Gator
Heck if I know what day it is or where we are…
The rain stung their faces. It was hard to breathe. There seemed more water than air available in the dark atmosphere that enveloped them. Gator had turned off the flashlight to conserve batteries. It was state of the art tactical equipment, waterproof – but he wasn’t sure that meant this kind of waterproof. The waves had calmed. And while they still rose and fell like a rollercoaster at the fair, they were bobbing on the surface. They weren’t getting beaten into the depths like before. Gator tried to calculate what time it might be. He’d guess they’d been in the ocean for five or so hours, soon the sun would come up. That would help their morale.
Belly to belly with their clips keeping them together, it wasn’t the perfect configuration. They had banged each other up pretty good as they tumbled hour after hour. It was the entirety of Raider Spirit – the Marine Raiders version of the SEALs hell week—all rolled into one long night. He’d gotten his boots off his feet. At least that protected Christen from slamming up against the hard surface of his soles.
The drug still hadn’t worn off Christen. She had struggled against it, but Gator had convinced her to put her head on his shoulder and try to rest.
He thought about Johnna Red. The drug had been absorbed into her body quickly. Blaze had said Karl was passing out medicine, and Red was puking. Blaze thought the time frame was such that, if she had accepted the drugs, she should have puked them back out. But she was in the same daze as Christen had been when Gator ripped the sheets and tied Red to her mattress. It had been hours of rain and wind by that point. It had gotten so bad that the captain had sent out a pan-pan alert, letting area boats know that they were in a state of urgency if not emergency. It let potential rescuers know they were in distress, but didn’t require them to stop everything and come to their aid.
Gator wondered if that had turned to a mayday when the crew discovered two people missing from the yacht. Was the US Navy headed their way? There were a lot of ifs behind that thought. If they had been discovered missing by the yacht crew. And if there was a US Navy ship in the area. And if anyone besides Blaze would care that they were gone.
Chances of anyone noticing and trying to do something about it—came down to almost zilch. Blaze, he’d be looking for them. Everyone else was drugged except the crew and the security, as far as Gator knew.
Why would Karl pass meds like that? Did he mix them up? Did he think that sleeping through the event would be helpful? What the hell kind of drug would effect Christen like this? It was almost like she was roofied, or some such shit. Gator could see Karl as the kind of guy who would get off on drugging women, so he could be in control.
Gator thought back to the boat and wondered who had thrown her over. Whoever those men were, they hadn’t taken Karl’s pills. Either crew (which made no sense) or security, or guests who were faking the medicinal effects. It wasn’t Blaze, him, or Johnna. It was a small playing field. Why, though? Why would someone throw Christen over the side? Who wanted her dead? They’d pulled off her life vest. It wasn’t a stunt. They were trying to murder her.
All he had seen was black silhouettes against the inky backdrop. The satellites probably weren’t functioning in all this, but Gator still had his watch on his wrist. Even if he died, as long as he was floating in his life vest, the watch should send those last images on to Headquarters. Once the storm was lifted, Iniquus would put two and two together and be on the hunt for them. And he knew Lynx had already sounded the alarm. If she picked up the images of the little girl in the field with the goats, and could see better than he could that the black dots the child was watching were helicopters coming down, then Lynx would be living through this with him. Strike Force would be rallied. All hands on deck.
“D-Day?” He needed to stop thinking of her as Christen. Their being in the water made it more important than ever to keep his guard up. He couldn’t be tempted to pour out his heart. If she’d finished the words she started in her drugged stupor, it could be—it was possible—that she felt the same way that he did. And those words could mean that they wouldn’t live to see their rescue. Or worse, that only he would live to see their rescue. That thought brought back the torture he’d felt under the holy man’s spell. The utter horror of living on… “D-day!”
“Hmmm”
“On Tuesday, before you left for this mission. You were deployed to the Middle East, there were two helicopters, One was shot down, one landed. You flew that mission.”
She nodded against his shoulder.
“There was a little girl. Red bandana. Roses on the hem of her dress and goats.”
She nodded and snuggled closer. “Yes, that’s right.” She was shivering despite the warmth of the air and water. Even if the water was warm here, it was still cooler than body temperature, and they both stood a real chance of hypothermia and death. He’d have to rouse her soon; get her kicking to warm up.
That last nod of her head was the affirmation he needed. He’d connected to her as soon as the mission was a go, and Johnna Red and Lula LaRoe were headed toward D-day’s FOB. He sent a message of thanksgiving to the heavens for all of the information, all of the warnings he’d been given. As much as he had hated the experience, it was still a gift. He felt a little better equipped to keep her alive.
But who wanted her dead?
The contact lenses might be their only way of knowing. He had lost his lens the second he hit the water. D-day, too, he was sure. But her eyes had opened when she was lifted, when she kicked and tried to get away. Whatever her lens picked up might have even better images on them than his would. Yeah. He wasn’t sure if her bracelet or his watch was up to the punishment they’d just endured, but there was a chance.
Gator’s jaw trembled with cold and his teeth rattled.
D-day moaned in his arms.
“Help is on its way,” he whispered into her ear. “They know we’re in the water. They’re coming. We just need to hold on.”
“Night Stalkers never give up,” she muttered it so quietly he barely heard. But Gator felt reassured. That must be the mantra that was circulating in her brain. Having that fundamental belief, that code, was imperative – it had gotten many a Marine and soldier through many an impossible situation.
And if ever there was an impossible situation. This was it.