like a bat out of hell to save the marine.

“This is Kingbird to Rolling Thunder. Over,” Maya said. Kingbird was their call designation indicator when satcom messages of this type had to be broadcast. In the event that anyone was able to capture the encrypted message, that person would have no idea of the caller’s true identification or position at the time of the transmission.

“Rolling Thunder. Kingbird, have you got the goods? Over.”

The “goods” meant the girl, and Maya knew the code language. “Roger, we have the goods. Alive and well.”

“Roger. And Checkerboard? What is their status?”

Grimly, Maya knew that Checkerboard was the marine Recon team sent in to rescue Valerie. “Rolling Thunder, we have one survivor of Checkerboard. Right now, we are heading for the nearest hospital, where we have an emergency team on standby. Over.”

“Roger. I will contact you when you arrive at your destination. Be on standby. Over.”

“Roger that, Rolling Thunder. I’ll await your call. Over and out.”

“Rolling Thunder, out.”

Maya watched as Angel placed a very tight tourniquet bandage around the bleeder, which seemed to have stopped leaking for the most part.

“That means we have to hang around for a call,” Dove lamented.

Maya didn’t like being on the ground wherever there were people and prying eyes. Especially in the second largest city in Peru. Because their mission was one of utmost stealth, top secret to everyone except two Peruvian government officials, she didn’t like to draw attention to herself or her crews. “Yeah, I know. But Rolling Thunder wants the ID on this marine. He’s going to have to contact his family and get him some medical help stateside. It’s gotta be done.”

“We’ll stay with the Cobra,” Dove said unhappily. “You gonna take the call inside the hospital?”

“Thanks,” Maya said dryly, with a smile. She saw Dove’s own smile as she turned her head briefly and met her eyes. Her copilot was also Que’ro Indian, from the highlands of Peru. She was only the second woman pilot in the Peruvian Air Force. Dove had turned into a fine helicopter pilot, thanks to training she’d received at Fort Rucker, Alabama, many years earlier. Now she was back in her own country to help the Peruvian people eradicate the drug trade. Nearly all her family had been murdered by drug lords, and she’d barely escaped with her young life. Dove Rivera had an ongoing vendetta against them, and with good reason. She lived to fly. She lived to kill every last one of them she could set her gun sights on. Maya didn’t blame her.

“This guy’s pressure is slowly dropping,” Angel reported unhappily as she studied the reading on the blood pressure cuff. “Man…this isn’t good. I was hoping he’d stabilize…. Del Prado isn’t going to like this. The question is can we get him there in time or not?”

Maya slowly eased into a crouched position, because no one could straighten up fully within the tight confines of the helicopter. “Do the best you can,” she soothed, and patted Angel’s slumped shoulder. Picking up a nearby blanket, Maya made her way over to Valerie. The teenager was white-faced and scared looking. She needed to be held. The paleness of her freckled face, the darkness in her eyes, told Maya that much. Maya would play nursemaid until they landed, and then Valerie would be turned over to awaiting U.S. government agents, who would whisk her into a private jet back to the U.S. and into her anxious father’s waiting arms, no worse for wear—at least on the outside.

Smiling gently as she approached, Maya slowly opened the blanket and slipped it around the girl’s huddled form. She knew that she looked dangerous and threatening to the teen in her black uniform with the pistol at her side. A smile helped to ease the panic she saw in the girl’s eyes. Valerie wasn’t hooked up to the communications system, so she was unaware of what was being said or what was going down. The teenager was like a stranger in a strange place—a place where she had almost died.

As she knelt down in front of the girl and wrapped the blanket around her, Maya introduced herself and said, “Valerie, you’re going home. You’re safe now. We’ll be landing in less than half an hour in Cusco.”

Sniffing, Valerie wiped her eyes with trembling fingers. “Th-thanks. But what about Captain Hamilton? H-he saved my life. Will he live?”

Maya nodded and gave her a gentle smile. “I hope so.”

“And his leg…oh, God…will he lose it?”

“Probably,” Maya said, “but I don’t know for sure.”

Breaking into sobs, Valerie buried her face in her arms, her knees drawn up tightly against her thin, trembling body. All Maya could do was slide her arm around the girl’s shoulders, pat her gently and let her cry.

Maya’s thoughts drifted back to Hamilton. Maybe Rolling Thunder could do something to save this heroic marine’s leg. She hoped so.

Chapter Two

“Is Captain Hamilton going to lose his leg?” Morgan Trayhern kept his voice low, but even he could hear the fear in it as he spoke with the bone surgeon, Dr. Jose Del Prado, in his office at the hospital in Cusco.

The physician, a wiry man in his early fifties, stood behind a simple mahogany desk in the spare white room. He was dressed in a long white coat, a stethoscope hanging out of his left pocket, and the report on Hamilton between his thin fingers. With a shrug, he said in stilted English, “I do not know…yet, Mr. Trayhern.” He frowned, stroking his thin gray mustache.

Morgan grimaced. As soon as he’d heard the cryptic message from the spook helicopter rescue crew that had Hamilton and the senator’s daughter safely aboard, Morgan had boarded the Perseus jet in Washington, D.C., and made a beeline for Cusco. Even though Captain Thane Hamilton was in the U.S. Marine Corps, and technically not working for him, the undercover assignment Hamilton had been on had been coordinated by Morgan and his company. Besides, Hamilton was a marine, as Morgan had once been himself. One never left a marine in the field. Not ever.

“I see….”

“No, señor, you do not.” Del Prado’s narrow face became intent. “I did not cut off his leg. I probably should have, to save him the agony he will surely endure not only physically, but emotionally. In the long term, it is my opinion that the officer will find that his leg is too painful to walk on. Right now, I am worried about long-term infection in his bones. If infection cannot be eradicated, he will lose his leg, anyway. Come, I will show you his X rays, so that you have a better understanding of what I did.”

Morgan glumly followed the surgeon down a crowded hallway. The hospital, which was located in the second largest city in Peru, was busy. Every social strata intermixed within the polished halls of white tile flooring and dull green walls—from personnel clothed in white uniforms and lab coats to visitors dressed either in the native costume of the Que’ro Indian people or in the silk suits and fashionable winter dresses of the wealthy.

In the X-ray room, Del Prado quickly put up a series of pictures in front of the light boxes.

“These show Captain Hamilton’s right leg.” He pointed a slender finger at one X ray in particular as Morgan, who was much taller peered over his shoulder.

“You can see, we have placed ten pins to try and get the bones to fuse back together.”

His mouth in a grim line, Morgan stared at the X ray. “Looks like a damned mess in there.”

Del Prado smiled a little. “Not exactly the medical terminology for it, but a good assessment, Señor Trayhern.”

“So, what’s next? May I transport Captain Hamilton in my jet, to continue his recovery at a stateside hospital?”

“Of course. He is stable now. You have a doctor on board to monitor him?”

Morgan nodded. “A trauma-trained emergency room physician. Yes.”

“Then my suggestion would be to wait another twelve hours. He just came out of surgery three hours ago. We have him in a private room, as you ordered. He has just come out of anesthesia and is semiconscious. Give him time to adjust first.”

“Would you suggest a bone specialist for him?”

“Of course. The infection in his bone, if it spreads, must be aggressively followed with antibiotics. And if the antibiotics do not oust it, then the infected part of the bone must be amputated. Otherwise, the infection will spread up his leg and eventually kill him.”

Morgan nodded and sighed. Then he straightened and looked down at the prim doctor. “If he were your patient, what would you do for him?” When Morgan saw the doctor’s blue eyes twinkle with laughter, he wondered what he’d said that was so amusing.

Del Prado’s thin mouth puckered. “How we practice medicine here in Peru is a little different than what my colleagues practice in the U.S.A., señor.”

“Humor me, Doctor. What would you prescribe? They say you’re the best hereabouts, so I’m very interested in your opinion and any ongoing therapy you’d recommend for Captain Hamilton. I’d like to see the man keep his leg. What’s your secret to doing just that?”

With a flourish, Del Prado said, “I would combine standard medical treatment with alternative intervention. Maggots will eat away any gangrenous flesh that is bound to occur, create new blood vessel beds and bring oxygen into the tissue so it will live instead of die. Here in Peru we also utilize homeopathy, an alternative medicine widely known in Europe as well. I would, if he were to stay here, call in one of our staff homeopaths to work with me on the captain’s behalf. We have found that homeopathy is an excellent support to traditional drug treatment, and the patient receives the best of both worlds. I would also suggest physical therapy along with massage. I know in your country that homeopathy and massage are not part of normal protocol for treating such a patient.” He shrugged his thin, proud shoulders, his eyes gleaming. “But you did ask me what I would do, señor.”

“So I did. Thank you, Doctor. You gave me the information I needed. I want Captain Hamilton to have the best chance of saving his leg.”

“Would you care for a referral to one of my norte americana colleagues who studied for a year down here with me on just such cases?”

Again, Morgan saw the twinkle in the man’s eyes. Realizing now that the doctor wasn’t laughing at him, but rather introducing him to knowledge he knew to be foreign to most Americans, Morgan grinned a little in turn. “Absolutely. Who do you suggest?”

“Dr. Jonathan Briggs, a doctor of osteopathy in Arizona who studied with our department a number of years ago. He’s familiar with our protocols in a case such as your friend Captain Hamilton. He is a miracle worker of sorts in complex cases such as this. I can give you his address, Señor Trayhern. He practices out of the Red Rock Hospital in Sedona, Arizona.”

Nodding, Morgan said, “This Dr. Briggs—will he use the same protocols you use?”

“Si.”

“You’re sure?”

With a terse laugh, Dr. Del Prado said, “Dr. Briggs is the man who created this protocol for us in the first place.”

Grin widening, Morgan said, “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll see to it that Captain Hamilton ends up in Dr. Briggs’s hospital.”

“Bueno. Good. You can go see Captain Hamilton now, señor. When you are ready, come to me and I will sign the captain’s release forms.” Del Prado escorted him out of the X ray room and into the hall. “Captain Hamilton is on floor four, post-op. You will find him in room 404.”

Morgan shook his hand and thanked him. Turning, he strode down the hall to the elevators carefully dodging swiftly moving nurses and orderlies.

Damn. Losing his leg will force Hamilton out of the Corps….

Morgan knew Hamilton’s personnel jacket by rote. He made it his business to know the background of any person working on one of his operations. Morgan had never met the captain personally, or any of his Recon team, which had come out of Camp Reed, California, but that didn’t matter. He knew the officer was a hard charger with an exceptional record of success on behind-the-lines missions. A man of action. Despite the fact that he was only twenty-seven years old, Hamilton was a marine of incredible accomplishment. And he was up for early promotion—major’s leaves, too. As Morgan got off the elevator on the fourth floor, he wrinkled his nose. The smell of antiseptic was strong here. Almost overpowering. The scent always got to him, reminding him of the time he had spent healing in a hospital in a foreign country.

Fueled by that miserable memory, Morgan swore to get Hamilton out of here and somewhere familiar—somewhere he could heal surrounded by those who supported and loved him, if possible. As he walked down the empty hall and viewed the brass numbers on each wooden door he passed, memory of his injuries and the difficult time he’d had dealing with them alone convinced him that he did not want the same scenario for Hamilton.

Finding the correct door, he quietly nudged it open. The private room was small, whitewashed, the blinds on the one window closed giving the room a grayish, depressing look. He saw the young Marine Corps officer lying on a bed covered with white blankets, his face almost matching the material that surrounded him. His eyes were closed. His right leg was in a removable cast, lifted up by a series of pulleys and hung about a foot off the bed.

The odor of antiseptic made Morgan’s throat tighten. Closing the door, he went over to the window, pulled open the blinds and swung the window outward. Fresh air from the city drifted in, though there was a hint of car pollution in it. He could hear the endless honking of horns below, but the sound was muted because the room was on the fourth floor. Despite everything, Morgan preferred a little fresh air to the choking smell of the hospital.

Turning, Morgan saw IVs in each of the officer’s limp arms. As he moved toward the marine’s bed, he saw his dark, spiky lashes flutter, his lids barely lifting to reveal murky green eyes with huge black pupils. From the way his eyes appeared, Hamilton was still coming out of the surgery anesthesia.

“Take it easy, Captain Hamilton,” Morgan said as he approached the bed. “I’m your contact, Morgan Trayhern. I got down here as soon as I could when I found out you’d survived the mission.” He lifted his hand and gently placed it against the white gown across the officer’s shoulder. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Son. You’re in Cusco, Peru, and you’ve just come out of surgery, three hours ago. How are you feeling? Any pain?”

Thane stared up at the tall man, noting vaguely the concern written across his broad, tense features. The silver gray at his temples shouted of his age, but to Thane, he looked a lot younger and very fit in the charcoal-gray pinstripe suit, impeccably pressed white shirt and conservative, dark blue silk tie. His brain still slow at processing, it took long moments for Thane to understand everything the man had said. The warm grip of the man’s hand on his shoulder, though, translated instantly, and Thane felt genuine care radiating from this stranger.

Opening his mouth, he realized it felt dry, like the Bolivian desert itself.

“Thirsty?”

He nodded slightly, feeling incredibly weak.

Morgan reached for a pitcher of water on the nearby stand, poured some into a cup and placed a straw into it. “Nurses been by to check on you yet?”

Thane sucked noisily on the straw. His mouth wasn’t exactly in working order. Grogginess and a floating feeling made his thoughts tumble loosely. Whispering his thanks for the glass of water, he lay back, exhausted by the simple act of drinking and swallowing.

“Don’t—remember…sir….” he said, his voice hoarse. His throat hurt. It was painful to swallow. Frowning, he looked around. There was an ache drifting up his right leg toward his thigh. What was wrong with it? Automatically, he weakly lifted his right arm to touch his right thigh beneath the thick blankets covering him. Frowning, he saw that his leg was lifted slightly and hanging from a series of pulleys at the end of the bed. It took him long moments to realize why his leg was hanging there like that.