Free Corpsman by Jonathan P. Brazee Page B

stasis?” Nica quietly asked Liege.
    “I don’t know,” Liege answered, wondering the same thing.
    Doctor X‘anto gave First Sergeant D-ski another injection of something, but that was about it.  The first sergeant was wrapped up in a blanket, and the examining table’s legs were lowered to make it mobile.  In a modern hospital, the table would have hover capabilities, but in a field facility like this, the less complicated the better.
    Within a minute, two corpsmen, followed by Doctor X‘anto, were taking the first sergeant out of the aid station and over to the LZ.  In thirty minutes, the first sergeant would be on the ship and probably losing his leg.  He had a pretty long regen in front of him.
    Liege and Nica walked out of the aid station together.  Liege considered going back to finish eating, but her appetite was gone, and the sour taste of gastric acid still filled her mouth.
    The one thing that had hit her was that there hadn’t been any magic cure just because the first sergeant made it back to the aid station.  Doctor X‘anto hadn’t done anything more than what Liege could do out in the field. 
    The lesson in that hit Liege hard.  Out there, it was up to her.  She was the first, and probably the most important factor in saving her Marines.  There wasn’t some big brother who could take over for her.  Her squad’s life rested squarely on her shoulders.
    It was a very heavy load.

Chapter 11
     
    Liege trudged ahead, her stomach growling.
    I should have eaten more for breakfast.
    On the patrol the day before, Liege had gotten nauseous and had tossed her breakfast, much to her embarrassment, and she’d vowed not to let that happen again.  Today’s platoon-sized patrol had been planned for three hours—a simple escort of a Navy civil affairs officer to meet with a barrio president—so Liege had figured she could go light.  But plans were just plans, and when the barrio president had suggested he call in the presidents of two other barrios, the Navy lieutenant commander had readily agreed.  So the platoon had set up a perimeter and waited—and waited.  Now, at 1840, they were finally heading back.  Liege hoped that Staff Sergeant Abdálle had called back to Gunny Coventry, the battalion head cook, and asked him to hold hot chow for them.  It wasn’t like it would be difficult; just keep the fabricators warmed up and waiting for them.  Knowing the platoon sergeant, though, he hadn’t bothered.  The guy lived for field rats, telling all who would listen that they made Marines “hard.”
    Liege was enjoying her tour, but sometimes, the inherent Marine need to prove they were tougher than anyone else in the galaxy got a little tiresome.  Liege was not the baddest person around.  She’d held her own in the Commando Meninas .  They’d thought themselves to be mean bitches, but she knew now their little gang was kindergarten compared to the Marines.  She was serving alongside the cream of the Federation military, and she was not ashamed to admit that she couldn’t kick all of their asses—or maybe any of their asses.  Save them, maybe, but not kick them.
    The platoon, in a dual column, crossed Route Gazelle, leaving the closed-in warrens of Barrio Blanca and entering a more open Svea neighborhood.  Liege knew that they were not here to take sides between the Tintos and the Svea; still, she couldn’t help but feel some of the stress leave her as they started on the last leg for their camp.
    Liege was trying to spot the fire team acting as route security a hundred or so meters down the boulevard when a crack caught her attention. 
    She turned around to spot what had made it when Corporal Wheng yelled, “Get down, Doc!”
    It took her a moment to realize that all the rest of the Marines near her were rushing for cover.  More cracks sounded out, and Liege belatedly got her legs beneath her and sprinted for the recessed doorway of a closed shop, pulling her legs in to attempt to