Jameson (In the Company of Snipers Book 22)

PJ, the medic who’d dropped into this nightmare with them. He’d come to treat the geologists. Guess he was earning his paycheck today. He already had hold of the kid Shakespeare rescued.
When Boyington ground to a full stop, his square head turned, staring into the desert.
Jameson did a double-take. His LT was watching Eeyore. The scared donkey was now running back to the mudbrick wall. Only he’d taken a circuitous route, dodging ISIL gunfire. It was almost funny how his stiff legs propelled him forward with all the grace of, well, an ass. He looked like he was hopping.
Jameson took a step forward. “Come on,” he urged the frightened little guy. “Run faster, damn it. Run!” Too late he realized the ISIL fighters weren’t aiming at Eeyore, only near him. They were herding him. “Fall back!” Jameson bellowed as—
BOOM! The poor little donkey disappeared into dust and smoke.
Then BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! The scared little guy had triggered a daisy-chained line of explosives that were headed straight for the wall and the SEALs. There was no time to run or think. Only duck, cover, and—
BA-BA-BOOM! The world condensed into a slo-mo firestorm of raw fury. Wicked unleashed energy. A crippling wave of intense heat slammed into Jameson. His arms and feet extended straight ahead of him. Pounding kinetic energy blasted him backward into the wall. He hit hard. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. But he’d be okay. His tactical vest and helmet were intact. No shrapnel hit him. No pain in his extremities. No pain anywhere. Halleluiah! He’d just survived a gawddamned daisy-chain of improvised explosives. His ears were ringing, but that was no big deal.
As fast as it hit him, the blast wind let go. He collapsed like a scarecrow in the middle of a Nebraska cornfield when the stick got pulled out of its ass. His heart pounded like a mother. Overheated ash and dust swirled around him. Over his team and his buddies. Into his eyes and nose. His ears. His face. God, the pain in his head was screaming. Possible concussion. He was going to have one helluva headache. Again, no big deal. He could live with that. What SEAL hadn’t had one? Or two?
He slapped his gloved hands to the ground beside him, searching for the men who’d been standing with him. Had Shakespeare survived? Had Derby and those poor little boys? The Air Force PJ? Boyington? Where was everyone?
The oddest slivers of tumbling, falling stars rained down. They were everywhere. It was almost pretty the way they mingled with the clouds of swirling, inky black ribbons in his eyes, so dark they sucked the light from those stars.
It was Sunday. Mom always fixed a big Sunday dinner. He wished he were there. Not here.
Jameson woke to muffled sounds of anxious, harried people working around him. Stringent antiseptic smells filled his nose. Voices talked, using big, important, medical terms that made no sense. His aching head still hurt. He must’ve been taken to the nearest FOB, forward operating base. Probably because he’d blacked out. No big deal. They’d give him a quick physical check, then send him back to Boyington for a butt chewing. Jameson couldn’t wait.
He cocked his head, listening. A door had closed and the noise ceased. Someone had separated him from the busyness of what sounded like an emergency room, where injured guys and gals were triaged, patched up, then sent home or back to work. Like any hard-assed Navy SEAL, he wanted to get back to work. The quicker, the better.
But the room was too dark, and for some reason, that darkness scared the shit out of him. He wiggled his toes and fingers, stiffened his legs and arms, then slapped his palms to his chest and gut, searching for injuries he didn’t find, determined to prove he was still fit for duty. Great. All present and accounted for, still in working order. Really great. Nothing even hurt, well, except for his neck. It was pretty stiff, and a headache still pounded behind his eyes. But that was nothing. If all he ended up with was a concussion, no worries. He’d had more than his share of those. Concussions were part of the job.
A gentle but big, solid hand settled on his shoulder.
Jameson turned to face the person he couldn’t see, blinking like crazy because it was that kind of dark in his room. He wiped a quick hand over his face to make sure no blankets covered his head. What the hell?
“How you doing, Jameson?”
Oh. Lieutenant Boyington. “LT. Hey! I’m good,” he replied earnestly. “Ready to get back to work. Sure dark in here. Mind turning a light on? Are we in the middle of another sandstorm or something? A black-out?”
“Or something...”
Unease crept up the back of Jameson’s neck. Boyington wasn’t usually this quiet or this nice. “What’s going on, sir?”
“You’re at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center.”
His mouth went dry. Landstuhl was one step away from being sent home. Not good. “I’m in Germany? Why?”
“You’re going back to the States, son.”
“Why? I’m not hurt. Honest, I’m… Sweet Baby Jesus, I’m ready to get back in the fight. I’m—”
“You sustained a tertiary blast injury when you hit the wall back there. You’re lucky you’re alive. The blast caused irreparable damage to your retinas. They detached. The doctors here couldn’t reverse the damage. You’re… damnit, you’re blind.”
“I’m… What?” Jameson ran both hands over his face, feeling for bandages or bruises on his cheeks or around his eyes. A wound or a hole. Blood. Something! “I’m not blind. I can’t be. I’m just… It’s dark, and I’m just… Where the fuck’s Shakespeare? Derby? They’ll tell you. It’s a concussion. No big deal.”
“Jameson… Saint… Son... They’re…”
The heaviness in those words ripped the world out from under him. “No!” he told his LT with vigor. “They’re not… I’m not blind, and they can’t be...” That. No. God, no.
“They’re gone, Jameson. The A-10s arrived right after that daisy chain cut you, Steed, and Yeats down. They