Devil's Due (3 page)

    Something bright caught his attention. He turned himself in the water, swung his head around. The bobbing speck of white trailing smoke was the fifth fisher—it had to be. Edie’s words pulled his thoughts back. “Where’s the second RIB?” she said quietly.

    Scott had assumed it was on the far side of the
Shepherd
, blocked from view. “I don’t—” Scott cut himself short, pointed. Something large, black was out there, chasing after the crippled fishing boat. “The RIB?”

    “What’s that then?” Edie said. The
Shepherd
was adrift, and her position had shifted. Scott and Edie were about to start swimming for the RIB when his dive watch started beeping. Instinct brought his finger to the off button, but it was Edie who pulled him under just as a heavy-caliber machine gun let loose.

    Bullets ripped up the water all around, whooshing by much too close for comfort as they continued to dive. Someone out there had an excited trigger finger. Not that Scott could blame them given the situation, and assuming they were friend and not foe. His next thought was of the Kid—Lian Qu—and the zodiac. Why hadn’t he thought of the zodiac before? The boat was out there somewhere with Lian aboard. Lian had Kathy and Angel too, if he’d done his job.

    Scott cursed wordlessly. He’d sent Lian toward the fishers—into a bloodbath.

    Edie used touch signals. Come, follow, she told him. Her sharp twist away told him where she was headed. He liked her line of thought, followed. They surfaced closer to the
Shepherd’s
stern than to her bow. Scott took the over water lead, around the stern to get a clear line of sight to what was waiting for them.

    He was cautious, swimming as quietly as possible. A trigger happy friend was as dangerous as a foe. Edie was uncharacteristically lagging behind. He waited for her to catch up.

    Her smile and her eyes—the way she held both told him much more than he wanted to know. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” he muttered to himself, swimming back to her. “Damn you, Edie,” he whispered to her. “Damn you, damn you, damn you.”

    Scott caught Edie before she slipped under, held her tightly as he fought to tread water. “You didn’t signal. You didn’t say anything,” he whispered, his lips pressed against her right ear. “Damn you, damn you, damn you.”

    “Get them,” Edie said back, her voice soft and distant. His lips found hers, silenced further words. He hard-kissed her, as if he could chase away the cold from her lips.

    “I love you,” Edie’s mouth said, though her throat never voiced the words.

    “I know,” he told her back. “I know, I know, I know.” He held her as she went still, limp. A round had ripped into her shoulder—or at least that was his quick assessment. He took off his shirt, wrapped it up under and around her arm and shoulder, tightened the loose ends in a knot.

    He turned her on her back, secured his arm around her chin and cheeks. His thoughts spun with options, but it was a short list. Tread water or get help.

    The
Shepherd
was quiet, too quiet. Anyone alive on the
Shepherd
was either in hiding or dealing with their own problems. By himself, he’d never get Edie up a ladder and back aboard the Shepherd. That left one option: The NSW RIB.

Chapter 4

Mediterranean Sea
Morning,
Tuesday, 19 June

Scott swam out, perpendicular from the Shepherd’s stern. Towing Edie and moving backward wasn’t easy. His focus was on keeping her mouth and nose well above the water, and staying on course. The NSW RIB was a hundred years away, in open water.

    “Lieutenant,” he screamed out. “SEAL team! Friendlies swimming toward you. Wounded, don’t fire. Please assist.”

    He swam a good ten yards, turned and swam a direct line toward the RIB as quickly as the breaststroke kick allowed. “Edie, don’t you die on me,” he whispered. “We’re almost there, almost there.”

    All he could think about was her eyes from the night before in the officer’s mess, lighting up with her smile. What had she been saying, he asked himself. Something about drinking shots and sex. He’d been listening but was distracted by the argument Kathy and Angel were having with Mike D.

    Funny how he could remember Mike’s angry retort of “and that’ll be the last thing you ever do” and not Edie’s playful words.
Die on me, Edie, and I’ll die inside.

    
Swim. Kick. He had to be close. Why weren’t the SEALs offering assistance? Was Ansely waiting to put a bullet in his brain for the trouble and call op-end? A clean break from a bad situation.

    No, the lieutenant might not like Scott but he wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. Ansely was just doing his job every time they met—as Scott was doing his. It was a game. Brinksmanship of a sorts to make the other guy blink first. But if that was the case, what was taking so long? Did they think
he
was playing them?

    “SEAL team,” he called out. “Lieutenant Ansely. Edie’s in trouble, wounded. Please assist!”

    Scott adjusted his grip around Edie’s chin and cheeks, turned to look for the RIB. The boat was dead ahead. Three, four yards away. He risked raising his free arm to wave, before continuing on one breaststroke kick at a time. “You hang in there, Edie,” he said.

    He stopped kicking frantically when the back of his head touched the rigid side of the boat. He reached up to the air-filled sponson protruding from the hull as if to reassure himself that he’d made it. No time to waste, he pushed Edie up into the boat and then crawled up the side himself.

    The scene that greeted him inside the boat was one Scott never expected. He’d come aboard well behind the helm. Edie was sprawled on the deck beside him. The helm blocked his view of the forward section but everything around him was still, lifeless.

    It’d been a long swim. He was tired, pushed himself to move anyway. With Edie’s life hanging in the balance, she was priority one. The SEALs and the boat were priority two. The
Sea Shepherd
and everything else was priority three. It’s the way it had to be.

    The helm, he told himself. The most likely place to find a blow-out kit.

    A short crawl over the deck, between and over seats to the controls, past lifeless bodies, and he pulled himself up beside the helm. The hiss of the radio caught his ear. He grabbed the microphone, held the talk button. “Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is
Sea Shepherd
,
Sea Shepherd
,
Sea Shepherd
. Mayday, my position is—” He looked at the GPS, read out the latitude and longitude. “I am under attack from hostile forces with unknown persons on board. I require immediate assistance.”

    Releasing the mic, Scott started rifling through panels and under-seat compartments. The kit wasn’t bright red, yellow or orange. It was SEAL gray. He ripped it from its tethers, hurried back to Edie.

    Kneeling, Scott checked Edie’s pulse and breathing. Both were shallower than he liked. “Edie, don’t you die on me,” he said, ripping open the emergency trauma kit. The kit’s contents spilled onto the deck: quick clot sponges, tourniquets, trauma shears, Celox granules in packets, Bolin Chest Seals, airway tubes, a pocket face mask, thermal blankets, compression bandages, more.

    “Field trauma,” he told himself as he mentally sorted the items sprawled on the deck. “Gunshot wound. Think.” He sucked at the air, held it for a moment before grabbing the trauma shears.

    Using the shears, Scott cut away Edie’s shirt. He tore open a thick package of compression bandages and applied the battle dressing front and back as he pulled away his water and blood saturated shirt.

    His brief glimpse of the wound was reassuring. It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. Heavy rounds were meant to punch holes in steel beasts. Trucks. Boats. Planes. People hit by heavy rounds might as well have been made of tissue paper and cardboard as flesh and bones.

    “Edie,” he muttered under his breath. “How long were you in the water with this?”

    He ripped open two Celox packets, one-handed with his teeth while applying pressure with his other hand. Pulling back the battle dressing, he doused the entry wound. The blood and Celox slowly gelled into a thick plug that sealed the wound and controlled bleeding enough for him to reapply the battle dressing.

    More Celox, applied to the exit wound. Same technique. To finish, he wrapped her arm and shoulder in the elastic portion of the battle dressing and then wrapped her in the thermal blanket. It was the best he could do. It’d have to be enough.

    “Hang in there, Edie,” He said. “I’m the old goat. I go first, not you. You hear me?”

    There wasn’t a whole lot of room aboard a RIB. The boat was about 11 feet across and almost 36 feet in length. The boat’s compartments were divided by seats, helm and railings. He and Edie were in a flat compartment behind the helm.

    With Edie out of immediate danger, Scott started assessing the status of the SEALs, checking each before moving on to the next and the next. Adrenaline was helping his heart pump like a thoroughbred’s and he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. It’s Munich all over again, the voice of doubt said in the back of his thoughts.

    The sentry position for the rear .50 cal was behind the rear seats. He climbed over a row of seats and around another. A SEAL was hunkered down near the base of the tripod, barely conscious, and clutching his pistol with one hand, his chest wound with the other.

    “Friendly,” Scott said as he came around the seats. “Scott Evers from the
Sea Shepherd
. I’m here to help.” He checked the wound, put a palm-open hand to his head. It was a bad one—a sucking chest wound. Blood bubbled between the SEAL’s fingers with each breath.

    Scott let the pistol drop to the deck, put both of the SEAL’s hands over the wound. SEALs sanitized their uniforms before going into the field, so there was no way to know the wounded man’s name right now. “If you can hear me, keep pressure. Press down.” He scrambled back over the seats, tried to think.

    His training wasn’t in saving lives—it was in taking them. He was completely out of his league. Closing his eyes, he steadied himself so he could think. The answer was a 1-2-3. A paint by number. Sponge, bandage, seal.
Was that it?
It’d have to be, he told himself.

    He grabbed what he needed, raced back. “I’m here,” he told the wounded man. “Stay with me.”

    He cut open the seal’s uniform so he could begin his work. As he put the man’s hands back to the wound, he noted the name on the SEAL’s dog tags: Ben Cooper. “Ben, if you can hear me, keep pressure. Press down, if you can.”

    “Sponge, bandage, seal,” he repeated to himself as he ripped open the plastic bag containing the Quickclot sponge. He put the 5”x5” mesh bag containing the Quickclot between the SEAL’s hands and the wound. “Ben, press down, if you can. Press down.”

Chapter 5

Mediterranean Sea
Mid Morning,
Tuesday, 19 June

Scott opened the packages for the chest seal and compression bandage next. The chest seal was a 6” in diameter polyurethane disc with three valves that allowed air and blood to escape while sealing the wound. The wound side of the disc was covered in a thick layer of gel-based adhesive. He could seal the disc over blood and hair, but just to be sure, he used the compression bandage to soak up blood before applying the chest seal.

    The chest seal worked its magic almost immediately. It was quick, direct, and effective. A lifesaver, if rescue ops arrived soon.

    Scott clasped Ben’s shoulder. “Best I can do for now. I’ll return after I check the others. Hold strong.” He worked his way around and over seats to Edie. He checked her breathing, pulse. “Edie, it’s Scott,” he said. “You’re aboard one of the NSW RIBs. Hang in there. Help is on the way.”

    Back at the helm, he repeated the distress call, then tried to get to the foreword gun position. Working his way around the bulletproof shielding protecting the helm wasn’t easy. He held onto the man-high shield while he walked along the air-filled sponson.

    It was a wasted effort. There was nothing he could do to help. The sentry was dead.

    Scott made his way back to the helm. Fluids. Edie and the SEAL—Ben—needed fluids. If there were IV kits, they weren’t anywhere he’d searched. Not that he was sure he could start IV drips, but it would have been something.

    Every SEAL had a personal kit, perhaps one was a field medic. He didn’t like the idea of picking over the dead, but it wasn’t like he had a lot of choices. Where were rescue ops? Why weren’t they racing onto the scene already?

    RIB’s had a long range, but their launch ship, the USS Kearsarge, had to be close. Launching helos, fighters or another pair of RIBs should’ve taken minutes. He should be able to hear and see something by now.

    Finding two bottles of water, he started aft. He stopped, twisted about defensively, hands and feet at the ready while his eyes panned down as a perceived shifting caught his attention. A gloved hand floated ghostly for a moment, then disappeared.

    Scott dropped the water bottles, scrambled over the side, reaching out as he went. His arm sank into the dark waters up passed his elbow. He found a hand, gripped the other’s arm around the wrist and pulled.

    Retrieving the body from the water was a bit like pulling in a shark hooked to a tow rope by its tail. It took both arms, all his strength. He knew from the weight it wasn’t Kathy or Angel or Lian. What he was hefting was too big, too heavy.

    What he’d found was clear as soon as the body was stretched out on the deck. It was one of the SEALs and not just any SEAL. It was Lieutenant Ansely, bleeding and looking exhausted.

    Scott rolled the lieutenant onto his side, helped him through the coughing and sputtering. “Lieutenant, it’s Scott Evers. You’re safe aboard, wounded.” He ran off, shouting as he went. “I’m getting medical supplies.”