Sign, SEAL and Deliver: Silver SEALs, Book 8

by Geri Foster

  They were going to collect money from the poppy fields. Millions of dollars were at stake. Money used to fund their terrorist group activities. The success of this one mission would make a dent in their ability to continue the Taliban’s operation. If Rye and his Team were lucky, they’d take out the two guys and cut off the head of the snake.

  Cut the head off the snake.

  Rye gritted his teeth and locked his jaw. It didn’t work out that way, not even close.

  The first rifle crack caught him by surprise. Hunkered down behind structures and concealed barriers, they were suddenly being shot at from above by an entire regiment of men. The fighting grew intense and unbelievably well-coordinated for such a sleepy little part of town.

  He called in other units, a strike force, anybody to come and get them out of the hellhole. Cornered and outnumbered, his men fought bravely, long, and hard. But there was so little they could do but return fire. Eight men against over a hundred, and they had nowhere to go, no shelter to seek and no goddamn Helos to lay down fire.

  Rye never saw a group of men fight so hard to stay alive and save each other. He had run from one to another encouraging them to keep up the fight and to use every weapon at their disposal. Tex had been the first one to go down, with a sniper shot to the head. Then Bongo, his left shoulder shattered before a well-placed bullet blasted a hole to his chest.

  Rye looked around rallying his men. Then Gunnar went down next. He honestly thought nothing could bring the big man down. He was their breacher and often the lead man. A person you could depend on in a fight like this. Today Gunnar fought his last battle.

  Ranger went out the same time Buster did. The doc fought against blood everywhere. The biggest clusterfuck Rye had ever been in, and after so many years as a Navy SEAL there was little he hadn’t seen on the battlefield.

  He constantly fired his rifle, all the time pleading for help while feeling useless. When he looked around he realized he was alone, no one else fought beside him. Only the sound of his rifle repeating and his breath whishing out in small puffs.

  The world slowed. Everything around him began to move in a certain rhythm. One he couldn’t control. Rye glanced at his feet to find his boots covered in shell casings. He caught a grimace of Ishad Hussein, and he took the shot and missed, while the man laughed.

  That’s when the first shot hit him in the shoulder and spun him around. The second hit his right thigh and he buckled to his knee. Still he continued to fight, continued to pull the trigger of his Colt M4 as he fought for his life and the honor of his Team and Navy SEALs around the world.

  He had his mic on, Harper was in his ear searching for him an escape route. Trying to get someone to help him, she called on every bit of fire power in the area. He heard the panic in her voice, the desperation, the helplessness.

  In a last ditch effort, he threw three grenades hoping to take out as many bastards as he could.

  From there it all became a blur. He didn’t remember going down and staying down. Nothing until two weeks later when he woke up in Germany at an American hospital in pain so great, he screamed at the top of his lungs.

  Once settled down, he marveled at the difference. There everything was quiet, so white, so clean and sterile. In contrast to the battlefield, where he’d been surrounded by the smell of spent bullets, death cries, blood and hopelessness.

  When they told him his Team had been carried out of the kill zone and their bodies returned home, Rye realized no one survived but him. He didn’t know a man’s soul could hurt so much. When you fight with a man, you want to die with him. He trusted and loved his brothers, they were the ones you leaned on, the ones you loved and would give your life for.

  “Looks like you’re going home, Officer Ellison,” the doctor who’d been attending him during his stay said. “You were shot a total of eight times,” the doctor said, staring at his chart. “You have to be reevaluated to see if you can continue service.” That proved to be another hard blow.

  He wouldn’t stay in the military and not be able to fight. They had trained him to be a warrior. To fight when there was no hope, to give everything he had, and leave nothing on the battlefield. He had done that. Now he would wait and see what the military wanted to do with him, because like always, it was their call, not his.

  They discharged him from the hospital, and he flew back to Afghanistan to meet with Commander Bernard Sullivan. He’d been in charge of the operation, along with Harper Woods. Rye could barely move for days. Healing proved slow and painfully intense. Still he put up a brave front. His commander explained Khalil Qamar knew they were coming, set a trap and executed it skillfully. That’s when he learned Hussein had led the attack.

  “Are you saying there was a leak?” Rye asked, not sure he could believe his own ears. “You mean someone set my men up? We walked into a fucking trap?”

  Woods step forward, her long black hair pulled back, big blue eyes standing out in stark contrast to her pale complexion. “Rye, we covered all the bases. My intel was right on. I’d checked it a dozen times. I don’t understand how this could’ve happened. Reconnaissance on the area came back clean. No one was anywhere close to that place. Just a few guys waiting for Qamar and Hussein to show up. It was a simple money drop. How did things go so bad?”

  “We sat up there for ten hours waiting. There wasn’t a sound. We didn’t see another living soul. All through the night, not even a dog barked. We waited, knowing they wouldn’t hit until daybreak. They would be coming from one place and we knew the approximate time of arrival.” He slammed his hand down on the desk. “We knew exactly what to expect. We had gone over the scenario dozens of times.”

  “I don’t know what could’ve went wrong,” Sully had said. “We had it set up so precisely, it should’ve been in and out and over with.” He shook his head and held out his hand. “I didn’t even expect you to have to fire your weapons. It was so damn simple.”

  Weak and in so much pain he could barely stand, Woods suggested Rye leave Afghanistan. Go back stateside to recover, and, as all indications were looking, he would be able to go back and join another Team.

  He didn’t want another Team; he wanted his Team.

  Chapter Three

  Using his weakened condition as a reason to stay at the command center in Afghanistan, Rye ignored Harper and went to work finding the people responsible for the death of his men. He ventured into town on a few occasions, going back and forth to Kandahar as their usual supply route.

  One night he convinced one of the Marines to drop him off near the area of the attack. Dressed in typical Afghan garb he went looking until he found Ishad Hussein. Taking the man by complete surprise, he dragged him outside into a small shed and worked him over, trying to get him to give up the location of Qamar.

  Realizing the man wouldn’t turn on his leader because his family would suffer the consequence, he made a run for it and Rye shot him. He returned to base and left the country the next morning. It turned out Commander Sullivan notified his superiors and the authorities accused Rye of killing an innocent Afghan civilian.

  When the bodies of his men were returned to the states and buried, Rye had laid in a hospital unconscious, unaware of the sorrow and the pain felt by their families. He hadn’t been there to bury them or pay his last respects, which every Navy SEAL had a right to do.

  Now he went home to visit those families, to share their grief, to visit their graves, and say his final farewell. SEAL Team 2 - Cobra 8 was gone. He was the only one left. He’d never felt so alone. He dropped to his knees beside Tex’s grave and cried like he’d never cried before. Sobs wracked his body; snot ran from his nose. Pain ran through his body so intense it nearly blinded him and had him wanting to crawl in the grave with his teammate.

  All Rye had wanted was one last beer together. The one celebratory drink to boost their immortality. Slapping each other on the back to reaffirm that they were the baddest of all the badasses in the valley.

  Totally Indestru
ctible.

  That had been his Team’s war cry. They felt confident every time they went on a mission.

  Now, there would be no coming back, there would be no hope of ever regaining what he had. Sadly, Rye had to go on solo. Flying back to the states had been the longest flight he’d ever taken. Usually after a mission he’d knock back a couple of beers, take a sleeping pill and not know anything until the plane landed. They rarely discussed an assignment afterwards. Not until they were back home. Home was safe, where their families waited.

  This time felt different. So strange, so quiet, so sad. There’d been no beer, no sleeping pills for the flight. Nothing but tears and regret. All alone in a C-130. He didn’t want company. He knew Woods and Sully wouldn’t be coming back with him. He didn’t like the fact that they were alive and his men were dead. When he arrived back in the United States and reported to command, they put him up at the barracks that night. He was still unable to eat, still unable to stop thinking, still hearing the noise of the battle.

  He gave a complete report. Wrote it out in his own handwriting. Relayed exactly how everything had gone wrong. Explained how every one of his men had died, the wounds they had received, the grenades exploding around them, the rocket launchers.

  Nobody showed up with that kind of firepower unless they were ready to go to battle and Qamar and his men had been. They had waited, prepared, planned and executed. His men hadn’t stood a chance. He sniffled and wiped away the tears. Had the enemy been watching them all along, counting the minutes they had to live, calculating how much time they’d need to take them all out?

  Kill Americans, kill Americans, kill Americans. Those words echoed through his mind.

  Then all hell broke loose all over again. Rye’s life turned into one accusation after another and he suspected soon he’d be blamed for the US not being on good terms with China and Russia.

  He was back in Florida. Back to this evening and its familiar sounds. But as the tears coursed down his face, their battle cry kept repeating in his head. Totally Indestructible.

  Something inside him wanted to finish this. Something mean, wild, and untamed. Or else his soul would never rest until the mission finally ended. He picked up Crash’s card and flipped it on the counter.

  Tomorrow his life would change all over again and this time he’d be ready.

  Chapter Four

  After a long, sleepless night, Rye rose and went for his morning run. It always hurt like hell, but the pain proved to be his punishment for living. The rest of his Team couldn’t run, couldn’t have a sleepless night and couldn’t be with their loved ones.

  He liked Florida. Hated the damn mosquitoes and the palmetto bugs, but the rest seemed to be right up his alley. It beat the hell out of Buffalo, New York and the winters there. He’d thought for sure he’d freeze before getting out of High School. A few years of college and off to the Navy for him. He’d wanted to be a SEAL from the time he turned thirteen.

  His dad had been a military man. Rose through the ranks to Colonel in the Army and clearly stated his disappointment of his youngest son going into the Navy. Rye didn’t care. He knew no matter the rank, as a Navy SEAL, he’d be better than all the rest.

  He ran close to the ocean to listen as the waves rolled in and smell the ocean breeze. He relished in the isolation. Here he found solitude. Completely cut off from friends and family.

  His dad, long retired, came to Florida and tried to talk him back into living, but Rye wouldn’t hear it. This was his penitence. How could he live when the members of his Team were dead? Killed in some shithole village where Americans weren’t welcome, yet their money essential.

  Once home, Rye made sure no one had entered his cabin and the place was secure. An old habit he didn’t care to change. He liked feeling safe. His home, humble as it might be, was his private space, and no one dare invade it. Not even those brief one night stands.

  He didn’t know his distant neighbors and they didn’t bother getting to know him. He’d moved into the place in the middle of the night. Hired a U-Haul, unloaded it and that had been the extent of his adventure. He didn’t have a damn thing he couldn’t do without.

  Oh, his uniform with his trident hung in the closet, his boots were shined, and his weapons loaded and ready, but nothing else mattered. Not even the medals or the awards or even his letters from home. His mom and sister wrote and called regularly. Thankfully they were short and to the point. He needed to get over the past and come home where they could help him heal.

  Civilians have no idea.

  He didn’t want to get over what’d happened. He wore it proudly. To do less would dishonor his men and their deaths. They were an ingrained part of his grief.

  After a long shower, he dressed in his daily uniform of shorts, tee shirt and flip-flops. He put on a pot of coffee to brew while he downed a bottle of water.

  When the coffee finished he poured a cup and walked out to the front porch. It faced the ocean, but you could barely see it from his vantage point. Still, he knew it was out there and he could enjoy the seagulls and other waterfowl.

  Several people walked the beach, enjoying the cool morning. Later the heat would run them all inside except for the sun worshipers who baked their skin and looked like beaten leather. He sat in the rickety webbed chair he’d found abandoned on the beach and went through his morning breathing exercises. He had decided to call Crash, find out a little more information and, if it all panned out, he’d go back to the sandlot. If he didn’t like what Crash had to say, Rye would continue as usual.

  He’d carried his phone and Crash’s card with him out to the porch. There were days when he wanted to walk away from all of it. Forget what happened over there, but he knew he’d never be able to. The pain, uncertainty, and regret were permanently tattooed on his conscience.

  He drained the last dregs of his coffee, set the cup down and punched in Crash’s number.

  “I see you’ve come to your senses.”

  Rye wondered how Crash knew him to be the caller, but he let it go. Crash made it his business to know everything. That’s what made him a good Task Unit Commander.

  “Let’s just say I’m interested enough to want to know more.”

  “I can’t take Woods off this assignment, Rye, they won’t let me. The CIA wants answers as bad as you do.”

  “And there are no other Assets in the country?”

  “There are, but she’s the best.”

  He scoffed. “I could challenge that.”

  “You know she’s been offered a nice cushiony job back here in Washington, DC, with an impressive promotion. She turned it down to keep on Qamar’s trail. She’s never let it get cold.”

  “She hasn’t caught his ass either,” Rye reminded him in a gruff voice. “It’s been eight years and my guess is she’s no closer than when I left.”

  Crash let out a frustrated breath. “There have been setbacks. Major ones that no one could foresee, but she’s managed to bring in almost all the men responsible for killing your men. One by one, she went after them until they were captured, interrogated and sent to Gitmo.”

  “Sounds impressive. But you didn’t mention Qamar who has an entire army to draw on. She might’ve gotten some men, but two stepped up to take each one’s place.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I’m careful to keep my finger on the pulse too, Crash. Those were my men, my Team. You think I can just walk away?”

  “We all know you can’t. You went back and killed Hussein.”

  “I knew he was their intel guy. I’d learned that from our logistics guy, Tex, before he was killed. He’d identified him as the one who’d been snooping around. Also, he’d been in the thick of the fight. It took me six weeks to track him down and kill him.”

  “And that got your ass in trouble.”

  “No, that got me the guy who furnished Qamar with the information to ambush my men.”

  Crash paused briefly. “It took me almost that amount of time to
find out his connection to Qamar. If I hadn’t, you’d be sitting in a brig somewhere.”

  “I didn’t care. My concern was why in the hell didn’t Woods know this in advance. That’s her fucking job.”

  “She helped me a lot, Rye. Without her knowledge of the situation, I wouldn’t have found the evidence I needed to prove he was working for Qamar.”

  “Okay, you trust her, I don’t. But I’m in.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you today at that dive of a restaurant you hang out in at nine thirty. You can buy me a decent cup of coffee.”

  Rye arrived thirty minutes early. He didn’t want to appear eager, but he didn’t want to be late either. The SEAL in him had him checking out the entire area before he even went inside. No one watched them from afar or inside. The place appeared clean. No detectors or listening devices. He wasn’t about to put himself out there even for Crash. They hadn’t seen each other since his last day in court, eight years ago.

  He sat in the back booth of the small restaurant ran by a local retired Boatswain’s Mate who served in Nam aboard the USS New Jersey. The colorful guy had tattoos hanging off both arms, a big round ring in his left ear and a braided beard.

  Crash came in looking so out of place, Rye almost told him to go back home and change, but he didn’t because everyone here minded their own business.

  “You’re slightly overdressed for the occasion,” Rye griped. “You at least should wear flip-flops when you know you’re going to be on a beach.”

  “I have a serious meeting after this. No time to change. I can tolerate a little sand in my shoes. Won’t be the first time.”

  “So, tell me about this DHS thing?” Rye asked. “You transitioned well from a SEAL to a bureaucrat.”

  Crash sipped his hot coffee than set the cup down, ordered bacon, extra crispy, hash browns crispy and two eggs over medium with biscuits. “Not as easy as it looks and I’m still in a lot of action. I seem to never run out of things to do.”