"It's a service shaft up to the streets. I never thought I'd be using it, but considering the angry mob of FSB agents currently trashing my apartment and no doubt following us, I think it's entirely appropriate."
Anatoli's fatigue is apparent, but upon closer inspection, Jess can see a gunshot bleeding through his clothes. He drops his free hand down to side, clutching the open wound just below his ribcage.
"The bastards shot me. This was not part of my retirement plan. I envisioned a warm, sunny beach with tanned, half-naked women serving me fruity drinks out cocanuts."
"Alright, Anatoli, here's the deal. You come with me, we go to ground somewhere nearby, and then I'll have a look at your wound. Oh, and I'll have your gun for the moment."
She pauses briefly.
"Or you can stay here and bleed to death. Your choice."
Anatoli lowers his gun hand and turns the pistol's grip towards Jess.
Crawling through years of god-knows-what Jess and Anatoli arrive at what appears a ladder leading up to a manhole and the street above. Frigid run-off from the street above drips down and spatters on their heads as a heavy vehicle runs over the steel cover. Anatoli checks his wound, which now has bled all the way down his torso and into his shoes.
(looking and talking faintly)
"This (showing his wound) does not bode well. I should also warn you that (looking up) that manhole is right in the middle of Krasnoyarsk's main thoroughfare."
Jessica looks at the wound - Anatoli's bleeding like a pig. Ripping a few pieces of fabric from her clothes, she begins to assemble an improvised pressure bandage to stem the flow of blood a bit.
"You're losing too much blood. I could remove the bullet and stitch the wound if I had the tools, but you need a transfusion. Short answer, you 're going to the next hospital, pronto."
Jess' field dressing seems to be stopping some of the bloodflow, but the wound definitely requires more extensive medical attention than currently available.
Timing the traffic lights with their escape from the not-so-scenic sewers of Krasnoyarsk, the two manage to extracate themselves, Jess having to pull the bloodied Anatoli out just as freight truck and several cars lay on their horns, who barely miss them as they drives by.
Anatoli, who presently is fading in/out of consciousness points towards a nearby alleyway.
"There. Down that street. There is a clinic a few b-blocks f-from here...."
Anatoli's words stammer into an incoherant babble, his knees buckling and eyes rolling back in obvious shock.
HEATHROW AIRPORT
The Agency car rolls up to a private hangar where a Gulfstream jet idles. Going over the wings and landing gear, a pudgy pilot with a brushy moustache halts his pre-flight check upon seeing the car pull up.
It's Jack Dalton.
He smiles at the sight of Artis and Co. exiting the vehicle, giving a "thumbs-up" to them and climbs into the plane.
"Don't fucking quit on me, you crybaby! I'm getting your ass to the clinic, and if it means I have to kick your ass down the road, I'll do that. So open your goddamn eyes, set one foot in front of the other and work with me."
Albeit reluctantly, Jess performs CPR on Anatoli, pumping his chest and giving him a few quick puffs of oxygen. The Russian's eyes open as Anatoli takes a gasp of life-giving air. Grumbling in both pain and dazed confusion, Jess struggles to get him to his feet.
Realizing Anatoli is not going anywhere on his own power, she grabs both of his wrists and begins dragging him down the street. Fortunately for her (and not so much for Anatoli), a new layer of snow and ice affords a less-than taxing portage to the clinic's entrance where Jess is assisted by a woman dressed in matronly garb.
Inside, the clinic illustrates everything Jess was taught not to do when establishing a field hospital. Bloody linens and used hypodermic needles litter the frighteningly unkept floor of the facility. The only saving grace is that the nurse appears to see the direness of Anatoli's situation. Rushing over to a hospital gurney and quickly checking the pulse of the patient currently laying on it, she jestures over to some kind of orderly whom promptly helps her heave off the dead(?) man and pushes it over toward's Jess direction.
"You may put your friend on this one. A doctor will see you as soon as they can."
Jess takes one look around and gets a rough count of those currently waiting in the makeshift triage area.
Twelve. Anatoli will be dead before number three gets his vitals checked.
Identifying medical expertise when she hears it, the nurse moves towards a cabinet and retrieves an IV(?) and a sterile(?) set of surgical tools and bandages. Jess grabs an instrument most resembling a hemostat and a pair of forceps from the pan of discolored rubbing alcohol and goes to work on Anatoli.
It's arguably the worst Jess has ever treated on her own. Against better judgment, Jess begins plugging up the leaking bits all the while directing the nurse with procedures. The wound is extensive and deep, but after a laborious hour of meatball surgery, Anatoli's bleeding seems to be under control. Jess asks the nurse to stitch him up, takes a breather, and then leans up against a cold concrete wall. Jess, who now is up to her elbows in blood, sees the steel pan with the culprits of Anatoli's almost demise...multiple fragments of 7.62mm ammunition.
Ably closing the wound, the nurse momentarily leaves the area only to come back with a bowl of hot water and a clean towel.
(handing it to Jess)
"You did very well, doctor. He would have no doubt died if you were not here."
The nurse retrieves from her apron a small flask, taking a swig then offering it to Jess.
"It's against the rules, but after that...I thought it would be ok."
Jess breathes a much-deserved sigh of relief only to have her moment of reprieve sundered by the sound of the clinic's doors being slammed open. Silhouetted by the outside light is a female figure shouting obscenities all the while fending off guards and orderlies alike.
That voice sounds familiar.
Giving an orderly a stiff right-hook to his jaw and walking into the triage area is Elena. Her face is badly charred and looks to bleeding from no less than six places...the worse of which being her leg which is currently tied-off above the thigh. Bracing herself on her Dragunov, she unknowingly approaches Jess with a hint of both disgust and solace in her eyes.
Elena stops in her tracks, but not before elbowing a guard in the teeth. She gives a affirmative nod to Jess and quietly limps over to her.
Upon spotting Anatoli on the hospital gurney, Elena's calm demeanor is abruptly replaced by an angry stare. Jess sees her eyes go wide as Elena leans her rifle up against the wall and staggers toward Anatoli, pulling out a pistol from her waistband.
(cocking the hammer and aiming at Anatoli's head)
"ANATOLI! This fucking ends here! You..."
(insert harshest Russian expletive and repeat for effect)
"Hey, hey, HEY! Would you mind not killing the guy I just saved in an hour-long operation?"
She pauses for effect.
"Let's get you patched up, and everybody up to speed. We obviously have a very, very big problem, but we're not going to solve that by killing each other."
In a Gulfstream II, somewhere over East-Central Russia
An updated Intel report is received on the Agents' SATCOMMS.
[color=blue:c9ecb9f3ac]Agents,
While we'd like to drop you in Krasnoyarsk, the FSB has gotten wind of a rogue western agent from the West skulking about their fair city. So in lieu of alerting the entire Central Russian branch of the FSB, we're sending you to Novosibirsk. From there, you are to meet up with Peter Krueger (Code Name: Pelican). He's currently undercover as a tech installing fiber-optics in our newly established office in Novosibirsk. We have certain assurances that he will be cooperative although he is a bit of a recluse. Keep that in mind while requisitioning equipment for Agent Hummingbird's extraction. You are due to land in Novosibirsk in one hour.[/color]
Brian sits, rather uncomfortably, in the posh seats of the Gulfstream, watching Russia pass by below them. A certain cross-training excercise with the SBS plays around in his mind.
Siberia...I fucking hate Siberia
The message from the Agency does little to impove his mood. It's obvious that the disappearance and subsequent dire condition of Jess is weighing fairly heavily on him. While he might not be *officially* responsible for her, it's become something of a de-facto presumed role for him, and, truth be told, helps a good bit in convincing himself that he's still one of the good guys.
He mumbles something about "A HALO drop being perfectly good for avoiding Russians with too much time and curiousity..." and continues to stare out the window, trying to will Novosibirsk to move closer.
Agent Osprey. We thought you might want to redeem yourself for Venice. That is why we have equipped the Gulfstream with a special pressurized cargo bay. Inside you'll find a standard HALO rig for insertion into Krasnoyarsk. You mission is to recon the situation, risk accessment and, if possible, rescue Agent Hummingbird. Report any intel back to Agency HQ. Good hunting.
It's a good thing that Peter Krueger's alarm clock is very persistent, because it's been ringing for half an hour and only now manages to stir the man to action.
Peter's consciousness slips from neutral to action as he punches the clock and picks himself off the couch. He dimly remembers that he finished some coding at 5 AM and barely had enough energy left to drag himself away from the computer. He gets up, briefly disappears into the bathroom and walks out ten minutes later with brushed teeth, a fresh shave and a new shirt, straight from the plastic prison of a dry cleaning service. If he'd go on to put a tie around his collar, wash the dye out of his hair and grab a suit jacket, he'd actually look somewhat respectable, but instead, he leaves the uppermost button his his shirt open and starts hunting for his hiking boots. A short stop in front of the mirror later, he finds the color and hairstyle of yesterday to suffice and continues his way towards the kitchen. While a new brew of "Warp Core" Super-Strong Mocha is on it's way to existence, he looks at some wayward sheets of paper on the ground; after a short look, he grabs a nearby pen, scribbles down a few lines of seemingly incomprehensible mathematical symbols and nods with satisfaction.
Then his look shifts to a small post-it glued to the desk; at once, the coffee is forgotten as he grabs a thick pilot's jacket and rushes outside. Of course, it's absolutely icy, but he doesn't much care about the weather any more - growing up in blistering heat has, paradoxically, driven him to enjoy the rather refreshing cold of the Northern Hemisphere. Outside, he digs into his pockets and produces a small car key; in front of him, the lights on a big semi-truck light up as he presses a small button on the key. The door on the driver's side is a bit frosty, but Peter just bangs against the snow a few times, which gets rid of the worst of it and allows him to climb into the semi's cabin. Inside, he grabs the microphone of a CB-style radio and starts transmitting.
Dieter
