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  One made straight for Miller and bent over him. It was Nick Marsden.

  Miller struggled to remain awake.

  “Terrible pain,” mumbled Dusty, barely conscious.

  Marsden ripped open the first aid kit from his back pack, tore out a syringe, and plunged the morphine deep into Miller’s forearm, exposed by a huge and bloody rip in his parka.

  “You’re in a bad way, sport,” he said. It was immediately obvious to him that Miller was seriously hurt. He used his hand-held radio.

  Miller had drifted into another coma.

  “Wake up, Miller. Talk to me.”

  “Where’s Lloyd?” whispered Miller

  “He’s OK. Our medics are with him. Your dead friend here,” he nodded towards Makienko, “has given him a dodgy shoulder, but he’ll live. Bright of you to give him your spare Delta 7 – we went straight to him.”

  Miller drifted into oblivion again.

  “Stay awake, Miller,” Marsden shouted.

  Miller stirred. Already the morphine was having some effect.

  “The medics are coming down here to look at you next. Any minute now and you’ll be sorted.”

  Miller thought he heard the sound of Yamaha snow-mobiles. Two appeared through the trees and the heavy snow, headlights piercing the near-blizzard.

  Marsden stepped back to give the medic all the room she needed.

  A Royal Navy medical orderly, Petty Officer Annie Mackie, dressed in Arctic survival kit like the rest of the team, was quick and efficient. After she had wrapped the prone figure in a thermal blanket as gently as she could, she applied a tourniquet to stop the flow of blood from Miller’s arm, applied a local anaesthetic to his leg, which she expertly straightened out and strapped to his good leg, before examining his chest.

  “Broken ribs and a punctured lung, I think,” she pronounced, wiping more blood from Dusty’s mouth. “You’ll live.” She turned to Marsden. “If we’re lucky.”

  Miller was losing a lot of blood, and starting to shiver. The morphine helped with the pain, but they still had to get back to the village lower down the mountain to meet up with a Swiss Army recovery team, and then on to the waiting RAF Hercules waiting for them at Payerne. Miller was in for a rough ride on a ski-fitted stretcher towed behind a Yamaha snowmobile through what was quickly developing into a real blizzard. Rescue by helicopter was out of the question until they reached the village of Caux, where the Swiss recovery team would be waiting for them.

  “This man won’t take too much shaking about,” said the medic. “He needs to be handled with care.”

  “We’ll just have to take our time, then. At least the new snow will be reasonably smooth, if we can see our way through this weather. I just hope we make it before dark.”

  The team gently lifted Miller onto a ski-fitted stretcher, which could be pulled behind one of the snow-mobiles. The shivering was worse now, and they wrapped him in more blankets.

  Marsden issued instructions.

  “Armstrong,” he shouted to his second-in-command, “take the troop along the ledge and down the valley to Caux. The Swiss Army recovery team will be waiting there for us. I’ll follow with the Yamahas and the casualties. If this blizzard worsens into a real white-out, hole up for the night. We’ll do the same, except that this chap needs specialist attention quickly. Channel 19 is the one to use. Don’t be afraid to ask for help – we’re not behind enemy lines this time.”

  Miller’s condition worsened on the journey, and only morphine had kept the pain under some sort of control. Marsden had decided that Miller would not survive a night in the open in those conditions, and elected to press on as best they could through the growing darkness. After what seemed a lifetime – it was certainly a nightmare for Miller – they reached the village. The Recovery Team was in the small station yard, with one of the Super Puma helicopters. Another was parked in a reasonably flat field some distance away.

  “Can you guys fly in this weather?” asked Marsden.

  “We’re used to it,” replied one of the pilots. “Doing Search and Rescue all the time in the mountains. Usually damn-fool tourists getting into trouble.”

  They carefully loaded Dusty Miller into the nearest of the two large helicopters, with Dr. Lloyd, while the rest of the team packed their Yamahas and equipment onto the other. Marsden and the medic went as soon as they were ready, followed by Armstrong and the rest of the troop in the second chopper. The Swiss Army team were left to be picked up later.

  It was only about fifteen minutes flying time to Payerne, and it was a huge relief not only to fly into better weather, but also to see the RAF Hercules parked at the end of the runway. The helicopters landed alongside, and the snowmobiles were loaded into the capacious hold first. Miller was last in, so that he could be first out when they got back to their UK base. Dr Roger Lloyd was staying in Switzerland. The Swiss Army would make sure his wound was properly dressed before returning him home.

  The RAF Hercules was one specially equipped for Special Service’s operations, but only had limited medical facilities on board. One of the Medical Evacuation versions would have been ten times better, but at least there was some extra medical kit on board which Mackie could use. Even before the aircraft took off, Miller was being given blood, and other intra-venous medication, but he finally lost consciousness as he lay strapped into his stretcher on the aircraft floor.

  Marsden and Mackie bent over the prone figure, and the orderly wiped more blood dribbling from Miller’s mouth.

  “He’s not looking good,” said Mackie over the intercom to Marsden.

  “How bad is ‘not looking good’?” asked Marsden.

  “He’s lost a lot of blood, so he’s very weak. And he’s obviously in shock and suffering great pain. Probably suffering from hypothermia, too. We must keep him warm.”

  “At least you can stop the pain, can’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Give him more morphine,” commanded Marsden.

  “He’s had more than enough already. I dare not give him any more.”

  “Is there nothing else that could help?”

  “Nothing. He’s deeply unconscious, and I’m actually wondering if he might be better off awake.”

  “Why?”

  “It might prevent him slipping away for good.”

  “That bad?” asked Marsden.

  “I’m afraid so. I think he’s worse than we thought. Severe internal injuries as well as his smashed up limbs. More than just a punctured lung, I think.” Mackie wiped more blood from Miller’s mouth.

  “Let’s try to rouse him then, if that’s what you think.”

  “It might help him to stay conscious if he hears you talking to him, although the pain will get worse as the morphine wears off.”

  “It sounds as if we need to get him straight to the military ward at Selly Oak when we get back to UK.”

  “I agree. They’re used to this sort of case, out of Afghanistan.”

  Marsden got on the intercom to the pilot.

  “Any chance of you diverting to Birmingham rather than going back to Brize Norton?” he asked.

  “Why Birmingham?”

  “Our man needs specialist care and the sooner we can get him to Selly Oak Hospital the better. Even then, he may not make it.”

  “Leave everything to me,” said the pilot. “I’m used to this routine, unfortunately. Get your medical chap to scribble down the symptoms, and bring them up to the front. I’ll radio them ahead, although with any luck I may even be able to put him in direct contact with the Military team. I’ll organise an Air Ambulance chopper from Birmingham International Airport. They should give me permission for a straight in approach and landing as an emergency.”

  “Brilliant,” replied Marsden. “How long do you reckon?”

  “About ninety minutes,” came back to the reply. “I’ll give you a firm ETA when I have one.”

  “By the way, ‘he’ is a ‘her’”.

  Mackie had been listening in,
and was already making notes about her patient.

  “You get that to the man at the front, while I try to wake Miller,” commanded Marsden.

  Mackie was longer than Marsden had expected.

  “One of the crew up front patched me through on the radio to Selly Oak, and I spoke to a member of our medical team. They are setting up an intensive care unit ready for Miller.”

  “That’s good news,” said Marsden.

  “It’s not all good,” replied Mackie. “They’re also prepping a theatre ready for a possible amputation.”

  “I hope to God that’s not necessary.”

  “May not be,” replied Mackie. “Just a precaution, in case. Any sign of him coming round?”

  “I think he’s beginning to show signs of life,” replied Marsden. “But he looks terrible.”

  “The pain won’t help. Keep talking to him. He knows your voice, since you work together.”

  Eventually, Dusty Miller stirred, but drifted away into unconsciousness several times before he was eventually able to summon enough breath to whisper ‘Pain’, and then immediately slipped into a further coma.

  Marsden turned to Mackie.

  “I don’t like the look of this.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “There seems no way we can keep him conscious.”

  “There are drugs, but it would be dangerous to use them, especially as we don’t have a proper diagnosis of his condition.”

  “But the more pain he suffers, the worse he will get.”

  “I agree,” said Mackie. “I discussed this with the man at Selly Oak. A Colonel, trauma specialist. He told me that one more shot of morphine might be OK if we really thought it essential”

  “Do we?”

  They looked at Miller, suffering horrendously.

  “I think we do,” replied Mackie. “If you agree, Commander, I’ll administer one more dose. It might just keep him going until we get to Selly Oak.”

  “Or it might do the opposite,” replied Marsden.

  Mackie nodded.

  They bent over Miller again, clinging to life.

  “Do it,” ordered Marsden.

  ***

  It was snowing.

  Again. Still?

  Large flakes of white powdery stuff, sticking to everything in view.

  Not that much was.

  It was only a small window.

  Window?

  Trees, surely, but not a window.

  There were no windows in the mountains.

  So where were the trees? And where was the pain?

  More important, where was his gun? He couldn’t find it and must have it. That bastard Russian was still out there, trying to kill him and Lloyd. Where was Roger Lloyd? Miller shouted out.

  Where the hell was he?

  He tried to move. He was comfortable, but not much seemed to work. His head was spinning, and he had trouble focussing on anything. But there were no trees, he was sure. And he wasn’t lying in the snow. That was outside. He was warm, and comfortable.

  He heard a voice. A familiar voice, with a familiar message.

  “Wake up Mr Miller. You’re OK now. Talk to me, Mr Miller.”

  He tried to focus. A hand, in a uniform, wiped his mouth with a damp swab.

  “You’re OK now, Dusty. There’s nothing to worry about.” Not ‘Mr Miller’ this time. Dusty. That’s who he was.

  “I want my gun,” he almost shouted.

  “You don’t need a gun anymore. You’re going to be all right now.” A female voice, which he recognised. The voice, but not the face. A pretty face, he thought, and a nice smile.

  “Where’s Lloyd. Dr. Lloyd? I’m supposed to be looking after him. I need my gun.”

  “Dr. Lloyd’s OK too. You saved his life. You don’t need to worry about him anymore. He’s quite safe.”

  “Who are you, and where am I?” he croaked.

  “You’re in hospital. In England. I was on the RAF Hercules that brought you here.”

  A vague memory stirred in Dusty’s spinning head.

  “I’m Annie. Annie Mackie. We found you in Switzerland, and brought you home.”

  Dusty frowned.

  “I was with Commander Nick Marsden, but don’t try to remember everything now,” said Annie. “It will all come back to you soon enough. Just relax.”

  The familiar, soothing hand, wiping his brow this time. A lovely smile. Annie held his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Dusty was aware of pipes and tubes everywhere. He drifted off into unconsciousness again.

  When he came round, Annie had gone, and there was a civilian nurse standing by his bed.

  “So what’s been happening? Where am I: what hospital?”

  “The Queen Elizabeth Hospital Birmingham,” she replied. “The Military wing at Selly Oak.”

  Dusty nodded. He knew about it. Chaps were sent here from Afghanistan.

  “You’ve been in intensive care for a few days, in an induced coma while we patched you up. But you’re going to be OK now.”

  Another uniform appeared. A man. Colonel, judging by the badge.

  “How’s he doing?” he asked the nurse, who stood back.

  “Coming round nicely,” she replied. “Confused, obviously, and still drifting in and out of consciousness, but asking all the right questions.”

  “Good.”

  The man bent over him, glancing first at an array of instruments surrounding him, and the clip-board at the foot of his bed.

  “Colonel Graham,” the man introduced himself. “I’m a trauma specialist, and I’ve been in charge of the team looking after you for the last few days.”

  “I should stand up and salute,” mumbled Dusty, amazed that he has able to muster some sort of sense of humour.

  The man grinned. “I’m a surgeon first, and an Army officer last, so relax.”

  “Thank you Colonel.” That reminded Dusty of something in the past, but he couldn’t be bothered to remember what.

  “Don’t call me Colonel.” Then Dusty remembered. Colonel Clayton. Bill Clayton, Head of Section 11. He used to say that.

  “But now you must relax. Try to sleep, this time without too many drugs. And don’t worry about a thing. You are going to be OK, and we’ll fill you in on all the details when you’re fit enough. We’ve even kept a log book for you, a sort of diary since you been here, including all your friends who have rung up asking about you. You’ve had quite a few.”

  The Colonel left, and the nurse stepped forward again.

  She mopped his brow gently. Annie had done that, too

  “Now try to sleep,” she said with a smile.

  Nice smile, like Annie’s. Dusty drifted off. Good to be in military surroundings. Familiar and comforting. Like Annie’s smile.

  ***

  4 - DR. ROGER LLOYD - BETTER THAN DEAD

  Roger Lloyd’s journey from the mountainside where he had been found was far from being the most comfortable he had ever endured. He dared not think what it was like for Dusty Miller, who was obviously seriously injured and in great pain. Both Marsden and Armstrong had said so, and Lloyd could tell from the way they had been handling him. They had to go carefully in these appalling conditions for fear of making Miller worse, and yet they were in a hurry to get him to their waiting aircraft and home for proper treatment. If they weren’t careful, he may not make it. Not that the Petty Officer Medical Assistant could be blamed for that, if the worst did happen. She had been brilliant, and done everything she could for both of them, especially Dusty. But Lloyd knew that the Special Forces team had not been fully prepared for what they found on arrival. Things had got much worse for him and Dusty while the team had been airborne, on their way to find them.

  Lloyd was shivering quite violently. He was swaddled in warm blankets, but it wasn’t enough. They had given him a warm drink, though God knows how they managed that – they had only just arrived by parachute. But nothing stopped the shivering.

  It was so damned cold.

 
He was confused and tired. He could do nothing to help himself or Dusty. He was in professional and expert hands that were used to this sort of thing, so his only option was to let them get on with it and hope for the best.

  As he understood it, they were heading for a Swiss Army recovery team, at a nearby village somewhere down the mountain, where there were helicopters waiting to take them to an air base of some sort. Dusty was to be taken home to the UK, but he was to be left there. The thought did not appeal to him. He wanted to stay with Dusty, and with Nick Marsden, and to go home.

  But home was in Switzerland now, and he had to get used to the fact. It would be a long time before he could go back to England, he realised. But it didn’t make it any easier.

  The journey to the recovery team with their helicopters was slow and uncomfortable, but in spite of his own injuries, Lloyd was pleased they were paying so much attention to Dusty. They were all covered with snow now – it was still falling hard, in large, soft flakes which stuck to everything. But they managed to keep going somehow, and didn’t have to ‘hole up for the night’ as they had feared. The very thought of staying out in this weather appalled Lloyd, but he knew that if it was the best thing for Miller, then that’s what they would do. These people were survival experts, so they would be all right. But the team was obviously having a hard time making progress with their injured passengers, and it was getting dark, too.

  They had been making their way down the mountain for some time, when ghostly figures appeared out of the gloom, making their way towards them on skis. They were in uniform of some sort, but different. Some of them were in bright red tunics – the mountain rescue team, coming to guide them over the last half mile or so. They paused only to give Lloyd and Miller extra blankets against the penetrating cold. Roger Lloyd was also offered a warm drink from a flask, but Miller was in no state to drink anything. Lloyd heard the Royal Navy medical orderly tell the rescue party that it was intra-venous or nothing from now on - nil by mouth. So Miller had nothing.

  It was beginning to get dark when they reached the rest of the recovery team, mostly encamped in the small car park of an even smaller mountain railway station in the remote village of Caux. It was on the railway line from the bustling lake-side city of Montreux, which might as well have been a million miles away. They were remote, up the mountainside in the ever-thickening snow.