Retribution

Breanna struggled to get up, pushing as much of her weight as she could onto her left leg. But her head swam and the pain in her side seemed to explode. She collapsed to the ground.

Zen was over her when she opened her eyes.

“Hey, are you OK?” he asked.

“Yeah. I was just getting up.”

“Who asked you?”

“Well, I’m not going to stay on the ground the rest of my life. And I’m not going to stay on this island either.”

He smiled.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re beautiful.”

“If I look half as bad as you, I look like a zombie.”

“Oh, you look worse than that.”

Zen looked up at the Werewolf, which was doing a slow turn about a half mile off shore.

“You really think you could move?” he asked her.

“I can move, Jeff. It hurts, but I can move. I don’t know if I can stand, though.”

“You’re a gimp like me, huh?”

“You’re not a gimp.”

“I have an idea. Maybe we can meet the Abner Read.”

“I don’t think I can swim.”

“That wasn’t what I had in mind.”

Aboard the Abner Read, Indian Ocean

0735

“The Rana figured it out,” said eyes. “They’re back on their original course.”

“How long before they’re in range of the Harpoon?”

“Ten minutes, tops.”

“All right. Stand by.”

“Storm — there is the possibility that they’ll shell the atoll if we open fire,” said Eyes. “There’s not much shelter there.”

“Noted.”

Eyes was right, of course, but what other options did he have? He certainly wasn’t going to let the Indian pick up his people right under his nose.

A full volley of Harpoons would sink the bastard before he had a chance to react.

No, they’d have a launch warning. It would take the Harpoons roughly three minutes to get there; by then the atoll would be obliterated.

“Storm, listen in to the emergency channel,” said Eyes over the intercom radio. “Major Stockard is up to something.”

Storm looked down at his belt to get the proper combination of buttons that would allow his com unit to listen in. The broadcast came in, weak and breaking up.

“Hey, Werewolf. We’re looking for some navigational guidance,” said a tired voice. “Wag your tail if you understand what I’m talking about.”

“Eyes, have the Werewolf pilot zoom his video on the beach,” said Storm.

“I think he’s getting into a canoe,” said Eyes.

“I’m going to automated beacon,” said Zen. “So you can home in on me.”

Clever, thought Storm.

“Have the Werewolf lead them south,” he told Eyes. “Get the Harpoons ready — he’s leaving the radio on so the destroyer thinks he’s still on the island. Move, let’s go people!” shouted Storm. “Let’s show these Air Force people what we’re made of.”

An atoll off the Indian coast

0745

“Now they’re getting it,” said Zen as the Werewolf ducked to the left. “Come on, Bart Simpson. Help me paddle.”

Zen pushed the boy’s small canoe through the shallow water, avoiding the rocks. Breanna was inside the boat, leaning over the side and paddling with her hands.

“Yeah, come on, guys,” said Zen as the current pushed up against the boat. “We have to go south. Stroke! Come on, Bart Simpson, follow that helicopter.”

* * *

Breanna couldn’t see much from where she was, but she could hear the helicopter. She had no more strength to paddle, and let her arm drag in the water.

Everything hurt so badly. She closed her eyes and remembered the night she’d seen Zen after the accident, the longest night of her life. She’d become a different person that night, though of course at the moment she hadn’t understood.

Who had she become? Someone wiser, more patient.

Not wiser, but definitely more patient.

She’d laughed a lot less since then. Much, much less.

That was a mistake. That was something she had to correct. She should be happy. They had so much.

“OK, baby, time to go.”

Disoriented, Breanna expected to see Zen in his wheelchair hovering over her when she opened her eyes. But she wasn’t at home, she wasn’t in bed — two men in wet suits were picking her up, helping her into a rigid inflatable. The Werewolf was hovering somewhere behind her, and the black shadow of the Abner Read loomed about a half mile off.

“What?” Breanna muttered. “Where are we?”

“We’re with the USS Abner Read, ma’am,” said one of the sailors. “You just relax now and enjoy the ride. We all are goin’ to take you home.”

Aboard the USS Poughkeepsie, Arabian Ocean

0800

With the last of the nuclear warheads stowed aboard the ship, Danny Freah asked the Poughkeepsie’s captain if he could find him a relatively quiet place for a private communication. Quiet turned out to be a precious commodity aboard the ship, harder to find than water in the desert. The communications shack sounded like a tollbooth at rush hour, and Danny couldn’t find a spot below that wasn’t overflowing with sailors and Marines, or sounded as if it were. He finally went onto the deck, and standing near the railing just below the bridge, put his visor down and contacted Dog.

“Bastian.”

“Colonel, it’s Danny Freah.”

“Yes, Danny. Go ahead.”

A small legend in the view screen indicated that no video was available. Danny knew that Dog was aboard Quickmover and guessed that the colonel had chosen to communicate with voice only — probably because he knew he looked tired.

Somehow that made it harder. Danny wasn’t sure why.

“Jennifer’s aboard the Lincoln,” Danny said. “They’re thinking they’re going to have to operate on her knee. It’s pretty bad.”

“But she’s OK,” said Dog.

“Yeah. She might have a concussion. Bullet splinter hit her helmet, knocked her out. That and the shock scrambled her head a bit. But she’s OK.”

“What about the mission?”

That was Dog, thought Danny — stone-faced and proper, insisting the focus be on duty and the job that had to be done, not personal emotion.

Even if he had to be breaking inside. First Bree, now Jennifer. But at least Jen was alive.