Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  The other SEALs laughed.

  "In other words, they don't like us," the captain went on, "and they're going to do everything they can—including cheat—to make sure we fail. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me to find out that the hostage has turned hostile. We've got to be prepared for him to raise an alarm and give us away."

  Tim Farber lifted his hand. "Why are we bothering to do this if they're going to cheat—if they're not going to follow the rules?"

  Harvard stepped forward. "Do you honestly think real ter­rorists don't cheat, Mr. Farber? In the real world, there are no rules."

  "And it's not unheard-of for a hostage to be brainwashed into supporting the beliefs of the men who have taken him captive. Having a hostile hostage is a situation we've always got to be prepared for," Blue added.

  "Alpha Squad's done training ops against the Marines be­fore," Lucky told the FInCOM agents. "The only time I can remember losing is when they brought in twenty-five extra men and ambushed us."

  "Yeah, they work better in crowds. You know that old joke? Why are Marines like bananas?" Bobby asked.

  "Because they're both yellow and die in big bunches," Wes said, snickering.

  "The comedy team of Skelly and Taylor," Joe said dryly. "Thank you very much. I suggest when you take your pow­erhouse stand-up act on the road, you stay far from the Army bases." He looked around the room. "Any questions so far? Ms. Richards, you usually have something to ask."

  "Yes, sir, actually, I do," she said in that cool, professional voice Harvard knew was just part of her act. "How will we get from the ship to the island? And how many of us will actually participate in this exercise, as opposed to observe?"

  "Everyone's going to participate in some way," the cap­tain told her. "And—answering your questions out of order— we'll be inserting onto the island in two inflatable boats at oh-four-hundred. Just before dawn."

  "Going back to your first answer..." PJ. shifted in her seat. "You said everyone would participate in some way. Can you be more specific?"

  Harvard knew exactly what she wanted to know. She was curious as to whether she was going to be in the field with the men or behind lines, participating in a more administrative way. He could practically see the wheels turning in her head as she wondered if she was going to be the one chosen to stay behind.

  "We're breaking the CSF team into four sub-teams," Joe Cat explained. "Three teams of three will approach the ter­rorist camp, and one team of two will remain here on the ship, monitoring communications, updating the rest of us on any new satellite intel and just generally monitoring our prog­ress."

  "Like Lieutenant Uhura on the Starship Enterprise." PJ. nodded slowly. Harvard could see resignation in her eyes. She was so certain it was going to be her that was left behind. "'Keeping hailing frequencies open, Captain,' and all that."

  "Actually," Blue McCoy cut in with his soft southern drawl, "I'm part of the team staying on board the Irvin. It'll be my voice you hear when and if there's any reason to call a cease and desist. I'll have the ultimate power to pull the plug on this training op at any time." He smiled. "Y'all can think of me as the voice of God. I say it, you obey it, or there'll be hell to pay."

  "Crash, why don't you share with us what you know about the island?" Joe suggested.

  P.J. was quiet as Lieutenant Hawken stepped forward. She was trying her best to hide her disappointment, but Harvard could see through her shield. He knew her pretty damn well by now. He knew her well enough to know that, disappointed or not, she would do her best—without complaining—wher­ever she was assigned.

  Crash described the island in some detail. It was tropical, with narrow beaches that backed up against inactive volcanic mountains. The inland roads were treacherous, the jungle dense. The most common method of transport was the goat cart, although some of the island's more wealthy residents owned trucks.

  He opened a map, and they all came around the desk as he pointed out the island's three major cities, all coastal sea­ports.

  The lieutenant spoke at some length about the large amounts of heroin that passed through the island on the way to London and Paris and Los Angeles and New York. The political situation in the country was somewhat shaky. The United States had an agreement with the island—in return for U.S. aid, the local government and military were helping in the efforts to stop the flow of drugs.

  But drug lords were more in control of the country than the government. The drug lords had private armies, which were stronger than the government's military forces. And when the drug lords clashed, which they did far too fre­quently, they came close to starting a commercially instigated civil war.

  Harvard found himself listening carefully to everything Crash said, aware of his growing sense of unease. It was an unusual sensation, this unsettling wariness. This was just a training op. He'd gone into far more dangerous situations in the past without blinking.

  He had to wonder if he'd feel this concern if P.J. weren't along for the ride. He suspected he wouldn't worry at all if she'd stayed stateside.

  Harvard knew he could take care of himself in just about any situation. He wanted to believe PJ. could do the same. But the truth was, her safety had become far too important to him. Somehow he'd gotten to the point where he cared too much.

  He didn't like the way that felt "Any questions?" Crash asked.

  "Yeah," Harvard said. "What's the current situation be­tween the two largest hostile factions on the island?"

  "According to Intel, things have been quiet for weeks," Joe answered.

  P.J. couldn't keep silent any longer. "Captain, what are the team assignments?"

  "Bobby and Wes are with Mr. Schneider," Joe told her. "Lucky and I are with Mr. Greene."

  Harvard was watching, and he saw a flicker of disappoint ment in her eyes. Once again, she hid it well. In fact, she was damn near a master at hiding her emotions.

  "I’m with the Senior Chief and Lieutenant Hawken, right?" Tim Farber asked.

  "Nope, you're with me, Timmy boy," Blue McCoy said with a grin. "Someone's got to help me mind the store."

  Across the room, P.J. didn't react. She didn't blink, she didn't move, she didn't utter a single word. Apparently, she was even better at hiding her pleasure than she was at hiding her disappointment.

  Farber wasn't good at hiding anything. "But you can't be serious. Richards should stay behind. Not me."

  Joe Cat straightened up. "Why's that, Mr. Farber?"

  The fink realized he had blundered hip-deep into waters that reeked of political incorrectness. "Well," he started. "It's just... I thought...."

  P.J. finally spoke. "Just say it, Tim. You think I should be the one to stay behind because I'm a woman."

  Harvard, Joe Cat and Blue turned to look at P.J.

  "My God," Harvard said, slipping on his best poker face. "Would you look at that? Richards is a woman. I hadn't realized. We better make her stay behind, Captain. She might get PMS and go postal."

  "We could use that to our advantage," Joe Cat pointed out. "Put a weapon in her hands and point her in the right direction. The enemy will run in terror."

  "She can outshoot just about everyone in this room." Blue couldn't keep a smile from slipping out. "She can outrun 'em and outreason 'em, too."

  "Yeah, but I bet she throws like a girl," Harvard said. He grinned. "Which, in this day and age, means she's just about ready for the major leagues."

  "Except she doesn't like baseball," Joe Cat reminded him.

  PJ. was laughing, and Harvard felt a burst of pure joy. He loved the sound of her laughter and the shine of amusement and pleasure in her eyes. He pushed away all the apprehen­sion he'd been feeling. Working with her on this mission was going to be fun.

  And after the mission was over...

  Farber was less than thrilled. "Captain, this is all very amusing, but you know as well as I do that the military doesn't fully approve of putting women in scenarios that could result in front-line action."

  Harvard s
napped out of his reverie and gave the man a hard look. "Are you questioning the captain's judgment, Mr. Farber?"

  "No, I'm merely—"

  "Good." Harvard cut him off. "Let's get ready to get this job done."

  P.J. felt like an elephant crashing through the underbrush.

  She was nearly half the size of Harvard, yet compared to her, he moved effortlessly and silently. She couldn't seem to breathe without snapping at least one or two twigs.

  And Crash... He seemed to have left his body behind on the USS Irvin. He moved ethereally, like a silent wisp of mist through the darkness. He was on point—leading the way— and he disappeared for long minutes at a time, scouting out the barely marked trail through the tropical jungle.

  P.J. signaled for Harvard to wait, catching his eye.

  You okay? he signaled back.

  She pulled her lip microphone closer to her mouth. They weren't supposed to speak via the radio headsets they wore unless it was absolutely necessary.

  It was necessary.

  "I'm slowing you down," she breathed. "And I'm making too much noise."

  He turned off his microphone, gesturing for her to do the same. That way they could whisper without the three other teams overhearing.

  "You can't expect to be able to keep up," he told her almost silently. "You haven't had the kind of training we have."

  "Then why am I here?" she asked. "Why are any FInCOM agents here at all? We should be back on the Irvin.

  Our role should be to let the SEALs do their job without interference."

  Harvard smiled. "I knew you were an overachiever. Two hours into the first of two training exercises, and you've al­ready learned all you need to know."

  "Two training exercises?"

  He nodded. "This first one's almost guaranteed to go wrong. Not that we're going to try to throw it or anything. But it's difficult enough for Alpha Squad to pull off a mission like this when we're not weighed down with excess bag­gage—pardon the expression."

  P.J. waved away his less than tactful words. She knew quite well how true they were. "And the second?"

  "The second exercise is going to be SEALs only versus the Marines. It's intended to demonstrate what Alpha Squad can do if we're allowed to operate without interference, as you so aptly put it."

  P.J. gazed at him. "So what you're telling me is that the SEALs never had any intention of making the Combined SEAL/FInCOM team work."

  He met her eyes steadily. "It seemed kind of obvious right from the start that the CSF team was going to be nothing more than a source of intense frustration for both the SEALs and the finks."

  She struggled to understand. "So what, exactly, have we been doing for all these weeks?"

  "Proving that it doesn't work. We're hoping you'll be our link. We're hoping you'll go back to Kevin Laughton and the rest of the finks and make them understand that the only help the SEALs need from FInCOM is acknowledgment that we can best do our job on our own, without anyone getting in our way," he admitted. "So I guess what we've been doing is trying to win your trust and trying to educate you."

  Lieutenant Hawken drifted into sight, a shadowy figure barely discernible from the foliage, his face painted with streaks of green and brown.

  "So I was right about that poker game." P.J. nodded slowly, fighting the waves of disappointment and anger that threatened to drown her. Had her friendship with this man been prearranged, calculated? Was the bond between them truly little more than the result of a manipulation? She had to clear her throat before she could speak again. "I'm curious, though. Those times you put your tongue in my mouth—was that done to win my trust or to educate?"

  Crash vanished into the trees.

  "You know me better than to think that," Harvard said quietly, calmly.

  Neither of them was wearing their protective goggles yet. They weren't close enough to the so-called terrorists' camp to be concerned about being struck by paint balls. The eastern sky was growing lighter with the coming sunrise, and P.J. could see Harvard's eyes. And in them she saw everything his words said, and more.

  "We have two separate relationships," he told her. "We have this working relationship—" he gestured between them "—this mutual respect and sincere friendship that grew from a need on both our parts to get along."

  He lifted his hand and lightly touched one finger to her lips. "But we also have this relationship." He smiled. "This one in which I find myself constantly wanting to put my tongue in your mouth—and other places, as well. And I assure you, my reasons for wanting that are purely selfish. They have nothing whatsoever to do with either SEAL Team Ten or FInCOM."

  P.J. cleared her throat. "Maybe we can discuss this later— and then you can tell me exactly what kind of relationship you want between Alpha Squad and FInCOM. If I'm going to be your liaison, you're going to have to be up-front and tell me everything. And I mean everything." She shifted the strap of her assault rifle on her shoulder. "But right now I think we've got an appointment to go get killed as part of a paint-ball slaughter to prove that the CSF team isn't going to work. Am I right?"

  Harvard smiled, his eyes warm in the early morning light. "We might be about to die, but you and me, we're two of a kind, and you better believe we're going to go down fight­ing."

  Chapter 13

  They're definitely not with the government," Wesley re­ported, his usual megaphone reduced to a sotto voce. "They're too well-dressed."

  "Stay low." Blue McCoy's southern drawl lost most of its molasses-slow quality as he responded to Wes from his po­sition on the Irvin. "Stay out of sight until we know exactly who they are."

  Harvard rubbed the back of his neck, trying to relieve some of the tension that had settled in his shoulders. This exercise had escalated into a full-blown snafu in the blink of an eye.

  Wes reported that he and Bobby and Chuck Schneider were on a jungle road heading up the mountain when they'd heard the roar of an approaching truck. They'd gone into the crawl space beneath an abandoned building, purposely staying close to the road so they could check out whoever was driving by.

  It turned out to be not just one truck but an entire military convoy. And this convoy wasn't just riding by. They'd stopped. Six humvees and twenty-five transport trucks had pulled into the clearing. Soldiers dressed in ragged uniforms had begun to set up camp—directly around the building Bobby and Wes and Chuck were hiding in.

  They were pinned in place at least until nightfall.

  "No heroics." From the other side of the mountain, where his team was the closest to approaching the terrorist camp, Joe Cat added his own two cents to Blue's orders. "Do you copy, Skelly? Whoever they are, they've got real bullets in their weapons while you've only got paint balls."

  "I hear you, Captain," Wes breathed. "We're making our­selves very, very invisible."

  "Are the uniforms gray and green?" Crash asked.

  Harvard looked at him. They were laying low, hidden in the thickness of the jungle, a number of clicks downwind of Joe Cat's team.

  "Affirmative," Wes responded.

  P.J. was watching Crash, too. "Do you know who they are?" she asked.

  Lieutenant Hawken looked from PJ. to Harvard. Harvard didn't like the sudden edge in the man's crystal blue eyes. "Yes," Crash said. "They're the private army of Sun Yung Kim. He's known locally as the Korean, even though his mother is from the island. He's never moved his men this far north before."

  Harvard swore under his breath. "He's one of the drug lords you were talking about, right?"

  "Yes, he is."

  From the USS /rvm, Blue McCoy spoke. "Captain I sug­gest we eighty-six this exercise now before we find ourselves in even deeper—"

  "We're already in it up to our hips." Joe Cat's voice was tight with tension. "H., we're at the tree line near the Ma­rines' training camp. How far are you from us?"

  "Ten minutes away if you don't care who knows we're coming," Harvard responded. "Thirty if you do."

  Joe swore.

  "Ca
ptain, we're on our way." Harvard gestured for Haw-ken to take the point. As much as he wanted to lead the way, this island was Crash's territory. He could get them to Joe Cat more quickly.

  "Joe, what's happening?" Blue demanded, his lazy accent all but gone. "Sit rep, please."

  "We've got five, maybe six KIAs in the clearing outside the main building," Joe Cat reported. "Four of 'em are wear­ing gray and green uniforms. At least one looks like one of our Marines."

  KIA. Killed in action. Harvard could see PJ.'s shock re­flected in her eyes as she gazed at him. His tension rose. If they'd stumbled into a war zone, he wanted her out of here. He wanted her on the Irvin and heading far away, as fast as the ship could move.

  Unless...

  "Captain, could it be nothing more than an elaborate setup?" Harvard's brain had slipped into pre-combat mode, moving at lightning speed, searching for an explanation, try­ing to make sense of the situation. And the first thing to do was to prove that this situation was indeed real. Once he did that, then he'd start figuring out how the hell he was going to get P.J. to safety. "I wouldn't put it past the Marines to try to freak us out with fake bodies, fake blood..."

  "It's real, H." Joe Cat's voice left no room for doubt. "One of 'em crawled to the tree line before he died. He's not just pretending to be dead. This is a very real, very dead man. Whatever went down here probably happened during the night. The body's stone cold."

  Blue's voice cut in. "Captain, I got Admiral Stonegate on the phone, breathing down my neck. I'm calling y'all back to the ship. Code eighty-six, boys and girls. Dead bodies—in particular dead Marines—aren't part of this training scenario. Come on in, and let's regroup and—"

  "I've got movement and signs of life inside the main build­ing," Joe Cat interrupted. "Lucky's moving closer to see if any of our missing jarheads are being held inside. We're gonna try to ID exactly who and how many are holding 'em."

  "Probably not Kim's men," Crash volunteered. Over Har yard's headset, his voice sounded quiet and matter-of-fact. You couldn't tell that the man was moving at a near run up the mountain. "They wouldn't leave their own dead out at the mercy of the flies and vultures."