SEAL Team 13 st1-1

by Evan Currie

  His free hand swept out, chopping the man’s throat lightly enough not to cause permanent harm, then looped back and hooked his ear, tugging it back. He swept the man’s face forward into the bar, then released him, allowing him to bounce back.

  As the attacker hit the floor, three other men, presumably his pals, strode forward. Alex rose to his feet and smiled at them, and they instantly froze. When they looked into his eyes, they saw nothing but black — no pupils, no irises, no whites of the eyes. Just endless black.

  They all blinked and fell back as he strode forward. When they looked again, everything was normal, but by then the man they’d almost attacked had stepped over their friend and calmly turned to face Alice.

  “Terribly sorry, Alice. It could have been fun.” He smiled, tossing a glare at the man by his feet. “Some people have no manners at all.”

  Alexander Norton shrugged apologetically, then headed for the door as the crowd parted to let him through.

  BARROW, ALASKA

  “Hey, Sheriff. How’re things going?”

  Leland Griffin turned and smiled at the woman who was walking up the street toward him. “Fine, Sal, you?”

  “Oh, you know, same as always.”

  Leland chuckled, nodding. “Don’t I know it, but that’s why I live here, Sal. The reliability.” The sheriff looked up at the sky, noticing the darkening tint. “Sun’s going away.”

  “It does every year.” Sally sighed as she paused by the sheriff’s four-by-four. “I hear there’s been some trouble in the fields.”

  “You know I can’t talk about that, Sal,” Leland said with an easy smile, then shrugged. “Besides, the oil companies use their own security for most things. I’ve only heard what you have.”

  “There’s been talk about shutting down some of the wells.”

  “Unless they’re running dry, I don’t expect that’ll happen. Relax, Sal, things will be just fine,” Leland said reassuringly.

  He knew that in a small town like Barrow anything became big news quickly — it was just the way of things. Part of his job was to keep people from blowing every little hiccup out of proportion, scaring the pants off the folks he had to look after.

  “Well I heard—” Sally began, only to be shut up midsentence when a scream sounded from down the street.

  Leland spun in place, his eyes seeking out the source of the noise, and froze for an instant when he spotted the figure stumbling down the street.

  “Oh my Lord…,” Sally trailed off, hand coming to her mouth.

  Leland rushed around the front of his Tahoe, approaching the man, “Hey there, partner, you look mighty wet, and I’ve got blankets back in the truck, so…”

  He paused, realizing that it wasn’t water coating the man’s body. Just then, the figure began to collapse. Leland lunged in, caught him, and looked down into a face he suddenly recognized.

  “Mitch?” He blinked. “Jesus, man, what happened to you?”

  Mitch Sanders, one of the local oil workers, looked up at him with a face coated in blood. “They’re coming this way.”

  Then he slumped in Leland’s arms, who staggered slightly as he started to drag him back to the Chevy.

  CHAPTER 3

  CORONADO, CALIFORNIA

  The men were shifting slightly in their seats, like they couldn’t get comfortable in their own skin. Hawk could sympathize, as he felt that same itch whenever he was in a new place. It was a combination of things, really. The training they’d all received from their government, a sort of instilled paranoia that kept them alive in the field, compounded by the realization that they were always, always, in the field.

  “These are the boys I was able to shake loose, Hawk,” Rankin said from where he was leaning against the wall in the corner. “I might be able to get a few more in a couple weeks, when they come off mission.”

  Hawk Masters nodded, accepting that. Few military people who’d crossed the veil lived as he did — most tended to throw themselves against more understandable problems until those “easier” things laid them out on a slab somewhere. Especially operators.

  These five men were an example of that, from what he’d read in their files.

  Jack Nelson. Career lieutenant, if Hawk was reading the file right. His credentials were stellar, but he’d die on a mission long before he was considered for promotion. Sniper school, Ranger tabbed, spent a year sunning with the Brits’ Special Boat Service. Commendations up the yin and down the yang.

  But Hawk could read between the lines as well as any military man. Nelson had problems with authority, stemming from a disastrous mission three years ago. Sole survivor. Since then, he’d become a “less than exemplary” officer. Hawk wondered what he’d done to earn that comment, since it had to be pretty bad, but not quite bad enough to toss him out on his ass.

  Robbie Keyz was next. It was a miracle he wasn’t dead already, given the missions he’d been sent on over the last five years. When he was out of the field, however, his record read like a squad leader’s nightmare. Drunk and disorderly, insulting superior officers, reckless behavior — the list went on and on. The real miracle was that his superiors hadn’t put a bullet in the petty officer themselves. There weren’t too many officers in the navy, or out of it, who were in love with the idea of a demolition specialist who genuinely seemed to be insane.

  Especially not one as good as “Keyz to the City.” Hawk had heard about some of the man’s more unorthodox mission solutions, including the time he’d completely flattened an entire city block in Baghdad. Honestly, he wasn’t sure how it hadn’t made the nightly news. The fact that it hadn’t was probably the only thing that had saved Keyz from a dishonorable followed by a stint in Leavenworth.

  That and the fact that they never dug a single body out of that entire godforsaken mess. I wonder what the hell was really in there? Hawk suspected that if anything in Keyz’s record indicated that he’d crossed the veil, it was that mission.

  The next name was one he knew personally, having done a few missions in the sandbox with the man before the incident with the Fitz. Nathan “The Djinn” Hale. The new nickname had raised an eyebrow as he read over the file. Last he’d been aware, Nathan had been using the codename “Hand,” as in “hand of God.” Sniper specialist, currently in the top five for longest confirmed kills, behind a Brit and a couple Canucks. Hawk remembered one particular mission, when Nathan had needed to make a shot at twelve hundred yards with a borrowed Colt M4. A patently impossible shot with that weapon. After some quick calculations in his head, figuring in wind, distance, and the enemy’s cover, Hale aimed the gun fifty-eight degrees up and almost seventy to the left of the target before pulling the trigger. When they got there to check, they found the enemy shooter’s body. A round was still in his pelvis, after having traveled down through his shoulder, heart, and intestines. It was an impossible shot. Full fucking stop. Hale had pulled it off first try with what even he cheerfully admitted to being a Hail Mary.

  None of that came close to explaining precisely why he now had a sword strapped to his back, however.

  Looks like that same blade he showed up with after the last mission we worked on together, Hawk mused as he mentally moved on to the next and last two men being considered for the team.

  These two came as a duo, apparently, according to their files. Mack Turner and Derek Hayes, assigned to Team 3 when they pinned their BUD. Both petty officers, both the only survivors of a debacle that had actually made the nightly news. No names, of course, but that was still a no-no in the Teams. If people knew what you were doing, you’d messed up spectacularly.

  On paper they were all screwballs, the kind of guys you didn’t want on a team. The kind of guys you probably didn’t want anywhere near your professional life at all, if you could help it. Heck, they were guys you didn’t want in your personal life either. This, when combined with some other information Rankin had dug up, told Hawk that they were exactly what he was looking for.

  It took a special kin
d of person to cross the veil and live to talk about it, even if only for a short time. It was an experience that marked a man in so many more ways than one.

  “Seven of us, then,” he said aloud.

  “Eight if Alex ever shows up,” Rankin offered from the corner.

  “He’ll be here,” Hawk replied. “So eight.”

  “Nine.”

  The room turned as one to look at the female captain who had appeared in the doorway, her eyes focused on Masters as she took a step inside.

  “And you are?” he asked calmly.

  “I’m your liaison to Naval Intelligence, Captain Judith Andrews,” she told him.

  “As I was saying, that makes eight.” Hawk turned back to the men sitting around the room. “Seven SEALs and one consultant.”

  “You’re assuming a lot,” Robbie Keyz said, throwing a smirk in the direction of the overtly fuming captain. “You haven’t even told us what this is all about.”

  “You’re here because you all have something in common.”

  “They’re all misfits who shouldn’t even be in the navy, let alone the Teams,” Captain Andrews growled, stepping toward Masters. “And I’ll thank you not to ignore me.”

  “Look, lady, I’m a misfit who shouldn’t be in the navy,” Hawk Masters told her in no uncertain terms, “but Admiral Karson still shoved my commission back down my throat in order to get this party rolling. You have a problem with that, take it up with him. Please.”

  Then he turned back to the assembled men. “As for what this is all about…you all know what it’s about. You’ve crossed a line that shouldn’t be crossed, seen things you can’t unsee.”

  The hardened operators shifted a little, looking uneasily back at Masters.

  “You’ve all found out that there are things in this world that shouldn’t exist, that don’t exist for most people. But now that you’ve seen them, they can see you,” Masters said challengingly, looking from man to man. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  No one spoke.

  “When I first crossed over the line, all I wanted was a chance to kick ass on a new playing field. Sitting around, waiting for them to come get me wasn’t in my playbook. Over the years, I learned a new playbook,” Hawk admitted, looking down for a moment. “But that’s over now. Alone, we’re dead. Together—”

  “We’re still dead,” Derek Hayes said flatly.

  “Yeah.” Hawk nodded, much to the apparent shock of Captain Andrews, who didn’t seem to be following the conversation at all. All the better for her. I may be chauvinist, but I’ve got no love for seeing women torn to shreds and left as bloody smears on the ground. That’s the fate the rest of us are riding toward, like as not. “But maybe we take some of them with us. Maybe we take a lot of them with us.”

  Silence reigned for a long moment.

  “Sounds good to me,” Keyz admitted quietly.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m in.”

  Murmurs of assent passed back and forth, and Hawk found himself almost smiling. These were his kind of men. They didn’t ask for much, just a fighting chance, even if all it meant was inflicting some pain on the enemy. They didn’t need victory, or even survival, though he knew they’d give everything for the former, and damn near everything for the latter. Sometimes, though, all you really needed was to know that there was someone else by your side, no matter how bloody the future was going to get.

  “All right,” he said, nodding. “Here’s the proposal.”

  * * *

  Captain Andrews pulled him aside after the others had shuffled out and only Eddie was left in the room. Masters just shook his head slightly and the master chief nodded in return, following the rest out.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Andrews demanded, eyes blazing.

  She was pretty, he decided, in a stern sort of way. Short-cropped blond hair, sharp nose, striking eyes. It was a nice package, or would be if she didn’t look like she was smelling something particularly nasty with every breath. The uniform probably didn’t help her with that, making her seem even stiffer than she was. He appraised her with unabashed intensity for a long moment, then just shrugged.

  “What was what all about?”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Commander,” she practically snarled. “I should put you up on insubordination.”

  “For what? Not including you on my team? Pardon me, ma’am, but last I checked they hadn’t repealed the Ground Forces Exclusion Law,” he told her calmly. “Besides, you’re here to liaise. So liaise. Tell the admiral that we’ll need training facilities for a squad, and help me requisition the squad’s equipment.”

  She glared at him. “I want to know what the hell you were talking about, mister. Crossing lines, taking ‘them’ with you? Who the hell are were you talking about?”

  “Ma’am, if you have to ask, you aren’t ready to know.”

  Then he shrugged past her and into the hall, nodding at Eddie, who was waiting just out of sight. Behind him, Captain Andrews stared in fuming fury at his back, something he patently ignored as he made his way back to his office.

  BARROW, ALASKA

  Leland shifted the Tahoe into four-wheel drive low, cursing as he steered it around a sinkhole that had swallowed the road. Unusual for this time of the year, but with all the thaw and freezing they’d been experiencing lately, it was an impossible chore to keep the roads in one piece. The damn things kept popping up everywhere.

  His Chevy made short work of the detour, however, and he pulled back onto the paved surface a little ways along before accelerating again. The V-8 roared as he pointed it at the closest oil field, and he settled back in the seat, his mind working a mile a minute.

  He didn’t know what the hell had happened to Mitch, but whatever it was had spooked the man bad. He’d dropped him off at a nurse’s office and hit the road before they could tell him anything about the man’s condition. Nothing he could do there, but whatever the hell had happened to Mitch…well, that was his jurisdiction.

  The oil fields weren’t far from town. Mostly they had private security, but assault was a matter of the law.

  As he got close, Leland let up on the gas, waiting for a security man to step out. When no one approached him, he started to get more than a little spooked. There was always a guard at the gate, and the gate was always closed. Now it gaped open, and there was no one in sight.

  He drove through it at a crawl, head on a swivel as he looked for any signs of life. The whole place looked about as empty as the rest of the state, and that was saying something. He pulled to a stop outside the local headquarters, putting the Chevy in park, and just sat there for several long minutes as he looked around.

  Damn, this is spooky.

  Leland finally shook himself free of the feeling and swung the door open, planting one solid work boot on the half-frozen ground as he got out. He paused for a brief moment, then reached back into the truck for his hat and his shotgun, putting the first on his head and racking a shell into the chamber of the second before walking up to the door and pushing it open.

  “Hello?” he called out. “It’s Sheriff Leland! Anyone in here?”

  The “office” was a glorified mobile home, fifty-odd feet long and fifteen wide, so it only took him a couple minutes to survey it. Finding no one, he stepped outside again and took a long look around.

  Well, if there’s no one in the office, I’ll go where I should have gone in the first place, he decided, turning and walking toward the massive machine shops.

  If anyone was around, this is where he’d be. The machine shops were easily the largest buildings in the area, probably for a thousand miles or more. Without them, there wouldn’t be much work done in the fields. There was always someone working on some piece of gear or another that needed fixing yesterday.

  He trudged through the slushy muck, cursing the unseasonable warmth that had brought on the latest thaw, and made his way over to the huge metal buildings. The big sliding doors were shut, so he went over to the side do
or and tested the handle as he leaned close and peered through the glass inset.

  Not seeing anything, Leland pulled open the door and stepped inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light, but it was pretty clear that the cavernous interior was empty. There weren’t even any trucks in sight, and now a definite chill was running down his spine, one that had nothing to do with the temperature.

  “Barrow Sheriff’s Department!” he called, debating whether he should stop carrying his shotgun like a club and start looking at the world over its iron sights. He didn’t want to freak anyone out, but he was well on his way to becoming freaked out himself, and for his money, that was becoming a fair sight more important than some roughneck’s feelings.

  Leland stepped back outside, eyes flicking to the darkening sky. He had another half hour, maybe, before the sun set. In no time, the long night would be upon them. It would put an end to the damned thaws at least. In the short term, however, he’d soon be hunting around this blasted place with a flashlight in one hand and his shotgun in the other.

  And if that isn’t a recipe for an accident of epic proportions, I don’t know what is.

  “Is anyone there?!” he called out again as he approached the second machine shop, whose doors were also closed. What the hell is going on here?

  He hammered on the side door with his free hand, then wrenched it open. As he took a step inside, the air from within struck him, warm and filled with a cloying smell that made his stomach churn. Leland held back the urge to retch, to spill his last meal over the slush and ice and mud, and reflexively shifted his grip on the shotgun as he brought the weapon up.

  It was a smell he knew.

  The air inside smelled of death.

  Not much blood, but he could smell the distinctive odor of recent decomposition. Leland braced his shotgun on his arm as he reached around to see if he could locate a light switch by the door. The interior of the building was dark, even more so than the falling twilight outside, and he couldn’t make out anything but a few large shadows.