Her Healing Touch. Lindsay McKenna
Morosely, Angel looked around the quiet dispensary. The aluminum Quonset hut sat at the very back of the huge lava cave that housed the entire black ops base. “Dude, this sucks.”
“You said it, Angel.” Elizabeth gave her a slight smile. “Listen, I’m authorizing you four weeks of sick leave. I want you to go back to the barracks and rest. Put a hot pack on that shoulder from time to time and alternate it with an ice pack. Rest, sleep, drink plenty of water, and leave that shoulder alone. Don’t pick up anything with that arm, you hear?”
Glumly, Angel looked around. Already the pain was beginning to ease, and she was grateful. “Yeah…I hear you, Doc. No sling, right?”
“No, not at this time. Just be careful how you move it around, is all. But if you reinjure it, Angel, I’ll have to put one on you.”
“That’s good news.” Angel brightened. “At least I’ll save what’s left of my Inca pride.”
Elizabeth grinned. “Get outta here.”
Carefully sliding off the gurney, Angel continued cradling her bad arm against her body; it was the only position that felt comfortable right now. Pushing open the dispensary door with the toe of her black GI boot, she headed down the hall, then left the metal structure. Looking up, she saw bright shafts of sunlight flickering through the Eye, a large hole in the lava wall that protected the huge landing area and the rest of the cave. It was 1000. The day was young. And she was screwed. Glaring toward the Blackhawk helicopter, where she’d injured herself unloading supplies, she saw that all the boxes were stacked on a pallet on an electric golf cart, ready for distribution. Who was going to unpack all the medical supplies that would be dropped off? The doctor was up to her hocks in work. And Angel was useless to her now with only one good hand available.
Frowning, she ruffled her short black hair, then pulled her soft green army cap from the back pocket of the jungle-green-and-brown camouflage pants she wore. Settling the cover on her head and positioning the bill so it protected her eyes from the sudden bright light cascading into the cave, she headed for the headquarters building, which sat off to one side. She was going to talk to their commanding officer, Major Maya Stevenson.
The knock on her open door made Maya lift her head from the relentless paperwork that encircled her like a wagon train on her green, army-issue metal desk.
“Enter,” she called, wondering who it was. When she saw the Angel of Death, Maya frowned. Angel had earned that name from her legendary ability to cheat death by rescuing people from the door of it.
“Ma’am? May I have a moment of your time? I know you’re busy,” Angel said in a rush as she came to attention in front of the major’s desk. She saluted carefully, keeping her left side immobile.
Maya returned the salute. “At ease, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Angel replied, automatically cradling her left arm.
“I heard what happened.”
“Already?”
Lips twitching, Maya sat back. “You know how word gets around here, Angel. Telepathically.”
Laughing a little, though it hurt to do even that, Angel nodded. “I guess one of the crew told you?”
“Yeah.” Maya rose and came around the desk. She pulled one of the green metal chairs from a corner and brought it over. “Sit down, Angel. You look like death warmed over.”
Touched by her C.O.’s care, Angel sat down. “You’re the second person to use those exact words. Thank you, ma’am.”
Maya grinned wryly. “How’s the pain level?” she asked as she sauntered back to her desk and sat down.
Angel gestured awkwardly to her injured shoulder. “It’s getting better by the moment. Doc gave me a shot of an anti-inflammatory into the tendon.”
“Good. I once ruptured a tendon here—” Maya pointed to her left shoulder “—when I was a young girl. I was out climbing a tree, thinking I was Tarzan. Only my arms weren’t very long and the branch I was swinging to was too much of a stretch….”
“Ouch. So you know what this feels like?”
Wryly, Maya said, “Yeah, I do.”
Angel smiled. She always felt better when she was around Maya. The major was a woman steeped in mystery and mysticism. She was the reason the Black Jaguar Squadron even existed. Her black, shoulder-length hair shone beneath the fluorescent lights, curling slightly on her proud shoulders. Like all her pilots, Maya wore a black flight uniform that had no insignias, except for one—the Black Jaguar Squadron patch, sewn on the left upper arm.
Reaching toward one of the piles of paperwork, Maya said, “I think we might have an answer for this predicament, however. A real godsend.”
“Oh?”
“You’re here because you’re worried the doc will need help you can’t provide, right?”
Angel never got used to her C.O.’s uncanny ability to seemingly read her mind. As a Quero Indian, steeped in the traditions of her Incan ancestors, Angel understood how energy could be used in many inexplicable ways. Telepathy, as far as she was concerned, was energy sent from one person’s brain to another, much like a telephone call without the cord between them. She had come to expect it from Maya.
“Er…yes, ma’am….”
With a brief smile, Maya dangled a file in front of her.
“I think our collective prayers have been answered in a highly synchronistic development. Take a look at this file for a moment while I fill you in.” Maya handed it across the desk. “I just got this request last week, as a matter of fact.” Leaning back in her creaky chair, she laced her long fingers across her belly. “As you know by now, our little black ops down here, which was the laughingstock of the army when it began, has now become the darling of it. Amazing what time, diligence of effort and a fifty percent reduction of drug flights out of Peru will do to make the military look kindly upon us.”
Angel nodded. “Yes, ma’am, we were just a renegade bunch of women when you created this operation, making that vision of yours a reality.” Curious, she settled the file on her lap and opened it. There was a letter on the front page, a request.
“Well,” Maya murmured humorously, “the U.S. Army is begging us to allow more of their men to come down here and train with us, in many capacities. They want their best pilots to learn from ours. Our flight crews refuel and rearm Apaches faster and better than anyone they’ve got up there in the U.S.A. I have crew specialists wanting to work with us and see how we do what we do. And—” she smiled at Angel “—now even Special Forces are sticking their nose into our black ops.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, that letter, which I want you to read, is from the head of Special Forces, General Rutherford. He wants a Sergeant Burke Gifford, an A team paramedic teacher, to come down here and train with you.”
Angel’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Me?”
“Yes. Read on.” Maya waved her hand at the file resting on Angel’s lap.
Angel rapidly scanned the official-looking letter, which had been penned by the general. It was basically asking that Gifford be allowed to work with the paramedic at BJS in order to understand unique aspects and uses of their medical model, and how it might be utilized in other places of combat, black ops or not. Brows bunching, Angel read the last paragraph. “This is too much….” she murmured.
Maya chuckled. “Yeah, ain’t it?”
Looking up, Angel said, “This general knows of me. He actually refers to me as the Angel of Death.”
“Your legend precedes you, Paredes.”
Maya’s dry wit wasn’t lost on her. Angel saw the spark of humor in her C.O.’s