The helicopter’s propeller announced its arrival long before it appeared in the sky. Its searchlight swept over us several times, as if scanning for one person in particular. A soldier sat at the edge of the open door, an automatic rifle in his hands as he took stock of the situation.
The officer in charge stood just left of center, behind both lines of soldiers. There was a satellite phone pressed to his ear; he kept ducking in and out of sight, as if crouching down could somehow drown out the noise of the crowd that rose behind him, breaking over all of us in a rush.
Names, I thought, forcing myself to look beyond the weapons and the gear, to the faces of regret and hope behind them. One of the kids behind me recognized one of them, clearly, because she surged forward with a shout of, “Mom—Mom!”
“Get down on the ground and put your hands behind your head,” the officer yelled into the bullhorn. “Do it now—now!”
“Here!” a woman shouted back. “I’m here! Emily, I’m here!”
Watching the face of the soldier directly in front of me was like seeing a trickling creek become a river; emotion roared across his eyes, and not even the glare of the chopper’s searchlight could disguise the look he cast back at the woman, who was struggling against the three FBI agents pushing her to the ground. The civilians around her pushed back, trying to drive them away from her.
The soldier was well past the point of youth; the stubble on his weathered cheeks was silver, matching the heavy brows above his pale blue eyes. He faced forward again, ignoring the uncomfortable shifting of the younger men and women to his left and right as they waited for their next order. His gaze shifted to a girl a few feet away from me. She was crying, still yelling, “Mom! Mom!” Her dark curls stuck to her wet cheeks.
The soldier shook his head. Such a slow, simple movement. He shook his head and let the riot shield fall forward into the mud. The sound somehow cut off all others. His own automatic rifle he left on the ground as he straightened up to his full height, chest out and forward, as he dodged the hand of the dumbstruck soldier next to him who’d half-heartedly put an arm out to stop him.
He stepped over his own shield, snapping the clips on his Kevlar vest and tugging it off. The helicopter’s light found his path and traced it as he came toward us slowly, showing that he was unarmed. He held out his hand to her, and, after a moment of hesitation, she took it and allowed him to draw her forward to drop the vest over her head. His helmet came off next, and though it was too big for her, he clipped it on anyway, adjusting the strap tight under her chin.
The soldier picked her up and she locked her arms around his neck in complete trust. As he carried her back toward the line of soldiers, the officer in charge finally shook off his stupor enough to realize he should be shouting orders. He tried. No one, not a single one of us, listened. I heard my heart in my ears, louder and louder, and held my breath.
Holding out an arm, he pushed his way through the soldiers that tried to close the gap he’d left in the line, until, finally, the few FBI agents still standing over the woman released her. She met the soldier halfway, tearing the girl out of his arms and into hers. It wasn’t until Liam reached up and lightly squeezed the arm I had around his neck that I realized the kids around me were moving again. The crack in the line of soldiers expanded as two kids followed the path they had taken through, three kids, four...
The officer was shouting into the megaphone, but except for a rare few, the soldiers were lifting their riot shields out of formation and turning to the side. The kids flooded through them, the same way they’d flowed through the trees; finding the openings, gathering their courage close, and passing through them.
Vida said something I couldn’t hear. My head was too heavy now for my neck to support, and both of them stumbled as my left leg crumpled beneath me. Liam’s hands were on my face, forcing my eyes open. It was so cold—how could I be sweating?
I was lifted up completely, carried through the crush of families. More than one had thought to make signs with their child’s name, using those strange, unthinkable phrases like welcome home and we love you.
When my eyes opened again, the next face I saw was Chubs’s; the word on his lips was shock. And Cate—there was Cate, her cheek bruised, tears in her eyes. She held my face between her hands and was talking to me as I was lifted off the ground.
The red, blue, red, blue, white lights stained their skin. I knew we were running, but I couldn’t feel anything, even as I was lifted again, higher this time. Onto a soft surface. Unfamiliar faces. Lights flashing, snapping sounds, voices, Liam—
Ambulance. Liam tried to climb into the back with me, but he was forced out as two of the assault team members were loaded on—two men, one clutching a unnaturally limp arm, the other bleeding profusely at the brow.
“I’ll come find you!” Liam was shouting as he backed out. “We’ll find you!”
The EMTs strapped me down, pushing me back onto the stretcher. Liam stood a few feet away and Chubs had his arms around him, trying to talk him down, hold him in place. He saw the panic surging in him clearly as I had.
The doors slammed shut and the siren switched on.
“—tell me your name? Can you tell me your name?” The EMT was a young woman, her expression serious as she studied me. “We have a possible transverse fracture of the right tibia. Four—five—six lacerations, ranging from four centimeters to six on the upper and lower body—look at me. Can you tell me your name? Can you speak?”