Harrison crested a ridge and stopped briefly, turning back to assess the situation. The Russians had closed half the distance. They wouldn’t make it to the coast. He examined the terrain ahead. The ridge dropped down into a ravine through which ran a stream. He headed down the ridge, then turned left and followed the stream up the hillside, hoping the Russians wouldn’t notice the sudden change in direction. Just before the Russians reached the ridge, he ordered his squad to head ten feet up the slope, then drop into the foliage.
When the Russians reached the ridgetop, they failed to spot the SEALs and halted. After a short conversation between the lead Russians, the group split into three formations. About twenty-five men continued ahead, fanning out into the forest, while a dozen soldiers followed the stream uphill and another dozen went downhill. The dozen men moving in the SEAL team’s direction proceeded with caution as the other two Russian formations faded into the darkness.
Harrison assigned two Russians to each SEAL except for Mendelson, who still had Kalinin on his back. The Russians moved uphill in a single file, hugging the stream about ten feet below. Harrison peered through the bushes as they approached. When the formation pulled even with the SEALs, Harrison gave the order.
It was over in seconds. The SEALs put three bullets into each Russian — two body shots and a third to the head. The attack had been barely audible above the rushing water.
Harrison resumed the trek upstream, and they approached a rock formation where the stream passed through a path too narrow to follow. Turning right would take them toward the coast, but also in the same direction as twenty-five Russian soldiers. Turning left would head away from the Russians, but away from their RHIBs as well.
He checked his watch. They’d eaten halfway into their two-hour reserve. After taking into account a slower transit due to Kalinin’s and Maydwell’s injuries and the need to remain concealed, Harrison concluded that even if they headed directly toward shore, they wouldn’t make it before daylight. Harrison decided the best plan was to find shelter and head to the coast the following evening. He checked his digital map, looking for favorable terrain to their left. There was a river not far away, which might offer possibilities along the shore.
Harrison conferred with Senior Chief Stone, who agreed with the plan. Maydwell and Rosenberry were losing blood and their wounds needed to be tended to. Harrison pulled out a radio and contacted Commander McNeil aboard Michigan, informing him of the plan. Michigan would remain on station, awaiting a rendezvous a day later.
They began moving again, with Harrison leading the squad along the rock formation toward the river. The ground gradually rose as they continued on, then Harrison stopped suddenly. He was on a precipice overlooking a raging river two hundred feet below, swollen with the day’s rains. To his right, the rock formation rose even higher, and he spotted an indentation in the cliff about thirty feet up. He climbed up and took a look. It would suffice — a six-foot-wide ledge with an overhang, cut into the rock face, visible only from the cliff edge below. He informed the other SEALs, who then joined him, bringing Kalinin and Christine.
Senior Chief Stone activated a green glow stick, faintly illuminating the recess. Brown and Rodrigues tended to Maydwell and Rosenberry while Mendelson examined Kalinin. There wasn’t much they could do for Kalinin, whose ankle appeared to be badly sprained but not broken. Maydwell’s and Rosenberry’s wounds were cleaned and dressed, and the bleeding stopped.
Stone developed a watch rotation, assigning Stigers and Rodrigues to the first round, then the remaining SEALs settled in for the night. Mendelson talked with Kalinin while Stone checked on Maydwell and Rosenberry. They spoke in muted voices, the roar from the river below almost drowning out their conversations. The torrential rain continued, showing no sign of abating.
Harrison sought out Christine. She was sitting by herself at one end of the ledge, her legs hanging over, staring into the rain. The last time he’d seen her was aboard Michigan two months ago, her face and wrists still bandaged, as she was transferred off the submarine at Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. She hadn’t stopped by to say good-bye. He recalled their last intimate conversation a few days earlier, in her stateroom, when she’d asked the only question that seemed to matter—How were things at home? He’d seen the disappointment in her eyes when he answered the question truthfully.
He approached Christine and sat beside her. Neither said anything for a while.
Finally, he asked, “How are you doing?”
“I’m good,” Christine answered. She didn’t continue the conversation, staring into the darkness instead.
“No injuries? It’s not like you to be in perfect health.” The three previous times she’d been brought aboard Michigan, Doc Aleo had removed a bullet from her arm, treated her for severe hypothermia, and tended to her cut face and wrists.
Christine turned toward him. “Miraculously, I’m unscathed.” She smiled, and the tension between them melted away.
Harrison pulled his water bottle from its harness and some rations from his backpack, offering them to Christine.
“I have my own,” she said, retrieving a water bottle and rations from her backpack. “Vodka,” she held up the water bottle, “and Russian vittles.”
Harrison glanced at the bottle. “That’s not vodka.”
“Sure is. Just what I need right now too.” She removed the cap and took a sip, then offered the bottle to Harrison. “Want some?”
He brought the bottle to his nose, then broke into a grin. “Nice one. Almost had me.”
Christine smiled again, and he remembered the first time they had shared a bottle of vodka, in the barn behind his parents’ house. They’d escape there often, sitting in the loft, their feet hanging over the edge just as they did now, and talk. There was always a sparkle in her eyes and her laugh was infectious. When they were kids, she was his best friend. It wasn’t until she started developing into a woman that he saw her in a different light. He recalled the day he asked her to be his girlfriend and she said yes; he felt like he was the luckiest guy in the world. By the time he was seventeen, he’d decided they’d get married and spend the rest of their lives together.
When he proposed to her at the end of their senior year in high school, she turned him down, and did so again four years later after she graduated from college. Christine was an intelligent and beautiful woman, intent on climbing the professional and social ladders in Washington, D.C., unencumbered by a Midwestern farm boy. After waiting ten years, he realized he’d never be good enough for her and moved on, proposing to Angie a year later. Christine called the following month, saying she was finally ready. She hadn’t heard the news. He loved Angie, but he sometimes wondered how different things would be if he had waited just a little longer.
Christine returned the water bottle and food pouch to her backpack. “What’s the plan?”
“We’ll hide out here until nightfall tomorrow, then head to the coast and return to Michigan.”
As they talked on the cliff edge, Harrison’s thoughts wandered to the peculiar situation — Christine at President Kalinin’s summer residence for the weekend.
“What’s with you and Kalinin?”
Christine shrugged.
“Are you seeing him?”
“It’s really none of your business,” she replied, her voice turning cold.