Stranded with the Navy SEAL

by Susan Cliff

  He waded out of the surf, determined to hold himself in check. He had to stay in control, and concentrate on survival.

  His first task was combing the beach for coconuts. There were about a dozen mature ones strewn across the sand. Fresh coconuts were less abundant. They didn’t fall off the tree when they were green. They had to be shaken loose or picked by hand, and climbing a coconut tree was a great way to fall and break your neck. After a short search, he found two.

  He also gathered several different types of wood. He wasn’t familiar with any of them, so he had no idea what would burn well or make the best bow drill, which was his preferred method of starting a fire.

  Cady didn’t sit idle while he wandered the beach. She explored the area as well, and returned with a nice score: a bunch of ripe bananas. His stomach rumbled with hunger. “Where did you find those?”

  “There’s a cluster of banana trees right over there.”

  He followed her gaze to the edge of the beach. There were several banana trees laden with green fruit. Grunting his approval, he directed her toward a shady spot under a palm tree. They sat down and shared the feast. He devoured three bananas, one after the other. When he reached for a fourth, she stopped him.

  “You’ll get sick if you eat too many.”

  “Bananas are good for you.”

  “Only in moderation.”

  He was still hungry, but he deferred to her greater knowledge of food and nutrition. He couldn’t afford to regurgitate his only meal of the day. They switched to coconuts, draining every drop of juice.

  He lifted one of the empty shells. “We can use these to collect water.”

  “Later,” she said, leaning her back against the tree trunk. She pressed her palm to her flat belly, as if it was uncomfortably full. “I can’t move.”

  “Fine,” he said easily, because he’d promised her a break. The waterfall wasn’t going anywhere. There were liana vines in the rain forest, less than a hundred feet away. He had plenty of other tasks to accomplish. “Stay here and rest.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Not far. I have to collect some materials to start a fire.”

  “Why do we need fire? It’s a million degrees.”

  “It was cold last night.”

  “How far will you go?”

  “I’ll be within shouting distance.”

  She waved a hand in the air to grant him permission. It was a regal, graceful gesture. Queen of the Island. His lips quirked into a smile. The trauma of the past few days had wrung some of the attitude out of her, but not all. Her resilience was reassuring. He needed a strong partner, and she had a lot of potential.

  The best place for a shelter was near the edge of the beach, where the tide wouldn’t reach them. He decided on a spot between two massive palm trees. There was plenty of shade, a nice breeze and a natural windbreak. First he dug a shallow depression in the sand. Then he made a fire ring with about a dozen volcanic rocks. He tossed some sticks and branches inside the pit. There was a bench-sized piece of driftwood nearby, so he dragged that over to sit on.

  After the stage was set, he worked on a small hut for the fire. He had to keep the pit dry or he’d be starting over from scratch every time it rained. He harvested palm fronds from several different trees, and ventured into the forest to chop down a sapling. Using its slim, sturdy branches, he formed a simple A-frame and covered it with palm fronds. This would protect the fire from the average afternoon shower.

  The third step was constructing the bow drill. He needed a flat wooden base, a bow-shaped tree branch, a spindle and some rope or cordage to create friction. If one of the pieces was flawed, there would be no ember, so he chose his materials carefully. He carved the flat base out of driftwood and shaped the spindle from a sturdy stick. When that was done, he went in search of a top rock to hold the spindle in place. He found a flat stone with a curved depression in the center.

  The last thing he needed was cordage—and he didn’t have any. He’d left their only rope with the deflated raft. That was poor planning. He blamed the flub on dehydration and a concussion. He didn’t have any shoelaces; he had no shoes. His belt wouldn’t work. Sighing, he ventured into the jungle for more material.

  Young liana vines made excellent cordage, so he cut down several. He sliced the vines into long strips and braided them together for extra strength. This process was time-consuming and labor-intensive. When he was finished, he was soaked in sweat again. It was blazing hot, even in the shade.

  Cady hadn’t moved from her spot under the palm tree. Her dress fluttered around her thighs like a red flag.

  He rolled his pants up to the knee and took the fire bundle from his pocket. It was dry, and still smelled like gasoline. He set it next to the pile of kindling in the fire pit. As soon as he had an ember, he’d transfer it to the bundle. When he had a flame, he’d add kindling. He felt confident about executing his plan, but making a primitive fire wasn’t an easy task. It required skill, patience, upper body strength and perseverance.

  He moved the bow back and forth in a rapid sawing motion, visualizing a hot coal. Waiting for the telltale smoke.

  It didn’t come.

  He continued to work the bow. His foot held the base in place. The vine cordage didn’t move as smoothly as rope or a shoestring, but it was all he had. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He sawed faster. The only thing that started burning was his forearm muscle. His injured knee hurt like a son of a bitch. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain.

  Was that smoke?

  He stopped to check his progress. There was no coal, which was disappointing. Maybe the driftwood wasn’t hard enough to generate an ember.

  He carved a new base from another piece of wood he’d collected on the beach. Then he tried again, sawing his heart out. His hand ached from the repetition. Blisters formed on the inside of his palm. His knee throbbed in protest. Smoke curled up from the notch where the base met the spindle.

  Almost there...almost there...

  Snap.

  The cord broke in half.

  He tossed aside the top rock and the bow, swearing. There was a sooty black spot at the notch in the base. It wasn’t a coal. It was nowhere near a coal.

  Goddamn it.

  He leaped to his feet and cursed at the sky. He said things his mother wouldn’t be proud of. He threw the wooden base across the beach, calling it every dirty name in his vocabulary. Then he sat down in the shade, seething. He’d learned how to make fire several different ways in an outdoor survival class. He’d practiced this method a dozen times. He’d even taught it to his comrades. But he’d never tested his skills in a tropical setting with unfamiliar materials, or in a real-life emergency. The pressure was getting to him.

  If he didn’t make fire, they were going to be in serious trouble. Fire was the ultimate morale booster. They needed fire to stay healthy, mentally and physically. Without fire, the nights would be miserable. They couldn’t stay warm or fend off mosquitos. They couldn’t make use of most of the island’s resources. They couldn’t cook without fire. They’d probably die without fire.

  Logan’s gut clenched at the thought. He wasn’t prone to mood swings or negativity. He knew better. Focusing on the worst-case scenario could get you killed. But he’d also learned that a positive mind-set wasn’t bulletproof armor.

  He’d stayed positive in Telskuf, and everything had gone to hell anyway. Months later, he still couldn’t come to terms with what had happened. He remembered chaos and confusion. Their communications system had malfunctioned. Then a simple misstep had resulted in his injury. He couldn’t complete the mission. He couldn’t even walk on his own. Samir had to support him. Instead of retreating with them, Hud had continued into the building.

  He’d never gotten out.

  Logan felt directly responsible for the lo
ss. He’d agonized over it, second-guessing every action he’d taken that night.

  Seeing Cady in a pool of crimson had taken him to the same dark place. It had affected him on a deeper level than any of the blood he’d shed, on desert sands or in the open water. He’d calmly killed men with a variety of weapons, including his bare hands. He’d watched the corpse of the man he’d gutted get torn apart by sharks with relish.

  That was pretty messed up—and he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to cry over a good kill, done in self-defense. What bothered him more was the idea of failing.

  Failing to get a fire started.

  Failing to provide for her.

  Failing to protect her.

  Failing to keep her alive—the same way he’d failed his teammate in Telskuf, and the interpreter in Al-Hasakah, and the interpreter’s wife.

  Making a sound of frustration, Logan rose to his feet to get more cordage. His knee almost gave out, and black spots danced across his vision. He leaned against the tree to regain his balance. His arms quivered uncontrollably.

  This was the price he had to pay for overexerting himself.

  He focused on taking deep breaths until his muscles relaxed. Instead of walking into the jungle, he sat down again. There was no sense in continuing to work on the fire right now. His hands ached, his palms were blistered and his biceps felt like jelly. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed a break.

  So he stretched out in the shade and closed his eyes for a few minutes, giving his body time to recover.

  Chapter 8

  Cady took pity on Logan and brought him a fresh coconut.

  It was their last one. There were plenty more on the trees, thirty or forty feet high, but she had no idea how to get them down. The bananas were off-limits until tomorrow. They contained nutrients that were toxic in large amounts.

  He was lying on his stomach in the shade with his head in his arms. All of that caveman yelling must have tuckered him out. She understood the reason for his meltdown. They were in an extremely stressful situation. Every basic necessity was difficult, if not impossible, to attain. They hadn’t been getting enough food or sleep. Her behavior had been erratic, too. She’d been crying one minute, laughing the next.

  Instead of disturbing his slumber, she sat down beneath the opposite tree and studied him. He was facing away from her, unaware of her presence. Something about his state of repose appealed to her. She hadn’t seen him resting on his stomach before. He was always on the move, always working hard—and it showed. Every muscle was on point.

  His shirt was damp with sweat, his hair mussed. Broad shoulders narrowed to a lean waist and a very cute, very tight butt. His pants were rolled up to the knee. He had nice calves, hairy and suntanned and strong. He even had nice feet. They were big, like the rest of him. She shivered at the memory of his wet boxer shorts clinging to his body.

  Lord.

  She’d abandoned all of her reservations about hooking up with him the instant his mouth touched hers. She’d forgotten that she was starving and exhausted. She’d forgotten everything but the feel of his hard-muscled body on top of her. Her cheeks heated at the memory. He’d been the one to come to his senses, which was even worse.

  She couldn’t blame the island for her lack of inhibitions. It was him. He made her throw every rule out the window.

  It won’t happen again.

  She puzzled over the strange declaration he’d made. Now that they were stuck together, he’d decided not to pursue her? She didn’t know why he’d changed his mind. Some men lost interest quickly. Some only wanted casual relationships, and there was nothing casual about their current predicament. Maybe he’d decided she wasn’t his type. Or maybe she just looked like a hot mess with dirty clothes and tangled hair.

  She set aside the coconut with a frown. He didn’t act disinterested. He still watched her with hungry eyes. His desire hadn’t cooled, but his attitude had. He’d been almost formal with her since the kidnapping. He’d kissed her as an impulsive celebration, not because he was trying to get with her.

  It didn’t really matter what his deal was, because she wasn’t trying to get with him, either. Momentary lapse of reason aside, she’d put him on her no-play list. He was too intense, too risky, too big...too everything.

  She leaned her back against the palm tree and sifted the fine grains of sand through her fingers. This spot in the shade was pleasant, with a gentle breeze. The view was incredible, but also disconcerting. She’d never been on an empty beach before.

  In the jungle, it was easier to forget they were all alone. Out here, the isolation was clear. They were still stranded in the middle of the ocean, countless miles from civilization, with little or no hope of rescue.

  Even so, only a fool wouldn’t appreciate this place, after what they’d been through. A stunning white-sand beach, lined with fruit trees, was a vast improvement over a stinky bat cave. It was practically a five-star resort.

  He mumbled something in his sleep, startling her. It sounded like he was saying “go with thud.”

  She dusted her hands off and leaned closer to listen.

  “Leave me,” he said. “Go with Hud!”

  Not thud. Hud.

  She assumed it was a name, though she’d never heard it before. His leg twitched in a restless motion. She stayed quiet, reluctant to wake him. His brow was furrowed in distress. While she watched, his shoulders tensed, and he threw out his arms as if some invisible force had attacked him.

  Then he rolled over and stared at her, breathing heavily. He had sand in his hair and eyelashes. Fine grains stuck to his sweaty skin.

  “Who’s Hud?” she asked.

  He groaned, scrubbing the sand from his face. Then he gave her a cautious look. “He was a member of Team Twelve.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He died.”

  “Overseas?”

  Logan nodded. “Telskuf. Iraq.”

  “The same place you got injured.”

  His brows rose. “Did I say that?”

  “No. I just guessed. Tell me about him.”

  He glanced past her, contemplative. “He was funny. We went through BUD/S training together. He’d make everyone laugh, even when it hurt to laugh. No one could beat him at poker. He was a smooth talker.”

  She smiled at this description. Logan wasn’t a smooth talker. He was more of a blunt instrument, quiet and brutally efficient. He used as few words as possible to convey meaning. “Do you miss him?”

  “Very much,” he said, meeting her gaze.

  She didn’t ask any more questions. He seemed reluctant to show emotion, and he was still mourning the loss of his friend. Instead of prodding a sore wound, she fell silent, studying his appearance. The bruise on his forehead had faded from dark purple to sickly green. His eyes were puffy from sleep. His shirt was half-buttoned and filthy. He was beyond rugged; he looked like he’d been on a bender, or in a barroom brawl. Despite his rough edges, she found him handsome and endearing. The fear she’d felt after the kidnapping had faded. Every day they were together, her trust in him grew.

  “I brought you a coconut,” she said.

  He picked up the coconut and chopped the end off in three quick strikes. They passed it back and forth, sharing the juice. It wasn’t enough to quench her thirst. She tilted the fruit upside down to get the last few drops. He watched her with a hungry expression. She set aside the empty husk, flushing.

  “We need to find water.”

  She let out a ragged breath. “What about the vines?”

  “Those are a finite resource. We should save them for emergencies.”

  “This isn’t an emergency?”

  He didn’t answer. Apparently, their situation could get worse. They could become gravely ill or sustain serious injuries. Her mind sup
plied a dozen examples of freak accidents. Broken bones, parasites, snakebite...

  “Can you walk?” he asked.

  She wiggled her bare feet. They felt fine when she wasn’t putting any pressure on them. The soft sand didn’t bother her as much as rocky terrain. “I’ll try.”

  “You can always stay here.”

  “No,” she said, stricken. “What if something happens to you?”

  “That’s why I’d rather go together. It’s not far.”

  She’d heard that lie before. The waterfall he’d pointed out yesterday wasn’t even visible from this beach. There was a vague mountainous shape looming in the distance. They’d have to climb uphill or circle around it. The entire island formed a half-moon, with the summit on one end and this smaller peak on the other.

  “Let’s check out the coastline first,” he said. “Water always flows downhill. Maybe there’s a runoff.”

  She hoped so, if that meant they wouldn’t have to hike inland. They collected the empty coconuts and headed toward the tide pools. This section of beach was interspersed with slabs of volcanic rock. The perforated surface was sharp on her tender soles, so she stayed on the sand whenever she could.

  If Logan felt any pain, he didn’t show it. He searched every nook and cranny of the tide pools for sea creatures. He spotted several crabs, which led him to draw his knife, but they scuttled into hiding places the blade couldn’t reach.

  “Tomorrow I’ll make a spear,” he called out to her.

  Beyond the tide pools lay another stretch of white sand. She continued across the beach while Logan chased crabs. She caught a glimpse of a blue plastic object, half-buried. It looked like a bucket. When she reached it, she fell to her knees and started digging. The treasure she unearthed was a basic utility bucket. The handle had broken off, but the rest was intact. She rinsed the bucket in the surf and held it up in the air, triumphant.