“I love—” A jolt of pain interrupted him. “—being underestimated. Mind telling me where I’m at?”
“Sickbay aboard the USS South Carolina, the finest ballistic missile submarine in the Navy.”
Submarine? “How in the hell—?”
“This might hurt a bit.” He began cutting the dressing off his thigh. And then he cleansed the wound, the pain incomprehensible.
Max awoke with the same medic standing over him, alongside a female officer wearing the gold leaves of a lieutenant commander on her collar.
“I cut back his morphine drip,” the medic said. “He should be more coherent now.”
“Yeah, thanks a lot,” Max muttered.
The medic laughed. “He’s all yours, ma’am.”
The woman drew the teal curtain closed around the bed, then looked down and regarded him curiously as though he were some rare reptile on display behind glass. Nice scenery for sure. Her dark hair, somewhat bedraggled, ended at her collar. She wore little if any makeup, but really didn’t need any. Her girl-next-door face looked wholesome enough, open and honest, but at the same time worldly, urbane, even a bit jaded. He couldn’t help thinking he’d met her before, but damned if he could remember where.
“The international man of mystery awakens,” she said with a slight smile.
“Is that what they’re calling me now? I hadn’t noticed.”
“They’re calling you all sorts of things, none of which are nearly as flattering.” She paused. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Unfortunately not. I must have been pretty drunk.” He immediately regretted the quip. Nice line, Ratsanova.
She laughed. “No booze involved, just coffee and a mailbox.”
Max noticed the name tape on her uniform blouse: Dugan. No, she was an admin sergeant in the Corps. He fought back pain and sat up a few inches to more closely examine her face. “I’ll be damned. Sorry, I didn’t realize, but you’ve changed a lot.”
“You don’t look much different.”
“I look like hell with the fire out, but thanks anyway.”
“I’m just glad you’re in one piece, sir.”
“Call me Max; I’d say you’ve earned that right.”
She nodded. “Thank you, Max. I go by Katherine, with a K.”
Events that occurred during his last mission were slowly returning to his memory; yet as much as he wished to be debriefed on just what the fuck he had accomplished—or failed—right now he was more interested in Lieutenant Commander Katherine Dugan. “So how does one go from Marine sergeant to naval lieutenant commander in a decade?”
“It’s kind of a long story, but I’ll bore you with it since you asked. Since you’re somewhat to blame.”
“Finally, I get blamed for something good.”
Her expression grew grave. “Top Van Zant was marching you to the brig last time I saw you.” She shook her head. “But who would believe that you killed your commanding officer? I figured you’d be cleared and back to work in a couple of days. I was naive though, and I proved it when I asked the new CO what happened to you. He informed me that was a top-secret matter, that neither of us had needed to know, and ordered me never to speak of you again. Top dropped a forest’s worth of paperwork on my desk to keep me busy and quiet until I forgot about you.
“But I was curious; I had to know. So I started digging when I got back to my unit in the rear. Being in admin helped, but I still couldn’t find anything on you.
“About two weeks later I get called into my CO’s office, only there’s a major general sitting behind his desk instead of him, and a naval lieutenant present as well.”
“Who was the general?”
“Marklin was his name.”
Max nodded. “We’ve met.” He helped sign me up for the CIA. Bastard.
“I kind of figured that, when he informed me I’d been selected to join the Navy ROTC program, which I never applied for. I already had two years of college before I joined the corps, so they offered to pay for the rest and send me to OCS afterward. They painted a rosy picture of my future, if I wished to become a naval officer. As for staying enlisted, well, I heard all sorts of horror stories about stalled promotions, downsizing, how even one mediocre fitness report might ruin my career. I think you get the idea.”
“I understand completely. You did the right thing.”
“No, I didn’t. I sold out.”
“Bullshit. I wasn’t worth ruining your career over. Frankly I’m glad you benefitted from what happened to me. At least it counted for something.” He paused a moment. “I have to be honest with you: I had a feeling you wanted to go career, but I never thought you’d make it.”
Dugan said nothing; her expression did not change.
“Wanna know why? Because I saw someone too sincere and honest to ever succeed in the military. But I was wrong. And I’m pleased about it.”
“Thank you. Do you think I’m still like that?”
“Yeah, I do. You’ve still got a moral compass, but there’s also an edge to you now. That comes with time, and it’s a balance that separates good leaders from the Top Van Zants and Major Whitbecks of the world.”
She chortled at the names. “Whitbeck disappeared too, you know. I didn’t waste time looking for him.”
Good. You would have wasted a lot of it. “Yeah, I don’t know what happened to that sorry pog.”
“Oh, you just had to bust out the P word, didn’t you?” She laughed.
“Sorry, just kind of slipped out.”
“It’s all right. Utilizing my super-pog abilities I finally discovered what became of you a couple years back.”
“Not something I wish to discuss at the moment, with all due respect.”
“Understood. But you’ll be discussing it a lot, and very soon, due to your last mission.”
“Yeah...” Speaking to Dugan had helped him gather his wits. And though gaping holes punctuated the mission timeline in several spots, he now remembered most of what happened. “I sunk at the end, felt like I got pulled down, it happened so fast.”
“A team of SEAL divers pulled you under right after we torpedoed that border patrol ship. I had the bridge and gave the order.”
“You didn’t tell me you’re XO of this vessel, but I should have known. Where was the skipper when this went down?”
“In the same bed you’re in now. He apparently ate some bad sushi back in Sasebo. You don’t want to hear the details, but he’s recuperating nicely. Anyway, you and I might be in a just a tiny bit of trouble. But it was worth it in my mind, and I’d give the order again.”
Sincerity may cut you down yet. Max didn’t consider that a bad thing, however. Katherine Dugan struck him as the sort of woman who would get along just fine without a military career. Hell, she could do a lot better. The naive, gawky gofer who had once spilled hot coffee on him had grown up and unlocked her potential, perhaps to the point of self-mastery. Max had never been one to stroke egos with bullshit, feel-good platitudes, but he honestly believed that Dugan really could accomplish whatever she set her mind to.
“I’m in your debt, so don’t expect me to question your judgment.”
“I think a lot of judgments will be questioned, Max—mine, yours, whoever the hell planned that mission.”
“No, not them. Their armor repels all accountability.” And one of the masterminds is dead.
“True enough. The propaganda spinners on both sides are at full blather as we speak. Care to take a look?”
“Against my better judgment, why not?”
She pulled a tablet from a cargo pocket and began scrolling through files. “My email updated when we surfaced the other day. My mom forwarded this to me. This is what Joe Average-American is hearing about your exploits.” She pressed one more prompt before handing the tablet to Max.
On
screen a blond with flawless hair, plastic boobs, and lips like two satiated scarlet leeches sat behind a cable news desk and read off the prompter: “Breaking news out of North Korea at this hour, leader Kim Jong-un claiming America is responsible for an explosion that killed dozens at a North Korean children’s medical research facility.” The report cut to an aerial view of a smoking crater two hundred meters across filled with rubble.
Then a jowly Kim Jong-un ranted and slammed his palm down on a podium adorned with a large red star and plenty of gold leaf. “In a speech yesterday before the North Korean parliament, Kim alleged that several US black operatives infiltrated and destroyed the facility in a belligerent act intended to provoke a world war. He claims operatives reached the remote facility deep within the country via parachute drop.” A photo of the muddy parachute Max discarded appeared, followed by another of the HK416 he’d left in the flooded car beneath the bridge.
“He did not mention whether any of the alleged operatives had been captured. A White House spokesman denied any US involvement in the explosion, and on his Twitter account the president posted, ‘This is nothing but a pathetic ploy by Kim to build sympathy in the world community so we’ll ease economic sanctions. Not happening, pal!’ CIA and Pentagon sources also deny any involvement. We will continue to keep you updated as this story evolves.” The video stopped.
“Funny how they didn’t mention my escape or the sunken patrol boat,” Max said. “To avoid the embarrassment, I imagine.”
“A classic prevarication, right out of the commie playbook. I’m not sure what’s been reported in the two days since, but we’ve received enough shit-sandwich communiqués from the Department of the Navy and the Pentagon to make me think it’s still a hot topic.”
“They’ll forget about it soon enough.”
“But in the meantime you’re an infamous yet mysterious black operative. How does it feel?”
“Really fucking painful. Pardon the Queen’s English.”
“Don’t sweat it; you’ve got nothing on the guys down in reactor control.”
“Out-cursed by nuke jockeys? I need to step up my game.”
Alas, their laughter did little to ease their respective tensions. “I don’t know, Max. I’m dreading what will happen back in San Diego. You’re in for a bullshit avalanche too, I fear.”
“Don’t fear for me or yourself. If it was war, you would know already. It isn’t. Just some saber rattling and podium pounding is all.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Max leaned closer to her. “Remember this: the Navy needs people like you, not the other way around. If it happens you’ll adapt, come out stronger when it’s over. You’re that type of person.”
“All right, you know it’s against the UCMJ to make the XO blush.”
Max smiled at her. “Good thing I’m not subject to it any more. Hell, I might sing your praises at bit longer. As a civilian I can do that.”
“Thought you were CIA?”
“Not anymore and never again.”
“Poof, just like that? Leave whenever you want?”
He sighed, shook his head. “I actually left a while ago, but stupid me kept crawling back into bed with them every time they came knocking at my door. But after what I saw in that place, it’s the last roundup.”
“Pity it’s all classified. I wouldn’t mind hearing what you’ve been up to for the last twelve years.”
“Tell you what: when we get back to the states—after the inquiries and debriefings are over and we’ve been righteously pilloried by our superiors—why don’t you take some leave and come visit me in Vegas? I’ll tell you all about it.”
And I will, because I know I can. He’d been silent about his disturbing history for too long, as the grisly details built and compressed like steam in a pressure cooker. He needed to release that pressure by venting to the right person, a luxury he’d never enjoyed even during his marriage.
She raised one corner of her mouth in a wry smile, then looked away.
Damn, was it that lead-footed? He hoped not—he didn’t want Katherine Dugan dancing away anytime soon.
She turned back to him, her smile fully agleam. “I thought you’d never ask, Max. I always wanted to see Las Vegas.”
About the Author
Ryan Aslesen is a bestselling author and security consultant based out of Las Vegas, NV. He is a former Marine officer and veteran of the War on Terror and is a graduate of Presentation College and American Military University. His military and work experience has made him one of the premier writers of military science fiction. His highly praised debut novel, Existential, was an international bestseller. When not writing or out protecting the world, you will find him spending quality time with his family.
Check out Max’s other adventures in the bestselling Crucible Series.
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