Wicked grabbed Scarecrow’s arm. “Crow,” he said, his deep voice holding a wealth of meaning. But when Blue looked for some kind of respect or support from the big, quiet SEAL, he looked away.

“I’m lost here,” Hollywood said, and it was as if the words hit him with not only pain but a resounding reverberation that echoed loudly in his head. “Something is going on with you, and the rest of us are mapless.”

His pulse sped up, his heart pounding. Nausea turned his stomach into acid as Kid said, “Ask that Dora girl. She has everything in her backpack.”

Even the absurdity of Kid’s smart mouth didn’t help. Kid faced him, his eyes full of the mischief that was always present. When no one moved, and no one talked, Kid, said, “Tough room.” He cleared his throat. “Alcohol and calculus don’t mix. Never drink and derive.”

“Shut up, Kid,” Scarecrow said. “You’re not helping.”

“Neither are you,” Blue said and turned away again, but Scarecrow apparently hadn’t taken him seriously. He grabbed his arm again.

This time Blue shoved him, hard. Every one of his team members stared, their widened eyes telling him he was acting completely out of character. The knowledge of that settled in his gut like heavy lead, but the embarrassment, the humiliation was too strong as it rolled into blinding rage. “What is wrong with you? I just told you not to touch me.”

“I’m not the problem,” Scarecrow said in a rush, shaking his head.

Blue stiffened at the jab. Hollywood said something, but it was as if he was hearing it from under water.

“Then why did you come after me at all?” Blue’s voice rose in volume with each word. People in the gym turned at the sound. Movement stopped, and a tense hush settled in the air, pregnant with violence.

“You know why.” Scarecrow reached for him and caught him around the wrist. With blind panic driving him, Blue’s right hook slammed into Scarecrow’s jaw and knocked him back. Scarecrow shook his head and with a roar, rushed Blue, sending them both to the gym’s mat. Scarecrow got in two hard punches before he was yanked off Blue.

A redhead came over and offered her hand, but Blue ignored it, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth as he got up. He tasted blood. It felt good to hurt physically. It made him feel alive. He and Scarecrow glared at each other as he fought against their hold. It hurt to see them on one side and Blue on the other. With the weight of pure, hot rage in his eyes, Scarecrow stumbled away from his teammates and left the gym.

The woman stared at Wicked, something akin to hatred passing from her eyes. He took a deep breath and walked up to her, his posture tense.

“Not your business, Kat.”

Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth tightened. Her chin lifted and there was a cold smile on her face. “I’m surprised it’s not you he’s socking, Cross. Sorta like what happened on Team Six, isn’t it?”

A murmur went through Alpha team. Shock made Blue momentarily forget about his altercation with Scarecrow. Wicked had been a top operator? One of the elite gunslingers? What the hell?

Blue recognized guilt, and he certainly recognized anger. Both were stamped on Wicked like ink across his face.

She came around him and used a paper towel to press against Blue’s lip. “You’re bleeding.”

He stepped back. She had the kind of energy that was both bold and beautiful. He didn’t need a fucking hard-on right now, but he could feel the pressure building.

She reached out her hand. “Kat Harrington.”

He’d seen her in the gym, knew she was part of Team Six’s spook contingent. He didn’t take it, and she dropped it. “Ocean Beckett,” he said, not interested in getting involved with a spook, especially one that had so much baggage with Wicked. It was going to be his brother and fellow team member that Blue backed. He wondered if Wicked still felt the same about him. Had he lost respect for Blue? Did he think less of him as a man and warrior after seeing him like that during his rescue? “I don’t need your help.” The ache in him was hot and sharp.

She tilted her head, her expressive green eyes speculative. He didn’t like her or her knowing look. “So what are you bonding over?”

He just stared at her. She smiled that knowing female smile that pissed him off. Like she knew their guy-speak. Damn spooks.

She shook her head. “You guys compete to test not only territory but alliances. Friendship preceded by combat is so macho, human, fundamental, and honored. In other words, you take your misplaced affection and knock each other in the jaw to prove there’s no affection. You must care for them deeply.”

“Look, Kat, don’t you have someplace you need to be?” he said savagely, not recognizing himself in the mirror as his face contorted into an ugly mask of barely suppressed rage.

She flipped her long red braid over her shoulder and turned away. “See you around, sailor.”

Wicked watched her go, and for just a millisecond, Blue saw longing and something else. More shock. There was definitely a story to be told. Wicked’s fists clenched, and he looked at Blue, then immediately looked down.

Without a word, Wicked followed after Scarecrow. Finally, the rest of the guys left after Blue turned away.

He looked at Kat, who picked up some weights and with her beautifully honed body started to work them. When she was finished, she gave him a mocking salute and left the gym.

He also left the gym, nursing his fat lip and his fat head. When he got home, he stood in the foyer for a full minute wishing he could connect with what happened and feeling nothing but numb.

He went for the half bottle of rum on the kitchen counter, not even bothering with a glass.

He winced when he took a sip and the alcohol stung the cut on his lip. The doorbell rang after he’d finished off the last of it. He rose a little unsteadily.

When he opened the door, the look on Bowie “Ruckus” Cooper’s face sent his gut to his knees.

Fuck, he was shit-faced in front of his commander. He went to attention, but Ruckus was already walking inside. “At ease. I need to speak with you, so just at ease.”

“Of course, sir.”

He went into the living room, and fuck if the damning empty rum bottle sat on the coffee table. Ruckus wouldn’t miss that.

“Sit,” Ruckus barked.

Blue folded down into a chair, and Ruckus sat down on the sofa. “Can I get you anything, sir?”

“No. I didn’t come here for social hour, Mr. Beckett.”

Oh, hell. He wasn’t calling him Blue, which was equivalent to his mom using all three of his given names.”

“You know why I’m here?”

Blue closed his eyes, the alcohol numbing his system. He licked his lips, wishing like hell he had another bottle around here somewhere.

“We had a fight. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yeah, you think so. I beg to differ, Mr. Beckett.”

“Sir…”

“Shut up and listen. I think you bamboozled that therapist with those pretty boy eyes and got her to sign the release much too soon.”

Blue jerked upright and slid forward. “I did the time with her. She signed.”

“Yeah, that may be the case, but you’re in trouble, the kind that isn’t going to work itself out. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder robs us of fine warriors. I’m not willing to sacrifice you to the navy because of a goddamned piece of paper. I’m still your commanding officer, and I damn well make the rules.”

“Yes, sir,” Blue said firmly.

“Good. Then you take orders from me. I’m relieving you of duty on the teams as of now.”

He stared at his LT, the man who had always led them, supported them, got down into battle with them. Something hard and cold settled in the pit of Blue’s stomach. This was it. What he had feared the most. Ousted from the brotherhood, denied the teams. It stripped him as effectively as he’d been in the hands of the Kirikhan rebels, naked and exposed. He sat there without comment, realizing that no matter what, he couldn’t mouth off to this man. Not this man.

Ruckus never wavered. He stared right back, the banked anger in his eyes for Blue to see.

“Don’t take me off the team, sir. I’ll do better.” His voice broke. “I’ll go back to counseling. Please—”

“The decision is made, and I didn’t make it lightly. You’re going to Panama City, Florida tomorrow at 0800. You’re going to teach a classroom of top-notch divers everything you know about mental toughness as the co-instructor.” His eyes were unwavering. LT always did the hard stuff the hard way. “In your downtime, you will decompress and find your balance again. I have every expectation you will. You will seek counseling and work through what happened to you. Am I clear, sailor?”

“Yes, sir,” Blue said hollowly. “Copy that.”

“I didn’t build this team to have it destroyed by some bitch and her sick husband in that godforsaken place. We’re stronger than that. This team is fractured, and I can’t in all good conscience watch it break apart completely. I will not lose one of the best corpsman I have ever had the pleasure to serve with, the kind of warrior I need and want on my team. But make no mistake, there will be no half-measures, or you won’t be back, Mr. Beckett. You got it?”

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant Cooper. I got it loud and clear.”

He rose, then leaned over and tapped the bottle’s top. “And, this?” He frowned, his eyes turning a flinty blue. “Not a good path to enlightenment.” His lips compressed. “I know, Ocean,” he said softly, his face full of unwanted memories. He made hard, direct eye contact with him. “From experience. SEALs don’t shirk their responsibilities no matter the cost.” He turned, then looked back. “Don’t let me down. Don’t let us down.” Then he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “This is a name of a therapist you can see in Panama City. Do us proud. Hooyah.”

After Ruckus left, he couldn’t sit there. Still slightly under the influence, he got his weapon and drove to the firing range and emptied magazine after magazine into paper targets, in his mind superimposing Boris’s and Natasha’s faces over the bull's-eyes. Each pull of the trigger, he vowed he wouldn’t think. He had come here determined not to, using distraction as a vent for the undercurrent of bitterness that kept trying to pull him under.

He refused to acknowledge the sense of betrayal that was burning a hole in his gut. He’d broken their trust by hiding everything deep. They didn’t trust him and might as well have stabbed him in the back. His humiliation locked him up tight, and he was effectively trapped.

He emptied the chamber in quick succession, then set the gun down as the reality of what he was facing washed over him. Tipping his head back and hooking his hands on his hips, trying to ease the burning tension in his shoulders, he grappled with the truth. He was banished. Off Team Alpha…his guys, his damn job. Busted down to instructor.

God, he hurt. From the inside out.

Desperate for the familiar, desperate for enlightenment, he went home and strode down to the end of the hall. The door across from the kitchen was closed. He hadn’t been in there since just after he’d returned home.

He touched the knob, and a weight pressed in on him. He tried to regulate his breathing, without result. He closed his eyes and turned the knob. Pushing the door open, he walked into his Zen retreat, the glass overlooking the outdoors. The altar with the small Buddha, the mat where he knelt and sat to meditate. The mounted blades on the wall and the art of Japan arranged in ways that pleased the eye. It was a room of peace.

But there was no peace in him.

He wasn’t that man anymore.

There were only broken pieces with fragments missing. How could he become whole again when the puzzle was so jumbled and destroyed?

He stood there wanting the room to fill the empty space inside him, but the scent of jasmine, sandalwood, citrus and ginger barely affected him. He clenched his fists, a twist of agony setting off a chain reaction in him. He made a soft, plaintive sound, hating himself for being this weak. The pain increased until it robbed him of breath. The rush of adrenaline spilled into his system, the volatile mix of guilt, disgust, shame and heartache so overwhelming he exploded. He moved and sent the altar crashing, the Buddha toppling over and landing on his side, the candles rolling away and smacking against the walls. He picked up his ritual teapot, threw it against the wall, and it exploded into shards, nicking his face. He did the same with the cups. He kicked at the mat, so pristine after his dedicated care, smearing the incense with an oily black taint across the white like a scar, and it careened into the space the altar had been. He pulled the art off the walls, the glass cracking and splintering around him. He grabbed the katana and threw it so that it embedded deep into the wall.

His face contorted, and he gritted his teeth on a yell that came out as a growl. He was afraid to open his mouth and find himself unable to stop. He didn’t know how to reconcile himself to being no longer part of the teams. It was as if someone had cut out his heart. His chest heaving, his eyes filling, he collapsed inside, everything caving, his foundation gone. His eyes shifted to the mounted wakizashi on the wall, the shorter sword that the samurai carried, the one they used as a secondary sword in battle and to commit hara-kiri, ritual suicide.

He reached forward and grabbed it. The destroyed room now matched what was inside him. He fell to his knees holding the sword and sat there poised and rigid, the sharpened blade crosswise across his abdomen. He gritted his teeth. One swipe and it would all be over.

With a soft sob, he dropped it, his dishonor complete. He curled into himself and wept.

---

Joint Base Pearl Harbor Hickam Naval Base Hickam, Hawaii

After PT and her daily swim at the pool, Charlie was in the swim locker working on maintenance for her gear when her phone beeped. She saw her unit was being called in to report for deployment. She stopped what she was doing and headed for their ready room. Once inside the team assembled, including her sea-daddy or swim buddy, Chief Petty Officer Steven Watkins. After they were seated, her commander, John Sedders started talking.

“There’s been an incident off the Coast of Somalia. Pirates have gotten their hands on a warship and ambushed and sunk the USS Noah Jackson.” He pushed a button and a recording of the battle had been captured before the ship had gone down. When the feed cut off and it went to static, Charlie could only feel sadness at the lives that had been lost.

Her gut clenched and the soft murmurs around the room told of everyone’s shock. “How did they accomplish that, sir?” Charlie asked. She knew what it took to sink one of the battleships and it was no easy task.

“They took out the bridge with a surface weapon without any warning or provocation. I guess they wanted to send a message.”

The navy is currently responding to that message, but we’re heading out to the Horn of Africa. Report to the tarmac in half an hour.”

This was what being a navy diver was all about. A moment’s notice and it was off to a location located halfway around the globe. Back at the locker, she started to pack her gear, trying with all her might to keep her mind on the mission and deployment. But the discovery six months ago that she was failing herself haunted her. It was as if her whole life had been brought sharply into focus, and she was able to see things she had never seen before. It should have been enlightening, but it wasn’t. It was unsettling. And it intruded, mostly on her concentration. She would find herself standing and staring at something with her stomach in knots.

“Hey, ace. You okay?” Steve asked with a concerned look on his face. “Get the lead out. We don’t have much time and I need my swim buddy.”

She nodded and packed up the rest of her gear and soon found herself on a transport plane, winging over the ocean. It was nothing but a never-ending swath of blue beneath her. Most of her team was asleep, including Steve. She managed to keep a front during the day, but at night—nights were bad. All the self-doubts and uncertainties and anxieties would rise up and drive her from her bed. Old memories were surfacing now more than ever before—as well as disturbing memories that made her cold inside.

She stared at the water below her, her nemesis and where she’d worked most of her adult life. Cold. She remembered the cold. And she remembered the terror. The sea had been relentless in taking her family from her. The wind and waves tossing her like so much flotsam.

There it was, the memory of deploying the life raft and how she had sunk into the ocean as the bodies of her family floated above her. The image was chilling as their bodies were never recovered. In her mind, they drifted endlessly in the depths.

“What’s going on, kid?”

She was so far away, and the sound of his voice was so unexpected that Charlie jumped, her heart slamming into high gear as adrenaline shot through her. Closing her eyes, she clutched her hand against her chest, not quite able to disconnect from the memory—that frightening, terrifying memory.

Steve caught her under the chin and forced her to look at him. He winced when he saw her face, then he sighed. She could tell he wanted to hug her, but he didn’t. His eyes…they were so warm and safe. She reached out and clasped him around the wrist and fought the feelings of abandonment, of fear, of shame, guilt and deep, black soul-sucking loss.

“You want to talk about it?”

Her teeth clamped against the well of unshed tears, she shook her head. He chucked her under the chin, brushing her cheek in a way that was so comforting…like a father would do to help his daughter in times like this. Her throat constricted. His kindness couldn’t have been more needed, more wrenching. He’d been there for her for a long time. It was as if he knew what kind of emotional trauma she was experiencing right then and was there to lift her out of the nightmare memory.

“Why don’t you go to sleep?” She shook her head again, and he smiled. “How about some cards then, ace?”

His warmth and physical closeness diffused the disturbing images, and something as mundane as cards seemed like a lifeline to pull her back.

He’d been calling her ace since the first time he saw her in action. The nickname always made her feel like they had a relationship, but even with Steve, Charlie held herself in reserve.

Charlie clung to the solidness of his presence to ground her. It had come out of nowhere, that recollection. Without warning, it was just there. Now, she felt as if she couldn’t pile all that stuff back into the place where she’d hidden it. Without the key, she would be lost.

She’d had no idea until now how broken she was.

“When you figure it out and you’re ready to talk, let me know, kid. I’m here.”

She took the cards he dealt her, badly shaken by the shifting, disturbing images in her mind. She stared at them. Steve’s statement sending a reverberation of a shadowy, half-remembered fear through her. It was as though her whole foundation had abruptly crumbled away, and she was suddenly standing on shifting sand. Trust him. Could she? She couldn’t help calculating the cost in what she would lose if she did.

“Do you have any fives?” he asked.

She tried to quell the heart-racing panic. She had refused to deal with all her emotions after losing her family at sea. She’d thought she was ready to deal with it all when Sam had encouraged her to get tied, but her self-analysis failed her. She thought looking back after all this time would be manageable—looking back meant facing all that fear and hurt and shame. Charlie tried to will away the panic, but it wouldn’t let go. It was like a huge hand clutching her chest. But she’d sought out her memories, her loss because this time there was no escape. This time she was going to have to navigate treacherous waters before she could find her safe shore.

---

Ocean “Blue” Beckett’s Residence San Diego, California

Scarecrow approached Blue’s door. He glanced at Wicked and he nodded. They couldn’t leave their buddy hanging after that situation at the gym yesterday. Scarecrow knocked, while Wicked peered into the garage, but there was no answer. Without thinking about it, he found Blue’s key on his chain and slipped it in the lock. Unlatching the door, he pushed it open and called out. “Hey, Blue, you home?”

“His car is in the garage.”

Scarecrow nodded. The house seemed empty to him. He’d done enough breaches to get a sense when it was occupied. The living room was empty except for the rum bottle on the table. His mouth tightened. Dammit, he should have come over here last night. “Check upstairs, O,” Scarecrow said, using one of his nicknames for Orion, Wicked’s first name. “See if he’s sleeping a drunk off.”

“Copy that.”

Wicked disappeared upstairs and Scarecrow walked down the hall. Maybe he was meditating and was lost to himself. He grabbed the knob and eased the door open just to see if Blue was inside. When he saw the ruin, the anger that he had banked flared up. “What the hell…”

“He’s not upstairs,” Wicked said, his growing concern showing in his amber eyes. Scarecrow could only stare at the carnage of the room. Had he been taken and put up a hard fight? Or had he done this himself?

Wicked came around the doorjamb and swore softly.

Yeah, Blue was in trouble one way or the other.

His cell rang as he took in the damage to all that Blue held dear, and when his eyes lighted on the small sword lying discarded on the floor before the ruined altar, his blood ran cold. Had Blue…had he picked it up? Had he intended to use it?

He grabbed his chirping phone. “Hello.”

“Arlo, it’s your mom.”

She always said that each time she called him, as if he wouldn’t recognize her voice.

“She’s here for me,” his dad shouted in the background. “I’m telling you, Rosemary. She’s a hunter. I feel it.”

“What’s going on?” Scarecrow asked. “Mom, are you and Dad okay?”

“No, he’s been ranting ever since he saw that blonde. I don’t know why. She seems like a lovely person.”

“What blonde?”

“The one leasing the land, Arlo. Please, keep up.”

“Land. Our land?”

“I’ve got to get out of here, Rosemary. I’ve got to go.”

“What’s wrong with Dad?”

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s been on edge since she moved in.” Her voice went distant as if she was covering the receiver. “Don’t you dare leave this house, Mason. I will kick your butt, old man.”

He heard the outside door slam, and then his mom said, “I’ll have to call you back. We’ve got a runner.”

“Mom, wait!” he said, but it was too late. She hung up.

He looked at his phone. “What the hell is going on?” Wicked asked.

“I haven’t got a goddamned clue,” Scarecrow said.

Several minutes passed as the ruination of all that Blue held dear lay twisted and smashed around him. He took a breath and let it out. Worried about Blue and his parents all at the same time, he pulled out his cell phone. He called Ruckus and was floored when he told him that Blue was off the teams. He was teaching in Florida.

Ruckus was closemouthed about why, but Scarecrow wondered suddenly if it had been about their fight in the gym. Had he been responsible for Blue’s banishment?

Then there was that bizarre phone call. What blonde? His parents were running him ragged, and Blue was gone.

He felt sick.

---

Somewhere in the Horn of Africa

Charlotte “Charlie” Coventry couldn’t see anything before her, not outlines, not shapes, not anything. The inside of the ship was like a black hole, and the bright yellow helmet she wore barely shone in the murky depths.

They were here to assess the damage to the ill-fated destroyer’s bridge where all hands had been lost, including their captain, Hugh Marks. Since being here for two days, she’d gathered plenty of debris on the surrounding ocean floor and found the tailfin of the warhead that had sunk the USS Noah Jackson. With a smile behind the hard plastic of her faceplate, she rejoiced again at having discovered, shockingly, the serial number of the weapon was embossed on the metal. It must have been blown free of the blast.

After that find, two days ago, and once she was back on board the USS Recovery, the navy salvage ship, she looked up the warhead and found out it was military issued and had been stolen from Naval Base Coronado last year.

She’d written and filed her report and stowed the debris into one of the evidence lockers. Whoever had stolen that warhead was responsible for many sailor deaths. She had no doubt the navy was going to be tracking the bastard or bastards down.

Currently, she was thirty-three feet down, still assessing the damage to the Jackson, an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer sunk by Somali pirates on a rampage near the lawless northern coast. It was reported the ship was attacked with a surface warhead. After the initial attack, with the ship’s bridge destroyed, they had been torpedoed by the pirates, who had gotten their hands on a foreign warship. They were now terrorizing the area, hijacking as many commercial ships as crossed their path and demanding ransoms that climbed into the millions. The navy, with one of their warships down and American lives lost, was massing to track down the hostile vessel and neutralize it. A rebuild of the previous drawdown was underway.

She gritted her teeth at the carnage around her. The bodies of the US sailors aboard were found floating all around the interior of the ship. Soon, after the structure was assessed and it was safe, they would be recovered and on their way back to the States and their families.

She was here to salvage the wreck, with the priority being the structural integrity of the ship.

The “Darth Vader” sound of the air forced into her helmet along with the watery sound of air bubbles escaping from the rig was loud in her ears.

The ocean, much like space, was an inhospitable place for a human. Oxygen was being fed through a coupled lifeline and air hose, the noise of the compressor distorting sound. She had a healthy respect for this environment. She knew it well, had lost so much in this liquid world, but had never let it defeat her.

Joining the navy and becoming a diver had been her middle finger to the force that had taken everything from her.

“I can’t see shit,” her diving partner, Steve, said through the comm.

She chuckled, moving cautiously with her ungloved hands toward the starboard bulkhead in the compartment. “Wasn’t that in the job description? If you’re okay with not seeing a freaking thing…this is for you.”

It was Steve’s turn to chuckle. “You got it, girl. It’s not a job. It’s an adventure.”

She had been working with Steve for a long time. He was her mentor and her buddy, but he treated her like a beloved daughter most of the time. She tried to keep that in perspective. She’d lost her dad a long time ago, but the navy had filled the gap. Or so she’d thought.

There were several flashes of light, glowing dimly, flickering and disappearing. She’d seen it before—phosphorescence. In the pitch black of the hull of the ship, it was creepy, like the ghosts of the men who had died trying to communicate with them. Something floated into her and she reached up dislodge it from her path. Feeling the give of clothing and flesh, she recoiled, her heart pounding as she pushed the corpse away. Gathering her composure, she continued moving.

They had traveled from the entrance to the submerged deck down into the bowels of the vessel, looking for the damage.

“Topside,” Charlie said, communicating to the salvage ship floating above them with their protective destroyer escort, the USS Thomas Welton, hovering nearby. “I found the fire hydrant.”

“Move to your left about ten feet and reach your hand up to the overhead, and you should feel a large blower motor. Continue six feet beyond, and you will feel a watertight door in the after bulkhead of the workshop.”

She followed his orders and felt her way through the darkness toward the door to the machine shop along with Steve.

At the shop doorway, she hesitated and drew her lifeline toward her. “I’m inside the shop doorway.” There was that feeling again when she looked into the inky black. The sense of presence and the flashing of the lights. “Turn and face the bulkhead and move to your right about twenty feet. There should be a fire hydrant on the bulkhead waist high.”

“Got it.”

“Good. Now turn around, and with your back to the bulkhead, slowly walk forward through the shop.

There was that eerie feeling again that they weren’t alone. Something was near. She felt the body floating above her. She tensed, and the flashback from the plane popped into her head without warning. Bodies floating. She could envision exactly what that looked like—she’d seen it in all its horror-filled glory. Soon the overhead was filled with floating forms.

Obviously, their movement through the water had created a suction effect that drew the floating masses to them. Hands brushed across her helmet, the sound of their metal watches like wind chimes.

Holding the sadness and shock of what had happened to these men in that battle inside, she stayed calm. Without stopping, she pressed forward and stumbled over something. She turned her head toward the object, and everything in her tightened. Damn. This wasn’t good. “Topside. There’s an unexploded torpedo in the shop.”

“Where?”

“Across from the hole inside the ship.”

“Where are you?”

“At the nose cone.”

“Roger.”

“Be careful, Coventry,” Steve said. That’s where the boom-boom comes from.”

She smiled and turned her head, but in the darkness, she couldn’t see him. “Smart ass.”

“Retreat for now, both of you. We’ll send EOD down.”

Charlie was right behind him when suddenly something shifted, and the creak of the vessel signaled it was close to her. Before she could react, something heavy and metal fell over her, locking around her, and she couldn’t move. The vessel stabilized.

Then her air cut off.

“I’m pinned,” she said. “No oxygen.”

No one answered her. Either her lifeline and hose had been severed or it was pinched from the falling debris. She immediately closed her exhaust valve, pushing back the alarm.

“Take in my slack,” she said and immediately felt the tug at the top of her helmet. She had at best two minutes of air. Fear tingled down her spine. Pushing away the panic, she told herself to stay calm. Not panicking was the key.

Her hands went over the obstruction in front of her, and she found metal hemming her in. Reaching into her pack, she pulled out her torch. Without thinking about her suit and how the discharge from the torch could do more damage, she started working at the metal piece. When it fell away, she walked out of the prison as quickly as she could.

Still no oxygen.

She grabbed the lifeline, following briskly hand over hand, stumbling wildly, bumping into milling machines and drill presses, her breath quick and shallow from fear and exertion.

The heavy weight of the diving equipment hampered her. Without buoyancy in her suit, it was like dragging concrete.

She found the loop and untangled it.

“Coventry,” came the frantic call from Topside.

“Here,” she said, breathless. “My line was tangled. I freed it.”

“Hang tough, we’re pulling you up.”

Without air pressure in her suit, water poured into the interior through the cuffs and the exhaust valve in her helmet. The coolness of it encircled her neck. The pull on the line was now frantic as the crew hauled her in. She stumbled and fell as they dragged her over and around obstacles. Water continued to pour in. Somehow, she got to her feet, only to be slammed against a lathe and then pulled over the top of it in a mad, tumbling journey to the surface and fresh air.

But time had run out for her. She fell again, water filling the helmet. She stood coughing and gagging. Her breathing labored, and the panic was like a live thing in her chest.

Bursts of stars and brilliant white shards of light exploded before her eyes. A loud ringing filled her ears. Even in her dire state, she recognized the symptoms of carbon dioxide toxicity and oxygen deficiency. It seemed right that she would die like her family had died. Deep down as she’d always expected she would.

She would join the men who had perished, nothing but a phosphorescent light.

The strain on the lifeline from above jerked her upright. A red haze passed before her eyes, grew fainter and fainter and disappeared into blackness. She was dying.

Even with that knowledge, she struggled with all that she had in her.

The part of her that had battled the ocean, all alone, the part of her that had kept her alive.

She cleared the doorway and started to move more rapidly. Then she was out of the ship, moving toward the boat. When she broke the surface, it didn’t do her any good. The helmet was a solid barrier against the oxygen she desperately needed.

Gray pushed in from all sides, and she blinked as she saw the salvage boat. Several crew members jumped into the water and swam to her with strong, sure strokes.

Her vision was fading, when she was grabbed by her shipmates. She took her first pull of fresh, clean air as the helmet was removed and a mask with pure oxygen was fitted over her nose and mouth. Sucking it in, gasping, she floated secure in the arms of her rescuers. The navy had never let her down. It was her life, had her loyalty and her devotion. Nothing would come between them.

They hauled her aboard to safety. An hour later, given the okay by the doctor, recovered, she was determined to finish out her shift.

After the successful removal of the torpedo, she and Steve were able to assess structural damage. Finally, the job of extracting the bodies of the sailors still trapped inside the vessel came. But when she got on deck, her commander said to her, “Coventry, you’re out.”

“Why?”

“Orders came through. You got your advanced training.”

She smiled. Even with what she was dealing with now, she was one step closer to master diver.

“Gather your gear.”

“Yes, sir.”

She was headed to Panama City, Florida and NDSTC, the Naval Diving and Salvage Training Center.

---

Camp Lemonnier Dijbouti-Ambouli International Airport

As Charlie entered the base, she received a call from her commander, who requested her presence at one of the hangars on base before she took her military transport. She’d been flown off the USS Recovery to nearby Camp Lemonnier, the Combined Joint Task Force—Horn of Africa of the U.S. Africa Command located at Dijbouti’s Dijbouti-Ambouli International Airport. It was the primary base from which to provide demining, humanitarian, and counter-terrorism missions.

She had been picked up by a jeep and transported to a hangar not far from her ride back to San Diego and her flight to Florida. She exited the jeep with her duffel and walked through the cavernous doors, setting the bag down near a table. She heard voices and saw her commander talking with a formidable man in BDUs that she instantly recognized as a SEAL.

Navy SEALs. Navy nobility. Just those two words brought up so much—pride, awe, honor. The fact that they were here meant there was a global issue involved. She approached them. Her hat or cover as it was referred in the navy was already tucked into the back pocket of her own BDU pants. “Sir,” she greeted him and stood at attention until he bade her to at ease.

“Petty Officer Charlotte Coventry, this is Lieutenant Bowie Cooper out of NAB with Team Seven.”

She nodded to him, her eyes going over the seven other men who milled around looking like they were locked and loaded for battle. Yet there was something about their posture and their demeanor that told her there was dissention among them. One of them looked like Errol Flynn and had a corpsman patch, another so hot, he could also be a movie star. An attractive bunch of guys. But their set expressions and flinty eyes told her these warriors had a stake in this warhead. She didn’t like the odds of the people who had pointed it at one of their navy’s ships and blasted it to the bottom of the gulf.

“Coventry,” Cooper said. “What can you tell us about the debris of the warhead you recovered near the wreck of the Jackson?”

She told him about how she had found the tail fin and the serial number. “Pure dumb luck, sir, in its recovery. It was buried in silt.”

“Good job, Petty Officer.”

She flushed at his praise. He easily stood out as a leader of men.

“The pirates knew what they were doing,” she continued. She met his cool blue eyes and got a shiver. She noticed the ring on his finger. It would take one hell of a woman to tame this man. Good for you, honey. “They hit the bridge, crippling the warship. They then proceeded to torpedo the disabled vessel. Several impacted the starboard side, with one directed at the stern, effectively taking out propulsion. From what I can gather from transcription of the Voyage Data Recorder I also salvaged those facts coincide with the video relayed to Navy Command from the ship. The pirate boat was hailed by the captain, requesting identification, but the pirates opened fire without warning. They never had a chance.”

Lieutenant Cooper frowned, and Charlie never wanted to be on the bad side of this man. Any of them, she thought.

“This ship was alone?”

“Yes. There has been a drawdown in this area for some time, the threat of the pirates neutralized. But I guess as the sea cleared, they got cocky. They’re going to be sorry they messed with the United States Navy.”

“They are,” Lieutenant Cooper growled. “Thank you for your time, Coventry.”

She nodded to her commander, then walked away from the group. She sent them a silent prayer for their successful and casualty-free takedown of the vicious pirates. Her job here was done. She was embarking on the next leg of her goal: Master Diver.