Christen
Friday, The Davidson Yacht
“A dangerous darkening of the heavens, a sudden hush of the hustle that made life tick; the boats swung drunkenly at their moorings with the crouching breeze stalking its quarry... Then the mighty drums rolled, the boys with their sticks and their bright rat-a-tat-tat, the sound of a thousand heels stomping against the over-pressed earth. The whinny of the horse, the cracking whip of light against the dark, and the gods lifting their fists with a Huzzah! resounding across the hills and echoing long like the moan of a child lost in the shadow of his dreams.”
Christen stepped toward the yacht railing and lifted her face to see Gator’s eyes. His far-away look reached out over the water. She wondered if he even knew he’d said that aloud or realized she was there. Christen didn’t know him as anything other than the affable and capable Marine who watched her back for the last two days. But even still, she could feel that something about the water and sky had gripped him. His face was stone.
“That was Erwin Prath,” she said, her tone soft so as not to startle him.
He dragged his attention from the horizon and focused stormy eyes on her. Just that morning, they were warm and laughing. Yes, something had profoundly changed throughout the day.
“Ma’am?”
“You were quoting from the Erwin Prath essay “The End of Days.” I can’t recite it, but I recognized it.”
He’d shifted back to himself, earnest and intelligent. He sent her a smile that made her think the word “wistful,” but with an underlying cord of determination, preparation, a girding of the loins, a man ready for battle. Christen looked out over the waters. A storm was brewing, but it seemed to Christen that he’d carried that look in his eye since they’d been in the village. What had changed?
“I was born in a little Cajun cabin on the bayou in Louisiana. It was built by hand by my great grandfather. Water was our life. I could swim long before I could walk. In that house, we were a passel of kids nestled together like a litter of puppies. At night, my mama would read to us. Essays, and stories, but mostly poetry because she wanted some peace, and she tried to bore us to sleep.” His sweet smile burst into a momentary grin then slid away. “That one I was remembering was one of her favorites.”
Christen wanted it back, that grin. Wanted a moment of happy. She had seen something in his eyes while he gazed out over the electrified night that made her tremble. The coming storm.
She remembered the day she’d looked out of the bug-eyed bubble of her helicopter and seen a desert haboob—the massive storms of dirt, a blinding blizzard of debris—stampede its way toward her. She was charged with the safety of the mission. She’d flown as fast as her Little Bird would take her in the opposite direction; the customers laughing and oblivious in the back. But she knew the storm, like a giant monster, crawled hungrily forward, ever closer, gnashing its teeth. It could very well mean death.
She struggled away from the feeling of foreboding.
“Five children all told?” she asked, reaching for banality, something that didn’t make her feel like the world would suddenly implode. Christen hated the feeling of being out of control. She trained her whole life for not just command of the situation but micro-precision. In her gymnastics, in her flying, in her military career. Precision. Control. Here on the water, she felt as miniscule as a star in the far distant heavens with no ability at all to influence their situation.
“Yes, ma’am, three boys, me and the twins, were the filling in the sandwich with sisters on either side.”
“You were kidding about their names. Your sisters Medic and Seren.”
His lips quirked up. “Yes, ma’am. My sisters are Genevieve and Auralia.”
“Your last name isn’t really Aid.”
“No, ma’am. My name is Jean-Marie Rochambeau. Direct descendent of Jean-Baptiste comte de Rochambeau. My mama, she said we were of noble birth - kings of our destinies.” He stopped and pursed his lips. His gaze became turbulent again.
“I studied about him in history class, your ancestor. A French General who arrived in the American Revolution with enough troops that he helped to defeat the British at Yorktown. Without him, we may not be our own country. We might well still be part of the British Empire.”
“Yeah, he done good.” Gator reached out and lightly touched her shoulder, let his finger trail slowly down her arm, and slipped his hand around hers. He visibly swallowed.
“It’s going to get bad isn’t it?” Christen asked, pulling her gaze from his to look out over the water then back again.
He nodded.
“The captain said he turned around. Do you think we’ll make it back to dad’s island before it really gets blowing?” She thought again of her little helicopter and how she pressed to stay just ahead of the haboob, landing, jumping out into the debris that abraded her skin, despite her flight suit. She remembered not being able to move forward against its wrath to get to the buildings at the FOB, and possible safety. She lay on her stomach, trying to lizard-crawl forward. Her clients, the two SEALS, grabbed her arms on either side, and dragged her up. Their heads hunkered together, pressing in to shield her, the men muscled their way through the door. Once inside, Christen dropped to the ground, spent from the effort. The men had their hands on their knees gulping at the air.
“Thank you, ma’am,” one had huffed out.
“Teamwork,” she’d said. She was equally indebted to them for getting everyone to safety.
“We still have some time,” Gator said. “I talked to the crew, they’re full steam ahead. It was a shame that that decision was made so late. We’re backtracking now, trying to get back around to the other side of this island. That might be a little calmer. The captain’s not heading for your father’s island. He’s heading slightly south west of here toward the mainland. He said there’s a port he thinks he can make. If the captain aimed for your father’s island, it would move us into the storm not out. He’s radioed ahead. The harbor knows we’re coming and will make accommodations for us.”
“We still have radio signal then?” She turned her hand and laced her fingers with his and stepped closer so their bodies aligned. There was peace in their physical connection. She felt perfectly at home standing like this.
He brushed his thumb down the side of her face. Caught in under her chin and tipped her head back. Christen thought he was going to kiss her. She was surprised and pretty darned disappointed when he let his hand drop and stopped himself.
“The mainland has us on radar,” he said. “They’re tracking our progress. Headquarters has us on satellite, but we don’t think that will hold. I know you’ll probably feel better when you have the control stick in your hand, but the captain seems to be competent.” He unlaced his fingers from hers. But he didn’t move away.
Christen pulled her brow together. “You know what I do?”
“That you’re a Night Stalker? Yes, ma’am. My buddies Nutsbe Crushed and Honey Honig speak highly of you.”
Ah hah! Interesting. “You’re an Iniquus operative?” Iniquus was based out of DC. DC was only an hour and a half non-stop flight from Nashville. That wasn’t an unsurmountable distance. They could see each other when she was on back at Fort Campbell.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you signed on with my father?” Christen forced herself to shift gears. She looked at her feet, processing. He and Blaze must be the other two in their group of five. She wondered how the CIA had fenagled them onto her father’s employment sheet. How they’d won such admiration from a man who wasn’t exactly known for handing out approbation like bonbons. How had they won the appreciation that her dad obviously felt? Huh, there was a mystery. And here Christen had assumed that the other two CIA operations officers were lurking in the shadows, play acting at being fellow tourists or perhaps had dressed in staffing uniforms and blended.
“Yes, ma’am, just for this trip. Mr. Davidson needed the extra security when you and your friends joined the party.”
“I wish you would stop calling me ma’am.”
“Yes, ma’am. Protocol.”
She nodded. It meant that there was space and discipline between them. It was militarily correct. And probably why he’d stopped himself from following through with that kiss. He was contracted and on duty and that would be a breach of ethics. And Iniquus operatives had a golden reputation for high ethics. Three more days and they could do what they wanted. Right now, she wanted to put her cheek against Gator’s chest and hear his heartbeat. She knew it was racing. She knew he was mastering adrenaline in his system. She was anyway. That sense of foreboding. And the sense of discovery. Of new lo—
“Christen?” Johnna called.
Gator tap-tapped Christen’s back, a release signal as he stepped away from their private bubble. She was bereft at the loss of his touch.
“Christen? Ah. There you are. Cook says the food is ready, everyone should eat now.” Johnna arrived at her side. “Oh, hey, Gator.” She sent Christen a side grimace with a “Whoops – sorry to interrupt” dip to her lower lip. “Cook says the storm’s going to be brutal – well he said there’s a ‘difficult weather cell’ moving into our area. He says he won’t be able to fix a sit-down meal after this. But if we should grow hungry, he has sandwiches and fruit in the cooler. He didn’t look too confident that any of us would want to eat, though. And they’re taping barf bags every couple of feet around the interior. I’m imagining a bout of sea sick in my near future.” She turned to Gator. “Do you have any information?”
“Iniquus says the storm formed out of nowhere. It’s big and fierce. The captain’s aiming for a mainland dock, away from the worst of it. It could be that we can out run it or at least stay out of the main path.”
“You don’t sound confident.”
“I think you need to be prepared for a difficult time, ma’am. The good points are: we’re in a yacht of substantial size and power. The captain is used to these waters and has been piloting for decades. And he’s as invested as we are in getting to safety.”
“That pep talk was awe inspiring,” Johnna deadpanned. “Especially that last sentence.”
“Ma’am, I sugar-coated it as best I could while still giving you the information you need.”
“That was sugar-coating it?” Johnna’s eyes stretched wide. “Shit!”