To Chaz, it meant that whatever happened next was God’s will. The others took it up as a more poetic way of saying, “Fuck it.” It translated into their unit distress code.
Dwayne figured it was Lee sending the text. If Hammond thought they were in deep shit, then they were. He called down to Mo to come up and join him on the aft deck where there would be no distractions.
The scientist came out of the hold blinking like a mole in the sunlight. The resemblance was made even more accurate with the fuzzy ginger beard Tauber had grown either out of neglect or intent. Maybe he thought he looked piratical. The horn-rimmed glasses spoiled the effect. He looked more like a nearsighted haystack.
“I’ll get with Parviz and Quebat. See if I can get them to goose us to a forty-eight-hour opening,” Tauber said after Dwayne filled him in.
“Tap the brakes, Mo. Us going into panic mode doesn’t help them. Take your time and fine-tune the Tube to make the through field open as close to the window we give them as possible. And to hell with a medevac. They need a surgeon. Let’s take a week before the next opening and bring a doctor here.”
“You’re right. You’re right. But we still need to make a brief manifestation to send our return text. A minute or two at the most. The guys can get that up in twelve hours.”
“I’ll get the response together.”
“After that, the best we can do is create a field opening twenty-four hours or more relative from their last text even if we waited a year. I can dial it close but not that close, Dwayne. They’ll have some hang time on the water waiting.”
“The waiting on this end is a bitch too,” Dwayne said.
“Welcome to my world,” Morris said, turning to climb back down into his universe beneath the waterline.
Dwayne met with Geteye, the Ocean Raj’s first mate and acting skipper in Boats’ absence. They went up to the bridge where there was privacy. With the Raj at anchored in calm seas, there was no need for anything but a skeleton watch.
This guy certainly knew how to grow a beard, Dwayne thought. It was thick as carpeting from his eyes to the base of his neck, complemented by a bushy untamed afro atop his head. The only revealing feature on the man was his eyes. They were deep brown with scarred lids. The man had seen his share of fights in his time. There was a keen intelligence there and an easy grace to his movements that someone ignorant would mistake for idleness. Dwayne knew a professional soldier when he saw one. Geteye was the perfect complement to his blustering and garrulous captain.
They talked about the risks and advantages of pulling the Raj closer to shore to shorten the row time for the team when they made for the field opening.
“I follow the news on the wireless, Baas,” Geteye said, eyes on the charts spread on the scarred metal table between them.
“Yeah?” Dwayne knew to wait for the man to get to his point.
“The Gaza is burning up, Baas. Closer we get to the coast, the more Israeli patrol boats we see.”
“You think we’ll get boarded?”
“I know we get boarded, Baas. I know we get shitload questions and we don’ have shitload answers.”
“How much do you know about what goes on below deck, Geteye?”
The man smiled. A rare show of tobacco-stained teeth.
“I know enough, Baas. I know we don’ wan’ no boarding party. More than that, I am just another dumb kaffir earning my pay.” He lifted the bottle of Egyptian beer he’d been using to weigh down a corner of the chart and took a long pull.
“We’ll maintain our current position then.” Dwayne returned his smile. “I don’t want my team adrift in shipping lanes where they can run into trouble.”
“Whenever the hell that is, Baas.”
Dwayne searched the other man’s gaze for a sign of what he meant by that. The eyes betrayed nothing, but that told the Ranger what Geteye wanted him to know, he was nobody’s dumb kaffir.
There was no more to discuss. They finished their beers and returned to their stations.
A week later, the motor powered inflatable puttered from the icy mist and into the modified hold deep below the Ocean Raj’s main deck.
The team was suffering from exposure to salt and sun. They had remained at the prearranged coordinates for nearly three days, taking turns paddling against the current to remain within the projected field area. All were exhausted, and Boats was aflame with fever. Chaz and Lee carried him from the Tube chamber. Bat stepped from the raft holding the banner of the Twenty-third in her fists. The Rangers, carrying the SEAL, followed Dwayne into a fully equipped surgery, where a doctor and surgical nurse hired in Cyprus waited.
Both the doc and nurse had been paid cash in euros, with the promise of more, to be brought here by seaplane in the dead of night. They assumed it was something to do with the drug trade. Terrorists would not pay an advance. Six hundred thousand in untaxed euros would buy their confidence.
After checking vitals to make certain Boats could stand going under the knife, they cleaned and prepped the wound site. They began work on the surgery to remove the arrow shaft from the SEAL’s leg. They shooed the Rangers from the room, promising to give them word in an hour or more.
“You’re minus one,” Dwayne said. He sat on a bench speaking to Chaz and Lee while they showered. Their gear lay in a filthy heap on the shower cabin deck.
“He stayed behind, covered for us,” Lee said from under the steaming needle spray.
“We couldn’t wait. Boats was in a bad way.” Chaz was seated
