Storm Rising

by Ronie Kendig

  “Shut up, man,” Lawe groused.

  “We’re short on time and long on trouble.” Leif pushed away from the table. “Gear up.”

  Heading belowdecks, he drew Mercy aside. “What happened up there with Manche?”

  She skated a look around. “Nothing I can’t handle.” She watched Iskra thread her arms through a life vest for the choppy trip out. “But I’d keep a close eye on her.”

  What did that mean? He couldn’t spend time on it. Right now, he had to get moving. Leif drew out his phone and hit a speed-dial number as he pulled his ruck to the side and started checking weapons and supplies.

  “Iliescu.”

  “Tell me Aznar’s good meat.”

  Silence.

  “Tell me trusting this captain isn’t going to leave me high and dry or dead.”

  “It won’t, but don’t count on much more.”

  “Understood. We’re heading into the storm.”

  * * *

  The flagship of the Sixth Fleet had made good time bringing them in as close as possible to the approaching storm without endangering itself. They were lowered down the gray hull by the starboard umbilical arm, the ship’s side painted with CZ7 in large black-and-white stenciling. Before they’d even cleared the wake of the Mount Whitney, water lurched upward, reaching for them.

  Leif eyed the Chinook lifting from the helipad, carrying the other half of the team to Botswana. As he visually tracked their departure, Leif noted Iskra behind him in the RIB. She gripped the handles of her seat, hunched against the pelting rain.

  Culver took the saddle next to him, sitting on a ten-grand piece of the shock-mitigating craft. The helm was sexy with its Raymarine electronics suite, and twin Evinrude 150s packed power that made Leif feel at home. He pushed the throttle wide open to reach the craft’s max 52 miles per hour, giving them a gut-churning ride and the best hope of reaching shore before it was too late. Head down, Saito seemed ready for the confrontation. Probably praying, too.

  With each nautical mile they ate up, the wind whipped and rain spat at them. As if the weather was telling them to go back, that this was a bad idea. Leif lowered his goggles and used the compass to guide them in. Dawn fought the storm in a valiant effort that ended in defeat, rays blotted out by thick rolling clouds.

  Lightning splintered the sky. Leif counted. One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand. Three-one-thousand. Four-one—

  Thunder cracked, thumping against his chest.

  Four seconds. Which meant they had just minutes to hit the beach before the storm unleashed its fury. Unscientific, but with the way things had gone, he expected Mother Nature wouldn’t mind a bit of unscientific measuring.

  Iskra’s head came up at the thunder. She glanced at him. Why wasn’t she fighting him harder?

  She wants to be here.

  No, she wanted to be with her daughter.

  “Chief!”

  His attention snapped to Saito, who indicated the wall forming to their nine. Leif’s breath backed into his throat—water rose over them. Towering.

  Oh crap.

  No power steering on the CZ7 made the hard turn a brutal effort as he fought to get away from the swell, aiming for a small valley that sneaked between the big wave and another. They bounced over the water. He sighted the land. At least two more nautical miles, if what he saw through the thick clouds, rain, and surging waves was actually land.

  Leif braced himself. They came out the other side, and he breathed a little easier at the smaller waves. The winds were a little—

  Iskra’s shout mingled with the din of a roar. He checked over his shoulder to see her pointing to their six. Leif started to look but sensed the empty silence of the wave that hovered over them, waiting . . .

  The boat was twanging. Jouncing. A futile effort, like a fish fighting upstream. As if someone had grabbed their tail, forbidding escape.

  Then it came. Roaring. Howling.

  The wave slammed into them.

  Leif was lifted and pitched forward. Dunked. Held under. Shoved deeper. Breathing was impossible.

  The RIB danced on the surface, conquering the violent waves. Leif righted himself, scrambled for the boat. Caught the rear deck like a lifeline. Where were the others? He looked around, but the merciless storm continued its assault.

  A squall leapt at him. Punched him backward. Another ferocious hit came from a different wave. It shoved him deep into the ocean’s vicious hold. Panic gripped him—in the lashing surge, he was losing his orientation.

  You trained for this.

  He steadied his thoughts. Defied every inborn instinct to thrash. To breathe. Leif relaxed. In doing so, he felt it, the seeming surrender of the ocean that allowed him to drift. He paddled his feet. Then . . . he was rising.

  He broke the surface and sucked in a gulp of air, knowing it would be short-lived. The ocean was a tempest, eager to devour those who dared enter its domain. His eyes stung, but he blinked away the water and searched for the others.

  Instead, something large tumbled right at him. He threw up his arm to protect his face. Pain detonated through his arm. Cracked his skull. Punched him into darkness.

  THIRTY-TWO

  ANGOLAN COAST

  A wood plank shot up out of the water and struck Leif in the head, shoving him full force at Iskra. Treading water in the suddenly calm storm, she readied herself but registered that he’d gone limp. He’d drown! Scrambling as he impacted her, she grabbed the strap of his vest. It burned her fingers, the water furiously trying to drag him down. He was heavy. Bigger than she was. And the ocean more powerful. Hooking an arm around his neck, she fought to keep them both above water.

  “Leif?” she called, hoping to rouse him. “Leif, please! Wake up!” But it was no good. He was unconscious, and the storm was eating her words.

  Was he even breathing? He had to be. Because she couldn’t do anything about it until they got to shore.

  “Leif!” Her limbs were quickly tiring as she swam for two people. She grunted, a whimper crawling through her chest, but she refused it voice. No whining. She had to keep him alive.

  Arms aching, she kicked and aimed toward shore. Due to the strain and the cold, her limbs felt like anchors. How had he done this in Cuba? How had Leif gotten her to safety, held her in the water so long and not given up? How had his body not quit?

  She glanced toward shore, a blur of grays and browns. A plume of foam caught her attention—someone swimming toward them.

  A wave dunked her. Fingers tightening on Leif, she clamped her mouth shut too late. The water hit the back of her throat and forced a cough. But she broke upward. Sputtered. Gagged.

  Something thumped into her.

  “Got him?” a voice barked against her ear. Culver. A weight tugged her vest.

  Nearly in tears at the assistance, at not being left to drown, she nodded but kept her mouth closed to avoid the salty spray.

  “Hold tight. I’ll bring us in,” Culver ordered.

  Her system flooded with relief. And exhaustion. She looped her other arm over Leif’s shoulder, his bloodied face pressed to hers, and dug her fingers under his front vest strap.

  The water fought them. Of course it did. Everything in life fought her.

  “Get your feet under you,” Culver boomed.

  Iskra startled that they were already at shore. Her boots sank into the sludgy beach. She pushed up, shifting so she could stand but keep Leif’s head up. Culver moved in, lifted Leif over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and trudged up out of the water. The deluge was heavy and they had no shelter, no reprieve from the rain, but she didn’t care. They were out of the Atlantic.

  Culver went to a knee, setting Leif on the ground near a patch of grass. Saito rushed toward them and dropped at Leif’s side, assessing. Taking his vitals.

  Iskra collapsed, watching. The ridge above Leif’s eye was split, compliments of the plank that had knocked him out. She scooted closer, unnerved when Saito started compressions. Breaths.

 
; Leif wasn’t breathing? No. Her heart skipped several beats. He could not die. He’d promised her. Promised he’d be there. When she was ready.

  She just hadn’t realized she’d been ready for a while. Back of her hand to her mouth, she wrestled the terrible fear that Leif would die. That the glimmer of hope that had awakened at his incursion into her life would die with him.

  It was crazy. She barely knew him. But somehow she knew him better than she’d known anyone. He would always be there for her, if he lived.

  Compressions continued, Culver taking over so Saito could do the breaths. Leif’s chest was forced to rise beneath the air Saito puffed into his lungs. Then more compressions.

  Tears burned as Iskra sat helpless, begging those blue eyes to once more spark at her. For that stupid smirk to reappear. He could not die now. He could not.

  A bark startled them.

  Convulsing, Leif coughed. Sputtered. They turned him over, and he vomited. His hands dug into the ground, limbs trembling.

  Culver grunted. “Had us worried, Runt.”

  Rolling onto his side, Leif suddenly howled, holding his arm to his chest. An injury? Veins bulged at his temple as he battled the pain. “Son . . . of . . .”

  Saito reached in. Gently lifted the arm.

  Leif went crimson.

  “Broken,” Saito said. “Probably both bones.” He dug an inflatable splint out of his pack.

  “No,” Leif growled, pulling himself upright. “I’ll be okay.”

  “Bull,” Saito argued. “That’s likely a double break. You—”

  “We’re screwed,” Culver said.

  “We’re . . . not.” Leif pressed the heel of his other hand to his head. Shook it. His gaze hit hers, and his unfocused eyes suddenly sharpened. Darkened. “You okay? What happened?”

  Iskra startled. “Yes, I—”

  “It’s your blood on her, from that gash in your temple,” Culver said. “When debris tried to take that thick head of yours off, she hauled your sorry carcass to shore. We’ll need to glue that.”

  Leif scowled. “But you’re okay?” he asked her again.

  Now that you’re alive. “Yes.”

  Reticence marked his expression, but he finally seemed to relax.

  Culver snickered. “Never thought I’d see the day where a leaf beat a plank of wood.”

  “You need new jokes,” Leif muttered. “That didn’t even make sense.”

  Saito stuffed the splint at him. “Put it on. Now.” He pointed to his temple. “I’m going to glue that now.”

  Irritated, Leif huffed. “It’s raining.”

  “It’ll just take longer to dry,” Saito said.

  Leif let the medic work. He grimaced and tensed as the splint immobilized his arm. Then he looked at her again. Reached toward her. Rough fingers swept her cheek. Did it again. Wiping away the blood. Apparently, it bothered him to see blood on her face.

  When the medic shifted and assessed his temple, Leif waved him off. “We need to get moving.”

  * * *

  GABORONE, BOTSWANA

  “This isn’t looking good.” Lawe braced himself in the cockpit of the Boeing CH-47 Chinook, a twin-engine, tandem-rotor, heavy-lift helicopter that was ferrying them to the edge of Gabs, as locals called Gaborone. Situated between Kgale and Oodi Hills, it was fighting a massive storm with tornadoes and hail, but there was a bigger problem near the center of the storm.

  “The rivers are swollen.” The pilot flew them around the capital to the confluence of two rivers. “Much more rain, and it’ll flood the city. Displace two hundred thousand people.”

  What were they supposed to do with two hundred thousand people if they didn’t stop this nightmare? Adam swiped a hand over his beard, watching the rivers collide, shoving water into a raging chaos intent on swallowing the capital.

  “Look.” Baddar huddled behind him and pointed to their nine.

  To a place the storm didn’t exist. A halo-shaped rivulet of sunshine and calm in the middle of an ebony void. The epicenter. That was where the experts believed the device would be located.

  Adam keyed his mic. “Drop us to your eleven, captain. Just over that ridge.” As the helo swung around, he returned to the belly of the chopper where Peyton and Mercy waited on the red-strap seats. He nodded to the rear of the fuselage where the loading bay door yawned wide.

  The skilled pilots circled back, descended, then aimed the tail down. A spray of rain and mud spewed from the engine wash, but in a few seconds they were only a soft jump away from the ground.

  Adam glanced at the others, at Peyton, affirming they were ready, then adjusted his weight as he approached the downward-sloping ramp.

  Without warning, he was thrown to the side. He grabbed for support, but the cant of the chopper made it impossible. Peyton rammed into him as they swung away from the drop zone. He held her fast as they both gaped at the churning, tumbling water that slapped the lowered bay door.

  “Sorry about that,” the pilot’s voice carried through the comms. “River broke over the ridge, slammed into us. Nearly took us down.”

  Adam cupped Peyton’s head to his chest as the cauldron of water exploded through the city. Chewed through walls, like carpenter ants eating table legs, and forcing the steel giants to their knees. It swept cars and poles into its frenzy. Snatched people from safety.

  Holding him, Peyton whimpered over her shoulder. “All those people . . .”

  “We’re too late.”

  “Maybe not,” Baddar said as the bay door closed. “What if we shut it down?”

  Adam glowered. “Maybe you missed the memo, but the floods—”

  “The storm. What if we shut it down? Slow the damage.” He nodded to something behind Adam.

  Lawe looked back, confused . . . then saw them. Gunners. Perched in the side doors. Who knew if it would work? They had nothing to lose.

  Adam shoved to his feet. “Hey.” He clambered toward the gunners. “Can you target that calm area?”

  The 7.62-mm M60 machine gun on a pintle mount wouldn’t fire rockets, but since it fired 500 to 650 rounds per minute, it was an area-effect weapon.

  The gunner shrugged. “Why not?”

  After conveying the plan to the pilot, who lined them up, Adam nodded to the gunner. “Light ’er up.”

  Bullets pelted the ground, plumes dancing and jittering through the unnatural calm. It was impressive. But ineffective. As he’d expected. Yet Adam wasn’t ready to give up. He had the other gunner do the same. This time, a spark ignited in the center of the calm spot. Gave him hope.

  “You got anything else?”

  The first gunner grinned. “Incendiaries.” He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “A bit farfetched, but . . .”

  “Try it.”

  With Baddar’s help, they assisted the gunners in feeding the incendiary rounds. Then crouched and watched as the fiery rounds hit and . . . did nothing.

  Hope fading, river rushing faster, Adam huffed.

  Boom! Crack-boom! An explosion erupted in the eye of the storm.

  The Chinook came around, and through the front windshield, he saw the black sky receding.

  “Yeah!” Adam high-fived Baddar. “We did it!”

  “Command will not be happy we destroyed it,” Baddar noted.

  Claxons sounded. The Chinook veered sharply left. Then right.

  “Command,” the pilot shouted, “we’re under attack and taking fire.”

  Adam’s mirth vanished at the sound of the alarms for the targeting system. Someone on the ground with the device was firing countermeasures.

  * * *

  ANGOLAN COAST

  Hiking up the slick, grassy hillside and across the muddy road, Leif knew the glue wouldn’t last. Not because of the rain—that excuse had been a feeble attempt to dissuade Saito from worrying about his injuries. They’d heal on their own. Faster than normal, of course. But Saito wasn’t one to take a hint. And he’d had that look that told Leif to avoid suspicion. It was why he’d a
llowed the splint. He didn’t need questions about a quick-healing fracture. It wasn’t like it’d be healed tomorrow. At least not completely.

  He couldn’t explain. Didn’t want to try. Things had been different since he and the team had fought their way out of the desert over five years ago. He had been different.

  Touching his comms piece, he tested it. Confirmed it still worked after he’d nearly drowned. “Storm center is there. We’ll hike north about five klicks.” He motioned in the general direction. “Take out the device.”

  “How do we get out of here?” Culver asked. His red hair was dark, plastered to his face and skull. “We lost the Zodiac.”

  “One thing at a time,” Leif said. “First: stop the device.”

  “Let’s do it,” Saito agreed.

  They broke into a jog and headed toward the calm. Leif’s skull throbbed from being hit by the plank. His ego was bruised, too. She hauled you to shore. What he wouldn’t give to talk to Canyon. Find out how he’d won his wife over. How he’d broken down the walls she’d put up after being held captive for months in Venezuela. Because when push came to shove, it was kind of the same thing. Captivity was captivity, and that was the life Iskra lived. Wasn’t it?

  Wind tugged at them. Rain pelted needling reminders that they were entering the dark corridor. But they warriored on, heading straight to the epicenter. It was ominous, strange, and other-worldly, seeing the great black clouds swirling over the villages and city to the south, but straight ahead lay an unaffected clearing. Still another two-point-five klicks to go.

  Leif hoofed it over uneven terrain, careful not to twist his ankle or crack another bone. The run turned into a jog, the natural progression of a long march on bodies. He told himself to slow down—for the team’s sake if nothing else—but they had to get to the drive. His near-death had cost them time. And the cloud tumbling overhead didn’t look like a patient master.

  “Augh!”

  Leif glanced back and dropped out of his jog.

  Hobbling, Iskra babied her right ankle, her face screwed tight.