“He didn’t deserve this,” Dom said.
“No, he didn’t,” Miguel said. “He was a damn good guy.”
Miguel was one of the longest-serving men in Dom’s field group. He’d been on almost every mission. In fact, Miguel had been one of the first people to set foot on the Huntress after Dom and Thomas. Dom figured that had to count for something. The man deserved his captain’s complete honesty.
“If something doesn’t change in this war, if we don’t start getting real support soon...” Dom let the words fade and started over. “You all are the best goddamn crew I could wish for, but you’re not stupid, and I’m not going to treat you like you are. This war will devour each and every one of us.” He paused, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand as he looked at Spencer. “If this becomes a war of attrition, we’re going to lose.”
Now Miguel looked at him. “You’re right, Chief. Each time this happens”—he motioned to Spencer—“it kills me a little bit, too. These are my brothers and sisters. This is my family.” He pressed his palms into his eyes. “Jesus Christ, it seems like just yesterday we lost Renee, and now Spence.”
A knot caught in Dom’s throat, and for a moment he couldn’t speak without risking his voice trembling. His thoughts hadn’t strayed far from Renee, either. In the Congo, as Renee was quietly dying, they had chosen to go on. Only they hadn’t realized the extent of Renee’s injuries. Of course, retreating to the Huntress hadn’t been an option then, with Skulls, Goliaths, and Droolers clamoring along their route back to the ship. Still, as he let the anger subside, a flood of anguish drowned his mind.
Right or wrong, Dom’s decisions determined the fate of his crew. Today, that meant losing Spencer. Tomorrow, it might be Miguel or Meredith or even Dom himself. He combed his hand over his forehead and through his short-cropped hair. Then he turned to Miguel.
“This used to be about saving the world,” Dom said. “I thought we could do it alone. But the only thing that’s being stopped is us. We need some real goddamn leadership to step up. Everyone we meet makes promises about wiping out the Skulls and the FGL. But when push comes to shove, it’s us doing the work.”
“We need more people out here fighting the real fight,” Miguel said. He absentmindedly scraped his foot along on the floor. “More boots on the ground.”
“You got that right,” Dom said. “If anything is a wakeup call to our allies, it has got to be the fact that the FGL has access to nuclear weapons.”
“Biological weapons were bad enough.” Miguel sighed and swiped a hand under his eyes one last time. “These guys are like the worst kind of hoarders. Instead of collecting malnourished cats or creepy dolls, they’re hoarding every damn weapon of mass destruction they can get their hands on.”
For a moment they both leaned against the wall in silence. The soft murmurs of the rest of the group were drowned out by the rainfall. Miguel toyed with his prosthetic arm, unlatching the panel to reveal the wiring and gadgets beneath then locking it again.
Miguel was the first to speak. “Chief, I admire you. I really do. You got a hell of a sense of ethics. Kind of like the code those chivalrous knights were supposed to live up to. All this ‘for the greater good’ stuff really drives you, and I respect that.” His eyes met Dom’s. “But sometimes it really fucking sucks. It sucks that you can sacrifice one of us when you think it means we’re going to save the rest of the world.”
“I’m doing what’s necessary,” Dom said. “This isn’t just about saving the rest of the world, but saving us, too. We’re in just as much danger if the FGL uses nukes as anyone back home.”
“Logically, I understand that shit. You know what Spence used to say? You can frost a turd, but it still tastes like shit. No matter how you try to reason it away, no matter how much sense it makes, no matter how much the whole goddamn rest of the world needs us, it still sucks.”
Dom wanted to respond, but he knew better. Talk like this wouldn’t fly in a normal rank-and-file situation, but the Hunters were no typical combat unit. Miguel had every right to speak his mind, and the best thing Dom could do now was shut up and listen.
“You talk about the lack of global leadership,” Miguel continued, building up a head of steam, “but what about our leadership? Yours is killing us, Chief. It’s fucking killing us. How many of us need to die before you get that?” His face was red now, and a vessel in his forehead bulged. “When I was in Iraq, I watched my brothers die. All of them ripped apart in one goddamn explosion because we missed an IED that day. I was the only survivor, and for years it was the absolute most horrific thing I’d ever been through. I asked God why he didn’t take me, too. Why’d he let me live like this.” He held up his prosthetic arm.
Miguel sucked in a breath, his gaze growing distant. “I thought that was the worst fucking thing in the world, losing them all like that. But I was wrong.” He laughed, the kind of laugh that someone halfway between anger and sadness lets out because they have no idea how else to respond. “I was so wrong. Watching my family die like this, one at a time, is way worse.”
Dom wanted to defend himself and his ability to lead. It wasn’t his fault that they’d lost so many Hunters. But Miguel’s criticisms hinted at a deeper problem. For every Hunter that succumbed to physical injuries and perished, every survivor had their own psychic wounds. Wounds that would fester and spread, like the one plaguing Miguel now.
There was only one thing that Dom could offer Miguel in that moment. All the dumb military flicks out there, the ones that focused on the glory of battle, ignored the reality of a warrior—the unbreakable bond between those that served together, even mercenaries. Those action flicks celebrated bravado and heroics. But they didn’t show what happened in moments like this.
Miguel was usually the one that buoyed others’ moods, employing good humor like a weapon. Seeing him so shaken tore Dom apart. He had to figure out something to keep his crew together, to remind them why they were in this fight. Dom embraced Miguel and patted the man’s back. There wasn’t much that could be said, but he gave it a try anyway.
“Every goddamn day seems dark. Tomorrow is probably going to be darker. But as long as I’m alive, I’m going to fight that darkness so no one else has to go through what we have to.”
Miguel pulled back. If he felt any shame in his emotional outburst, he didn’t show it. And for God’s sake, Dom didn’t want him to feel any.
“I’m good, Chief,” Miguel said, waving him away. “I get why you made the call. I get why we’re doing what we’re doing. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hate that we’re the ones doing it.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” Dom said. His fingers curled into a fist again. Jenna, Andris, Meredith, Frank, and O’Neil were now circled around the small fire, sipping cups of coffee. “I feel ridiculous even saying it, but the last thing I want to see is any of you...” He paused, choking down the emotion threatening to overcome him. “The last thing I want is to lose any of you. We’ve devoted ourselves to stopping the Oni Agent. And you’re right. At times maybe the ethics that drive me are all my own. But I’m not going to stop now, because this is beyond just saving a bunch of hapless civvies.”
Dom shook his head. “That Russian bastard has made this more than a mission. He has made this personal, and I’ll be damned if he makes it out of this war alive.”
“Thanks, Chief,” Miguel said. “I don’t know about you, but I could use some shit coffee made by some guy who looks like he’s half dead.”
“I didn’t think there were any Starbucks around.”
Miguel grinned and clapped Dom on the shoulder. There was a little bit of that good-natured spirit again, even if it was forced. They joined the others telling stories about Spencer. Soon they’d have a real ceremony. But for now, there was no better way to honor the man than an impromptu wake—if only they had stronger drinks.
They carried on, the mood shifting between bouts of laughter and solemn, shaky voices. Thomas continued to supply them with
updates on the Huntress’s position as it trailed the Karlstad, and Ronaldo called to assure them that his people were on their way. The cavalry would not be long.
Jenna took another sip of the grainy coffee then wiped her lips with the back of her sleeve. “Remember that time we took Spence to a bar in Beirut?”
Glenn raised an eyebrow. “A bar? You talking about that place with all the neon lights and froufrou light-up cocktails? I’d hardly call that a bar.”
“Whatever, you’d—”
Dom held up a hand. The others immediately went silent. Miguel half stood, his fingers wrapped around his rifle. “I thought I heard something.”
Then there was a muffled pop. It sounded like a soft-drink can exploding. A second one followed.
“There, you hear that?” he asked.
The others had already started to gather their equipment.
Then the pops were louder. It was gunfire, no doubt about it. But even worse was the noise that followed. An earth-shaking roar that could only be from one source: an incoming Goliath.
-23-
“The drone is still trailing us,” Lieutenant Daftary said.
“I am not blind,” Admiral Mokri said. On the monitors in front of Daftary, a display showed the drone’s position in relation to the Karlstad.
“It would be very easy to eliminate, sir,” Daftary said.
“It would be,” Mokri agreed. Such a decision seemed obvious to a mere lieutenant like Daftary. But eliminating the drone was precisely the wrong move at that moment. “We do not want to do that. It’s better that we track their drone.”
“But they’ll follow us to the rendezvous point.”
“They won’t make it that far,” Mokri said.
Daftary gave him a nonplussed look. “Is this part of Spitkovsky’s plan?”
“It is part of my plan,” Mokri said, perhaps a bit too defensively. “We want the Hunters to follow us. Better to keep them close. If they think they’re tracking us, then we have them on a leash. It is much easier to shoot a rabid dog on a leash than one running loose.”
“Ah, I see,” Daftary said, leaning into the radar screen. “I would assume, even if we did shoot it down, they would close the distance. They aren’t stupid; they know what we have.”
“You are right not to underestimate the enemy. They most certainly know what we’ve taken from Cesta. But I do not want to risk them getting any closer to us than they are.”
The hatch to the bridge opened. The tall, muscular form of Sergeant Semenov marched in like a specter of death. He still hadn’t washed the bloodstains from the bone plates covering his chest. For all Mokri knew, Semenov wore the blood of his victims like a macabre badge of honor. In fact, he’d be willing to bet the Karlstad that was the case.
“They are still following us,” Semenov rasped, halfway between a question and an accusation.
“Yes, they are in pursuit,” Mokri said.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Daftary twist back to his monitor, eager to avoid facing the Hybrid. Mokri’s eyes narrowed. The Hybrids enjoyed striking fear in the rest of the normal human crew. It was almost a sport to them. Mokri hadn’t witnessed it, but he’d heard the whispers from his lieutenants of Hybrids marching down the corridors, forcing the Iranians to shrink out of the way. As a Hybrid passed, he would hiss or lunge or make some other barbaric gesture of aggression, invariably causing the victim crew member to flinch. Bullies was all they were. And yet, he could do virtually nothing about it. They were near immune to his reprimands. Threats of temporary imprisonment in the brig—and even more than threats—did little to change their behavior.
“And why does their pursuit concern you?” Mokri finally asked.
“Because they must be stopped,” Semenov said. “Because we can stop them.”
Mokri understood the insult behind Semenov’s words. Semenov wasn’t referring to the crew of the Karlstad as “we”; he meant only to refer to the Hybrids.
“We will stop them, but we will do it my way,” Mokri said. “I have already coordinated this with Spitkovsky. They are waiting on the Ionian Sea to intercept.”
“You will wait that long to act against them?” Semenov’s eyes glowed red. “We must strike them while they are desperate and split up. This is the best time.”
“I disagree. And I am in command of this vessel.”
Semenov strode forward. His fetid breath washed over Mokri. There was no respect for rank with the Hybrids. Undoubtedly, that was the result of the brutal genetic tampering with their physiology and their brains. Or perhaps they’d been bastards to begin with.
“What do you expect us to do? Sit here and rot on the ship when we could eliminate all our problems in one mission?”
“I expect you to wait on my command,” Mokri said. “We will not destroy their drone, and we will not attack them head-on. That is foolish and suicidal.”
“It is not suicide when you know you will defeat them,” Semenov said.
“Your arrogance knows no bounds. When they infected you with that agent, did it give you claws but remove your common sense?”
“I could tear out your heart right now,” Semenov said.
The Hybrid’s words rang true. He could see those claws slicing through his flesh, those gray muscles powering Semenov’s fist through his ribs. A heavy weight pulled at his insides, something he hadn’t felt since Spitkovsky had first told him he’d “watch” over his family in Moscow.
Mokri was afraid.
“You will not do that,” Mokri said.
“And why not?”
“Because even though you could, you cannot command a ship like this. You would sink it before you’d even reach the Huntress. You and I both know, even if my heart were lying under your foot, I would not be the unluckiest person aboard this ship. That honor would go to you when Spitkovsky found out how you had screwed our directive.”
Semenov still glared at him for a moment. Finally, he took a step back, breaking eye contact. Mokri inhaled.
“Why don’t we fight them?” Semenov asked. A primal hunger still shook his voice, but it was not so brazen as before. “We could sink them with a torpedo or a damn anti-ship missile.” His eyes narrowed. “Let us loose, and every last one of them is dead.”
“We could do those things, sure,” Mokri said. The deck bucked beneath his feet as they hit a large wave. He never lost his sea legs and stood tall. But Semenov was no man of the ocean, and he stumbled before catching himself on the bulkhead. Mokri took a quiet pleasure in seeing Semenov unsteady for once. “Attacking them now might work. But if it does not, we stand to lose so much more. Should they land a lucky hit, we may lose the warheads. And if we were to lose them, no matter how unlikely it may seem to you, then things become much more difficult for us.”
“The Hunters need to die.”
“It’s not that I disagree with you. But timing is crucial. We cannot risk these warheads. These are things a mere sergeant should not be worried over.”
Another wave rocked the boat. Semenov looked like a man at the edge of a desert mirage awaiting the drop of water that would never come. “At least tell me what you are doing with the nuclear weapons.”
“What we plan to do with these weapons is not your concern,” Mokri said. Truthfully, there was no reason he couldn’t tell the Hybrid. But he enjoyed wielding what power he had over the half man, half monster. “There is a reason Spitkovsky chose me to lead this mission and not you. We will destroy the Hunters, and we will deliver these weapons.” He gave Semenov as patronizing a look as he could muster. “And we don’t need you anymore to do it.”
Then he scooped up a handset, turning his back to the Hybrid. He dialed the encrypted channel for their allies waiting for them in the Ionian Sea. “Admiral Essen, this is the Karlstad. We are approximately three hours from your position. The Huntress is nearly three hundred klicks south. You are free to intercept.”
***
Kara strode down the passageway beside Alden Jorgen
son, one of the Huntress’s engineers. The hum of the engines resounded through the bulkhead, and when he opened a hatch to the engine room, that hum became a palpable force hammering against her. Even through the special headphone-like earmuffs used to protect her hearing, her eardrums felt like trampolines being used by a pack of Goliaths.
Alden motioned for her to follow him deeper into the sweltering heat and cramped space of the engine room. The place felt like a dystopian jungle with pipes and wires and all manner of equipment snaking everywhere. The atmosphere was heady with the scent of diesel and oil, and the air had a slightly metallic taste.
“Wow!” Kara marveled. She doubted Alden could hear her amid the chaos, but he grinned, understanding her expression all the same. Everything that kept this ship running was down in this room. Before coming down here, she’d naively imagined a vast space filled with something akin to coal-burning furnaces with a mass of people crawling between them like ants. But her notions were nothing like the computer-controlled, tight space she saw now.
Alden pointed out key features and mouthed the names they’d gone over previously. That bulbous, screaming piece of equipment was the gas turbine, and there was the chugging, growling diesel engine, all part of the CODOG, the combined diesel or gas system that propelled the Huntress to considerable speeds. Alden mouthed the words “reduction gearbox,” a term Kara had never heard before ten minutes ago. He gestured to a rotund, gray metal contraption like a sideways barrel.
“Pump,” Alden mouthed.
That was the whining pump that drove water from the intakes, increasing pressure through centrifugal flow and jetting the water out of the stern. Closer to Alden was the reversing gearbox that changed the direction of water flow should the ship need to abruptly slow or reverse thrust. Alden had told her earlier that reversing water flow also cleared the intake grill of seaweed and other debris.
The Tide_Ghost Fleet Page 17