To his credit, Djoko figured out that the grate removal was a ruse the same instant he felt a sharp, hard-edged blow along the side of his head. In the dark, he scrabbled at the sink to remain upright—just before a hand grabbed his hair and slammed his forehead straight down into the edge of the sink.
Caine felt the small soldier’s body go limp. But in the dark, uncertain of how badly injured the man was, or whether he was actually stunned or feigning it, Riordan took no chances. Dropping the blood-slick grate, Caine once again slammed the poor fellow’s forehead into the sink before letting the body sink to the wet, water-running floor.
Not much time for stumbling around in the dark. First, grab his rifle. Damn, he must have slung it while waiting and didn’t unsling it before coming in. And the sling is tangled around his—damn, what sort of contorted position did he fall into? Shit! Let’s see, if I move his arm—no, that’s a leg—out of the way—
Caine reared up. No time. You’ve got to run. Finding a way out will be hard enough. And a gun won’t be that helpful. But wasting time trying to untangle it could get you caught. So get the hell out of here. Now. Caine was out the door before the thought was finished.
Somewhere down the lightless corridor from which he had come, there were distant sounds of surprised, loud conversation.
Stooping slightly, feeling along the near wall with one hand, Caine ran the opposite direction into the darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The wind was coming straight up the Chesapeake. Although it was slightly warm for the season, the breeze made the tattered dockside flags snap straight out. Trevor looked up at the Stars and Stripes and Navy ensign, remembered the first time he had seen them here. Wide-eyed beside his father, he watched those flags flying free in a fresh wind, bringing vibrant life to the memorial foremast which had been salvaged from the USS Maine. Then, on his own Induction Day, he had seen those flags again, saw them as living symbols of the duty and honor, orders and oath, that were the seamlessly interwoven sinews of his new life of service.
He chinned down into his old, cedar-scented deck coat. That was all long ago and far away. He was only eighteen years older than he was the day he took his oath of service at Tecumseh Court, hardly more than half a kilometer behind him. But if time was measured by what you’ve done, seen, and lost, and if distance was a factor not of where you stand, but how far you’ve traveled to arrive there, then those free-flying flags of his youth were farther away than the few surviving scraps of the hull he had lost at Barnard’s Star. My only command: a module half-dead in space, briefly surrendered to assist the enemy with his communications, before scuttling. A brilliant career at the conn. At least it had also been mercifully brief.
Not that there had ever been much chance he’d be posted to the Fleet, not after he had entered the Teams. The SEALs like their recruits brawny and Trevor’s athletic background hadn’t hurt. And since that was a rare combination with the cognitive aptitudes and tactical instincts he had already displayed, his course was set: a fast launch up through the officer ranks and JSOC assignments. Always busy, often exciting, sometimes challenging—but never what he had envisioned. Or maybe, it was simply not what Dad had envisioned for him. Face it, Trevor, he was looking for himself in you—and he didn’t find it. Dad was a good soldier and a great skipper, but more than anything else, he was an outstanding strategist, the kind that comes along two or three times in a generation. Maybe.
Trevor squinted against a snowy gust, could just make out the approaching lights of the scheduled naval auxiliary. Dad was all about people, plans, and politics. Me? I’m just a glorified, high-end grunt, specializing in machines and mayhem. But maybe, right at this moment, grunts were exactly what was needed. All the plans in this world would not save it, not without enough boots on the ground to do the dirty work. Then again, there’s some work that’s too dirty to do, if you want to remain human, if you want to be able to live with yourself. Pity you don’t get that, Uncle Richard.
The auxiliary—a tug-become-day-ship that had been pressed into service as a freight and passenger packet in the ad hoc coastal feeder system—loomed quickly out of the mist that had rolled in just ahead of it. Trevor heard the reassuring, steady sputter of an ancient diesel engine go into double-time reverse just before she lightly bumped the stanchions’ improvised fenders. A preteen girl—lanky and in a grease-stained goose-down jacket—hopped over the gunwale and hooked the bowline over a bollard. The voice that came from the upper level of the pilot house drew Trevor’s attention to a salt-and pepper beard and a seamed face that poked over the bridge deck’s railing. “You’re it? No more?”
“I’m it. Not a great day—well, night, for boating.”
“True ’nuff. So why are you here? Suicidal?”
Trevor wondered for a moment. “Maybe,” he admitted.
The Old Man of the Sea stuck his face farther out. “A man who takes that long to answer is giving the question some serious thought. I carry legitimate passengers, not walking death-wishes.”
Trevor smiled, reached down and hauled up his footlocker in a single grab. “Oh, I’m legit. But I think I might be heading into a worse storm than this one.”
“Oh? And where’s that one brewing?”
“Java, if the weather reports are right.”
The gruff act was abruptly over. “Long journey just to satisfy a death wish.”
“Longer than you’d guess. My route is via the Caribbean.”
The Old Man of the Sea leaned into the snow-spitting air. “I can get you down as far as Norfolk. That’s the connecting terminal between the northern and southern halves of the emergency coastal feeder system. You can get a bigger ship out of there. Coast Guard hull, probably. All the way down to Jacksonville or Miami, usually. Beyond that, I can’t tell you.”
Trevor judged the height of the gunwale, decided to use the gangway. “There are usually some inter-force packets running Commonwealth exchanges throughout the Bahamas, and then down into the Leeward Islands. The Brits have commissioned some civvies to serve that route, I hear.”
“Hope the civvies are still running after tonight’s little surprise.”
“Yeah.” Trevor swung his locker through the hatchway into passenger’s section, just aft of the pilot house. “Did the EMP bursts give you any trouble?”
“What do you think? I was dead in the water. But I was never so glad to have an old bucket like this one. She’s such a simpleminded cow, that my little grease monkey there”—he nodded in the direction of the girl, who was already casting off—“had the diesel hand-fired in an hour. Radar’s shot, though.”
Greasemonkey thumped past gracelessly. “Yeah, but you know every light, every, buoy, even every house, from here to Newport News. The radar only makes you double-guess yourself.”
As she rambled aft, he sent a scowl at her—and behind it, Trevor saw a poignant, even painful love for which the Old Man doubtless had no words. Trevor suddenly missed his own father so much that he wasn’t entirely sure if the salt he tasted was from the heavy, sea-churned mist. “How much do I owe you?” he asked quietly.