Chapter 12 - Brotherhood Forged in Cold Water
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A dozen hands reached into the swirling foam at the edge of the embankment.
Corporal Miller and two other Marines grabbed Arthur under the arms, hauling the elderly veteran onto the safety of the asphalt.
Bull Crawford lunged waist-deep into the mud, his massive hands catching the lapels of my shredded leather jacket.
With a roar of supreme effort, he lifted me clean out of the water and pulled me up onto the road.
Behind us, with a deafening groan of twisting iron, the transit bus flipped upside down and disappeared into the raging canyon.
It was swept into the river like a child's toy, vanishing into the torrential darkness below.
I collapsed onto my hands and knees on the wet pavement, coughing violently as river water and bile poured from my mouth.
Every rib on the right side of my chest burned with the agonizing fire of a hairline fracture.
Beside me, Arthur was already wrapped in heavy wool blankets retrieved from Pete's truck, breathing steadily and coughing softly.
"Medic!" Bull barked, kneeling beside me in the mud, his massive frame trembling from physical exhaustion.
"I don't need a medic, Gunny," I gasped, holding up a shaking hand to stop him.
"Check the civilians."
"All five civilians are secure, Commander," Corporal Miller reported, his face soaked with rain and tears of sheer relief.
"The kids, the mother, the grandmother, and the veteran."
"Zero casualties."
"Not a single life lost."
Sirens began wailing in the near distance as flashing red and blue lights cut through the heavy storm clouds.
The emergency crews had finally cleared the fallen power poles and were speeding down the access road toward the bridge.
Four county ambulances, three sheriff cruisers, and a heavy rescue truck screeched to a halt along the edge of the disaster zone.
Dozens of sheriff's deputies and paramedics scrambled out of their vehicles, carrying trauma kits and backboards.
The county sheriff, an imposing man with graying hair and a shocked expression, ran toward our group.
He looked at the raging river where the bridge used to be, then at the shattered, empty foundation.
He saw the five shivering civilians wrapped safely in Marine coats and Pete's wool blankets.
"Who in the hell did this?" the sheriff asked, his voice shaking with absolute astonishment.
"Who pulled these people out of that abyss?"
Bull Crawford slowly stood up from the mud, towering over the local lawman.
His hands were raw and bleeding, the rope burn having stripped the skin from his palms down to the meat.
His uniform was ruined, soaked with river silt, fuel, and freezing rain.
He did not hesitate for a single second.
Bull turned toward me, snapped his heels together with parade-ground sharpness, and threw up the crispest, most respectful salute of his career.
"Captain Alexis Kaine, United States Navy Special Warfare, sir," Bull announced in a voice that carried across the entire valley.
May you like
"She took the water."
"We just held her line."
