Devil's Due

by Robert Stanek

  “Better rethink the enemy,” Scott shot back. “We’ve got a very different situation here than you realize.” While he talked he pivoted, so he faced the wheelhouse. Close-chested, he balled his right hand into a fist, then displayed his open hand palm out before inverting his hand and wiggling his fingers.

  Three quick movements, three hand signals. Freeze, meaning stop whatever you’re doing and pay attention. Alert, meaning we have a situation. Obstacles, meaning trouble coming.

  Scott was raising his index finger into the air and turning it in a circle when it happened. Edie, following Scott’s signs, signaled a full-throttle reverse of the engines. The Shepherd lurched backward just as a resonant whoosh sounded. Scott leapt aside as the shoulder-launched RPG swept across the Shepherd’s deck, clipping a corner of the upper deck below the wheelhouse and exploding in a massive fireball.

  “Told you,” Scott shouted as he rolled to a ready position with his AK-47.

  Chapter 3

  Mediterranean Sea

  Morning,

  Tuesday, 19 June

  The shooter was on the one fishing boat of the remaining three that didn’t have its net in the water. The boat had been drifting away from the others and closer to the Sea Shepherd. Scott thought this was because its net wasn’t in the water. Now he knew better.

  Scott opened fire on the shooter even before the RIBs’ forward .50 cal swung around and started ripping open the drifting fishing boat. Though a killing machine, the AK-47 wasn’t built for range or accuracy. Scott emptied one 48-round magazine, slapped in another and emptied it before he paused to assess.

  A long-standing question he had about the armament the SEALs carried was answered by the resonant thumps of MK19 grenade launchers and the resulting fiery explosions. What was left of the shredded fishing boat, started sinking into the sea at that point, allowing Scott to turn his thoughts to the Shepherd’s crew and his men.

  Garet was down. The riot shield on top of him made it difficult to determine his status. The starboard side of the upper deck below the wheelhouse was ripped open. Smoke billowed from the hole, making it impossible to get a clear view of the wheelhouse.

  Scott made his way quickly to midships, lifting the riot shield off Garet and turning over the scruffy bear of a man. Garet didn’t have any outward wounds, other than being somewhat singed. “You dead yet?” Scott asked, pulling Garet to a sitting position.

  “It’d take more than that,” Garet muttered.

  Scott gripped the chief’s shoulder, before moving through the central hatch into the smoky interior. Sam, among the confused, incensed crew in the hall, was visibly shaking, though his embrace was meant to calm blue-eyed Tara. Tara was shrieking, something about her 8-year-old daughter and ex back in the states.

  “Sam, Tara,” Scott shouted, pulling the two apart. “Sam, damage control. Get two others; get on it. Tara, take Willow. Ventilate this passageway; assess the damage. Report.”

  He pushed his way through to the narrow, nearly vertical stairs that led to the wheelhouse. As he climbed, he heard Edie’s voice in his ears correcting him. “Real ships don’t have stairs. They have ladders.” Her way of reminding him of how long it’d been since he’d last lived on a ship and one of the reasons he’d picked her for the job.

  Edie wasn’t one for big shows of emotion, but her eyes showed relief when Scott entered the wheelhouse. A few quick steps took him to her side, and only then did she unball her fists to let color return to her knuckles.

  “Damned mess,” Captain Pendleton quipped. “What good’s security if you can’t protect this ship?”

  Edie took a step back, cocked her head. Scott had no doubt this particular you’re-dead-to-me stare had flatly crushed many men. The captain didn’t even seem to notice.

  “Damage control under way. Sam’s leading the detail,” Scott reported. “Willow and Tara to assess.” Since they were ventilating below more smoke was making its way into the enclosed space. Scott moved to open the port door, pulling Edie away from the captain.

  “Not here, not now,” Scott started to say. He cut short, his eyes widening. He shouted, “Incoming, take cover!” His instincts took over. He pulled Edie with him, out the port door and over the side. The long fall into the tepid waters of the Mediterranean seemed an eternity, and the incoming projectile roaring at him was all he could see the whole time.

  He pulled Edie down, down into the dark waters, a vise-like grip on her as he tried to avoid the expanding shockwave of the blast. His mind worked as they dove for their lives. One of the two boats that had slunk off must have come back around. It’s the only thing that explained the second shooter. If so, what the hell was going on?

  He and Edie paused their frenzied dive, righted themselves. Ditching boots and unneeded gear, they treaded lightly so they could look up toward the surface. Edie reached out, squeezed him in a fierce embrace as something large sank to the depths close by, and he squeezed back with the same intensity. In that moment, he had no thoughts of Cynthia or little James—only thoughts of Edie and how if he’d walked to the port door a few seconds later there wouldn’t have been much left of him and her for the Navy SEALs to zip into plastic body bags.

  She was trembling, he realized. Whether from cold or anger, he didn’t know, but he knew her well enough to know it wasn’t from fear. They floated there, submerged, looking to the glow above that pointed the way while the oxygen in their lungs worked its dwindling magic. On his signal, they worked their way to the surface, and to a fresher hell than he imagined possible.

  Smoke and flames were everywhere. Scott turned a tight circle, signaled for Edie to do the same. Immediate threats were first priority. Someone out there wanted them dead. It didn’t matter who right now—only that they were determined and dedicated enough to martyr themselves because this was a mission you didn’t come back from and whoever planned it knew that.

  They’d waited for the Navy SEALs, though they’d plenty of opportunity beforehand. They’d attacked after the SEALs had attempted to board the Sea Shepherd and turned their guns. No accident, deliberate. They’d been watching, studying. There was no other explanation, but it still didn’t account for the carnage he was seeing.

  Four fishing boats shredded, in flames, sinking or all the above. The Shepherd trailed plumes of smoke. He saw flames too, but he was too low to the water to assess the ship’s status. One of the NSW RIBs must’ve attempted a ramming. Its .50 cals were silent though and there was no movement aboard, only bodies. Who or what took out a SEAL team, he wondered.

  Something bright caught his attention. He turned himself in the water, swung his head around. The bobbing speck of white trailing smoke was the fifth fisher—it had to be. Edie’s words pulled his thoughts back. “Where’s the second RIB?” she said quietly.

  Scott had assumed it was on the far side of the Shepherd, blocked from view. “I don’t—” Scott cut himself short, pointed. Something large, black was out there, chasing after the crippled fishing boat. “The RIB?”

  “What’s that then?” Edie said. The Shepherd was adrift, and her position had shifted. Scott and Edie were about to start swimming for the RIB when his dive watch started beeping. Instinct brought his finger to the off button, but it was Edie who pulled him under just as a heavy-caliber machine gun let loose.

  Bullets ripped up the water all around, whooshing by much too close for comfort as they continued to dive. Someone out there had an excited trigger finger. Not that Scott could blame them given the situation, and assuming they were friend and not foe. His next thought was of the Kid—Lian Qu—and the zodiac. Why hadn’t he thought of the zodiac before? The boat was out there somewhere with Lian aboard. Lian had Kathy and Angel too, if he’d done his job.

  Scott cursed wordlessly. He’d sent Lian toward the fishers—into a bloodbath.

  Edie used touch signals. Come, follow, she told him. Her sharp twist away told him where she was headed. He liked her line of thought, followed. They surfaced closer to
the Shepherd’s stern than to her bow. Scott took the over water lead, around the stern to get a clear line of sight to what was waiting for them.

  He was cautious, swimming as quietly as possible. A trigger happy friend was as dangerous as a foe. Edie was uncharacteristically lagging behind. He waited for her to catch up.

  Her smile and her eyes—the way she held both told him much more than he wanted to know. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” he muttered to himself, swimming back to her. “Damn you, Edie,” he whispered to her. “Damn you, damn you, damn you.”

  Scott caught Edie before she slipped under, held her tightly as he fought to tread water. “You didn’t signal. You didn’t say anything,” he whispered, his lips pressed against her right ear. “Damn you, damn you, damn you.”

  “Get them,” Edie said back, her voice soft and distant. His lips found hers, silenced further words. He hard-kissed her, as if he could chase away the cold from her lips.

  “I love you,” Edie’s mouth said, though her throat never voiced the words.

  “I know,” he told her back. “I know, I know, I know.” He held her as she went still, limp. A round had ripped into her shoulder—or at least that was his quick assessment. He took off his shirt, wrapped it up under and around her arm and shoulder, tightened the loose ends in a knot.

  He turned her on her back, secured his arm around her chin and cheeks. His thoughts spun with options, but it was a short list. Tread water or get help.

  The Shepherd was quiet, too quiet. Anyone alive on the Shepherd was either in hiding or dealing with their own problems. By himself, he’d never get Edie up a ladder and back aboard the Shepherd. That left one option: The NSW RIB.

  Chapter 4

  Mediterranean Sea

  Morning,

  Tuesday, 19 June

  Scott swam out, perpendicular from the Shepherd’s stern. Towing Edie and moving backward wasn’t easy. His focus was on keeping her mouth and nose well above the water, and staying on course. The NSW RIB was a hundred years away, in open water.

  “Lieutenant,” he screamed out. “SEAL team! Friendlies swimming toward you. Wounded, don’t fire. Please assist.”

  He swam a good ten yards, turned and swam a direct line toward the RIB as quickly as the breaststroke kick allowed. “Edie, don’t you die on me,” he whispered. “We’re almost there, almost there.”

  All he could think about was her eyes from the night before in the officer’s mess, lighting up with her smile. What had she been saying, he asked himself. Something about drinking shots and sex. He’d been listening but was distracted by the argument Kathy and Angel were having with Mike D.

  Funny how he could remember Mike’s angry retort of “and that’ll be the last thing you ever do” and not Edie’s playful words. Die on me, Edie, and I’ll die inside.

  Swim. Kick. He had to be close. Why weren’t the SEALs offering assistance? Was Ansely waiting to put a bullet in his brain for the trouble and call op-end? A clean break from a bad situation.

  No, the lieutenant might not like Scott but he wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. Ansely was just doing his job every time they met—as Scott was doing his. It was a game. Brinksmanship of a sorts to make the other guy blink first. But if that was the case, what was taking so long? Did they think he was playing them?

  “SEAL team,” he called out. “Lieutenant Ansely. Edie’s in trouble, wounded. Please assist!”

  Scott adjusted his grip around Edie’s chin and cheeks, turned to look for the RIB. The boat was dead ahead. Three, four yards away. He risked raising his free arm to wave, before continuing on one breaststroke kick at a time. “You hang in there, Edie,” he said.

  He stopped kicking frantically when the back of his head touched the rigid side of the boat. He reached up to the air-filled sponson protruding from the hull as if to reassure himself that he’d made it. No time to waste, he pushed Edie up into the boat and then crawled up the side himself.

  The scene that greeted him inside the boat was one Scott never expected. He’d come aboard well behind the helm. Edie was sprawled on the deck beside him. The helm blocked his view of the forward section but everything around him was still, lifeless.

  It’d been a long swim. He was tired, pushed himself to move anyway. With Edie’s life hanging in the balance, she was priority one. The SEALs and the boat were priority two. The Sea Shepherd and everything else was priority three. It’s the way it had to be.

  The helm, he told himself. The most likely place to find a blow-out kit.

  A short crawl over the deck, between and over seats to the controls, past lifeless bodies, and he pulled himself up beside the helm. The hiss of the radio caught his ear. He grabbed the microphone, held the talk button. “Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Sea Shepherd, Sea Shepherd, Sea Shepherd. Mayday, my position is—” He looked at the GPS, read out the latitude and longitude. “I am under attack from hostile forces with unknown persons on board. I require immediate assistance.”

  Releasing the mic, Scott started rifling through panels and under-seat compartments. The kit wasn’t bright red, yellow or orange. It was SEAL gray. He ripped it from its tethers, hurried back to Edie.

  Kneeling, Scott checked Edie’s pulse and breathing. Both were shallower than he liked. “Edie, don’t you die on me,” he said, ripping open the emergency trauma kit. The kit’s contents spilled onto the deck: quick clot sponges, tourniquets, trauma shears, Celox granules in packets, Bolin Chest Seals, airway tubes, a pocket face mask, thermal blankets, compression bandages, more.

  “Field trauma,” he told himself as he mentally sorted the items sprawled on the deck. “Gunshot wound. Think.” He sucked at the air, held it for a moment before grabbing the trauma shears.

  Using the shears, Scott cut away Edie’s shirt. He tore open a thick package of compression bandages and applied the battle dressing front and back as he pulled away his water and blood saturated shirt.

  His brief glimpse of the wound was reassuring. It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. Heavy rounds were meant to punch holes in steel beasts. Trucks. Boats. Planes. People hit by heavy rounds might as well have been made of tissue paper and cardboard as flesh and bones.

  “Edie,” he muttered under his breath. “How long were you in the water with this?”

  He ripped open two Celox packets, one-handed with his teeth while applying pressure with his other hand. Pulling back the battle dressing, he doused the entry wound. The blood and Celox slowly gelled into a thick plug that sealed the wound and controlled bleeding enough for him to reapply the battle dressing.

  More Celox, applied to the exit wound. Same technique. To finish, he wrapped her arm and shoulder in the elastic portion of the battle dressing and then wrapped her in the thermal blanket. It was the best he could do. It’d have to be enough.

  “Hang in there, Edie,” He said. “I’m the old goat. I go first, not you. You hear me?”

  There wasn’t a whole lot of room aboard a RIB. The boat was about 11 feet across and almost 36 feet in length. The boat’s compartments were divided by seats, helm and railings. He and Edie were in a flat compartment behind the helm.

  With Edie out of immediate danger, Scott started assessing the status of the SEALs, checking each before moving on to the next and the next. Adrenaline was helping his heart pump like a thoroughbred’s and he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. It’s Munich all over again, the voice of doubt said in the back of his thoughts.

  The sentry position for the rear .50 cal was behind the rear seats. He climbed over a row of seats and around another. A SEAL was hunkered down near the base of the tripod, barely conscious, and clutching his pistol with one hand, his chest wound with the other.

  “Friendly,” Scott said as he came around the seats. “Scott Evers from the Sea Shepherd. I’m here to help.” He checked the wound, put a palm-open hand to his head. It was a bad one—a sucking chest wound. Blood bubbled between the SEAL’s fingers with each breath.

  Scott let the pistol drop to
the deck, put both of the SEAL’s hands over the wound. SEALs sanitized their uniforms before going into the field, so there was no way to know the wounded man’s name right now. “If you can hear me, keep pressure. Press down.” He scrambled back over the seats, tried to think.

  His training wasn’t in saving lives—it was in taking them. He was completely out of his league. Closing his eyes, he steadied himself so he could think. The answer was a 1-2-3. A paint by number. Sponge, bandage, seal. Was that it? It’d have to be, he told himself.

  He grabbed what he needed, raced back. “I’m here,” he told the wounded man. “Stay with me.”

  He cut open the seal’s uniform so he could begin his work. As he put the man’s hands back to the wound, he noted the name on the SEAL’s dog tags: Ben Cooper. “Ben, if you can hear me, keep pressure. Press down, if you can.”

  “Sponge, bandage, seal,” he repeated to himself as he ripped open the plastic bag containing the Quickclot sponge. He put the 5”x5” mesh bag containing the Quickclot between the SEAL’s hands and the wound. “Ben, press down, if you can. Press down.”

  Chapter 5

  Mediterranean Sea

  Mid Morning,

  Tuesday, 19 June

  Scott opened the packages for the chest seal and compression bandage next. The chest seal was a 6” in diameter polyurethane disc with three valves that allowed air and blood to escape while sealing the wound. The wound side of the disc was covered in a thick layer of gel-based adhesive. He could seal the disc over blood and hair, but just to be sure, he used the compression bandage to soak up blood before applying the chest seal.

  The chest seal worked its magic almost immediately. It was quick, direct, and effective. A lifesaver, if rescue ops arrived soon.

  Scott clasped Ben’s shoulder. “Best I can do for now. I’ll return after I check the others. Hold strong.” He worked his way around and over seats to Edie. He checked her breathing, pulse. “Edie, it’s Scott,” he said. “You’re aboard one of the NSW RIBs. Hang in there. Help is on the way.”