by S A Gardner
Then the trajectory of his gaze widened in an annihilating sweep. “And every bit of attitude you leave behind will be the only reason we, as one team, stay alive. You will check in your egos and grievances and prejudices and smartassness right this second. You can pick them up again when we see through our mission, and get back home in one piece.”
His eyes then singled out his people. It was amazing to see that group of Olympians squirming under his deceptively empty gaze.
“PACT operatives know how to follow orders, how to never get personal with colleagues, how to give an ally everything they’ve got." His gaze panned back to my team's side of the hall. "I hope you…”
He stopped when I chose that moment to rise and walk toward him. The intensity of his focus microwaved me down to my marrow until I mounted the platform beside him.
“Can’t find a name for us?" I mock scratched my head. "Hmm. Never bothered to name our operation something as lofty as TOP or intriguing as PACT. How about something obvious like DOCS?”
If glances could spank, I’d have one red-hot ass. His fist covered the mike, his words for my ears only. “Don't you mean EXDOCS. You’re all dropouts and outcasts.”
That thrill I only ever got while pitting my all against him zinged through my every nerve.
I gave him my most serene smile. “And so are you, SEAL pariah.” That was the only piece of vague info I ever got on him. “As is the rest of your team that you picked up after similar legitimate outfits ejected them. You’re the pot to our kettle, De Luna.”
Something searing flared in his eyes. Just for a femtosecond. Then he dropped them, seemingly to study our side-by-side feet. I looked, too, for that extra foot that must have sprouted between us to warrant such absorption.
Then his eyes rose, drilled into me with their enigmatic calmness. “Glad we got this out of our systems. Now we can get down to business. If you don’t appreciate an in-depth report on the background of the region and its current state…”
“I know all there is to know,” I bit off, almost offended that he didn’t know that. “And I update my knowledge constantly. It’s where I lost Jake.”
His eyes did that weird glowing thing again.
A laden moment later, his answer came, voice no longer cool. It was arctic. “Point taken.” Before I could begin to process the severe drop in temperature, the ice turned into a laser. “But your team don’t share your personal interest in that region. Even if they’ve read up on the region, I doubt they have any knowledge of the shifting security issues on the ground. I very much doubt you do. And that’s what will impact our every step into that territory. I thought a briefing that worked up from what you know to what you can’t be privy to, would be more accessible than the brochures I had prepared, or at least an ideal preparation for them. Apparently not.”
Way to go making me feel two inches tall. With the mental age and disposition of a five-year-old brat.
“You thought perfectly right,” I muttered. “Up until you delegated the briefing to someone else. And to the soporific Daniels, no less. We both know only you can make something that convoluted and tedious ‘accessible.’”
Our gazes held, meshed. A dozen things passed between us. Each a complexity within a conundrum. That fierce…appreciation we had for each other and no one else buzzed like a live wire. At least, that was what I felt.
Our teams’ murmurs droned in the background, waiting for their leaders to reach a resolution that would dictate our every action from now on.
Damian’s eyes turned inscrutable again. “The brochures will be distributed after this meeting. Make sure your team studies and memorizes them. You medical types are experts at assimilating massive amounts of information, after all. Now, I’ll get to the specifics of our mission.”
“I’ll have a word with our teams first.” I stressed the word “our,” giving the hand still choking the mike a pointed look. I expected him to remind me of my position under him…uh…under his leadership. But he only unclasped it, made a gracious be-my-guest gesture, accompanied with the ghost of a bow.
There was no mistaking it. This was him conceding my equal status in this.
When I turned my gaze on the others, I could see his team reaching the same conclusion, not liking it, but sucking it in like the good pseudo-soldiers that they were.
I wondered what had changed his mind since last night. As much as I would like to think I had, I knew I hadn’t.
So had he gotten orders from high above? Who up there liked me that much? I could only think of Sir Ashton. But he didn’t have a say over Damian or PACT.
So who’d managed to get me equal billing in this mission?
Eleven
Though my curiosity gnawed at me, investigating Damian’s overnight change of heart would have to wait.
What mattered now were the people who’d accompany me in the mission of our lives. Whose lives I’d defend with mine, and who’d do the same for me.
While none of Damian’s team was on his level, except maybe one, they were beyond impressive. Three women and eight men, superior physical specimens all. And if they were anything like their leader, it didn’t stop at physical perfection and prowess.
My people, on the other hand, looked like…well, people. Colorful and diverse, with faces and bodies that exhibited their contrasting lives and backgrounds. Each had come to me from a disparate origin story yet we’d all converged onto the same path. It never ceased to amaze me how incredibly well we worked together.
I settled first on Ayesha, my emotional backbone in this life we’d chosen. Forty-six years, with her ordeals lining her face and greying her masses of hair. But her tall, ebony body was trim and unyielding and she had the strength and resilience of three women twenty years younger.
Sitting beside her was Lucia, the one who sort of filled Clara’s gaping absence. A beacon of olive-skinned enthusiasm and energy, tall, lush, striking, five years my junior and wanted to be me when she grew up. Poor girl.
Next to her, Ishmael seemed to be a balding, mild-mannered thirty-nine-year old, until you noticed the steel permeating his body and eyes, and recognized someone who’d constantly surprise you.
Megumi, Aram and Doug were as distinctive, each in their deceptively average way. When there was nothing average about any of them.
Only Matt, my martial arts expert and surgical guru, one half of the St. James/McDermott medical dream team, with his Highlander/Viking genes, would be picked by a casting director to play the hero. But the rest were heroes.
Crazy as it sounded, I was excited to be going up against impossible odds with them. Again. With just the possibility of reaching Jake and the others, I couldn’t wait to begin.
So I did.
“Hey, folks, excuse the lack of formalities. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in an outfit that paid any attention to chain of command.”
“And if you believe that, guys, I have a pyramid to sell you.” That was Matt, taking the initiative to spread ease, as he’d taken it on himself to initiate friction. “We may not call her Boss, but make no mistake that she is, and we’re never in any danger of forgetting. She may not look it, but she’s a terror.”
That got a humorous hum circulating.
“I have two bullet holes in my thigh to prove it, buddy.” That was Edward Pearce, or Ed as everyone called him, the one who most approximated Damian in physique and impact. He’d been his second-in-command as long as I’d known Damian. “Damian’s practically a sieve. You were one crazy dudette, St. James. If effective—I’ll give you that. Hope you’re over the crazy part.”
Wow. I never thought the day would come when the incident in Sudan would be brought up with anything but an overdose of angst. Good to know not everyone who’d lost friends or been injured that day nurtured an undying vendetta against me.
Something inside me eased. I smiled my extreme gratitude at Ed. He winked one sparkling blue eye at me as he linked both hands behind his almost-shaved platinum blond
head.
Something shot from Damian toward his right hand man. It hit me behind the sternum, even when I had no idea what it meant. It didn’t seem to affect Ed at all, who continued pinning grinning eyes on me.
Not sure I should specify him with an answering smile, I directed it to the room at large. “And now you’ve heard from my right hand and Judas, Matt McDermott, whom I’m firing from his PR position as of now—” that got me another ripple of chuckles “—and testimonials to my damage potential from Edward Pearce, PACT’s elite force number two no less, I have an announcement. I’m not crazy anymore.”
More chuckles echoed. Damian’s vacant gaze into space couldn’t have snickered, yeah, right, any louder.
“Really. Cross my heart and hope to never hold a scalpel again.” That should tell him how seriously I took this. “As difficult as it is for some to believe, I’ve been picked for this mission for my track record. Post-mania, that is. My team on the other hand have always been sane.” My grin targeted Damian’s team. “As sane as someone in our lines of work can be, that is.” That got me the desired conceding grunts. “They’re also capable, disciplined and dedicated and are ready for anything. I’m sure they share these qualities with you.”
Then I made my real point. “We do things differently but we have overlapping skills, even if your medical and our combat training aren’t as extensive as the other’s. But we can complement each other, and I urge you to swap notes. On my part, I’ve worked with many of you and after my team, there’s no one else I’d trust my fate to. I hope you can trust me, too.”
Ed’s smile widened. There was no mistaking its import. He’d already accepted me.
What do you know? I never expected to make an ally on Damian’s side that easily. Some of the others nodded, some just relaxed. I took that as willingness to let me prove my new self. As good a first step as I could hope for.
My nerves slackened a bit more. I decided to go for broke. “One last thing before De Luna tells us what we’re up against. Those of you who got injured four years ago…I never got the chance to ask your forgiveness, to visit you in hospital….”
“Hey, St. James, we’re soldiers—pseudo ones anyway.” Ed winked at Matt, who nodded toward him in a touché gesture. “We know the odds each time we go out into the field. Friendly fire and teammate fuckup are just more possible ways to go. And you made sure we were clear before you executed your daredevil stunt, so you’d take the fallout alone. We chose to double back. So whatever happened is on us.”
There was no outward change on Damian’s placid face, but I felt a bolt arcing from him toward Ed. It again scorched through me, even as it clearly slid off Ed. Had Ed decided not to read from Damian’s sanctioned script about Sudan, and wasn’t letting his leader intimidate him into withholding his different point of view?
Whatever he was doing, Ed wasn’t finished. “And then, when the bullets stopped flying, those of us who weren’t dead already would have died if not for you. It was because of you we made it to hospital. We’re alive today thanks to you.”
My heart did a frantic tap-dance number, pumping no blood to my brain. My head grew weightless and my lips and fingers numb.
So that was how Ed looked at it. It had never occurred to me to see it that way. I still couldn’t.
Damian stood there, an imposing statue exemplifying the avant-garde warrior, his face a study of insouciance. Boy, was he pissed.
Actually, no. He was incensed.
I bet no one else noticed. He always channeled his reactions with bull’s-eye precision, transmitted them only to his target. It made him a hell of an undercover agent. He was now targeting only Ed and me, the provocateurs of his wrath. But true to his opening speech, he made sure no one else felt anything but his neutrality. Seemed he’d really do anything for the mission. As he always did.
He allowed his team a minute to assimilate my speech and Ed’s testimony on my behalf, to buzz their comments to one another, then he stepped closer. Feeling my legs going a bit rubbery, I was glad to vacate the podium for him and go back to my seat.
The moment I sat down, he began at once, making no reference to the past few minutes and their outcome.
“For the past eight years, we’ve been conducting ongoing investigations into the disappearance of GCA’s operatives. Early on, we had allegations of their abduction by a newly established militant group who counted their abduction as their first actions against ‘those who aid and abet their enemies.’”
My blood drained to my feet. I’d been told Jake and the others had been murdered and their bodies thrown in a mass grave.
I heard my voice stifling on the accusation. “You knew they could have been alive all along and never told me?”
His impassive glance glided to me. “We had conflicting reports and no definite claims of responsibility. We followed each lead and ended up with thin air. Then…” He raised his voice, aborting the questions erupting like popcorn in my head. “…a year ago, our embedded operatives in the Caucasus unearthed old evidence linking the disappearance to a militant group that is purportedly responsible for most of the terrorist acts in the Russian Federation in the same time frame.”
I hated, hated, hated legal/military/media jargon. Self-serving lingo, invented to suppress and confuse the truth, ensure its peddler couldn’t be held accountable for anything they said. The vague crap was way up there in the list of what made me incoherent with fury. And Damian was sure laying it thick.
Oh, Dad, how I sympathize. Twenty years of seeing “allegedlys” and “purportedlys” letting monsters back on the street. No wonder you went out there and blew their brains out yourself.
For now I needed to hear the rest of Damian’s expertly self-exonerating brief. But I had something to say first. Before I had an apoplectic attack.
“You waited a year to start this?”
His tone made those AI speech programs sound too human. “That evidence was four years old, so it wasn’t exactly reliable. It dated from the time those militants moved their base into the mountains, where the federal Russian forces have been unable to reach them without incurring unfeasible losses. It took us three months to make sure that militant stronghold exists, that the GCA operatives are still alive.”
“And you made sure?”
“Yes.”
Though I’d already been told Jake and the others were alive, I was too acquainted with life’s cruelties. I’d had the biggest part of me bracing for the blow, that the best PACT had was strong evidence but no certainties.
But if Damian answered my question with an unprecedented and simple yes, then it was a sure thing.
Jake was alive.
The giddy thought ricocheted free in my mind.
Next second images of Jake, his elegant body emaciated, his proud spirit broken, shot it down.
He was alive. But in what condition? I could only expect the very worst.
And then Sir Ashton had said it was an impossible mission. He wasn’t given to exaggerations. Knowing where they were and getting them out were poles apart. And there was another thing I still didn’t get.
“What took you nine months then?” I asked. “You’ve been planning a retrieval mission that long?”
Damian nodded. “And we reached the conclusion that there was no way to orchestrate a search-and-retrieve operation without massive losses on our side, probably the loss of the hostages, too.”
“So why didn’t you come to me before that? For the aid mission cover?”
“Because this became an option only last month.”
He had an answer to everything. Of course.
“To understand why, I have to give you some background. The full details are in the brochure.” He paused, made sure I wasn’t going to cut him short again, then continued. “Ten years ago, over fifty-thousand refugees fled the federal troops trying to force them out of their camps and back to Chechnya. Those resettled in the only place federal forces didn’t have free rein in, at the foot of the
militant-controlled mountain—”
“A minute, please.” His eyes lowered at my interruption. I had no doubted if he had heat vision my ass would be singed right now. But hey, he was the one who’d said every bit of info would prove crucial. “Why didn’t the federal forces launch an aerial offensive against the militant base if a ground one is so impossible?”
“Because they could be anywhere within a sixty-mile radius. The logistics of carpet bombing such an expanse is not within any army’s means. In the exploratory missions the Russians staged, they discovered the militants also have anti-craft weapons. And yes—” he intercepted my question before I uttered it. “—even with our most advanced satellite technology, we don’t know their exact location either. That’s why I said a search-and-retrieval operation. Anyway, back to how the aid mission possibility opened up.
“The refugees discovered they’d jumped from the frying pan into the fire. The militants made sure their stay became permanent so they’d use them as a human shield against the federal troops by heavily land-mining all access to the camp.”
“But why? The federal forces weren’t reaching them in the first place.”
“There were efforts every now and then, with losses on the militants’ side, too. They closed that door so only they could have access out of the area and lived in security. But they didn’t stop only the federal forces, but also humanitarian aid, and the camp became totally dependent on them. Then three months ago, in a bid to buy themselves legitimacy and sympathy with their cause, the militants announced that they’d let humanitarian aid reach the camp.”
I remembered this, now he mentioned it. The federal forces had also vowed not to use the mine-clear land the militants would provide to attack them. I’d thought it was big of them. For about a second. I knew there had to be an ulterior motive there. Turned out they couldn’t attack if they wanted to, were just jumping on the nobility wagon, laying claim to a humanity they didn’t possess. Typical.
I remembered something else. “It’s been three months since relief operations reached the camp bearing supplies and logistical kits. Why didn’t you move earlier?”