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“Because first, I'm not always going to be on the West Coast and second, you're the better stick.”

Most guys would never admit that. Not ever. But I doubt SEALs lack much in the way of self-esteem, and Animal's job is to evaluate. He has just given his honest opinion and I doubt he would have said it if he didn't mean it.

I'm floored and flattered at the same time.

I think this through for a moment. “Sir, what about aircrew?”

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

Lego and Messy, of course.

Animal turns to Admiral Carlson. “Sir, that's all I have unless you or anyone else needs to add anything.”

Admiral Carlson looks to everyone at the table before answering. “No, that's all we have.” He then turns to me. “Lieutenant, any further questions for us?”

“No, sir.”

The voice I hear next is Eric's and it cuts like—

Lightning … He never told me …

“Sir,” Eric says, “I'll escort her to the flight deck.”

I look at him directly. Why would he want to do that? What more could he possibly need to say to me? Or is it that he thinks I'm incapable of finding my way back to the flight deck … just as I'm incapable of completing this mission?

“That won't be necessary,” I say sharply. “I can find it myself.”

I hurriedly push my chair back and storm out to the passageway, nearly crashing into Greg in the process.

“Are you ready to head back?” he asks.

“Yes, yes,” I say, stammering, my mind pummeled from the hurt and anger that spar for top emotion.

I thought he'd played me once, that day in a dark passageway under a dirty ball cap. Until he convinced me otherwise.

But there can be no pretense of mistaken identity this time. Now I know.

 

35

“Sara, please come to dinner,” Em says. She stands next to my bunk, gently squeezing my shoulder.

“My stomach's still not right,” I say.

“I don't buy it. What the hell is wrong? I mean, what is
really
wrong?”

I can't tell Em about the meeting, but I've been brushing her off for two days now. She's worried and it's easy to see why. I haven't left my bunk and have had no interest in eating. I've lied and told our detachment I've been sick—weak excuse, I know. Weak, in general. My eyes sting; I'm beyond upset with myself for reacting like this. For allowing myself to be reduced to this state.

I owe her more than this, though. I owe
myself
more.
You can't let him do this to you.

With budding resolve, I turn my head to Em, thinking how strong I'm going to be, how I'm going to play it off. But those mothering eyes of hers turn on, the ones that know I'm struggling, and I crumble.

“Eric…” It's all I can manage.

“Oh, no. But how? You haven't seen him, have you?”

“I did—on a flight two days ago.”

“But I thought … how can anything be wrong?”

I have to look away, focusing on the overhead instead. “He's just not who I thought he was.”

“Well, crap, Sara. That fuckin' sucks.”

I put my hands over my eyes, like this will make it all go away.

“Hold on just a moment,” she says. I hear our stateroom door open and close. She returns in less than a minute.

“Here; the alcohol will have to wait until we pull in.” I roll over and she's standing next to our bunk with a steaming cup of hot chocolate.

I'm so screwed up emotionally, this brings tears to my eyes.

I lower myself to the floor, drop to my desk chair, and accept the sturdy mug. “Thanks.” I take a long sip and it helps. “You're awesome, by the way.”

“So—” she starts.

I'm saved from further questioning by Captain Magruder. His voice booms over the 1MC to address ship's company before we begin our transit through the Strait of Hormuz this evening. My ears perk up when he gets to the meat of his talk.

“Gentlemen, we are entering a combat zone. Practice time is over. From now on, missiles will be loaded in the launchers. We'll have real bullets in the Phalanx. The .50 cals will be manned and ready on the ship as well as in our aircraft. This is what we've been training for.”

Em rolls her eyes as he signs off. “He's so ate up.”

Normally, I would have replied with some smart-aleck comment, but it's been a sobering two days since my meeting on
Nimitz
. This is the no shit real deal. If we're dropping SEALs to a ship and a submarine to disrupt a weapons transfer and prevent would-be assassins from entering Kuwait, those guys are going to defend themselves.

Just this transit through the Strait of Hormuz is dicey. We'll run a gauntlet of Silkworm missile batteries entrenched in Iran, pointed across a channel only thirty-five miles wide.

And then, the Persian Gulf itself is extremely small, relatively speaking, for a U.S. Navy carrier strike group. At just six hundred miles long and two hundred miles across, there's not a lot of room to maneuver. And in this small space, crude oil tankers carrying 40 percent of all the world's seaborne traded oil move through tight shipping lanes amidst a bevy of potential terrorist threats in the form of light patrol boats, submarines, and even one-man rafts.

I stare at the curling wisp of steam that rises from my mug, wondering if I'm making too much of this. Emily is dismissive, but I hear the worry in the captain's voice.

And now, the worry rings clearly in my head, as well.

“So, what happened?” she asks.

“Em, I'm sorry. I'll tell you what happened one day, it's just not today, that's all.”

“Is that why you said you'd cover Chad's duty when we pull in tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I just need some time by myself.”

“Well, okay. Just let me know if you need anything, all right?”

The softer side of Emily always comes through when it matters. I shouldn't say soft, though. It's just the loyal friend side. We've had our moments, certainly, but when it counts, she has my back.

“If I were you, love, I'd watch my back,”
Jonas said. I wipe my hands against my face. He was right.

 

36

“Ma'am, you have a visitor on the quarterdeck,” the petty officer of the watch tells me on the telephone.

We pulled into the port of Jebel Ali in the United Arab Emirates in the wee hours this morning, a facility that sits smack in the middle of nowhere. Our ship stands as the only terrain feature for miles in what looks like the world's largest flat dirt parking lot.

And he's come to see me.

I don't know what to think. Actually, I take that back. I don't
want
to think. It hurts too much.

But that part of me that clings to any semblance of respectability wants him to look me in the eye and own up—tell me to my face that he lied to me.

“I'll be right down,” I say finally.

I don my black leather boots, adjust my khaki uniform, and walk as straight and tall as I can to the weather decks. Opening the hatch, I step outside into a blazing Middle Eastern sun, one that is thankfully poised to drop below the horizon. As I turn toward the large awning that acts as the entry and exit point to the gangplank, my eyes move to the lone empty road that leads away from the ship, a black strip of asphalt cutting a razor-sharp line through multicolored shipping containers, sprawling cranes, and finally, endless miles of bleak desert landscape.

As I round the corner, an unexpected, accented voice calls to me.

“G'day, Sara,” Jonas says.

“Jonas?” My brain wasn't ready for this. I stare at him as I recalibrate. He's dressed casually in jeans and a collared polo shirt and stands with his hands in his front pockets.

“Expecting someone else?” he asks.

“I don't know,” I say, moving forward slowly.

“I just came to check on you. You didn't look too happy when you left
Nimitz
.”

I move off to the side a bit, away from listening ears on the quarterdeck, and stand next to the ship's railing. He follows, casually leaning back against the edge.

“It's fine … I'm fine,” I say, pinching my eyes shut.
Why those words, Sara? Why those?

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“No … I'd rather not.” I look down at my hands, each rolling over the other.

“Let me guess, he said you shouldn't trust me, or something to that effect.”

I offer a slight nod, but continue looking down.

“That's interesting coming from someone who was obviously less than forthcoming. Wouldn't you say?”

I finally look up to crystalline blue eyes, ones curiously without a hint of warmth, only truth.

“Why doesn't he trust you?” I ask. “Why the animosity?”

“Professional jealousy, I suspect.” He turns toward me, one elbow leaning on the railing now. “We've worked together before.”

“I know. He told me.”

“Did he, now?”

“Just in passing.”

“I see.” In the light of the blinding setting sun, his eyes are the bluest I've ever seen, and they hold mine for several long moments. “But the jealousy, well, I think it's more than just professional, quite honestly.”

I pivot slightly to face him, the inference floating there.

“Perhaps,” I say. “But Mike and Peter react the same way around you.”

“True enough. But the brother band of SEALs is a tight one. They're going to support him no matter what. Even someone who lured you into trusting them so they could get the information they needed.”

I don't want this to be true. But I know he's right, damn it. I turn away from him and lean my forearms on the railing.

“Anyhow,” he says, “I just thought you could use some support right now, from someone who's in your corner.”

I clasp my fingers together, staring intently at them, as I try to think of a way to escape this conversation.

“You know, I was trying to put myself in your shoes during that meeting,” he continues. “Having someone turn on you like that—”

A shift in movement on the gangplank catches my attention. Eric is almost halfway up the steps when he abruptly stops and grasps the railings. Looking at me and then to Jonas, who now wears a glib expression, his eyes erupt. He makes no move toward us, but I start to wonder how the railings are holding up against the crushing pressure of his grip.

But what am I feeling? Like a magnet, I only want to go in one direction. And it's not for the explanation I was seeking earlier, either.

Don't you move, Sara. Don't you dare.

He holds my gaze as he backs down the gangplank, all the way until he reaches the ground. I watch him as he turns and walks stiffly down the pier until he's lost from my sight.

“Hey,” Jonas says, lightly touching my arm. “Do you want to get off the ship? Maybe get something to eat?”

I step back. “No … thanks,” I say. “I'm on duty.”

“I see. Well, maybe some other time then?”

“I have to get back,” I say, walking backward toward the hatch.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Yes … yes, I'll be fine.” Wince.

“G'day then, love.” He gives me a small salute before turning and casually sauntering down the gangplank.

I'm about to open the hatch when the petty officer of the watch calls over to me. “Ma'am, Senior Chief Makovich on the phone for you.”

I return to the quarterdeck awning to take the call. “Ma'am, we need you down at the pier entrance,” Senior says.

Senior is on duty like I am, although I wonder what he's doing at the pier entrance.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

“It's Commander Claggett. He's drunk and raising holy fuckin' hell down here.”

 

37

The pier where we're moored is several hundred yards long, so I do an easy jog to get to the gate more quickly. I hear Commander Claggett's raised voice, cursing up a storm, from at least fifty yards away. He's wasted, and it's only late afternoon, the sun just now dropping below the horizon.

“Fuck!” Commander Claggett shouts. “I'd pay you if you hadn't lifted my goddamn wallet!”

I approach, slowing my jog to a walk, and look to Senior Chief Makovich for an explanation.

“He thinks the taxi driver stole his wallet,” Senior says. “And the driver's pissed because he isn't getting paid.”

“Sir,” I say, trying to gain Commander Claggett's attention. “Sir, I'm going to find your wallet. I need you to sit here while I do that.”

“The driver has my fuckin' wallet! That's the only place you need to look!”

“Sir, please, sit here,” I say.

I grab his arm, maneuver him behind the small guard shack, and somewhat forcibly push him to sit. He's so inebriated, he's wobbly, so it isn't too difficult.

I turn my attention then to the driver. “Sir, excuse me, but this man seems to have misplaced his wallet,” I say, indicating Commander Claggett. “Would you have any idea where that might be?”

The driver looks right past me.

“Sir?”

Nothing.

Hmm. “Senior, could you come here for a minute?”

Senior walks to my side and I act on a hunch. “Did you hear what I just asked this gentleman?”

He nods.

“Could you repeat it, please?”

“I don't speak Arabic, ma'am,” Senior says.

I don't think that's the problem
.

“In English, Senior,” I say.

He gives me a strange look, but repeats my question in English, just the way I asked it, receiving an immediate response.

Son of a
 …

In broken English, the driver says he hasn't seen it.

I bet he lost his wallet well before he got into this taxi or—and I'm crossing my fingers here—he may have dropped it in the taxi itself.