My thanks to Lyn for all her help.
It Should Be Simple
by Jael Lyn
Somehow my backside ended up in a puddle of water. Of course. If you're having a crappy day in Cascade, it has to include precipitation in some form. I'd love to shoot my mouth off about the injustice of cosmic law, but it would only make things worse. Jim's listening, and if anything will mutate this day from crap to marginally acceptable, it will be Jim's skills.
This was our case, or more correctly, was our case until about three hours ago. We'd found our location. We were expecting the bad, nasty guys to return to their extremely bad, nasty stuff. All we had to do was wait around a couple of hours, and spring the trap. Somehow our simple request for backup mutated into a SWAT assault, and now it’s not our deal anymore. That's department politics for you. We're now a lookout – sort of.
Damn, it's uncomfortable sitting here. I can't stand it. "Can you hear anything, Jim?"
"Footsteps. No conversation. They're in there, but I'm not sure how many. Seems like more than three." Jim leans back against the loading crate and looks at me. He isn’t a happy man. A major downside of sentinel senses is you can't always share everything you know or suspect with other personnel. In this case, that would be Captain Foredyce of SWAT, who has a major personal issue with these guys and isn't likely to take any input from us.
"Let me guess. This is a really bad idea."
"You got it, Chief. Who knows what went on while we were down at the station, getting overruled?" I can tell he is seriously pissed off. "Where’s that ass Fordyce?"
It's costing Jim not to shout that question at the top of his lungs, preferably with a few more colorful adjectives. I crawl back a few feet so I can see around the corner. "Looks like they're getting ready to make the move on the door." I crawl back to Jim’s side, depending on his view of the assault area. "Can you explain to me why they get all geared up in black? It's broad daylight. Not an unobtrusive look, if you know what I mean."
"You're the anthropologist, Sandburg. You tell me. Something about group differentiation or machismo in America."
"Well, actually both are pretty good explanations. If you consider the…"
Jim rolls his eyes at me. "You don't need a degree for this one, Chief. Stupid is stupid, period."
Jim's not really hostile to academia, just a teensy bit impatient.
A few more minutes tick by. Even I'm getting restless. What is Foredyce doing back there? Planning the Normandy Invasion? Holding a special SWAT tea party? I knew he was over the top when he bullied his way into taking over, but this is ridiculous. Okay, so these guys may be the same ones who escaped from a bank holdup with hostages and left SWAT with egg on their proverbial black outfits. I can see where that might be a bit irritating, but seriously, that was six months ago. You have to let these things go.
The radio crackles and I snatch it to my ear, trying to catch everything without asking for a repeat. Another delay - Foredyce is bringing in more equipment. Since Jim is swearing under his breath, I don't need to repeat the message. Not that I don't agree with him one hundred percent. It really is pathetic. All we needed was a couple of cars. Left to our own devices, we would have gone in quietly, hauled these guys in and been back at the station by now, drinking lukewarm coffee and complaining about the paperwork.
I realize my attention has wandered. I can't see Jim's face, which is the easiest way to monitor how things are going. He's been in full listening mode for nearly half an hour. His shoulders are all scrunched up, a clear sign he's been at it too long. I need to get him to ease off a bit. I nudge his elbow. "Let it go for a minute, Jim." After a second nudge, he pivots one hundred and eighty degrees, so he's looking at me instead of the warehouse. "I don't like it, Chief. It's taking too long. They're just asking to be spotted."
I fiddle with the radio. "Shall I call him up and point that out?"
Jim snorts. "Yeah, right. I'm sure he'll be open to a few pointers from us." He leans his head back against the wooden crates we're sitting behind and gives me this cute little grin, the one that says he knows I'm trying to distract him for his own good and doesn't really mind.
"You're worried."
"It wouldn't bother me so much if Foredyce was hanging his own ass out to dry. He's putting a lot of good men in the line of fire. Taking these guys by surprise is a hell of a lot safer."
"You want to move in closer?"
"Yeah. No. Shit, I hate this."
Five more minutes and the radio crackles again. They're ready to go – finally. I slip the safety off on my sidearm and Jim goes back to active listening. One minute stretches to two. They still aren't moving. I'm about ready to stand up and start shouting insults when Jim grabs my wrist and hauls me down next to him.
"They know. Damn it, they know! And there's a crowd." I'm scrambling for the radio when two assault groups move past us at a dead run. Jim's on his feet, shouting at them to get down. The next time I look up he's gone. I get the barest glimpse of Jim taking down two guys with a flying tackle. Foredyce is going to have a cow.
The world explodes.
The force knocks me back down on my ass again, even though I'm sheltered by the shipping crates. Another blast shoots flames into the air high over my head. I have no idea what they're firing, but it's huge. Proverbial World War III. Unless SWAT called in a howitzer while they were diddling around back there, we're seriously outgunned.
I manage to crawl around the corner, trying to stay under cover. The air is alive with bullets flying in both directions, and I can hardly draw a breath. Something's burning with a vengeance, and clouds of acrid smoke are rolling over our position. Jim – where is Jim? Smoke and sentinels don't mix. Four or five shots thunk into the crate just above my head, sending wood splinters in all directions. I'm flat on my belly just hoping to stay alive, and I still can't see Jim.
Oh, God. He's down, along with the two SWAT guys. They're completely in the open. Jim's wearing a vest, but he doesn't have the full body armor that the assault team has. Another volley of bullets pounds into the wood just above my head. The same sweep churns up asphalt right in front of Jim. A fresh fountain of blood spurts from the back of his head, and I'm running toward him.
The second fire truck wheeled around the corner, sending a spray of muddy water onto Captain Len Foredyce. He stepped back, disgusted, watching as the crew attacked the flames that were leaping from the roof of the warehouse. Rescuing anyone inside wasn't an issue, not that any of the bastards deserved it. It would be nice if the fire department could keep the blaze from spreading any further. Since this was his operation, he'd be quite literally taking the heat for this one. What the hell, toasting a city block or two couldn't make this fiasco much worse.
They had at least ten casualties that he knew of. The EMT crews were still trying to get to everyone. Ellison was in the last group, up close to the warehouse. He'd already heard an earful about that. The big hero of the day, as usual. As if his own people hadn't been out here, too. Simon Banks had come swooping in like an avenging angel. What a grandstanding son of a bitch, running out there while the bullets were still flying.
There wasn't much to do now other than gather up the survivors and see what they could salvage. Okay, so they had casualties. That was unfortunate, but at least they'd brought these guys down. He'd just have to hammer that point home. Banks could bellyache all he wanted about procedure and exercise of good judgment. In the balance, the operation was a success.
The wind shifted and a cloud of smoke billowed in his direction. He moved, nearly colliding with none other than Banks, who was carrying the end of a stretcher. Ellison, from the look of it. Banks was still shouting orders when it wasn't even his operation. The guy had some nerve. Foredyce moved, completely intending to tell the man to get the hell out, but Banks disappeared back into the smoke, calling for more help.
Forget him. Foredyce slung his assault rifle over his shoulder and headed for the command vehicle.
****
Owww. That hurts. And that hurts more.
"Take it easy, Sandburg." A fuzzy blur morphs into Simon's face. I think it's Simon. I smack my arm on something metal, apparently a bed railing. Damn. Another day of fun and frolic at Cascade General. Why me?
There's a straw hovering by my nose. I take a sip, hoping I can get a few words out. "Jimm. Where's Jim?" I sound like Satchmo.
"Save your voice, Blair. You took in a lot of smoke." Okay, it's Simon for sure. No missing that voice. "Jim's in recovery, but he's just fine. Take another sip."
I could care less about the water. It's an effort to swallow. My throat feels swollen shut. I get a few pathetic sounds out and that's about it. Simon must be getting the idea anyway, because he answers my most pressing question.
"Jim took a bullet in the thigh and a graze to the head. I paraphrased the 'surgery according to Sandburg manual' before they worked on him. He made it through surgery without any problems." I guess that's all the TLC I'm going to get, because he switches into irate captain mode. "Damn you, Sandburg, what were you thinking?"
Thinking? In what context? I just try to smile and look innocent. Not that innocence or charm works on Simon very often.
"Don't you try that smile on me. Diving into the middle of a firefight – do you have a brain? You took God knows how many rounds to the back of your vest. You look like someone to a baseball bat to your backside. Not to mention the shrapnel."
Oh, so that explains the run-over-by-a-Mack-truck thing. I take another sip and try to focus more clearly on Simon's face. Apparently he's expecting a more definitive answer. My memories are sort of jumbled, like someone shook up marbles in a jar. It takes me awhile to sort through. "Jimmm – down. Open. Couldn't move - him."
"Shit." Simon's still poking the straw into my mouth, glaring at me the whole time. "So obviously the thing to do was use your own body as cover. Damn it, Sandburg, we could have lost both of you."
"Didn't." I blow bubbles through the straw and try to grin.
"God, you're a smartass. Ellison's bad, but at least he's not irreverent." Okay, so the whole charm thing is failing, but it was worth a try. Simon's still barking, but I'm having a little trouble being upset. I wonder what they gave me? Watching your Captain as a distant talking head is a very weird experience. If I could get a word in edgewise, I'd point out the injustice of chewing me out when I'm not fully functional. At the moment it seems like waaaay too much work. And my throat hurts.
A nurse comes in and bustles around, talking to me, talking to Simon. Are we awake now? How are we feeling? I don't even muster a smile for her. We – as in Nurse Nancy, Simon and Blair - aren't feeling anything. I – as in me – feel like shit, and I'm not too happy about it. I croak and she nods like I said something incredibly insightful. She's showing me a TV remote, as if I'm in the mood for a good reality show – oh, now I get it. Push the white button if you're in pain.
I push. Twice. Simon fusses with the pillows and says Jim will be here soon. He'd better be.
****
I wake up in a darkened room, staring at some ceiling tiles that definitely aren’t in the loft. Oh, yeah. Cascade General, my favorite bed and breakfast. Every muscle feels stiff, but it's definitely worse when I move around. Must be those bruises talking to me.
As I'm raising the bed up, I realize I have company. The bed next to me is occupied, and I could recognize the back of that head anywhere. Jim. From this distance he looks as if he's breathing okay, but I'd like to get over there and really make sure. I consider my options, and getting out of bed seems like the best choice.
Why do hospitals have to make everything so damn complicated? The bed rails are up, I have an IV and these annoying things up my nose must be for oxygen. Not to mention that a trip to the bathroom might be a good idea. Reluctantly, I push the call button.
Somewhere between the bathroom and back, Jim wakes up. Damn. I meander over to his bed. He looks pretty good, considering.
"I'm fine," he says before I can get the words out.
"Dials? How's the pain?"
"I think the anesthesia wore off a little quick. I scared the nurse in recovery. I managed."
I give him a long, knowing look. In Jim-speak, "I managed" usually translates to "I barely got by", but he really doesn't seem to be in any discomfort. I hook the nearest chair with my foot and pull it over.
"Go back to bed, Chief. You look awful."
"So says the gunshot victim."
"Yeah, yeah. Simon was here when they brought me in. We have a couple things to talk about, partner."
I suppose it was silly to hope for a few minutes of small talk, but it's still exasperating. "First Simon, now you. What was I supposed to do, leave you there?"
"Living a death wish isn't smart police work."
"Neither is leaving your injured partner. Besides, who went out into the line of fire first?" He takes a deep breath, getting ready to deliver Lecture 4A, which is the revised version of the old "You're not a cop, Sandburg" speech. Usually I let him go ahead and babble, because it makes him feel better. Today, sitting here in my hospital gown, I'm decidedly not in the mood and interrupt before he gets started. "Jim, explain to me why it's acceptable for you to make that move, but not me."
"It was a snap decision. Those guys were about to be…"
"Mowed down," I finish for him. "And ten seconds later, I was in the same situation, and I made the same snap decision. What do you want to say, Jim? That I'm not allowed to make that choice because, what – I'm too short? Too green? Not a good enough cop? Or is it just because I'm not you?"
Jim looks away for a moment. I've backed him into a corner and both of us know it. Damn, I hate having these philosophical confrontations with him.
"You're a great cop, Chief. You know that isn't what I meant."
"Then you need to think about what you're trying to say. Either I'm your partner or I'm not." I wish I didn't have to do this. It runs against his sentinel instincts. "Our police partnership isn't any different than our sentinel-guide relationship. It has to be total, an equal two-way street. We both know how things ends up when its not."
He doesn't answer, but I see the emotional pain flicker across his eyes. I don't like to think about certain episodes in our shared past, either. When we forget to trust each other, the results are pretty disastrous. No matter how crappy it makes the both of us feel, I prefer to have these trips down memory lane so we don't actually relive those same mistakes.
Jim finally just shakes his head. "You're going to need to get a hair cut."
Now what kind of a segue is that? "A haircut? What on earth…"
"The ends are singed. Check it out."
I grab a hank of hair and pull it up to my eyes. Damn. Crispy crittered. "Oh. That."
"Yes, that. And I could wring your neck."
Ah, excellent. When Jim moves on to idle threats, the clash of wills is pretty much over, and I know he's gotten my point. "Well, please don't do it until we get home. It would be hard to explain to the staff."
Jim snickers. "Simon said you were being a bit of a smart ass. What do you say we call a truce? I won't mention your foolish, reckless behavior if you don't mention mine."
"Sounds fair. Any chance we can get out of here?"
"For me, no. Simon threatened to pull my badge if I tried. You, they'd probably spring."
Going home sounds pretty good, but I wouldn't feel comfortable leaving Jim here alone. As much as I hate hospitals, Jim actually has extensive physical reasons to despise them.
"Thinking pretty hard there, Chief. You're not going to end up leaving anyway. Wouldn't it be easier to stay here in your own bed instead of pretending to sleep in that chair?"
Jim apparently can read my thoughts pretty well. "Point taken. I'll stay." I gather up my IV pole and shuffle off to Buffalo – namely my own lumpy, uncomfortable hospital bed. "You want to eat? I can call the nurse."
"Already took care of it. Meatloaf, fruit cup, potato and mixed vegetables. Sorry, the vegetarian alternatives looked positively scary. I did lobby for the ice cream, however."
I look back over my shoulder. He's pale, but there's a definite sparkle in those blue eyes. If Jim's ready to tease, things are looking up. Before I actually climb back into bed, I pick up the remote. We should move to the next stage of recovery – arguing over the TV. ESPN or the history channel?
We've dodged another bullet, literally and figuratively. I smile at my roommate and turn on the television.
THE END
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