“Then you guys can help me,” Crocker said, getting up and moving to the medical cots bolted to the side of the fuselage where Lasher and Jabril were strapped.
“What do you need, boss?”
“If one of you can find the emergency medical kit on this crate, I’d like the other to remind the pilot to radio ahead for two ambulances and a couple of doctors.”
Ritchie: “Done.”
First he attended to Jabril, who was out cold and seemed to be suffering from stage-two hypovolemic shock as a result of the blood loss from his various wounds. His skin was cold and clammy, his pulse extremely rapid, which meant that his heart was working overtime to pump the little blood remaining in his body.
Crocker raised the doctor’s legs to facilitate blood flow to vital organs and the brain, and checked to make sure that all his external wounds had stopped bleeding. What he couldn’t do anything about now was any internal bleeding that might have been caused by the stick the savages had thrust up the doctor’s rectum. All he could do was tuck several blankets around him, drag over the tank he found nearby, strap a mask around Jabril’s head, and administer oxygen.
Turning to Davis, he said, “Keep an eye on him. Watch for vomiting. Make sure his breathing remains unobstructed. Anything changes, shout. I’ll be back to check his vital signs.”
“Okay, boss.”
John Lasher was also unconscious. His shock appeared to be neurogenic, caused by a severe blow to his head or spinal column. Judging from the state of his body, it looked like he’d received both. His pulse was less than forty beats a minute, and he’d been asleep for almost twenty minutes. Crocker tried to gently wake him by calling his name.
After several tries he responded, “Where am I?” Then closed his eyes. A few minutes later he opened them and asked the same question.
Crocker answered, “We’re on a plane flying back to Tripoli.”
Lasher blinked, looked up at Crocker, and said, “You wait here. I’ll go back and get the truck.”
They landed in the capital city at around noon. Only one ambulance was waiting, and instead of a doctor, NATO had sent a couple of young Moroccan nurses. Crocker struggled hard to keep his cool. He wanted to vent all the anger and frustration he was carrying.
Phone calls were made; another ambulance was sent. An hour later Jabril and Lasher were being treated at Tripoli Central Hospital.
Crocker and his team returned to the guesthouse, where he showered, changed his clothes, ate a bowl of yogurt, then turned around and drove to the U.S. embassy.
Remington sat huddled with some of his station officers when Crocker entered, red-eyed and haggard. The SEAL team leader was so mentally and physically exhausted he wasn’t sure that what he was seeing was real or a dream. So he sat down, poured himself a glass of water, drank it, and willed himself to focus.
Remington rubbed his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and said, “Jesus, Crocker. What the hell happened in Sebha? We’ve been hearing all kinds of rumors all morning.”
“We were attacked.”
“By whom?”
“About a dozen men with green flags painted on their vehicles and on the butts of their weapons.”
Remington said, “We got a report that Lasher and Dr. Jabril are in the hospital. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is. We had just recovered a canister of what Dr. Jabril said was UF6 from a hidden chamber behind the camp when a dozen armed locals kidnapped Lasher, Jabril, and two of my men. One of them escaped and hid. The other two of us managed to get the captured men back, but it was bloody, exhausting, and difficult. Lasher and Jabril were beaten and tortured. They’re in bad shape.”
“UF6?” Remington exclaimed.
“That’s correct.”
“Where is it now?”
“The canister we brought back is under NATO guard at the airport here. The rest is still hidden in a tunnel behind the base.”
Perplexed, worried looks were exchanged around the table.
“Where was the local constabulary?” one of the officers asked.
“I have no idea,” Crocker answered. “When we drove through the city, we saw green flags flying from buildings and vehicles but didn’t realize that the transition government had completely lost control.”
Remington leaned back in his chair and moaned. “This is bad.”
“Very bad. We barely escaped alive.”
“Did these men identify themselves?”
“No, they did not.”
“And you engaged them in combat?”
“Yes, we did. At least a dozen armed men. As far as I could tell, we killed them all.”
Crocker was waiting for the CIA officer to get mad or lose his temper. Instead he maintained a state of weary consternation. His fellow officers looked completely overwhelmed.