by Aiden Bates
"Twenty-seven. But you should have seen the other guys." He waved a hand.
Trent covered his eyes. "Don't tell me things like that."
"Trent —"
"Mal." He held up a hand. "I already know we're not going to agree. You've got your reasons, and I've got mine. You're going to do what you need to do, and I can't fault you for it, but we both know hearing about it is going to turn me into a raging asshole. So maybe don't give me details?"
Mal looked up at the ceiling for a moment, like he was thinking about it. "Okay. I think I can agree to that."
"Awesome." Trent grinned and took Mal's hand. "I've missed you. I've been worried about you, and I've missed you."
Mal blushed, just a little. "I've missed you too, you know."
It wasn't the perfect reunion. That ship had sailed, and Trent had lifted the anchor himself. It was a good reunion, though. Maybe it was a stronger reunion, because they'd talked and agreed about how to handle the huge disagreement they couldn't reconcile.
They met up every day for the next few days. They both had responsibilities, but they made a point of getting together for dinner, at least. It didn't quite bring back what they'd had in Souda, but it still gave Trent a warm feeling in his chest.
On Friday, DeWitt called Trent into a meeting in the kitchen, along with Fitzpatrick, Tinker, Hopper, Floyd, Robson, Toledano, and Iniguez. His dark eyes were narrow, and his back was straight. "Men, I've gotten orders from home. Navy Intelligence has received word of an ISIS cell on Corsica. We're the closest unit, and I've been ordered to send men in to clear it out."
Trent frowned. Something didn't quite add up. "Permission to speak?"
DeWitt nodded. He didn't generally stand on ceremony.
"Sir, doesn't it seem a little odd to you that Intel hasn't picked up on any of the cells around here, but suddenly they picked up on this one? Every cell in the area we've found has come through the Wolves or from the two guys we have in custody. I'm not knocking Navy Intel. They do good work, and they're brave guys. Even we didn't know about White Dawn six months ago, and all of these cells have links to those fuckers."
Robson nodded. "Yeah, this stinks, sir. Nothing against Navy Intel, but we were all told to stand down from investigating anything to do with White Dawn. That includes them. If all of the 'ISIS' cells around here have White Dawn ties, and they're not supposed to be having anything to do with White Dawn, then this cell is making my spidey senses go all tingly."
"Those aren't spidey senses, Robson. Stop touching yourself at night and they'll go away." DeWitt made a face at Robson, and the men laughed despite the tension. "I will admit that I'm a little curious about how Intel came across this batch of playmates. That said, it's not really for us to question it. Navy Intelligence is very good at what they do. Maybe this cell isn't contaminated by White Dawn. Maybe they're just your garden variety terrorists looking to cause mayhem and take out a bunch of good people. Maybe there's nothing there at all.
"We can wonder all we want about exactly how they found out about these bastards, but at the end of the day what we're going to do is follow our orders. We have to trust the chain of command. SEALs are very expensive assets. They're not about to waste us frivolously. They carefully vet any missions they send us on."
Something about this whole scenario still made Trent's spine sit funny, but he nodded all the same. If DeWitt's narrowed eyes and stiff spine were any indication, he had the same suspicions. DeWitt would escalate any issues or problems if shit really hit the fan.
Trent had to trust the process.
He got his gear together and prepared for the mission. He'd done this sort of thing often enough he could have packed in his sleep. A hunch made him toss an extra-small medical kit into his pack. It added weight, but he'd gladly take the annoyance of a heavier pack if it meant his men made it home.
Before he went downstairs, he took a minute to send Mal a message through the secure account they'd set up for him. Technically, Trent shouldn't say anything to Mal. He hadn't been given permission to read Mal in, and he'd noticed Morna hadn't been one of those selected for this job. He wasn't about to go and disappear on the man he loved and the father of his child, without letting him know.
Heading out on a job. Mission to Corsica. Seems a little fishy. Will let you know when I get back.
His heart raced, straining against his ribcage after he'd sent the message. It was the closest he'd come to breaking orders in his life. Was his dad going to rise from the grave to come and court-martial Trent himself? What if someone from the other side got ahold of the message? No matter how good anyone thought they were, someone else could always be better.
He couldn't afford to think about it right now. He had a team that needed him. He raced back down the stairs to join them, and the eight men marched out to an unmarked van to be driven to a small boat.
They hurried below decks to get the specifics about their mission. They knew the cell was hiding out in a wild area in the northwest part of the island. The boat they were on was headed to southern Italy. The SEALs would disembark via small craft under cover of darkness and head out into the wilderness. Robson had a machine that would allow him to triangulate off the enemy's cell signals and satellite usage, so they would follow that until they found them.
It was, in essence, a bug hunt. They would find them, exterminate them, and return with any evidence. It should be a cake walk.
The water was already noticeably chilly at this time of year. Their wetsuits offered some protection, but not enough. Trent had to grit his teeth against the chill as they battled the rough sea toward their landing target. Once there, all eight men hauled their raft up onto the shore and hid it in some scrub. They had to hope no one would find it. If they did, it wasn't the end of the world. DeWitt would send someone out to get them.
Robson activated his tracker, and it lit on a signal right away. That signal was ten miles inland. Trent didn't exactly relish the idea of a ten mile hike at double time through unknown territory, but complaining wouldn't get it done any faster. He set out along the path indicated — across acres of vineyards and olive groves — and got started.
At least the olive trees would give them some cover.
Their hike took them about two hours. Trent wasn't cold anymore when they got to their destination, but he would be once he stopped moving and the sweat got a chance to cool. He wouldn't let himself feel it until later, though. Right now, he had other things on his mind, starting with the fact that this job had gone sideways before it ever got off the ground.
They were supposed to be going after an ISIS cell. ISIS cells in Europe tended to be small. They didn't want to attract attention. This site was huge, filled with canvas tents and even trailers. There had to be a hundred men here. Trent could smell diesel generators, and he could smell port-a-potties.
He could smell roasting pork. That, in and of itself, ruled out ISIS.
He turned to Robson. "Are you sure we're in the right place, buddy?"
"These are the right signals." Robson showed him the screen. "I'm not sure what's going on. It looks like a regular campground. Smells like one, too."
"Except for that flag." Hopper pointed to a flagpole in the middle of the encampment. Instead of the French flag, or even the Corsican flag, was a silk banner with the White Dawn logo in the center.
The campers made sure people could see exactly who they were, by aiming spotlights directly at their standard.
"There have to be hundreds of people here," Toledano whispered, eyes wide.
"We've faced worse odds." Trent grabbed his gun. "We just have to readjust our strategy. Tinker, get on the horn and let DeWitt know the situation."
Orders were orders, after all.
Chapter Seventeen
Mal was trawling through the data on the three White Dawn members' devices when he got Trent's message. The message definitely gave him cause for concern. Mal hadn't ever served in a formal, legal military organization, but he'd dealt
with enough of them — and passed himself off as part of them — often enough to know how they worked.
Trent shouldn't have sent that message. Trent wasn't allowed to send that message. Trent valued the SEALs, the Navy, and his country more than he valued anything else in the world. If Trent, of all people, was willing to reach out to someone like Mal and tell him the orders he'd just received were dodgy, then something was wrong indeed.
Mal definitely worried. He just couldn't do anything about his concerns, not yet. Morna didn't know much. She might be staying with the SEALs, but the only ones who knew anything were the ones who'd gone out on the mission.
And that gave all of the SEALs a little bit of pause to include the lieutenant who'd sent them out on the job.
Mal worried at his lip. He could handle this one of three ways. He could find a church and kneel down in prayer, but neither of his parents had been at all religious. He didn't know any prayers, and anyway, he was pretty sure if there was a God he didn't have much of an interest in Mal.
He could scream, cry, and yell. It wouldn't be at all effective, but it would express his sentiments perfectly.
Or he could get to work getting to the bottom of the issue. It wouldn't be easy. Trent hadn't given him much information, and the information Trent had given him was questionable at best. Take "fishy." If Trent had said, We're supposed to be going after Daesh but that's stupid there aren't any targets on Corsica, Mal would have a place to start. Instead, he'd said, Seems fishy. What did that even mean? Did the orders not seem legitimate? Did Lt. DeWitt seem like he was under duress when he gave them?
Did the orders somehow, improbably, involve actual fish?
Mal had no way of getting to Corsica, and no way of narrowing down where on the island they were. He might be able to scour DeWitt's communications, but hacking the Navy was more trouble than it was usually worth and probably wouldn't do wonders for Trent's alleged attempt to get Mal into the States.
Well, every Daesh cell they'd come across in France for the past six months had ties to White Dawn. Mal had just seized laptops and phones belonging to three White Dawn members. A Daesh cell on Corsica would probably be in communication with a White Dawn cell near Toulon, right? After all, there was a damn ferry between Corsica and Toulon.
He turned back to the data. It took a while for him to find what he was looking for. Part of the reason was he started his search looking for the wrong thing.
He started out looking for mentions of Daesh or for any Arabic names. He shouldn't have. When two hours of heavy-duty data trawling, with his best programs, turned up nothing he tried again. This time he searched for Corsica.
Mal's blood ran cold when he saw the memo. It had been hidden deep in the deleted messages on the third machine, but it was still there. A gathering of White Dawn members had been scheduled to take place on Corsica for two to three weeks at the end of October to the beginning of November. There would be hundreds of them, celebrating their ideas about racial supremacy, and planning the next year's worth of mayhem.
And, according to the sender, a special surprise entertainment was planned.
Mal hadn't experienced much morning sickness during his pregnancy, but now he ran to the bathroom and vomited. He threw up until he couldn't throw up any more. When he was reduced to dry heaving, he copied everything he had onto a thumb drive and raced out the door. He had to get Trent out of there.
Virginia, America, even the baby didn't matter. All he cared about was making sure Trent survived.
The barracks house — just a house, really, but apparently they'd turned it into a barracks — wasn't far from the hotel. Mal ran for it, and he hammered on the door. He reached for his lock picks until he saw Morna's face.
"Jesus Christ, Mal, what are you doing here at three o'clock in the morning?"
Mal pushed past her and into the house. "What are you doing up at three o'clock in the morning? Also, I need to see the Master Chief."
"Chief is sleeping. You don't want to disturb him before coffee. He's not a morning person." She crossed her arms over her chest and shifted her weight to one foot. "And I'm standing guard. What does it look like I'm doing, needlepoint?"
"Look. It's important. Their men have just been sent into a death trap." Mal grabbed his sister's arm. "Either go wake Chief, or help me steal a boat and I'll go take care of it myself." He let her go. "And you've been here for too long if you know just who's a morning person and who isn't."
Morna rolled her eyes at him, but she went off to get the Master Chief. "You're not stealing a boat, Malachi O'Donnell. You're pregnant, and you don't know how to drive a boat."
"Get him or we'll find out just how fast I learn!" he yelled as she ran up the stairs.
Chief lumbered down the stairs after Morna not a minute later. "What is it?" he asked, face like a thundercloud.
Mal's insides did a little twist, but he stood firm. He might or might not be able to take Chief in a fair fight, but he refused to be intimidated. "Your men have walked into a trap. That Corsica raid isn't a Daesh cell. It's a gathering of hundreds of White Dawn members. And they have 'special entertainment' planned for the troops."
Chief's eyes bulged. "You can't possibly know that. You can't even know where they are. I didn't even know where they are."
"Spare me the hand wringing about need to know until after you've gotten everyone you sent into that ambush safely home, yeah?" Mal clenched his hands into fists and tried to remember throwing a punch would be the wrong solution here. "There are hundreds of White Dawn men there."
Chief narrowed his eyes at Mal. "I don't like your attitude."
"I don't like anything about this. But I am giving you the opportunity to solve this before I head over to Corsica myself, and if there's even a hair out of place on Trent's head I swear to all that's holy — and unholy, I am not picky — that I will personally hunt down each and every one of you bastards and skin you alive." Mal spoke through gritted teeth. "And I will start with that lieutenant of yours, because we both know he's the one who gave the damn order."
Morna inserted herself between them. "All right, boys, put them away. Mal, Trent's out there because he followed orders and because he's concerned about his friends. He wants to be there and he's willing to take those risks. Chief, you've already seen a thousand times that Mal finds things out that other people don't. If he's telling you something's going on, maybe you might want to think about listening instead of getting your knickers into a twist about it. He's not one of your men." She pushed them apart, gently but with purpose. "I'll go put some coffee on. Maybe you want to wake the lieutenant up, Chief. This sounds like the sort of thing he should hear about, especially if his skin is at stake."
Chief spared a moment to glower at Mal before he stomped up the stairs again, and Morna disappeared into the kitchen.
Lt. DeWitt followed Chief down the stairs moments later, dressed in sweats and an old tee shirt. "What the hell is this I'm hearing about you threatening me and my men?" he asked, dark eyes blazing.
Mal let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, that's rich. You sent your men into a god damned death trap but I'm the bad guy here. You know what? I'm out. I'll get them out myself." Mal turned on his heel and walked toward the door.
DeWitt grabbed his wrist and tugged, spinning him around. Mal didn't think, he just reacted. His fist connected with DeWitt's nose. When DeWitt doubled over in shock, Mal brought his knee up into the officer's chin. "Your men don't get to do that because you're their commanding officer. I don't answer to you. You don't get to put your hands on me." He looked from DeWitt to Chief and at Morna too. She'd apparently gone native with the SEALs. "None of you do. I'll rescue them myself because I care about their lives more than I care about whatever asinine orders you got that made you send them into a nest of hundreds of White Dawn bastards."
"Mal, wait." Morna rushed forward. "Why don't you tell me why you think he's gone into a White Dawn nest?"
"Could you sound a little more patronizing?"
Mal snorted. "I'm pregnant, not delusional. I found a message on one of the computers I took from the White Dawn cell I took out a few days ago." A radio squawked from another room, which might have been the kitchen. Morna ran off to answer it.
DeWitt frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. His nose was bleeding badly, but he didn't move to take care of himself. "And how do I know that's the truth, hm? How do I know you didn't just make the whole thing up? Navy Intel is tried. Proven. Verified and trustworthy. We've spent over two centuries trusting the chain of command. You're some young punk, the kind of omega who willingly gets pregnant by foreign sailors, and a terrorist to boot. You kill without trial, without orders, and without any kind of command at all. Why in the hell would I take your word for it?"
"Take my word or don't." He threw his hands up in the air. "They're your men. I haven't steered you wrong yet, and I don't even like you. But you can take it up with someone else. I'm on my way to Corsica. Just stay out of my way."