Page 1 of No Greater Love
one
nate
The bullet struckLance Corporal Alvarez high in the chest, spinning him backward into the exposed street.
"CORPSMAN UP! CORPSMAN UPPP!"
The cry ripped through our radio nets as Alvarez collapsed into the open, dust billowing around him. From my position behind the Amtrak, I could see the dark bloom spreading across his desert camo. Pneumothorax, probably. Exsanguination risk. He had minutes, if that.
I was moving before the call ended, trauma bag already in hand, muscle memory from endless drills taking over. Three bounds to the corner, then a straight shot to Alvarez. Fifteen seconds, max.
"Doc, NO!"
Hands seized my plate carrier, yanking me backward with such force that my helmet slammed against the Amtrak's armored side. Staff Sergeant Miller's face was inches from mine, his features contorted with fury and fear.
"You stay put, Doc!" Miller's eyes were wild, spittle flying as he shoved me against the vehicle. "D’you understand me?"
"He's bleeding out, Staff Sergeant!" I struggled against his grip, my eyes locked on Alvarez's increasingly still form. The precious seconds ticking away. "I can reach him!"
"No, you fuckin’ can't!" Miller roared. "That's exactly what those bastards want! They take out our corpsman, we'reallfucked!"
"I can!" I screamed back, "HE NEEDS ME, STAFF SERGEANT! I CAN GET TO HI-"
"CORPORAL JONES! PRIVATE MACKEY! You grab Mr. Crawford here and make sure he doesn’t move!" Two Marines materialized, physically blocking my path.
Over Miller's shoulder, I saw Hernandez—just another kid, barely nineteen—making a decision. Our eyes met for a split second.
"I got him, Doc," Hernandez called, already moving.
"Hernandez, don't—" Miller turned, but too late.
Hernandez sprinted from cover, a blur of desert camo against the dust-colored road. Three steps. Four. He was going to make it.
The insurgent machine gun opened up from somewhere in the abandoned apartment block; the familiarduntduntduntduntduntdeath rattle of an RPK, 7.62mm rounds tearing through the air.
Hernandez jerked as the first rounds hit him, his body absorbing the impacts like hammer blows. But he kept moving, three more stumbling steps toward Alvarez before a final burst caught him squarely in the torso. He dropped to his knees, then fell forward beside the man he'd tried to save.
"Suppressing fire! Get some fire on that building!Where’s our goddamn air support?" Miller screamed into his radio. Marines opened up, pouring rounds toward the suspected shooter position, but the damage was done.
I strained against the hands holding me back, my medical training screaming that I could still save them, while tactical awareness coldly calculated the survival odds at near zero in that kill zone.
"We need to move!Now!" Miller ordered, his voice cracking with strain. "Two men down. We need immediate QRF support and suppressive fire to recover!"
Minutes stretched into eternity. Through my scope, I could see Hernandez's fingers twitching. Still alive. Still suffering. Just yards away, yet completely unreachable. Alvarez hadn't moved since falling.
Bullets pinged off the Amtrak, the metallic sounds a grotesque counterpoint to Hernandez's diminishing movements. I memorized each detail with clinical precision: the angle of Hernandez's sprawled legs, the exact pattern of blood spreading beneath him, the way his hand still clutched his weapon. The sun beating down, baking the blood into the dust.
"Doc." Miller's voice had softened, his hand now resting heavily on my shoulder. "There's nothing you can do right now."
He knew. He understood exactly what this was doing to me.
The QRF finally arrived with a Bradley, providing enough cover fire for a recovery team to dash out. I waited, medical kit ready, praying against probability.
"They're gone, Doc." The recovery team leader shook his head as they dragged the bodies behind cover. "Both of 'em."
I went through the motions anyway, checking for pulses I knew weren't there, performing assessments that couldn't change the outcome. Alvarez had bled out from his initial wound. Hernandez had taken seven rounds to the chest and abdomen.
I closed Hernandez's eyes with gloved fingers already stiff with his dried blood. Nineteen years old. He'd told me just yesterday about his plans to become a firefighter after his tour. He'd died because I was too valuable to risk.
