Out the window at his back Crocker made out the dark outline of the sub tower. It looked as though the SDV and launch pad had already been secured to the deck. Deckhands wearing helmets and earphones were using high-lumen red-lens flashlights to signal to the pilot.
The helo circled into position and hovered at twenty feet, bouncing and shifting in the heavy wind. Then the green cabin light came on, and Crocker shouted, “Go! Let’s go!”
Men jumped up, grabbed bags and packs. Boots scraped against the metal floor. The hatch opened and Akil fast-roped down first, followed by Davis and Suarez.
Sam, wearing a helmet that looked too small for him, was next. Crocker shouted into his ear, “You okay? You need help?”
The draft off the rotors dented Sam’s face. Instead of answering, he grabbed the rope with both hands and jumped. But he never managed to secure his legs around it, so he descended too fast. And when he tried to engage his right leg it got tangled in the rope, causing him to jerk to a stop, wrench free, and tumble the remaining ten feet.
“Watch out, below! Man falling!” Crocker shouted.
In the helo landing light, he saw Sam somersault and Akil reach out to catch him-a seemingly impossible task, given Sam’s mass and the speed of his descent. There were wind conditions to deal with, too. A gust yanked Sam right, so that his shoulder glanced off Akil’s chest. Akil lost his balance and the two men fell backward into the soup.
Jesus!
“Man overboard!”
“Two men in the water!”
Crocker slid down fast, dropped his gear on the deck, bent his knees, and dove in in one continuous motion. He was airborne, looking for objects, when the water hit him like a bucket of ice. He almost passed out from the impact and extreme cold. When he came up and gasped for air, his mind scrambled and blanked.
His body slammed into automatic, kicking and flailing arms to stay above water. With his right he held on to the white floatation device someone had tossed in. He saw two guys on deck pulling Akil out with the help of a pole. Suarez knelt and shouted as he pointed to something beyond Crocker.
“What?” he shouted back.
The helo rotor tore at the surface and whipped water into his face and eyes. The salt and cold stung. He fought not to go into shock.
“Boss! Boss!”
Something heavy bumped into his left leg, and he reached down through the frigid water and felt an arm that slipped out of his grasp.
“Boss!!!!”
The light from the helo blinding him, he took a big gulp of air and dove. His hands, arms, and legs turned completely numb. In a matter of seconds he knew muscle coordination would go. Seconds after that, his brain and body would shut down. He surfaced.
Balls to that! I’m not losing Sam!
His eyes and limbs becoming rigid, Crocker reached left and right until he felt something round like a human head and dove again until his hands found a neck and shoulder. The cold salt water welled up his nostrils and hit his brain like a hammer. Trying the best he could with numb hands to grab on to fabric, he pushed up until he reached the surface and was blinded again. Sam gasped, spitting water into his eyes.
“Some fucking thanks…”
He couldn’t believe he actually had him. The muscles in his legs and shoulder were so badly cramped that his tears were mixing with the water.
“Boss! Hold on!”
Sam’s lips and nose had turned deep blue. Crocker’s legs were starting to spasm. He figured he had a few more seconds left, and then strong hands pulled him toward a boat. He welcomed the smell of rubber. With his last ounce of strength, he pushed Sam up.
Crocker came to minutes later, upright in a chair and wrapped in a thick wool blanket. Someone was rubbing his feet and another person massaged his hands. Their faces and his surroundings were a blur of light and color.
“You hear me, Crocker?” someone asked.
He didn’t recognize the voice. Shivered and clenched his teeth. His tongue felt like a piece of leather. “Ye…ah.”
“Open your mouth and sip this slowly.”
It took several seconds for the signal from his brain to reach his jaw and lips. Then his mouth and throat suddenly came alive and starting burning.
He heard someone say, “Pulse rising. Body temp at eighty-nine.”
“I didn’t know he had a pulse.” He recognized Akil’s voice. “DARPA told us they assembled him out of parts.”
“That’s not funny. He was down to eighty-two when you brought him up. In most circumstances that means you’re dead.”
“He’s our leader, doc,” Akil said. “He ain’t going nowhere.”
Waves of warmth spread from Crocker’s throat and stomach out to his limbs and head. His consciousness sharpened. He made out a clock on the wall and the face of a nurse-square jaw, green eyes, black hair with bangs.
“You remember your name, sir?”
“Chief Warrant Crocker. What’s yours?”
“Luci.”
“Hi, Luci. How’s Sam?”
“He’s resting. Recovered fast. Terrible fast-roper from what I hear, but the hide of a walrus.”
In the morning after he’d showered and dressed, Crocker met with the commander, a rail-thin African American with short hair and a black-and-silver mustache. They sat in the sub’s tiny ops room, sipped tea, and pored over nautical charts and satellite photos as the ship’s doctor checked Crocker’s vitals. A very serious looking lieutenant waited at a laptop ready to take notes. A photo of the commander playing golf with the president hung on the wall.
“You play?” Commander Thompson asked.
“Not my game. Don’t have the patience.”
“Teaches self-control and the need for precision.”
“Vital signs back to normal,” the doctor announced, cleaning the stethoscope with the hem of his tunic. “Can’t tell how it affected his brain without a scan.”
“One-two-seven-thirteen-ten,” Crocker joked. “I can still count to ten. I’ll be fine.”
“I believe we’ve crossed paths before,” the doctor said, peering at Crocker through round glasses. “Tikrit, ’04. We were both staying in a safe house that came under attack. You and two other SEALs fought off Iraq insurgents for five hours until a QRF rescued us.”
It wasn’t a happy memory. One of Crocker’s best buds, Sean, had taken a bullet in the stomach that night and died from complications.
The doctor seemed to be remembering that, too, as he quickly loaded his instruments into his bag. “Good to see you again.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
Commander Thompson cleared his throat and said, “SOCOM had the mission slated for a 2100 launch, but given events last night and the new moon, they figure you’re going to want to wait twenty-four hours.”
“Wait another day? For what?” It jarred Crocker back to the mission. In the recesses of his mind lurked the emergency with his father. Sensing that the mission was going to be difficult, he wanted to get it started as soon as possible so he could return home. “No. No, screw that. That won’t be necessary as long as the other members of my team are accounted for and in one piece.”
“What’s the determination on their fitness, doc?” asked the commander in his rich baritone, freezing the doctor in the doorway.
“Uh, sir…um, yes. They’re all fine, except maybe Sam, who could use another day of rest.”
“No time for that,” Crocker pronounced, fixing his eyes on the red phone in the middle of the metal table and wondering if he could use it to reach his father. “That connect to the States?”
“We’re in a red zone, so only official calls, and they have to be encrypted,” the commander answered.
“Got it.”
Crocker quickly pushed his concern for his father to a corner of his mind and shifted focus. “Can we back up a minute? Am I correct to infer from what you said that SOCOM has given me the last word on when we launch?”
“That’s correct.”
“Then I need to talk to the SDV pilot. Where can I find him?”