Harvard's Education

by Suzanne Brockmann

  "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 grey 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 P.J. 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 Irvin, 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.

  "Captain, we're on our way." Harvard gestured for Hawken 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 P.J.'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 Harvard'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."

  "If not Sun Yung Kim's men, then whose?" Harvard asked, watching P.J. work to keep up with Crash. He was well aware that he was disobeying Blue's direct order. And he was taking P.J. in the wrong direction. He should be leading her down this mountain, not up it. Not farther away from the ocean and the safety of the USS Irvin.

  But until he knew for damn sure the captain and Lucky were safe, he couldn't retreat.

  "The largest of the rival groups is run by John Sherman, an American expatriate and former Green Beret," Crash said.

  "Captain, I know you want to locate the Marines," Blue's voice cut in. "I know you don't want to leave them stranded, but—"

  "Lucky's signaling," Cat interrupted. "No sign of the Marines. Looks like there's a dozen tangos inside the structure and—"

  Harvard heard what sounded like the beginning of an explosion. It was instantly muted, their ears protected by a gating device on one of the high-quality microphones. But whose microphone?

  He heard Joe Cat swear, sharply, succinctly. "We've triggered a bobby trap," the captain reported. "Greene's injured—and we've attracted a whole hell of a lot of attention."

  Crash picked up the pace. They were running full speed now, but it still wasn't fast enough. The voices over Harvard's headset began to blur.

  The sound of gunfire. Joe Cat shouting, trying to pull the injured fink to safety. P.J.'s breath coming in sobs as she fought to keep up, as they moved at a dead run through the jungle. Lucky's voice, tight with pain, reporting he'd been hit. Crash's quiet reminder that although they only had rifles that fired paint balls, they should aim for the enemies' eyes.

  Joe Cat again—his captain, his friend—ordering Lucky to take Greene and head down the mountain while he stayed behind and held at least a dozen hostile soldiers at bay with a weapon that didn't fire real bullets.

  Harvard added his voice to the chaos. "Joe, hang on-can you hang on? We're three minutes away!" But what was he saying? The captain had no real ammunition, and neither did they. They were charging to the rescue, an impotent, ridiculous cavalry, unable to defend themselves, let alone save anyone else.

  But then Joe Cat was talking directly to him. His unmistakable New York accent cut through the noise, calm aid clear, as if he weren't staring down his own death. "H., I'm counting on you and Crash to intercept Lucky and Greene and to get everyone back to the ship. Tell Ronnie I love her and that...I'm sorry. This was just supposed to be a training op."

  "Joe, damn it, just hang on!"

  But Harvard's voice was lost in the sound of gunfire, the sound of shouting, voices yelling in a language he didn't comprehend.

  Then he heard the captain's voice, thick with pain but still defiant, instructing his attackers to attempt the anatomically impossible.

  And then, as if someone had taken Joe Cat's headset and microphone and snapped it into two, there was silence.

  Lucky's leg was broken.

  P.J. was no nurse, but it was obvious the SEAL'S leg was completely and thoroughly broken. He'd been hit by a bullet that had torn through the fleshy part of his thigh, and he'd stumbled. The fall had snapped his lower leg, right above the ankle. His face was white and drawn, but the tears in his eyes had nothing to do with his own pain.

  He was certain that the Alpha Squad's captain was dead.

  "I saw him go down, H.," he told Harvard, who was working methodically to patch up both Lucky and Greg Greene. Greg's hands and arms were severely burned from a blast that had managed to lift him up and throw him ten yards without tearing him open. It was a miracle the man was alive at all.

  "I looked back," Lucky continued, "and I saw Cat take a direct shot to the chest. I'm telling you, there's no way he could've survived."

  Harvard spoke into his lip mike. "What's the word on that ambulance? Farber, you still there?"

  But it was Blue's voice that came through the static. "Senior Chief, I'm sorry, an ambulance is not coming. You're going to have to get Lucky and Greene down the mountain on your own."

  Harvard came the closest to losing it that P.J. had seen since this mess had started. "Damn it, McCoy, what the hell are you still doing there? Get moving, Lieutenant! Get off that toy boat and get your butt onto this island. I need you here to get Cat out of there!"

  Blue sounded as if he were talking through tightly clenched teeth. "The local government has declared a state of emergency. All U.S. troops and officials have been ordered off the island, ASAP. Daryl, I am unable to leave this ship. And I'm forced to issue an order telling you that you must comply with the government's request."

  Harvard laughed, but it was deadly. There was no humour in it at all. "Like hell I will."

  "It's an order, Senior Chief." Blue's voice sounded strained. "Admiral Stonegate is here. Would you like to hear it from him?"

  "With all due respect, Admiral Stonegate can go to hell. I'm not leaving without the captain."

  Harvard was serious. P.J. had never seen him more serious. He was going to go in after Joe Catalanotto, and he was going to die, as well. She put her hand on his arm. "Daryl, Lucky saw Joe get killed." Her voice shook.

  She didn't want it to be true. She couldn't imagine the captain dead, all the vibrance and humour and light drained out of the man. But Lucky saw him fall.

  "No, he didn't." Her touch was meant to comfort, but Harvard was the one who comforted her by placing his hand over hers and squeezing tightly. "He saw the captain get hit. Joe Cat is still alive. I heard him speak to the soldiers who took him prisoner. I heard his voice before they cut his radio connection."

  "You wanted to hear his voice."

  "P.J., I know he's alive."

  He was looking at her with so much fire in his eyes. He believed what he was saying, that much was clear. P.J. nodded. "Okay. Okay. What are we going to do about it?"

  Harvard released her hand. "You're going back to the Irvin with Lucky and Greene. Crash will take you there."

  She stared at him. "And what? You're going to go in after Joe all by yourself?"

  "Yes."

  "No." Blue's voice cut in. "Harvard, that's insanity. You need a team backing you up."

  "Part of my team's injured. Part's pinned down by hostile forces, and part's pinned down just as securely by friendly forces. I don't have a lot to work with here, Lieutenant. Wes, you still got batteries? You still listening in?"

  "Affirmative," Wesley whispered from his hiding place dead in the centre of the rival army's camp.

  "What are your chances of breaking free come nightfall?" Harvard asked him.

  "Next to none. There're guards posted on all sides of this structure," Wes breathed. "Unless this entire army packs it in and moves out, there's no way we're getting out of here any time soon."

  P.J.'s heart was in her throat as she watched Harvard pace. She didn't know what the hell was going on, but she did know one thing for sure. There was no way she was going to walk away and leave him here. No way.

  "Senior Chief, I have to tell you again to bring the wounded and get back to this ship," Blue said. "I have to tell you—we have no choice in this."

  "What is this all about?" P.J. asked Blue. "What's happening? Why the state of emergency?"

  "The missing Marines turned up at the U.S. Embassy about fifteen minutes ago," he told her. "Most were wounded. Two are still missing and presumed dead. They say they were ambushed late last night. They were taken prisoner, but they managed to evade their captors and make it down to the city.

  "They're saying the men who attacked them are soldiers in John Sherman's private army. T
his is a drug war. If Joe is dead, he was killed as a result of a territorial dispute between two heroin dealers." His voice cracked, and he stopped for a moment, taking deep breaths before he went on.

  "So we've got John Sherman up north, and this other army—the private forces of Sherman's rival, Sun Yung Kim—mobilizing. They're moving in Sherman's direction, as Bobby and Wes have seen, up close and personal. Both factions are armed to the teeth, and the government is staring down the throat of a full-fledged civil war. Their method of dealing with the situation is to kick all the Americans out of the country. So here we are. I'm stuck on this damn ship. Short of jumping over the side and swimming for shore, I cannot help you, H. I have to tell you—bring the rest of the team and come back in."

  That was the third time Blue had said those words, I have to tell you. He was ordering them to come in because he had to. But he didn't want them to. He didn't want Harvard to return without the captain any more than Harvard did.

  P.J. looked around, realizing suddenly that Crash was nowhere to be seen.

  She turned off her lip mike and gestured for Harvard to do the same. He did, turning toward her, already guessing her question.

  "He went to the encampment," he told her. "I asked him to go—to see if Joe really is alive."

  P.J. held his gaze, feeling his pain, feeling her eyes fill with tears. "If Joe's dead," she said quietly, "we go back to the ship, okay?"

  Harvard didn't nod. He didn't acknowledge her words in any way. He reached out and pushed an escaped strand of hair from her face.

  "Please, Daryl," she said. "If he's dead, getting yourself killed won't bring him back."

  "He's not dead." Crash materialized beside them, his microphone also turned off.

  P.J. jumped, but Harvard was not surprised, as if he had some sixth sense that had told him the other SEAL had been approaching.

  Harvard nodded at Hawken's news, as if he'd already known it. And he had, P.J. realized. He'd been adamant that Joe was still alive—and so the captain was. But for how long?