J Saint - Collateral Damage

Present Day

Washington, D.C.

2000 hours (local), August 4th

Shorter of breath and one day closer to death

Pink Floyd's "Time" hammered through Sergeant First Class Jack Hunter's brain as he tightened his grip on the treadmill and ran harder, his heart pounding, his lungs burning. Rage tinged with fear made for a potent Power Bar that fueled his drive. Sweat poured from his brow and his body screamed for relief, but he couldn't stop. Not yet.

His vision dimmed, and President Anderson's address on the overhead TV calling for a swift but rational retaliation to al-Qaeda's latest attack became nothing but a blur in his mind.

Life often hinged on the details, those seemingly insignificant microscopic events that most people trampled over obliviously. He'd trained to notice the details and to remember them. Yet no matter how hard he tried, his memory of the mission in Lebanon remained a kaleidoscope of combat images and one man's mocking blue eyes.

Rescuing the kidnapped daughters of Israeli Prime Minister Shalev and U.S. Ambassador James from a radical Islamic group two weeks ago had been a crucial move to stop the pandemic of political chaos circling the globe. It might have worked-had everything gone right. But it hadn't, and now the world was spiraling faster and faster to hell. He and Rico had been seriously injured. James's daughter, a gold medal gymnast, might never walk again. Shalev's daughter, a beautiful and dynamic singer, might never wake from her coma. Pecos was blind, and Neil was

Jack clenched his teeth against the rising pain inside him. He took being team leader to heart both on and off the battlefield. The mission and his men were his responsibility. Rico, Pecos and Neil were his Delta brothers, and it killed him that he could only remember bits and pieces of what happened.

They're here, DT. They're alive! Will Taylor's-aka Pecos-distorted voice echoed in Jack's mind, sucking him down a long tunnel of fragmented memories. The team called him DT for "double tap" because Jack was damn good at headshots. Pecos's moniker came from the tall tales he spun about Delta team members and missions every time he downed a beer. The most legendary yarn was about Neil "the Sandman" Dalton. Pecos claimed that Neil, while saving a wounded soldier, had put thirty Taliban insurgents permanently to sleep in Afghan's Helmand Desert then disappeared in a whirlwind of dust. The actual number of men killed was unknown for Neil's recollection afterwards had been, "the militants kept coming and I kept shooting until I ran out of ammo, then I prayed." Neil had called the sandstorm that had arisen then a miracle. It had provided him with cover to reach the nearby Helmand River. Once there, he'd floated the remaining miles to safety, dragging the soldier with him. The story had spread and grown to the point that even the terrorists whispered it amongst themselves, and reportedly refused to go near the place the Sandman had conquered.

But Neil would never again walk through the door and give Jack shit about screwing up his personal life. And Jack would never again be able to slap Neil on the back and razz his ass for spending a fortune on pimping his muscle car to the max.

They're here, DT. They're alive! was the last thing Jack remembered Pecos saying on the mission. With those words echoing in his mind, he closed his eyes and chased after the memory. He ran harder and harder, his head throbbing as he battled to separate truth from nightmare.

He remembered everything going FUBAR in an eye blink.

They're here, DT. They're alive!

Jack looked across the smoke-filled room toward Pecos. Sweat, fear and the growing heat of the fire eating the floor beneath them were suffocating. Nausea churned in his gut and he gripped his MP5 tighter.

"See if they're wired," he yelled to Pecos, his instincts screaming danger at him as he scanned the room they'd just invaded. Two terrorists lay dead at his feet. It would have been just like the sick sonsofbitches to booby trap the hostages and blow the fucking world up at the moment of seeming victory.

Down the hall, the Sandman's gunfire holding back militants from coming up the stairs kept a steady pace. Rico had taken a hit; his right arm hung useless and dripping blood. He'd slung back his machine gun, armed his left hand with his M9 Beretta and kept moving.

Behind Rico, the door of an armoire seemingly opened a fraction wider.

"Get down!" Diving, Jack shoved Rico aside as gunfire erupted from the slit, catching Jack in the leg. He twisted in mid air and let loose his MP5 in a spray of bullets that chewed and splintered wood in every direction.

A Caucasian, blond male in full business regalia fell from the armoire and face planted on the Persian carpet.

Jack kicked the AK-47 out of reach, flexi-cuffed the bastard then put his muzzle against the target's head before flipping him over.

"Well, fuck me and you," the man whispered, gasping and choking, his blue eyes full of mocking amusement. Coughing up blood, the man died with a smile. Then

Suddenly Jack's head jerked back as his headphones were snatched off and Lt. Col. Roger Weston, his Delta Team commander, whom the teams called Commander Weston because anything less didn't fit his hard-edged charisma, got in his face. "Son of a bitch, DT. Are you trying to kill yourself?"

Damn. Jack had been on the verge of remembering what happened next. He couldn't stop. Not yet. Just a few more steps and he'd blow past this weakness in his mind and his body. Ignoring Weston, Jack kept running.

But the sterile-like surroundings and disinfectant smells of the physical therapy facilities at Walter Reed Medical Center and President Anderson's mug on the plasma TV didn't fade away again. The spell had been broken and the almost memory was gone.

Jack wanted to snarl and didn't hide his irritation.

Weston hit the switch, triggering the treadmill to wind to a halt. Gripping the handles tighter, Jack clenched his teeth again, sharpening the pain in his right temple. This was Weston's third visit since Jack woke up in ICU last week and the personal attention frayed at his nerves. Not that he didn't appreciate his commander's concern, he just wanted to be left alone to get back into shape and"In case you didn't hear me, I'll repeat the question. Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"You come all the way from Bragg to ask me that, sir?" Jack faced his commander once his vision cleared and he was steady enough to stand on his own.

"I'm not here as your superior, but as your friend." Weston's gaze was stark with some dark emotion, his mouth grim.

"Friend?" Jack stepped off the treadmill and mopped his drenched face. His head, back and leg hurt like sons of bitches from the blood pounding in his veins and it pissed him off. He wasn't even back to a quarter of what his pre-injury strength and stamina had been. "Then I'll lay it on the line with you. Stay away and let me deal with this my way."

"By running yourself until you're six-feet under?" Weston smacked the treadmill's frame with the flat of his hand. "You nearly lost an eye. You've fractured your skull and your back is cut all to hell. Oh and let's not forget the bullet wound to your leg. It's a miracle that you're even upright. Refusing to cooperate with everyone who is trying to help you, from rehab to psych, is making you worse."

"Hairline fracture only, which they steel-plated, and everything else is improving daily." He gave a disgusted snort. "As for trying to help me, I had fewer don'ts as a teenager in Southern Bible Camp than the crap here. It took an all out fight just to stand up to piss last week."