Call to Engage

by Tawny Weber

  “Pretty much the worst,” Lansky muttered, his tone making it clear he was looking for assurance that he was wrong. But Elijah didn’t have any to give him. Not when it came to heartache and women.

  “I’m pretty sure I’d rather take on a dirty bomb and a cell of urban terrorists single-handed than give a woman my heart again,” Elijah confessed, naming two of the threats the team hated most. Urban environments usually meant higher collateral damage, bigger rebuilding costs and, worse, playing nice with locals. “I figure there’s a better chance of beating the terrorists. Women? That’s a no-win game.”

  “That is not a comfort,” Lansky said with a bitter laugh, holding out his empty cup for Elijah to add to KP.

  “Even at the best of times, relationships are never easy, ” Elijah shot back. He didn’t know if it mattered if the relationship had lasted two weeks, two years or two decades. The other party ending it sucked hard.

  “Good thing we’re not in the business of easy,” he added as he stacked the dishes in the cupboard, hoping to make up for the dismal morning pep talk.

  “So why do we play?”

  “Best game in town.”

  “True that,” Lansky agreed, grabbing his cap from the closet before tossing Elijah his own.

  They both gave one last, automatic look around before stepping outside. They lived on base in the apartment, and while an inspection might be unlikely, it could still happen. But it was habit more than concern that had both men tidying on their way out the door.

  Even as he welcomed the cool air of a Southern California morning, Elijah’s gut tightened. Excitement, he figured. He’d been on inactive duty for way too long. This was his first day back in the trenches, his first op since the mission gone wrong.

  He was ready, he vowed, ignoring the twinge in his thigh as they made their way down the stairs.

  More than ready, dammit.

  As if reading his mind, Lansky slid a glance sideways and asked, “You looking forward to getting back to it?”

  “Yep. Nothing like a few hours of ass-breaking PT, target shooting and some dive practice to let me know I’m alive.” He grinned.

  “You know, most guys go for kinky sex as proof of life. Gotta wonder at one who’s looking forward to physical training, which’ll consist of a crapload of push-ups, pull-ups and sit-ups, followed by a sweaty run and ice-cold swim.”

  “Did all that yesterday, and every day last week,” Elijah said with a shrug. At Lansky’s look, he admitted, “I had to make sure I could.”

  “Of course you could. You’re a SEAL, man. More than that, you’re Poseidon.”

  The men who served as SEALs were diverse, their reasons and motivations as varied as they were. But their goal, as one, was to be the best and to serve their country, the Navy, their team.

  Poseidon, on the other hand, was a group of twelve men whose numbers and names never varied. Their team was built on years of trust. The men knew one another inside out, knew what made the others tick, how each man’s tick meshed with their own. Their goal was bigger than to simply be the best. Their goal was stronger than one man’s hopes. They trained beyond what the others did; they studied further than the rest. Every man on the Poseidon team held multiple ratings—including Special Ops Combat Medic—each qualified to handle everything from EODs to aviation to intelligence.

  They did it because they knew that’s what it’d take to achieve their mission of absolute cohesion. They did it because their leader asked them to.

  “Just remember... We are Poseidon, king of the sea. Better than best is what we be. We rule by day, we rule by night. We kick every ass that’s in our sight.”

  “My favorite cadence. By the time I was done with the workouts, I was grunting it,” Elijah confessed with a laugh as they continued toward a series of low-slung buildings. There were more bodies here, uniforms crisp and faces fresh as the base made ready for the day.

  He’d missed this, Elijah realized. The never-changing change that was life on a military base.

  “You know you could have tapped me to work out with you. I don’t mind the extra PT, and there’s no reason you had to go it alone.”

  Just like that. Chest burning with words he couldn’t say, Elijah’s laugh faded. “I appreciate it, man.”

  Then, because he could see Lansky was just as uncomfortable as he at the sentiment in the air, he shrugged. “Wouldn’t have mattered if I did, though. You were on leave last week and nowhere to be seen. What’d you do? Fall off the face of the earth? Torres said he tried to reach you a couple of times to no avail.”

  Something flashed over Lansky’s face—a different kind of discomfort—before the guy offered his own shrug. “I had things to do, my friend.”

  “Female things?”

  “Always.” With that and a shake of his head to indicate he didn’t want to talk about it, Lansky changed the subject. “Hell of a long break between missions. You looking forward to getting back in the game?”

  “Ready and able.” To serve, and to prove himself.

  Elijah had never been big on caring what other people thought about him. He’d lived his life pretty much on his terms. They were easygoing, go-with-the-flow terms that fit with the credo his father had handed down.

  If he lived life to the fullest, he could live with his regrets. If he listened to his heart, he could overcome any doubts. If he walked the honest line, he could always hold his head high.

  He had to admit, he’d racked up a few regrets in his thirty years. He’d lived through pain, heartbreak and a loss he didn’t expect to ever recover from. He’d listened to his heart, and, yeah, it had ended up crushed like a week-old cookie left in someone’s pocket. But had no doubt that he’d done his best.

  He knew a few people—CIA, Naval Investigation, even other SEALs—wondered if Brandon Ramsey had tried to blow Elijah to hell in a clean-sweep effort to eliminate his cohorts. But the people who mattered knew better.

  At least that was what he told himself.

  He’d taken a hit and he’d gone down in the line of duty. But now he was back in shape. He was back on duty. And, dammit, he’d get his reputation back on track.

  He wanted to believe that.

  He needed to believe that.

  But it wasn’t easy. Not when he had to take a slower pace than the usual double-time to cross the base. Not when he saw the looks cast his way. The speculation in people’s eyes. Without comment, Lansky matched his steps, chatting instead about random crap like box scores and the hot blonde working the PX. When they stepped into the sparse briefing room five minutes later, Elijah breathed the familiar in deeply.

  Shoving both hands into the front pockets of his digies, he ignored the sudden tightness across his shoulders, the raw feeling in his gut.

  It was time to report for duty.

  There was no room for any of that other crap.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “YOU BOYS ARE LATE.”

  Neither Elijah nor Lansky bothered checking the time. They knew it was T minus five. If they were late, Savino would already be there. And instead of milling about the room, the men would be in their seats.

  Captain Milt Jarrett was the military version of a worrywart, though. It was his job to keep them on track, to keep things tidy and—something beyond Elijah’s ken—to keep their missions on budget.

  “My fault. I was whining about heartbreak,” Lansky said, pulling a face. “You know how that is, right, Jarrett? The way I hear it, every woman you’ve been with has dumped you.”

  Jarrett laughed along with the rest of the room. Lansky just grinned. Since the ribbing had put him at ease, Elijah started to pull his hands from his pockets and noticed a slip of paper in one. Weird. He hadn’t been in uniform in months. He pulled it out to see what he’d left there that’d made it through laundry
detail while Jarrett returned fire.

  “The way I heard it, Lansky, you don’t have a heart to break. Bummer, that. The rest of you, if you’ve finished gossiping and aren’t planning to do each other’s nails, maybe we can get down to business,” Captain Jarrett called as he strode to the front of the room. He had an equal-opportunity scowl, spreading it among everyone whether they’d been late or not, were simply standing or already seated at their desks.

  The men still on their feet began moving at a leisurely pace toward the remaining empty seats. Nobody rushed. Jarrett had asshole tendencies that rubbed most of the team wrong. The only thing saving the guy was his rank and the fact that he was a brilliant strategist.

  Elijah noted that his accustomed seat to the right front of the podium was available. Whether by design or luck, he didn’t know, but he made his way over, sinking gratefully into the questionable comfort of the wooden chair. As Lansky started chatting with Diego Torres, another teammate, Elijah unfolded the paper to see what’d been left in his pocket. Scrawled in black ink over the torn corner of college-ruled notepaper was a handwritten note.

  A real friend listens until he hears the truth.

  Shit.

  What was with this morning and painful reminders? If Elijah was a man who believed in omens—and he constantly told himself that he definitely was not—he’d be having some serious worries.

  Because he recognized the handwriting as that of a former—and supposedly dead—teammate. One who’d caused intense pain to a lot of people, himself included. Jaw clenched against the memories, Elijah started to crush the paper in his fist, then thought better of it. How the hell had it gotten into his pocket? He’d roomed with Ramsey before the mission that had sent Elijah to the burn ward and Ramsey into an ash can. But he’d never seen that paper before, and he and Ramsey had never been note-sharing, or pants-sharing, kind of guys.

  Pulling his sketch pad out of his satchel, Elijah tucked the paper into the back of the pad and snagged a pencil. Then, in his usual way of working through something that puzzled him, he ran his fingers over the thick blank page, letting his mind clear and his pencil fly.

  The sounds, the chatter, the varied scents of colognes and soap all faded into the background as he sketched. Impressions, memories, imagined scenarios.

  “Dude, I missed breakfast,” Diego muttered next to him. “That’s a whole lot of ugly to offer up to an empty stomach.”

  Elijah glanced at his tablemate, then back at the sketch pad and grimaced. It was a page full of Ramsey. Full face, side view, body shots, action images. In some he’d drawn the guy to look like a movie star, in others like the devil himself. Which was the true face of the man? Did any of them show the lies? The hideous betrayal?

  Elijah would have to look closer later. For now...

  “Sorry.” He flipped to a blank page.

  Yeah. Brandon Ramsey had given the entire team a gut ache, but Diego had special reason to hate the guy. Before he could explain the drawings, the room went silent.

  “Gentlemen.”

  Commander Nic Savino’s single word was quiet, his steps easy as he strode into the room. Tall and lean despite the powerful breadth of his shoulders, Savino was a man who demanded attention without ever having to force the issue. Elijah had seen him bloody; he’d seen him drunk. He’d seen him pissed, and he’d seen him thrilled. What he’d never seen was Savino out of control.

  Savino didn’t command the entire SEAL Team 7, but he was in charge of this unit. And he was the leader of Poseidon.

  As soon as he reached the front of the room, Savino slanted Jarrett a nod. With automatic deference, the other man stepped away from the podium and took his own seat. The captain booted up his computer, the information on it flashing on the screen behind the podium with the familiar trident insignia.

  “If everyone’s ready?” Savino’s dark eyes scanned the room. Knowing he was taking in every detail, Elijah wouldn’t be surprised to find out the guy was checking their souls along with inspecting the team. “We have a mission.”

  As one the men came to attention, each using his own method of recording data. To Elijah’s right, Lansky whipped out a computer tablet and gave it a snap to release its keyboard. To his left, Torres pulled out an encrypted recording device and, being a big believer in backup, a notebook. Elijah’s own notebook was actually a sketch pad. It was filled with drawings, encrypted notes and, if he did say so himself, clever doodles.

  As he listened to his commander outline the objective, detail the plan and delineate strategy, Elijah drew. He sketched his impressions from the buildings Savino showed on the view screen. He added a helicopter in the sky, then as he considered, a few bodies in the water. Savino hadn’t mentioned a water approach yet, but given that the water was there, he would.

  That’s how Savino preferred to work his missions. He outlined, he detailed and he delineated. Then he opened the floor for input. It was one of the many reasons the man was a great leader. He inspired trust and elicited loyalty because he offered his team exactly that.

  So it was a piss-off that that trust had been betrayed by one of their own. That the team had landed under investigation because a decorated SEAL played dirty, faking his own death after stealing top secret intel to sell to enemy militants.

  Elijah jabbed the paper hard enough to snap his pencil lead. He drew air through his teeth, but it didn’t much cool the fury of his thoughts, so he tried a couple more.

  A few months back, Savino had led a small covert team in an attempt to locate and detail the traitor. They’d apprehended his coconspirator, but as far as Elijah knew, the target was still in the wind.

  Fucker.

  “Yo,” Lansky murmured, rapping Elijah on the arm with a fresh pencil. He lifted it and one brow, warning Elijah to pull his head out and focus.

  With a grimace and a nod of thanks, Elijah took the pencil and a deep breath. Using every iota of training garnered in his years of service and the determined focus that’d gotten him out of the hospital and back on duty eight months ahead of schedule, he gave all his concentration to the briefing.

  Though his specialty was cryptology, or deciphering code, Elijah had still taken part in dozens of similar missions in his ten years as a SEAL, so the basics were ingrained and as familiar as his own name.

  However, hostage extraction was always a delicate undertaking, and he’d been out of the game for a few months, so he took special care in his notes. He crafted suggestions, backup scenarios. After eyeing the schematics of the embassy they’d be infiltrating, he sketched alternate escape routes.

  Chances were he’d be on the copter, monitoring communications. He knew the wisdom of such an assignment. He’d been sidelined for a while; others had earned the privilege of boots on the ground. And his specialty was, after all, communications.

  Still, he chafed at the restriction.

  He wanted—needed—action.

  He had to prove he had what it took. That he was still a SEAL in top form. One of the elite. The best, dammit. He needed to prove it to the team. To Savino.

  And, yeah, to himself.

  Elijah’s pencil flew over the page, lead scratching out a list of reasons to offer his commander to convince the man that Elijah should be part of the ground team. Then Savino began assigning roles.

  “Lansky, Torres, Prescott, Loudon, Masters, Rengel. You’re on the extraction. Lansky and Masters will enter here and here.” He tapped the blueprint of the embassy with his stylus so the screen lit with red dots. Then he tapped again to light four green dots near the delivery docks. “Prescott, Torres, Rengel and Loudon, you’ll come in from the water.”

  He finished with, “Danby, Ward, Powers, you’re in the air with Jarrett.”

  He was on the ground? Not in the air? Hell, yeah, his mind celebrated. His first mission back on active duty since he’d da
mn near exploded into a few hundred painful pieces, and he wasn’t holed up in the back seat. Nope, he’d be right there in the thick of the action. Right there, where it was all going down, he thought, rubbing a hand over his thigh.

  Elijah’s other hand gripped his pencil so tightly that he flattened the wood, destroying it with a resounding crack. Yeah, he’d smile. Just as soon as his gut unclenched.

  “Any questions?”

  A few men shook their heads. Others silently gathered their notes. A couple simply waited.

  “Torres, Lansky, Loudon, Prescott and Ward, remain. Everyone else, dismissed,” Savino barked, releasing all the men except the members of Poseidon.

  * * *

  NIC SAVINO GLANCED at the clock, confirming that he was right on schedule. He patiently waited for the room to clear of everyone but his elite team. Even as some men moved out, others moved in until there were thirteen of them in all.

  He glanced at Jarrett, who clung to the chair as if he knew they all wanted him gone. He looked like a grumpy bulldog guarding his favorite bone.

  “Comfy, Captain?” Savino asked, his words calm and his expression pleasant.

  “Orders are orders, Savino,” Jarrett said, rising to speak in Savino’s ear. The man kept his words pitched low, as if trying to keep them from the rest of the room. Ridiculous, since Poseidon heard everything.

  From the expression on the men’s faces, they definitely heard. And didn’t like. Savino could relate.

  But, as Jarrett said, orders were orders. And Admiral Cree had decreed that until Ramsey was in the brig and Poseidon in the clear, they’d have company. So Savino gestured to the chair and suggested the man sit back down. After all, it wasn’t Jarrett’s fault that the team was under supervision.

  Savino was a man who epitomized control. Some would say it was his trademark. He’d used it, and rigid focus, to form a team of special operatives, skilled assets, into even more. Poseidon was the elite among the elite. Unlike DEVGRU, the Navy’s Special Warfare Development Group, Poseidon wasn’t open for applications. It was composed of men he’d handpicked ten years before. Men who had, over the course of a decade, trained together, fought together, bled together, until they were, essentially, one.