East Tower! East Tower! Do you copy?
East Tower – TOC come in, over.
The roller had exploded exactly 98 meters east of the tower, and the resulting blastwave had damaged it, causing the roof to collapse burying three Soldiers inside.
John Woodhouse (United States), Karl Lundgren (Sweden), and Aleksandr Vasiliev, aka “Chief” (Russia) lay trapped under debris from the tower’s collapsed roof and about two cubic meters of sandbags that were hurled against them.
It was Chief who woke first.
He lay on his back with his forearms, trapped in front of his face. During the explosion, he had reacted instinctively by bringing his arms up to shield himself. He was trapped under the immense weight of the debris unable to breathe. The pressure on his lungs was too great. It was dark, and dust clung to his sweaty skin. It was in his eyes and nose and ears and coated the inside of his mouth. He strained with all of his might to draw in even the slightest breath.
Nothing.
He could feel the pressure mounting in the blood vessels in his eyes, and his body spasmed in a primeval effort for survival. He would have screamed in frustration, but no. He was dying. First, he would lose consciousness, then as his body used up the last of its oxygen supply, he would die.
He hung there, suspended slightly upside down gasping like a fish out of water when the sandbag pinning his hands to his helmet lifted and dirty light from a headlamp blinded his eyes. Rough hands grabbed his kit above his shoulders and pulled while others hauled broken boards and sandbags off his body.
He heard a commotion of screaming voices, of orders yelled into the night, and he heard the names of his comrades as they were called by the rescuers. As the weight on him lessoned, shallow breaths became deeper, but it wasn’t enough. He panicked as his body urged him to get the oxygen it desperately needed. He was in hell.
The hands lifted and pulled him away from the scene, and seconds later, he found himself in medical on a stretcher with a mask over his face providing him the oxygen he needed.
They brought Lundgren in next and laid his stretcher down next to him. Blood was flowing freely from a wound on the left side of his face. The eye there was closed, black, and bloody. He turned, and the two looked at each other. Neither were ready to talk, so they settled for a nod and waited for Woodhouse.
He never came.
The Doc released Chief the next morning with a clean bill of health and orders to rest for a few days. He left with a bottle of ibuprofen and tape over the crook of his left elbow where the IV had been.
Somethings in the military seem to transcend countries. Tape a Soldier up and kick them out the door with a bottle of painkillers. It was the same in Russia as it is in the United Forces.
Lundgren wasn’t able to leave. He had a severe concussion, and the Doc said he was probably going to lose the eye. He didn’t know yet, so Lundgren was there under their care until they figured it out.
Chief walked away from medical and headed for the TOC instead of his bunk. Despite Doc’s orders, he had to do one thing first. Find Woodhouse.
The Operations Center was in a nondescript building in the center of the base. It was one of the only fortified buildings standing on the post as the rest were either made out of plywood and 2×4’s or were simply tents. Most of the troops bunked in small hand-dug bunkers fortified with layers of plywood and sandbags. Which wasn’t bad if you didn’t mind living like a hobbit. They weren’t large, and you could squeeze a squad inside, and they were effective against small arms fire and even some of the smaller indirect rounds that got lucky once in a while.
“Chief!”
Captain Fletcher stood inside a small square room in front of a large map. To the Captain’s right was an open door leading into another room. To the left was a plastic folding table. The same tables lined all the walls inside the room except a section that had a rack of equipment.
She turned away from the map and faced him. “Glad to see you up and about. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. Lucky, I guess.”
“I guess so. You guys did well. I hate to think about what might have happened if,” she trailed off.
“It was the red phosphorus. I think our little machine guns were just pissing it off.” Chief said.
“Good to know. Anything else?”
“Yeah. It was different. I’ve never seen a roller like it before. Not larger, but sleeker. Also, we couldn’t see it until it was hit by the phosphorus and even after that, it looked like it had some kind of active stealth tech.” Chief sighed and massaged the back of his neck with his hand before continuing. “We could have died. We should have died…”
“Chief.” Captain Fletcher reached up and rested her hand on his shoulder. About to continue, she was interrupted.
“Where’s Woodhouse?” Chief asked.
Captain Fletcher took in a quick breath and removed her hand. Standing tall, she said, “Woodhouse is in bad shape. He sustained a head injury, bad enough that Doc wanted him sent back to the rear. We flew him back there last night by helicopter.”
“Head injury?”
“Yeah. Wasn’t wearing a helmet when they found him.”
“He was during the fight,” Chief said flatly.
Captain Fletcher took a moment and looked at him, taking in his state.
“Alex, get some rest. You look like hell.”
“Thanks… for the information,” he said.
He was tired. He left the TOC and headed for his hootch to get some rest.
