Breaking Point
A Seal Team Heartbreakers Novella
Teresa Reasor
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Breaking Point
A SEAL TEAM HEARTBREAKER NOVELLA
COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Teresa J. Reasor
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Tracy Stewart
Edited by Faith Freewoman
Teresa J. Reasor
PO Box 124
Corbin, KY 40702
Publishing History: First Edition 2017
ISBN-13: 978-1-940047-12-6
ISBN-10: 1-940047-12-9
Smashwords Edition
Dedication
To all the social workers who put their time and hearts into the job of protecting and helping families, you are appreciated.
And to all the dedicated spouses who hold down the fort while their loved ones are deployed (my mother being one of them), my respect and admiration for you is boundless.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Books By Teresa J. Reasor
Prologue
IRAQ, 2010
Wind from the CH-46 helicopter’s propellers pounded the ground and beat up a whirlwind of dust and debris. The chopper rose higher and higher. Nose tilted slightly down, it sped toward the northeast.
Chief Petty Officer Langley Marks watched it disappear into the darkness with a mixture of regret and frustration. If he hadn’t landed wrong rappelling down a rope in an earlier mission, he’d be on board the chopper now, and on his way with the team.
Damn it.
The distinctive clatter of the Chinook’s propellers churning the air grew fainter and fainter, until it dissipated completely.
Balancing his weight on the crutches, Langley swung around and headed back to the communications shed, where he’d monitor the team’s progress until they returned to base. He wasn’t fit for much else at the moment. His foot and ankle were a glorious purple beneath the ace bandage, and his bare toes matched. Even a sock hurt at this point.
Knowing he wouldn’t be able to accompany the team, he’d spent his time reviewing the compiled satellite footage of the terrorists’ movements in and around the building they were using as a makeshift armory, looking for weaknesses. He and the team had gone over and over every element of the mission. If all went well, they’d be back in a matter of hours.
But, damn it, he should be there with them, monitoring the tangoes’ activities while Greenback guarded their back door. They needed someone keeping an eye out for trouble while the guys were wiring the place to go up.
Because of his clumsiness, they were a man down, which could seriously affect the mission. He’d encouraged Hawk to take a replacement, but he refused. The team had grown close during the past seven months, and now had a working rhythm so familiar they practically read each other’s minds and anticipated moves.
Fuck.
Even the bounce of his forward momentum on the crutches made his ankle and foot ache. He was gritting his teeth by the time he made it to the cinderblock, flat-roofed communications and mission control hut.
Seaman Charles Archer, one of the radio techs, greeted him with a wave while he monitored radio traffic through his headphones.
“What’s happening?” Langley asked as he joined him.
Archer pulled one of the ear pads away and tipped his head to ask Langley to repeat the question, then answered, “One of the patrols is late returning, and Samuels is monitoring in case of trouble. I’ll be on the com with your team as long as they’re out.”
Lieutenant Walters, who stood next to Archer, was in charge of logistics for the mission. If they needed emergency extraction or air support, he’d be the one to make the call.
Walters gave a nod, acknowledging him. “Have a seat, Lang.”
Langley sat down in a folding chair a couple of feet away from Archer and propped his foot on another.
Archer glanced up. “I haven’t heard anything since the chopper left.” A tendril of sweat ran down his cheek, and he hunched one shoulder to wipe it away with his sleeve. The radios put out quite a bit of heat, and while the fans placed around the room circulated the air, they did little to cool it.
“I’ll hang out until they reach the drop site and get clear. Then they’ll observe radio silence during the mission.”
Archer nodded and went back to listening. “Roger, Mike-Romeo-seven-three.” He smiled and looked up. “They’ve reached the drop site. Everything’s quiet. The flight crew is on their way back.”
It was quiet for now. Langley glanced at his dive watch. At zero four hundred every morning, the Taliban decided to shoot RPGs across the base perimeter. Thus far they only managed to hit a Humvee and a latrine. Luckily, no one had been inside the vehicle or the shitter at the time.
Every time they hunted for the assholes, they disappeared into the labyrinth of streets and alleys.
But the Taliban fucker’s luck and their aim might improve. And that would be about the time Hawk and the team were scheduled to return to base.
Captain Morrow, the base commander, wandered in five minutes later, and Langley and Seaman Archer got to their feet.
“At ease, Chief, Seaman,” Morrow motioned them back down. “Put the radio on open mike, Seaman Archer.”
Archer flipped the switch immediately.
“I’ll be sticking around for a while,” the Captain announced.
Walters nodded while Kyle stayed alert for transmissions.
Morrow nodded toward Langley’s foot. “How is it? I can see your toes are purple from here.”
“It isn’t broken, but it’s going to take some time for the soft tissue to heal. Once the swelling goes down and I can get a boot back on, I’ll be ready to go again.”
Archer shot him a doubtful look over his shoulder.
Morrow pulled a folding chair over and sat down. Two more support staff showed up to man the radios next to them.
Time passed slowly. Every time Langley was tempted to pace, his foot reminded him he couldn’t. He hated waiting. And they did a lot of that in the SEALs. Waiting for transport. Waiting to go into action. Waiting in line for things.
Waiting to go home. That was the worst. It was weighing on them all right now. They were so close to the end of their deployment, every day seemed an eternity. He wanted to see his kids and hold them. He wanted to be in the same room with his wife instead of on a computer screen talking to her, or on a telephone line that sounded like she was a million miles away, which she was.
He did this to himself. It was his fault they weren’t together in one place longer than six months. And with all the training, often less.
His kids were growing up without him.
But he couldn’t m
ake himself walk away from his team. Couldn’t turn his back on the loyalty to his team built from the blood, sweat, and tears they’d shed together. What they did was important. They saved lives. They protected people who couldn’t defend themselves.
They took out bad guys, terrorists, who wouldn’t think twice about killing themselves and their families, all in the name of power. They could say it was for their religion, but it wasn’t. It boiled down to keeping their iron grip on what they claimed was theirs—their families, their women—because they were afraid if they didn’t, their power would slip away, leaving them impotent.
They needed to grow a pair, man up for their families. Feed them instead of running around with guns, trying to kill anyone who didn’t agree with them.
The little voice that said he wasn’t doing all he needed to do for his own family was cut off when he heard “Strong Man,” Derrick Armstrong, whisper over the radio, breaking the silence. “We have a problem. C’s a no-show, over.”
Hawk’s voice came next. “Cutter, come in, over.”
Dead silence answered him.
They had the building rigged to blow. The timers were counting down. Langley jerked to his feet, forgetting his ankle and foot, and winced at the pain. He braced a hand on the table holding the radio and bent at the waist.
“Last location, over,” Hawk asked, his voice even, calm.
Strong Man replied, “Ground floor. I thought he was right behind me, over.”
“Greenback,” Oliver Shaker, cut in. “Five minutes.”
Seconds ticked by like minutes.
Hawk’s voice, resolute and flat, cut the silence. “I’m going back in for him, over.”
Langley gripped the edge of the table. “Jesus.”
Captain Morrow waved him down and placed a hand on his shoulder.
The next few minutes were agony. Langley rested his head on the flat edge of the table, his tension ratcheting up until he thought his bones might crumble to dust.
It was a lifetime before the next radio communication.
“Flash, what’s your position?”
That sounded like Hawk. Thank you, Jesus.
“I’m a hundred feet east of your last position.”
“Stay where you are, we’re on our way.”
“Movement from the east here,” Greenback announced, and then after a few minutes, “Patrol coming at you.”
Silence settled in. Nausea rolled over Langley. God, he should be there. Helping them. His whole team could be wiped out. God, please don’t let it happen.
It was an agony of waiting. An hour passed, then thirty minutes more. No one spoke.
“This is Alpha-Bravo-four-niner requesting an air strike at these coordinates. The enemy is at our gates,” Hawk sounded calm, but stressed. He was shouting over the sound of machine gun fire.
Walters gestured to one of the other radiomen. The man got busy calling up help. “Four minutes.”
Archer relayed the message. “Alpha-Bravo-four-niner, help has been detoured to your location. ETA four minutes.”
Langley recognized the coordinates. “That’ll be right on top of them.”
Jesus, four minutes could be like a day and a half when they needed it now. He wiped the sweat off his face with his arm.
Morrow moved restlessly, his thick gray hair gleaming the color of sheet metal under the dull lighting. His jaw worked, though he remained in his seat, his arms folded against his chest.
Nearly ten minutes passed before Hawk’s voice came over the radio.
“This is Alpha-Bravo-four-niner. Remaining targets are bugging out. We’re ready for extract, but this will be a hot extract.”
“Roger, Alpha-Bravo-four-niner.”
“Be aware we have one man down with a head injury, and another with an injured knee. The head injury needs immediate evac to the medical facility.”
Langley’s heart settled somewhere in his stomach. Who was hurt? Was it Cutter?
“Roger, Alpha-Bravo-four-niner.”
Five minutes later one of the Chinook pilots came over the radio. “This is Lima-Mike-two-three. We have two injured, one with a head injury, and request support teams in place at touchdown.”
“Roger, Lima-Mike-two-three.”
“It has to be Brett,” Langley said aloud. “Something happened inside the building.”
“We’ll find out soon enough…in about forty minutes,” Captain Morrow reached for his phone. “I’ll call Corporal Landis to drive us over to medical. You won’t make it over there on those crutches.”
The lights around the medical facility glowed dull yellow, almost swallowed by the darkness. The air stirred lazily, cold and dry. Gunfire sounded in the distance. It never stopped.
The sound of the helicopter approaching was overwhelmed by the noise of an RPG exploding about four hundred yards downrange from the landing site.
There was a lull while the Chinook approached. They both looked up at the distinctive sound of an RPG firing again. Langley tensed, waiting for the blast. It hit two hundred feet away, kicking up dirt.
The chopper came in closer. Another RPG launched. It was slow motion while the rocket-propelled grenade almost skimmed the tail of the helo and dropped to the ground. Everyone below ducked as the grenade exploded and ripped a hole in the landing pad. The chopper jerked right and spun around, dust billowing, and smoke from the explosion swirling with it. The Chinook dropped straight down a hundred feet from the pad.
Alarms blared, and a water truck raced around the corner of the building while the loading ramp lowered.
“Why don’t we figure out where that asshole is and take him out?” Langley yelled above the helicopter’s noise.
“If you can find him, be my guest,” Morrow yelled. “They have a weapon, and they’re a threat to the base and a danger to our personnel.”
Langley ground his teeth and nodded. “Consider it done.”
Morrow’s brows rose, and he glanced down at Langley’s purple foot.
Langley gritted his teeth. He was sick of this shit. Two of his team were hurt. He couldn’t do shit about that, but he could take care of this asshole so he couldn’t hurt anyone. Or knock a chopper carrying wounded out of the sky.
Langley waited impatiently while the team with the gurney double-timed out to the Chinook. The urge to run out there himself was nearly overwhelming, but his throbbing foot dissuaded him.
Hawk’s hulking six foot four frame hobbled toward them, finally reaching the dim light projected from the medical building behind them. Strong Man gripped the arm slung over his shoulders, supporting some of Hawk’s weight. A corpsman rushed out with a wheelchair, and Strong Man lowered Hawk into it.
The crew wheeling the gurney sped past them with “Doc,” Zach O’Connor, in their wake. “Cutter,” Brett Weaver, lay still and pale on the board, a bandage wrapped around his head to keep it stationary. A bruise the width and length of a large hand discolored his temple all the way down to his cheekbone, and he had an IV in his arm. He didn’t look good.
Hawk hobbled up. “Mine’s just a sprain. Doc’s staying with Brett, giving them info. Maybe the doctors will share something after they’ve examined him. The rest of the team is going to secure our weapons and gear.”
“Corporal Landis can drop them off,” Captain Morrow said.
Hawk motioned to Greenback, Bowie, Strong Man, and Flash, who were laden with their weapons and packs as well as Doc’s, Cutter’s, and Hawk’s. They headed for the Humvee and piled in. The vehicle pulled out.
Langley and Captain Morrow followed Hawk into the hospital and down the hall. Morrow joined Hawk in the exam area curtained off for triage. A doctor and nurse went into the small cubicle.
Brett was only in the cubicle a few minutes when two nurses wheeled him right back out and down a hall, double-timing it, with Doc following behind them.
Langley wandered up and down the hall on his crutches, restless, anxious. Twenty minutes later Doc trudged back down the hall, his pack still h
anging on his back, his freckled face pale beneath a coat of grime. “He has a subdural hematoma and is in surgery. They’re drilling a hole in his skull to relieve the pressure.”
“Jesus!” Langley muttered, and a queasy feeling attacked him. He swallowed against it. “Is he going to live?”
“Once they relieve the pressure on his brain and get him stabilized… They won’t know for several days. They won’t know how much damage has been done to his brain until he wakes up. If he wakes up. We were out there for what seemed like a lifetime. I could tell one of his pupils was sluggish, so I knew it wasn’t just a severe concussion. He never showed any signs of consciousness. All I had to give him for inflammation and swelling was hydrocortisone. That’s like treating a bullet wound with a Band-Aid.” Doc ran his fingers through the thick ruff of hair that hung down on his forehead, and his eyes grew glassy.
Langley gripped his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “You did the best you could, using everything you had to work with. No one could ask any better of you, Doc. You kept him going until you got back here.”
He nodded, but closed his eyes for several moments, his struggle for composure obvious. “They’ll probably evac him to Germany as soon as he’s stable.”
Jesus! Langley leaned back against the wall. Just yesterday, while he elevated his foot, he’d watched the guys play touch football to blow off some steam. They didn’t have anything close to a real field, but had chosen a spot just behind the cinderblock barracks. Other team members and a few Marines had joined in the game. Brett had quick reflexes, and intercepted the ball a couple of times. And he ran the ball into the end zone for a touchdown both plays.
What if he couldn’t walk or speak? What if he never woke up? Dear God.
If only he had been there. Being with them to back up the team might have prevented this. Guilt bombarded him.
The two of them wandered down the hall to triage to find Captain Morrow in the waiting area. “Any news?”
Doc repeated what he knew. Morrow’s expression was grave when he gave Doc the same pep talk he’d just heard from Langley. When the Captain started to leave with Doc in tow, Langley said, “I’m staying for awhile.”
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