Copyright
Copyright © 2011 by Mary Margret Daughtridge
Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Jodi Welter/Sourcebooks
Cover photos © Cultura/Alamy; BlueMoon Stock/Alamy; Madja/Dreamstime.com
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
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
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
John Carl Roat, Martin L. Strong, Larry Bailey, and Rick Bremseth—all former SEALs. You’ve always been there for me. None of these books would have existed without your generosity.
And to all SEALs who have ever served or who serve now.
This one’s for you.
Prologue
If our soldiers are not overburdened with money, it is not because they have a distaste for riches; if their lives are not unduly long, it is not because they are disinclined to longevity.
—Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Brilliant Light beckoned. Garth refused to look at it. He concentrated instead on the hot, earthbound smells of blood, of blasted rock, of explosive residue, and helicopter exhaust. He knew what the Light was. He knew what happened to guys who let themselves go toward it.
“We gotta load you now, Lieutenant,” the medic checking the straps that held him in the basket said. This medic wasn’t his medic. His combat medic, the SEAL platoon’s hospital corpsman, was MIA somewhere in the dun-colored, dry, rocky hills surrounding the mud-walled Afghan village.
“Can’t… leave.” Garth put as much force of command as he could into his voice. It wasn’t much. “Have to… find Doc… first.”
“They’re looking for him. You’re bleeding bad, Lieutenant. The pressure bandage isn’t slowing it down much. I promise you, as soon as there’s word, I’ll find you and tell you.”
Garth knew what the medic was thinking: there might not be enough left of Doc to find.
Doc hadn’t been with the rest of the platoon when they were ambushed. Thinking he could be spared, Garth had sent him to another village to give medical aid. If not for Doc, they all would have died. Doc had called in air support, then had bought time with a one-man counterattack. His courage had put him in the kill zone of the friendly fire that had saved everyone else.
The searchers might not believe Doc was alive, but as long as Garth refused to be transported until Doc was located, they would try harder to find him fast. After what was called the Golden Hour, chances of survival dramatically decreased. If by some miracle Doc was still alive, he had the same Golden Hour that Garth did—and maybe needed it more.
The Light crept a little closer. With his vision darkening at the edges, it was harder not to look at it. He was conscious—the most conscious he had ever been—but his leg didn’t hurt as much. Which probably wasn’t a good sign.
“Wait,” he whispered. “Just a few more minutes. Wait.”
***
The Light came closer. Suddenly it flooded down from a sky so blue that his heart lifted in joy just to look at it. Fast-moving, perfect cottony clouds sailed the sky. They trailed shadows from one side of the meadow to the other. The shadows played tag and raced across the forest-covered encircling mountains.
There was something wrong with the way the aftermath-of-battle scene looked. Who cared? This was the prettiest meadow he’d seen in Afghanistan. A fresh breeze rippled lush green grass into satiny-looking waves. The grassy knoll Garth leaned against fit his shoulders and supported his head as if designed for him. The meadow was the perfect place for horses, and sure enough there were two—a black one and a brown one, their coats gleaming in the sunlight, grazing on the other side of the shallow stream that gurgled through the grass.
“It’s nice here.” He looked over at Doc who was propped against his own grassy knoll. Finding him hadn’t been hard at all. “Good choice of rest area.”
“Listen to the quiet. The sun is warm. The air is cool. I smell flowers and pine trees. Pine trees! Can you believe it? This place looks more like a high meadow in the Rockies than Afghanistan.”
Now that Garth thought about it, the area looked like his grandfather’s small horse ranch in Colorado. His grandfather had always called it a slice of heaven.
We’re losing him, Garth heard someone say. We’ve got to transport now.
“Okay. Time to go back.” Garth stood and dusted off his camo. The desert gray and tan looked out of place in this verdant spot.
Doc didn’t move. Garth looked down, surprised. He narrowed his eyes and let a snap of impatience into his voice. “You coming?”
Doc squinted up at him. “I don’t think so.”
“What?” He hadn’t issued an order or anything close, but the correct answer was Yes, boss. Insubordination wasn’t Doc’s style. Garth gave him the benefit of the doubt. “We can’t stay,” he explained.
Doc hooted as if he’d said something absurd. “Why not? I like it here. After I rest up, I’m going to ride the horses.” He gave the intervening area the thorough perusal of a man used to sizing up territory. “I’ll have to cross the stream to get to them. No cover, but I guess that won’t be a problem.”
“Doc, Davy,” Garth switched to the more personal name, hoping to make the point that he wasn’t just Doc’s commanding officer. “Listen to me. Come back. Now. They think you’re dead.”
Davy angled an eyebrow in an excessively patient look. “I am.”
&
nbsp; Garth never lifted his voice, but his men knew to look out when it became more gravelly. “I say you’re not.”
Davy sighed. “You know, Darth Vader, old pal—” Davy knitted his fingers together over his stomach. “You are seriously messing with my mood. If I don’t have a problem with it, I don’t see why you do.”
His men sometimes called Garth “Darth Vader” behind his back. It had probably started as a joking reference to his deep bass voice as well as a play on his name, but Garth had also earned it. He respected his men; he demanded their best; and he was fair in his praise and unflinching in his discipline. He watched out for them and kept careful track of their needs for food, for the comfort of a hot shower, and for rest. But he was not their pal. The more he had become what he needed to be to lead a SEAL platoon, the more permanently a mask of dark and dangerous implacability had set on his face.
The nickname wasn’t disrespectful. Vader, after all, was the consummate warrior—he just gave up much of his humanity to become so. Still, Garth’s men didn’t call him Darth Vader to his face. Davy’s mild impertinence chilled Garth; it showed how far from the real world Davy had already drifted.
“Get up. Now. That’s an order.”
“Go to hell, Lieutenant.” Davy smiled to show he meant no offense. “Go to Hell—get it? Funny, if you think about it.”
“They’re searching for you right now. I can’t keep them searching for long. We’re losing light.”
Davy shrugged. “They’ll find me come morning.”
Garth knelt and shoved his face close to Davy’s, determined to win through the sheer force of his will. “Listen up. Nobody saw you get hit. You might be alive.”
Like one of the scudding clouds, gentle pity crossed Davy’s face. “I told you, I’m not.”
A hollow feeling of unreality opened up in Garth’s chest. Unbelievably, Davy acted like the fight was already over. SEALs didn’t give up, dammit. SEALs never gave up as long as there was a chance. Nonplussed, he demanded, “How can you be so sure?”
“I never wanted anything but to be a SEAL. I couldn’t have gotten luckier than to die doing what I loved, serving my fellow SEALs. I fulfilled my destiny.”
“So you’re letting yourself die.”
Davy’s eyes shone. “I think it was the Plan. You know. What I was born to do.”
“Bullshit! There is no destiny except the destiny we make by making choices.”
Davy shrugged. “Fine. I chose to die. Happy now? I knew I wouldn’t survive before I took the first shot. You know how the instructors always used to tell us, ‘A man alone in battle will not survive’?” His brown eyes twinkled with gleeful understatement. “Turns out they were right.”
Guilt twisted in Garth’s gut. It was his fault Davy had been alone. He tried another tack. “Isn’t there anything you want to live for?”
“To be a SEAL. I’ve done that.”
At last Garth understood why Davy was content to die. He even envied him. He wished he could feel as complete and at peace. Like Davy, once upon a time all Garth had wanted to be was a SEAL. Now he was one. He just wasn’t sure the SEAL he had become was the SEAL he had wanted to be.
The SEAL he had wanted to be was willing to take on the hard jobs and ready always to defend his country, a man who fought for liberty, for justice. A man of compassion who would use his strength in service of others.
The SEAL he had thought he would be was the man who went behind enemy lines and struck at the heart of a terrorist organization. He would not only protect his country; he would also spare society the chaos and destruction of a direct attack.
The SEAL he had had to be was callous. The SEAL he had become focused on the mission’s objectives and ignored the screams of women and the wails of children. The SEAL he had to be was as unmoved by the pain and suffering he caused as by the pain and suffering he endured. His shell had him retreating in horror from his own self. On the inside he had contracted tighter and tighter.
He couldn’t change Davy’s mind, but that didn’t mean he was quitting. He had come here to find Davy because he had to make something come out right from the debacle he had led his men into. Davy was the best of them. He couldn’t allow Davy to be the only man he lost.
Nobody called Davy “Darth Vader” behind his back.
He was not going to let Davy die alone on some unnamed hillside. He couldn’t. Davy’s death would inflict deep and lasting grief on everyone in the platoon. Garth had the trust and respect of his men. Davy had their love.
“I won’t leave without you. You will come back with me. You don’t feel like walking? I’ll carry you.”
Doc’s brown eyes glittered with challenge. His lip curled. “You think you can handle me?” He looked Garth up and down. His eyes widened in shock when he saw the dark blood that soaked Garth’s camo pants from his hip to his knee—funny, until now Garth hadn’t noticed it either. “Whoa. That doesn’t look good, Boss. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
Garth would use any leverage he could get. He piled on the guilt. “Hell, yeah. Every minute I stand here arguing with you, I’m losing more!”
Doc scrambled to his feet, all medic now. “Where are you hit?”
“Hip, top of the thigh, something. Doesn’t matter. Come on, we gotta get out of here.”
“It’s okay,” Doc slung Garth’s arm over his shoulder. With his other arm he supported Garth’s back. “I’ve got you. We’ll get you out.”
The rumble of helos battered the peace of the meadow. “How’s the pain, Lieutenant? Need something for the pain?”
“It was bad at first.” Garth was grateful for Doc’s arm. “I don’t feel it much now. I can walk—only a few more steps—we can make it. Just don’t let go.”
I won’t let go. A warm hand clasped Garth’s icy fingers. Compared to his, the hand felt almost hot.
“Corpsman, up!” Despite the heavy whoomp of helicopter blades, Garth heard the radio call for a medic. “Tell the lieutenant we’ve found his man. Tell ’im, it’s good news.”
***
The light dimmed. Garth couldn’t see the meadow anymore. His eyelids were too heavy to open. He smelled blood and dust; hot oil and plastic smell of machines; the occasional clean, sharp whiff of antiseptic.
Hot fingers… the hot fingers were still… there. Garth squeezed them. Finally found the word he was trying to say. “Hurt.”
“Morphine coming up.”
The Light was gone. Garth felt more comfortable in the dark.
Chapter 1
It is said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you will not be imperiled in a hundred battles; if you do not know your enemies but do know yourself, you will win one and lose one; if you do not know your enemies nor yourself, you will be imperiled in every single battle.
—Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Everything was okay until Bronwyn saw white satin wedding decorations draping the curved staircase in the entry hall of her friend’s ancestral home—and if not precisely okay, then manageable. She wasn’t sure she ever expected to be okay again.
Although to tell the truth, even manageable was an overstatement. JJ, Bronwyn’s best friend, wanted Bronwyn at her side when she married, reason enough to come to North Carolina at a moment’s notice, but on her best days, Bronwyn was a white-knuckle flier. The doctor, whose ability to remain calm in the ER was legendary, became one quivering nerve the second she felt the plane’s cabin pressurize.
To get here, she had had to pull back-to-back shifts—the only way she could get another resident to trade with her on a Thanksgiving weekend—packed an overnight bag, arrived at the airport only to find out the flight was delayed, and survived a flight so rough the seat belt sign had never turned off and even the flight attendants had stayed buckled in for the entire trip from Baltimore to North Carolina.
Still, she’d been hanging
on. She had gotten through the flight without breaking down by promising herself she could relax when she got to JJ’s grandfather’s great big mansion because the wedding would be small, and her part miniscule. No big deal. All that was expected of her was to stand beside JJ while a judge read the wedding ceremony and then shake hands with a few people afterward. And since there was about as much romance in her friend’s decision to marry a Navy SEAL as there was in the average car rental agreement, Bronwyn hadn’t thought there would be any reason to brace herself against an onslaught of emotion.
But then she had blown through the front door—literally—pushed by a wet gust of the same tropical storm that caused the rough flight.
In the soaring, classically proportioned entry hall, where the Waterford chandelier was already lit to dispel the gloom of the day, the elegantly curved staircase had been embellished with white satin swags caught up at intervals with nosegays of burgundy roses interspersed with tiny tea light roses and delicate baby’s breath.
The newel posts were flanked by towering arrangements of the same flowers in priceless Limoges vases. Branches of candles on tall stands waited to be lit. The staircase, the whole entry, had been decorated to frame a bride’s dramatic descent.
The setting spoke of tenderness and elegance and gaiety and so much damn hope.
She wasn’t braced. The bottom dropped out of Bronwyn’s stomach. Her knees threatened to buckle.
She loved JJ with her whole heart. She would do anything in the world for her. But she was very afraid she had just run into the one thing she could not do—act the part of the happy bridesmaid.
Still, she was here for JJ, and somehow, despite exhaustion that made her feel like she was trapped in quicksand, despite thoughts of Troy and what might have been, she had to keep hanging on.
“Was the flight horrible?” Beautiful JJ excused herself from the teenaged boy she had been talking to and rushed forward to envelop Bronwyn in a hug, the scalloped lace train of her white wedding dress belling behind her. “I’m so glad you’re here, but I’m so sorry you had to fly in this weather.”
Bronwyn and JJ didn’t do air kisses, and they didn’t do hugs where no body parts came into contact. When JJ’s arms came around her, Bronwyn allowed her head to be pillowed by JJ’s breast. JJ was as tall and voluptuous as Bronwyn was tiny and delicate. She and JJ had decided years ago that they could either live forever feeling awkward about hugs, or they could decide they were complete equals, the discrepancy in their size notwithstanding.
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