Semper Fi
By
*** DISCLAIMER*** There is some violence in this story, and I know most of it probably doesn't coincide with actual events, but the names of the locations in Vietnam I derived from online research. I don't know what the character Roy DeSoto's actual rank was, or if he was ever a POW. If you are a vet, please don't take me to task, this is not a documentary, it is fiction. I have not borrowed or taken any information belonging to anyone else except for the names of the villages contained herein, and have had the story in the back of my mind since my uncle, a war veteran himself, died in a car accident a few years ago.
____________________
Sometimes the dreams were there. So vivid, he would wake up smelling gunpowder, the sounds of the screams fading away as he reentered the real world. He had been successful for quite a while in pushing his past into just that-the past. He had convinced himself he need never think about it consciously. But fate is a quirky thing.
____________________
"Ter, you don't look so good," Albert said to his co-worker, almost taking a sip of coffee not yet cool enough to drink. "I think you should think about knocking off early and heading home."
Terrence Rickman sat at his desk, seemingly staring into empty space. He had not moved or spoken in almost an hour. Albert knew that things weren't going very well at home, and wondered if he and Jen had had a fight. Terrence had seemed distracted when he came to work at Brown's Fine Motors that morning.
Unable to get a response, Albert wandered away. Whatever Terrence was into, Al most certainly did not want to get mixed up in. He breathed a sigh of relief when the bell jingled over the door, indicating a customer had just walked in.
Within minutes, Albert Kramer was leading the potential car buyers across the show room floor, happily chatting with the couple as his hand waved towards various vehicles. "And over here is a fine car for a family. Do you have any children, Mr and Mrs Oshika?"
Before they could answer, the smiling young couple were jarred by the sound of Terrence Rickman leaping from his chair, and a moment later the handsome Japanese businessman was thrown to the floor. Sandra Oshika screamed as she watched the large man with the clip-on tie pummel her husband.
____________________
"You know, I distinctly recall telling you it would be on Sunday, not Saturday," Johnny stated, pouring himself a cup of coffee for the third time that day. "I can't help it if you need to clean out your ears, and learn to write things down on a calendar."
"I have it written down, right here," Chet wailed, a small notepad emerging from his shirt pocket. "Picnic, Gage's ranch, Saturday the 18th, 2 o'clock."
"That would be fine, except Saturday was the 17th, you dolt," Johnny countered, smirking. "I refer you again to a calendar."
"I'm afraid he's got you there, Kelly," Captain Stanley agreed, smiling around his mug. "I suggest next time you take better notes."
"But, Cap..." Chet began, until the tones stopped him.
"Station 51, unknown injuries, see the caller at Brown's Motors, 1875 Watters Rd, 1-8-7-5 Watters Rd, cross street 155th Place. Police are on the scene." The familiar voice of the dispatcher sounded calm, as usual.
"KMG 365," Hank spoke into the wall mic, jotting down the info. Police on the scene was never a situation they looked forward to. And it didn't escape his attention that the location was a little out of their jurisdiction. They were being called there for a specific reason. He just did not know what the reason could be.
____________________
It took nearly a half hour to reach their destination, as they almost never crossed jurisdictional boundaries unless several alarms were involved. As the bright red rescue vehicles pulled up at the end of the block, they saw a familiar face jogging up to meet them. Hank leapt from the cab of the engine as soon as it stopped.
"Vince, what's going on?" Stanley queried.
"Hank, we called you guys out because we have a serious situation going on, and I think one of your men can help us out." Vince waved at the paramedics as they sauntered over to the group. "Roy, I hate to do this, man, but I'm the one that requested 51. We need you on this one."
Confused, but always willing to help, Roy stepped forward. "Sure, what can I do?"
"We have an employee at the car lot over there who says his buddy came in this morning, acting kind of strange," Vince relayed. "Then, a little while ago, this couple came in to buy a car, and the co-worker goes beserk. He tackled this customer, beat him to a pulp, then pulled a gun from his desk and started pacing the sales floor. He won't let anyone in or out. The guy that called us, Albert Kramer, managed to duck out the parts department door. I think you should have a talk with him."
"Why don't you bring him over?" Hank asked. "By the way, Vince, there are paramedics for this area, why call Roy?"
"Because the guy in there waving a gun," Officer Howard replied, turning to look at DeSoto, "is an ex-marine, and he may be having some kind of psychotic episode, so we need someone with war experience that can try to talk him down."
____________________
Roy realized that everyone was staring at him, and he shook himself out of the dream world he had found himself wandering in. "What?"
"I asked, are you okay with this?" Captain Stanley knew of Roy's service in the military, and that he had been in Vietnam, but never pressed him for any specifics. He knew it was a topic better left unspoken of, especially by Roy DeSoto. When Vince told him why he had been summoned, Roy paled 3 shades and looked like the wind had been knocked out of him.
"Yeah," Roy answered, not really sounding believable. "Although, I'm not sure what I can do, except treat the victim."
Just then, Vince appeared with a stout man in short sleeves and coke-bottle glasses. "Roy DeSoto, this is Albert Kramer."
Roy shook hands with the car salesman. "Mr Kramer, why don't you tell us what's going on?"
Albert took a deep breath. "Terrence came in today a little late, but no big deal. He seemed kind of, I don't know, distanced, not himself. I figured maybe he'd had a fight with his wife, Jennifer, and he didn't want to talk about it. He's pretty much spent the day sitting at his desk, staring out the window, not talking to anyone or doing anything. Then, this couple comes in, I'm showing them some cars, next thing I know, Ter leaps onto Mr Oshika and starts beating the daylights out of him.
“After he gets done, he runs over to his desk, grabs a gun we didn't know he had out of his drawer, starts waving it around at the other salesman and a couple of other customers, and begins yelling in a strange language. I waited until his back was turned, then I snuck over to the parts department and crawled out the door."
"Vince, do we know anything about this guy?" Johnny asked, concerned as much about Roy's safety as the victim and hostages. "Other than he's an ex-marine?"
"We know he's married, wife is Jennifer, and they don't have any kids," Vince read off his notebook. "Detective Fisher is trying to locate her. And we've learned from the owner, Eric Brown, who's coming in now from his other lot, that Terrence had been seeing a shrink since before he came to work here about three years ago. Brown says he's on medication, and thinks it may be an anti-depressant, but isn't sure. However, he said he had dinner with Rickman and his wife a couple of weeks ago, and Mrs Rickman apparently told Brown's wife that they were separating, something about Terrence going off his meds and acting weird. That's all we have for now."
Roy sighed audibly. "Post traumatic stress disorder. That would explain it."
"Explain what?" Johnny pushed, having heard the term in passing before, but not knowing the details of it.
"If this man is an ex-marine, and saw action in 'Nam, he could have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. That's what the shrinks are labeling it. It used to be known as combat fatigue, or shell shock." Roy involuntarily shuddered as his own demons came back to haunt him briefly. "Sometimes guys would come back from war unable to cope with their memories. The mind can only handle so much, and anything beyond that can cause a crack. With the right treatments that mental crack can be contained, but other times that mind loses the battle, and the poor guy goes completely over the edge."
"What do you want Roy to do?" Hank implored of Vince.
"We were hoping that he might be able to talk to the guy," Vince stated, sounding ashamed to be putting his friend in this spot. "I know you hate what you went through over there, Roy, but this guy isn't in his right mind. We can call in a shrink and a hostage negotiator, but there might not be enough time for that, and we don't know if it would do any good anyway. We don't know what kind of shape that customer is in, or if Rickman is going to hurt anyone else, so we need someone that can get in there right now to assess the situation, and possibly treat the victim if Rickman will allow it."
DeSoto took a deep breath, and ran his hand through his hair. He was visibly shaken, but knew he couldn't let anyone get hurt because he was afraid of his own memories. A few moments later, after some tough mental wrangling, he looked up at his captain. "Let me get the gear I'm going to need."
Hank's face fell. He had hoped Roy wouldn't make this choice, but also knew he had to.
"If my partner goes in, so do I," Johnny interjected defiantly. He turned to look at the officer. "Don't even try to tell me no."
Vince took in the situation, then raised his hands in defeat. "Let me go tell the detectives what's going on, and we'll get you in the door."
"Roy, are you really sure you can do this?" Hank asked quietly as he walked with the senior paramedic towards the squad.
"No, Cap, I'm not, but I have to give it a try," DeSoto conceded, his voice tinged with sadness. "I've seen guys that have gone completely over the bend. Not killers or madmen, just your average joe that got thrown into something horrible, and it changed them. Sometimes they do....unimaginable...things. I have to see if I can help him, because he can't help himself."
After long minutes, the paramedics from Squad 51 were loaded up with their wares, and were led towards the front door, flanked by several very heavily armed SWAT members. From the parking lot, looking through the large plate-glass panels, they could see Rickman pacing the floor, alternately mumbling and shouting. And they could see the victim, lying motionless and bloody.
Carefully, the double door was pulled open, and the pair in blue and black entered the showroom, holding their breath. They stopped as they realized they had been spotted.
"You there!" Rickman shouted, pointing the large pistol at them. "Identify yourselves!"
"Sargeant First Class DeSoto," Roy yelled in his most authoritative voice. "I'm a medic with the 41st Infantry unit. I heard there was a man down, and came to help."
Rickman stared at the intruder for a moment, his eyes meeting Roy's. "Thanks, Sargeant, I'm Lance Corporal Rickman. Who is that with you? A sympathizer?"
"No, sir, he's a medic, on loan from the 51st M.A.S.H. He hasn't seen combat yet, he's just a scrub, so I brought him out to show him what we're up against." Roy certainly seemed to be speaking his language.
Rickman weighed the story, then slowly lowered the arm holding the weapon. "You may advance, but be careful, there may be snipers about."
Johnny and Roy walked forward, their hearts pounding so loud they thought others might hear them. Neither one looked directly at the victim, who still had not moved, and saw in their peripheral vision what looked like 5 hostages. Roy stopped a few feet from Rickman, set the equipment down, and saluted. "What can we help you with, sir?"
"I can't find the rest of my battalion, soldier," Rickman stated, very obviously in another world. "Somehow, we got separated, and before I knew it, I was being attacked by that charlie over there. I think he may have picked off my men without me hearing it."
The paramedics were finally able to acknowledge the presence of the victim. Roy began to understand. The victim was Japanese, but to someone as far over the edge as Rickman, he probably appeared Vietnamese, and that set him off the rest of the way.
“Corporal, I'd like to take a look at him,” Roy stated, choosing not to move yet. “He may be a tunnel rat, and can give us some valuable information.”
“You can try, Sarge, but I questioned him and his buddies over here,” Rickman tossed a nod in the direction of the hostages, “but they're acting like they don't even know what I'm saying.”
“They might be from an area with a different dialect,” DeSoto prodded. “You know how some of them are.”
Roy truly hated how he sounded as he talked, but he had to convince Rickman he was on the level. It seemed to be doing the trick. “I know, sneaky little bastards, aren't they? I say we call in an air strike and level the whole damned area.”
The look in the wild man's eyes was horrifying, but Roy knew he was trapped in a madness he had no control over. “Corporal! You are doing no such thing until we get further orders. You will stand your ground and take no action until I interrogate the prisoners and report back to my C.O., is that understood?”
Though technically Rickman slightly outranked Roy, in the fields, that was loosely enforced, and Terrence was only too happy to have that kind of decision fall on someone else's shoulders. He stood ramrod straight, the pistol tightly gripped in his hand, as he looked around the “jungle” nervously, waiting to be picked off like his troops.
Being careful not to bely his lack of any military training, Johnny followed his partner to the victim, and they both kneeled in front of him. It only took a moment for them to realize he was conscious, but had kept his eyes shut in an effort to protect himself.
“Sir, can you hear us?” Johnny whispered, keeping Rickman at the edge of his field of vision. “We're paramedics with the LA County Fire Department.”
Steven Oshika nodded slightly, keeping his eyes closed. “I did not know what to do. He attacked me, and kept yelling at me in a language I do not speak.”
“I think it's Vietnamese,” Roy relayed, also keeping his voice low as he and his partner began their examination. “He's having flashbacks to the war, and he thinks you're a soldier from North Vietnam. We're going to get you out of here, but you have to cooperate with us, okay?”
A tear slipped from between his eyelids, and the young man realized how dangerous the situation was. “I will do whatever you need me to. What about my wife, is she okay?”
Johnny turned his head slightly, taking in the people crouched together on the floor next to a desk. “Yes, she's with the other hostages, and it doesn't look like she's been injured. We're going to take care of all of you. Can you tell us where you're hurt?”
“It feels like everywhere,” Steven tried to joke. “Mostly my head and ribs, but my left arm hurts pretty bad, too.”
After palpating the areas mentioned, it was determined that Mr Oshika's left arm was broken, probably as he tried to defend himself, and had a concussion from the brutal beating he had taken. Johnny began setting up the biophone to call it in, moving slowly and cautiously.
Roy stood and walked over to Terrence. “Corporal, we're calling for reinforcements, and we're going to have the prisoners taken in for questioning. I'll take over from here, so you're relieved. I suggest you head out to find your C.O.”
DeSoto hoped that Rickman would walk out the front door and be taken by SWAT, but it didn't work out that way. Terrence looked over at the “prisoner” he had fought off, and saw him awake and whispering something to the sargeant's fellow medic. He knew it, the grunt was really a plant. “Halt! Raise your hands and step forward!”
Johnny looked up quizzically, confused. His eyes met Roy's, and he silently asked what was going on. Roy picked up on it, and tried to remedy the situation. “Lance Corporal, what the hell do you think you're doing?”
“He's consorting with the enemy!” Rickman shouted, cocking the pistol. “I saw him over there giving instructions. He's one of them, and he infiltrated your unit. I said step forward, now!”
Johnny slowly stood, his hands half-raised. “Now, wait a minute, I'm only trying to help…”
“Yeah, help the Viet Cong, you bastard!” His face snarled now, Rickman pulled the trigger, and with deadly accuracy, hit his mark. Johnny flew backwards, a hole blasted into him right below his rib cage. The hostages screamed, and Roy lunged forward.
“Johnny, no!” He ran to his fallen partner, fearing the worst, not caring how Rickman perceived his actions. The dark haired paramedic lay on his back, hand pressed to his wound, breathing heavily.
“Roy,” Gage wheezed, “he shot me. What….?”
“Lay still, Junior,” Roy ordered, assessing the gunshot. It was large, and already bleeding profusely. He knew he had to get his friend out of here immediately. “Don't move, I'm going to get us out of this mess.”
Roy stood up, the smell of blood and sulphur making him nauseous. He advanced on the shooter. “Corporal, I'll have you brought up on a charge of treason! I gave you an order, and you defied it. You have fired upon one of our men. Now hand over your firearm!”
Rickman stood still, appearing shocked at his own actions. Then, he started to come around. “No. He may have you fooled, but not me. I know he's one of them, and none of them are leaving here alive. And if you get in my way, Sarge, then you can go with them.”
The two men stood eye to eye for several tense moments, when the silence was broken by a female voice blasted through a bullhorn. “Terrence! It's Jennifer! I want to come talk to you!”
____________________
Vince Howard said a silent prayer as he heard the gunshot from inside the building. The men in charge were ready to burst into the building, knowing that one of the paramedics had just been wounded. Time was running out. A moment later, a pretty brunette was helped out of a police car and handed a bullhorn. “Terrence! It's Jennifer! I want to come talk to you!”
Everyone held their collective breath. A minute later, they heard a reply yelled back. “Jen, baby, is that you?”
“Yes, Ter, it's me!” Jennifer took a couple of steps forward so she could look into the building. “Can I come in there? I need to see you!”
Terrence looked like he was considering it. He motioned for her to come inside, and called out to her, “Only you! If anyone else comes in, the rest of the prisoners die!” She was escorted to the door, and stepped in alone.
Jennifer Rickman had been in the dealership many times, but caught her breath this time. Desks were askew, paperwork littered the showroom, and there were two injured men on the floor. She could tell right away which one Terrence had fired on, and she instinctively wanted to apologize to him for her husband's behavior. But she knew right now it was imperative to convince him to give himself up.
“Ter, honey, what are you doing?” Jen asked tearfully, advancing slowly. “You don't want to hurt anyone. These people haven't done anything to you.”
“You don't understand, baby,” Rickman replied, looking like he was on the edge of tears himself. “They're the enemy. Sneaking around in those tunnels, picking us off one by one, I have a job to do.”
“Right now your job is to come with me, so we can get some help,” Jen said softly, realizing the full extent of the psychosis.
Rickman looked remorseful. “Jen, don't tell me you're with them. Is that why you left?”
Jennifer walked up to her husband and touched his cheek. “Terrence, I left because I was confused, and needed some time to think. I still love you, sweetheart, and want us to be together, but we can't unless you come back to me first. Why don't we let the authorities take care of them? I brought some MP's with me, they're waiting to take them to a detention center, okay?”
While Jennifer tried to talk her husband outside, Roy took the opportunity to return to his partner. Johnny's color didn't look so good, and he was bleeding heavily. His eyes were shut, and he seemed to be struggling to breathe. “Johnny, can you hear me?”
It took a few seconds, but Gage was finally able to open his eyes. “Roy, what….what happened?”
“You've been shot, Junior,” Roy had to explain. “I need to get the gear, and it's a few feet away, so don't move around.”
“Wasn't planning on it,” Johnny gasped, feeling like he was trying to breathe underwater.
Roy moved slowly, deliberately, trying not to attract any attention to himself as he attempted to retrieve the drug box and biophone. He listened to the exchange between Rickman and his wife as he pushed the boxes towards his best friend.
“I know what you're doing, and it's not going to work,” Rickman blurted out, raising the gun to center on his wife. “Clever trick, sending someone in that looks like my wife, but it's not fooling me.”
Angry, now, more than anything, Jennifer pulled her hand away. “Terrence Philip Rickman, stop acting like this immediately, and let these people go.”
“No, I won't,” Terrence countered, his gaze steady, and his hand steadier. “I can't trust any of you. I'm not going to wind up as one of their prisoners.”
Suddenly, Roy stood and faced their tormentor. “I know how you feel, Marine. I was a prisoner, once, and what they do is inhuman.”
His hand wavering, Rickman looked back over at DeSoto. “Where did they get you?”
“Seven members of my platoon and I were captured as we helped take Plei Me,” Roy related, his own memories threatening to overcome him. His days as a POW, though few, would haunt him forever. “The Special Forces were able to get us out right before the battle of Ia Drang Valley. Three of my men didn't make it out of the camp alive. What the Cong did to those men, words just can't describe.”
His hand now hanging by his side, Rickman shrugged past his wife, and shuffled towards the only soul in the room that knew his pain. “I saw what they do. What they did to some of the men of the 3 rd Marines in Khe Sanh made me sick. How can human beings do that to each other?”
“I don't know, Corporal, but it's not up to us to judge,” Roy stated quietly, his blue eyes clearly showing his genuine empathy. “We're here to clean up, and let the men with the bars on their shoulders sort it all out.”
Rickman seemed almost hunched over now, the weight of it all coming full circle. “Sarge, I came over here to do a job. They trained me to be a weapon. I'm good at what I do. But they never taught us this. I've seen things, done things….Just last week as we're walking a trail, we got pinned down by heavy gunfire. As most of us took up cover, we were helpless to stop those beasts from taking our wounded right out from underneath us. We could hear them screaming as they were dragged away. And when we found the bodies the next day, what they looked like…..”
Roy shuddered, realizing that his own memories were rising from a pit which he had long ago covered up. But he needed to draw on that if he was going to get them out of here. “I know, soldier, believe me, I know. They can train you how to fire your gun, and what signs to look for in the trees to see if the enemy has been by there, but there's no training that can prepare you for witnessing the atrocities we've seen. It stays on your hands, the blood. Their blood, the blood of your men, all the ones you can't save. And we tell ourselves we have to push our feelings back, we're here for a reason, and we can't allow ourselves to think about it until the job is done and we're back home. But we're human, and we're not supposed to do that. So what you feel, it fights you like a jungle rat. It hurts, we hurt, but we can't let anyone know, because that would make us look weak.”
Terrence sank slowly into a chair, staring at the floor. He was obviously wrestling with the demons, and losing. “Sarge, I'm no better than they are. I'm following orders, but sometimes, it's almost as if I enjoy killing. And it's not about the soldiers, it's the women and children…..the brass tells us that any one of them can kill us, don't underestimate them, just because they look so innocent…I looked her right in the eyes as she begged me not to pull the trigger. She pleaded with me to spare her children. But I had orders I had to follow. She could have had a weapon, a gun or knife; I didn't see one, but that doesn't mean she didn't have one. Except, after they were all dead, I searched. They told us not to bother, kill and move on, we were told. But I had to know for myself. I searched, and there was nothing. Not even a spoon in the hut. I killed them, all four of them, as they cried and begged. I'm not any better than they are….”
They finally heard what no one else had before today. It wasn't just about coming back from the war, it was what he had done while he was there, what he never confided to anyone, not even his platoon. His guilt was enormous, and it ate up his life.
Jennifer stood sobbing, knowing her husband would never be the same. She had no idea what he had done over there, and it made her ill to know he was capable of such things.
The painful silence was broken by a cry. “Roy, I-I can't breathe…”
DeSoto broke from his trance and rushed to his partner, dropping to his knees, working to finish assembling the biophone with shaking hands. “I'm here, Johnny, hold on, please, hold on.”
“Roy…” The wounded man's voice began to fade, his hand limply sliding down to fall on the floor. The elder paramedic tried to work as quickly as possible, knowing he was running out of time. He ripped the damaged uniform shirt apart, then carefully maneuvering his scissors held by fingers that trembled, he managed to cut away the once-white tee shirt underneath. He scrutinized the bullet wound, then managed to roll Gage slightly on his side to see the exit wound, which was equally gruesome. Trying to remain as professional as possible, he grabbed the handset of the nearby biophone.
“Rampart, this is Squad 51, how do you read?” Roy stopped cold when he heard the gun cocking nearby.
“Sargeant, put it down,” Rickman ordered, aiming the gun at the blond man's head.
Roy refused to release the handset. From where he crouched, he turned his head and looked up. “If you're going to kill me, then go ahead and pull that trigger, soldier. If not, then back away, and let me do my job.”
“Squad 51, this is Rampart Emergency, we read you loud and clear,” came the strong voice of Kelly Brackett. Long moments passed, and the impasse held. The call came through again, sounding slightly impatient. “51, this is Rampart. Please respond.”
“You need to make a decision, Marine,” Roy stated, still holding the biophone. After what seemed like an eternity, the muzzle was lowered, and Roy let out the breath he didn't realize he had been holding. “Rampart, I'm here. However, be advised that I am transmitting from a hostage situation.”
“Understood,” Brackett replied, his heart skipping a beat from the safety of the ER. “Give me what you can.”
“Rampart, we have two victims,” the fair-skinned paramedic relayed. “First victim is a male, approximate age 30, with a broken left ulna, multiple contusions related to an assault, and a concussion. Victim is alert and talkative, vitals unknown at this time.
“Victim two is a male, age 28, suffering from a gunshot wound. The weapon was a 9mm, and there are entry and exit wounds. Victim has lost approximately 2 liters of blood, is unconscious and non-responsive. Vitals are heart rate, 40, BP 90 by palpation, pupils fixed and dilated. Please be advised Victim two is John Gage.”
Kelly exhaled loudly, thankful he was alone in the call room so no one could see him turn several shades lighter. He could only imagine what was going on there. “51,how long before you're able to transport both victims?”
“Unknown at this time,” Roy said truthfully, his hand gripping the phone tighter out of anger.
“Can you start a bag of ringers and put pressure bandages on Gage?” Brackett questioned, biting on the edge of his thumbnail.
“Affirmative,” Roy called back, hoping he was right. He put the phone down, and reached for the drug box. He was not interrupted, so he did as he was told. After he inserted the I.V. and put the bandages on the wounds, he sat back on his heels and addressed their captor. “What's going to happen next, Corporal?”
“I-I don't know, Sarge,” Rickman mumbled. He began pacing the showroom floor, not looking at anyone. As he did, Mrs. Oshika moved from the spot she had been sitting in and crawled over to her husband. She spoke to him softly in their native language, assuring him that things were going to be alright.
Hearing the two whispering, Rickman bounded over to them, aiming the gun at Mrs. Oshika. “I knew it! I knew even you slant-eyed bitches couldn't be trusted!”
“Corporal, don't!” Roy shouted, as he lunged towards the ex-marine. He managed to drive his shoulder into Rickman's ribs, knocking him to the ground. The force of the blow caused his hand to tighten out of reflex, and a bullet was propelled into the ceiling. The two veterans fought over the handgun as the commanding officer outside the building decided that action needed to be taken immediately.
DeSoto was pushed aside by the larger man, and gasped as the 9mm was held just a few inches from his face. Before he had time to do anything other than raise his arms, a gunshot rang out. A moment later, the gun fell from Rickman's hand, and he slumped over onto the floor, right next to the man he was going to kill.
It took several seconds for him to comprehend what had happened, but eventually Roy realized that Terrence had been shot and killed by SWAT members that now were strategically placed right inside the door. Feeling slightly dizzy from all the events that just occurred, he could hear someone screaming. Fighting the vertigo that descended on him, he turned toward the sound, and could see it was Jennifer Rickman, hysterical over seeing her husband dead.
Roy continued to sit where he had been thrown, a roaring sound now replacing the screaming between his ears. He knew he was needed to help someone, but for the life of him couldn't remember who, or why. Behind him, he could vaguely make out the sound of someone calling his name, and overlapping voices barking commands, but he couldn't order himself to stand up.
“Are you hurt?” The question repeated 3 or 4 times, but he couldn't answer it honestly. Was he hurt? Was that why he felt like all the oxygen had been drained from the room? He tried to turn his head to the source of the question, but doing so made spots appear before his eyes, and some little voice in the back of his head told him to breathe, or he was going to pass out. So he did as the voice instructed, drawing in a lungful of air. Within moments, he noticed the spots dissipating, and the roaring sound moving away. “Roy, are you hurt?”
The senior paramedic turned his face to meet the eyes of his superior. “Cap? What are you doing here?”
Hank noticed the confusion in DeSoto's almost blank stare. “Roy, it's all over. You're safe now.”
Roy nodded, took another deep breath, then felt a roiling in his stomach. He managed to lean to the side in time to empty its contents, then sat back up, almost hyperventilating. “Aw, man…”
“Captain, he's not breathing!” One of the paramedics for that region, Andy Shaw, had rushed in right behind Captain Stanley, and ran for the fallen Gage. “Let's get that equipment in here, Paul!”
Shaw's partner, Paul George, ran as fast as he possibly could, considering he was dragging a stretcher covered with tools of the trade behind him. As he screeched to a stop and began unloading the gear, Shaw grabbed the abandoned biophone. “Rampart, this is Squad 43, filling in for Squad 51, how do you read?”
Kelly realized it might be pretty bad if another unit was now assisting, and wondered if DeSoto had been injured, too. “43, this is Rampart. What is the status of the victims?”
As calmly as possible, Shaw toggled the switch on the portable phone. “Rampart, we still have two victims. Victim one is being prepped for transport right now, and we'll have his vitals for you from the ambulance. ETA for the first victim is 17 minutes. Victim two is in V-fib, we are preparing for conversion!”
“Squad 43, 300 watt seconds!” Kelly barked, mentally picturing what was going on with his paramedic, cursing whomever did this.
Hearing the commotion behind him, Roy finally managed to clear his head enough to bring himself back to the present. Shaking, and with great difficulty, he willed his legs to carry him over to his partner, who was starting to turn blue. Unable to do anything to help at the moment, he prayed silently as he watched another paramedic he barely knew try to save his best friend's life.
He sat, almost seeming detached, watching as the jolt of electricity assaulted Johnny's body, making it jump. The line stayed straight on the monitor as Shaw grabbed the biophone. “No conversion, Rampart!”
“Squad 43, give him 50 cc's of epi, and hit him with 400 watt seconds!” Brackett practically screamed.
As Andy drew the lifesaving fluid into the syringe, Roy leaned forward, finally coming to his senses. “Johnny, damnit, don't you dare leave like this!”
Shaw plunged the long needle straight into the thoracic cavity, and before he could grab the paddles, they were already in Roy's hands. “Clear!”
All eyes turned to the black and white monitor, which showed a slight flutter, then a small jump, followed by more activity. Sweating from the day's events and the anxiety of watching his partner almost die, Roy thumbed the phone. “Rampart, we have conversion. Preparing to transport, ETA 17 minutes.”
“Roger, 51,” Brackett said in a voice that did not hide his relief. “Get him in here.”
Roy rode in with his partner, Shaw attending in case he was needed. Paul had ridden in with the other victim, and the police were left behind to sort out what could be sorted out.
With precision that comes from training and experience, Roy and Andy inserted an airway and kept Johnny breathing manually, checking his vitals every minute. Roy breathed a much needed sigh of relief when they finally arrived at Rampart, and Gage was whisked away to an OR that was on standby. After seeing to it that his partner was in capable hands, he allowed himself to be led to the doctor's lounge by Dixie McCall.
Dixie knew that Johnny had been brought in with a gunshot wound, but didn't know the circumstances behind it, so she was surprised when she and Roy entered the room, and he promptly fainted. Alarmed, she ran into the hallway and caught Mike Morton. “Mike, I need your help, Roy DeSoto just passed out in the lounge.”
____________________
The rest of station 51 arrived at Rampart, flanked by Vince Howard and several other officers. A short time later, the body of Terrence Rickman arrived, accompanied by his widow. Hank Stanley managed to locate his senior paramedic, shocked to find he was in a treatment room. But given what he had gone through, he realized that was probably the best place for him.
Several hours later, Roy awoke in Treatment Two, feeling groggy and hung over. Through half-opened eyes, he searched his surroundings, and recognized the inside of Rampart. In an instant, his memories came flooding back, and he sat up straight. “Johnny!”
“Take it easy, pal,” came the soothing voice of Hank Stanley. Roy turned to look at his captain. “You're in a treatment room at Rampart, and Johnny is being taken good care of.”
“What happened?” Roy queried, his head pulsating with a headache. He very much wanted to lie back down, but didn't dare.
“After you handed John over to Dr. Brackett, Dixie took you to the doctor's lounge to get you some coffee. Apparently, you fainted, and when Dr. Morton tried to bring you around with smelling salts, you became disoriented and combative, so they sedated you and brought you in here.”
“How long…..?” Roy didn't even feel like forming the words, but needed to know.
“That was about six hours ago,” Stanley said, the corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “I guess they had to give you a pretty good dose, since you popped Morton in the face. But you'll be glad to know he's not pressing charges, he said he got justice by sticking the needle in your ass instead of your arm.”
“And Johnny?” Almost fully alert now, he was afraid of what he would hear.
“Well, Brackett said his left lung got nicked,” Hank relayed, trying to remember what he was told. “They managed to re-inflate it, and the bullet actually missed all the other vital organs. He's going to be in a butt-load of pain for a while, but the doctor says there isn't any reason why he won't fully recover, good as new. He's in post-op right now, and they said we should be able to see him in a couple of hours.”
“What about the first victim?” Roy knew eventually he should ask about the assailant. “Is he okay?”
Hank set his cold coffee down. “Dixie says he's going to be fine. His arm was broken, but they set it, and he had a mild concussion, plus a bunch of cuts and contusions, but he'll be out of here by tomorrow. The other hostages were released safely, without a scratch on them, although I think they're all going to need a therapist for a bit.”
“Cap, is the corporal….” Roy began, finding it difficult to complete the question.
“Dead,” Hank said, his face somber. “When the gun went off the last time, the SWAT commander said they couldn't sit on it any longer, that they had let you give it a shot, but apparently it wasn't enough. They figured by that time, he was too far gone for even you to reach him, and they stormed the building. They saw he was getting ready to shoot you, and decided to end it the quickest means possible. Unfortunately, he didn't survive. His wife told us everything that happened in there, and as mortified as she was about his death, somehow she feels he got the reconciliation he needed.”
“But at what cost?” Roy questioned. The pain in his head finally winning, he lay back down on the exam bed. As his captain kept watch, DeSoto fell into a deep sleep, knowing the dreams would come again, but this time, not afraid of what he would see.