When they reached camp, Seven gave the last known coordinates for Jefferson and Fitzpatrick to the colonel. Brent insisted on going back up the mountain after them.
“Look, I know this terrain, the way it is now, better than anyone. I have the best chance of finding them alive.”
The colonel nodded and turned to Seven. “As much as I don’t want to send him back up, he’s right.”
Seven nodded in acknowledgment.
“Once you find them,” the colonel said, “radio camp and we’ll airlift them off the mountain.”
Twenty four hours later, all four men were in the makeshift infirmary.
Seven needed surgery to reduce and pin his busted leg. Jefferson had suffered several head lacerations and was bandaged up with what looked like a skull cap. Fitzpatrick was so dehydrated that he had been on a saline drip since he was placed on the medi-vac helicopter. And Brent’s hands were so torn up from all the digging that skin grafts were needed to put his fingers back together.
The three walked into Seven’s room where his leg was in traction. Seven saw them and waved them to stay silent and he continued his phone conversation.
“Yes, President Mitchell, I understand. Thank you, sir. I’ll call you in two weeks with the decision.”
He hung up and looked at the soldiers standing in front of him. “What the hell is this? You look like a reenactment of the fife and drum corp from the Revolutionary War.”
The three smiled. No words were necessary.
“We all have two weeks to heal up and then we’ll reconvene the exercise at base camp.” Before words could be spoken, Seven said, “Dismissed.”