by Aiden Bates
"So until then we just sit tight?" Baudin eyed Mal and Morna with suspicion.
"More or less." Trent winced. "Check your equipment, take inventory. Anything could happen between then and now, so be prepared to hunker down."
Mal wouldn't mind having Trent around for another day or two.
There wasn't much else for them to discuss, so the party broke up. The SEALs mostly kept to themselves. They didn't have to, but they wanted to. Mal got that. They became a family when they became SEALs. That kind of training alone created a bond no outsider could intrude upon, never mind the bond of combat.
For their part, Mal and Morna went about their business too. They fed their guests from their meager supplies. They could always steal more or buy more in another town. It wouldn't be a problem. They even shared their carefully hoarded coffee.
As the sun descended over the Western mountains, Trent's radio crackled to life. He and Mal both jumped for it. "Chief?" Trent said.
"You boys still okay, Kelly?"
"Yes." Trent grinned, relief pouring off of him in waves. "How is everyone?"
"We've got a couple of close calls, but I think they'll pull through. How are your men?"
"Lupo could use a real doctor. We're patched up and ready to come home."
"All right. Let me talk to that lunatic helping you out and we'll set up a location."
Mal took the radio. "Chief, so good to hear your voice." He sat up straighter and poured on as much charm as he could muster. "I trust we can do this like honorable and honest men?"
"I'm not going to try and seize you on the shore, if that's what you're implying. Although it is tempting." Chief sighed. "It seems I do owe you one."
Mal grinned. "Excellent." He rattled off a set of coordinates. "It's near an old amphitheater. I can get the car there without arousing much attention. Mr. Lupo has a leg injury, and I don't want to risk further injuring it if I don't have to. Do you think you can get a small craft in there to get your men home?"
"I can do that," Chief said after a minute. "I'll see you there in four hours."
"Excellent."
Mal looked to the others. "Does this sound good to you?"
"I kind of think you're an idiot if you trust this exchange." Morna examined her fingernails. "But other than that, sure."
Floyd glared at her, but directed his words toward Mal. "Do you know that site is safe?"
"It's as safe as any around here. We've gotten deliveries around there before." Mal shrugged. "It's what we can do without extending your tenure with us and with the Opel. Unless you're keen to make a border crossing jammed six in an Opel?"
"No." All four SEALs could agree on that, at least. They spoke in unison, and Mal could laugh at that.
They packed their things up. Mal and Morna carefully cleaned them out of the abandoned hotel. It didn't take long, because they'd done this a thousand times before, and when they were ready, they loaded up into the car and headed down to the coast.
The clear, moonless night was perfect for a little people smuggling. Mal typically disapproved of people smuggling, but he could make exceptions. Getting a bunch of American soldiers out of Europe, for example, was something he could get behind. He wouldn't mind if Trent stuck around, but that would probably get to be problematic much faster than Mal would believe. He needed to remember who and what they both were and stop thinking with his libido.
When the big raft washed up onto the beach, all four SEALs straightened up. Mal recognized the Master Chief. He didn't recognize the man with him, another SEAL of average height with broad shoulders.
Chief looked the men over. One corner of his mouth twitched when he got to Baudin. "You're out of uniform, Baudin. You look like a badly-stitched scarecrow."
"Chief." Baudin looked straight ahead. "Infection concerns. Also the stitching is very good."
Chief snickered. "Hop on the raft, Baudin." He helped Lupo on board and greeted Floyd. Then he turned to Trent, Mal, and Morna. "So. Al Qaeda, huh?"
"Yes." Trent nodded.
"No, Chief." Mal shook his head, even as Trent spoke. "Daesh again."
Trent glared at him. "I'm telling you, it was Al Qaeda."
"Daesh. We've been following them for a year. But we did find something interesting." Mal couldn't say what it was that made him volunteer the information. He didn't care if the Americans got it right. It would be better for everyone if they wrote it off as Al Qaeda and wandered off back to their continent of gun-toting religious maniacs.
"What exactly qualifies you to discern the difference between Al Qaeda and ISIS?" Chief crossed his arms across his chest.
"Well, like my brother said, we've been following them for a year. And he does speak Arabic, pretty well actually." Morna stepped into the Master Chief’s space. She might not support Mal's decision to tell the Americans what was going on, but she wasn't going to let them know that. "But that's not the important thing here."
"What do you think is important here, missy?"
If Morna's blue eyes could have set fires, Chief’s pyre could have been seen from space. Mal winced.
"The fact is that we didn't go to that site following Daesh. We came here looking for Daesh, but we were following cell phone signals from some distinctly non-Arab men who aroused our suspicions. Which led us to a fallout shelter belonging to the school, where we found Daesh. And fifteen cans of Spam."
Trent frowned and turned to his superior. “Muslims don't eat Spam."
Chief scratched his chin. "It wouldn't be the first time we'd seen supposedly Islamic terrorists breaking their own rules. Remember the time we found that cache of tequila?"
Mal raised his eyebrows. That sounded like a fun story.
"No," Trent said. "But at the same time, it sounds to me like they probably know something we should hear about."
Chief made a face. "You guys want to come on board and talk about this?" He held up his hands. "As guests, not prisoners. We can offer showers."
Mal looked over at Morna. "What do you think?"
"I think they're going to try to lock us up again. Breaking out of that brig was a pain." Morna glared at Chief. "And I don't like him."
"They might be able to help us track down those other guys." Mal licked his lips. Was he more willing to work with the Americans because they had resources, or because it would give him more time with Trent? "I'd like to get to the bottom of why they were there."
Morna glowered at Mal. "Where do you think they'll drop us off, hm?"
"Who cares?" Mal spread his hands wide. "We can go anywhere, be anywhere. It's what we are, Morna. Come on. Right now, our job is this attack and the people behind it. If there's a connection to another group, it's our job to dig in, don't you think?"
Morna's shoulders slumped, and she let her head fall back. "Mark my words. It's going to all end in tears, with you and me in Cuba, and those Daesh-linked pervos running amok in the high street. I'm telling you." She pointed at him. "And you look ridiculous in orange."
"You look just as ridiculous in orange, Morna." Mal tilted his head to the side.
"If the two of you would like to put your bickering on hold until we get on board the ship, that would be greatly appreciated." Chief gave them a tight smile.
Mal glided into the raft. He could feel Trent's eyes on him, boring holes into his back. Trent had no way of knowing how much of the bickering was real and how much was show.
What did Trent think about bringing Mal and Morna on board? It was hard to tell. He didn't say anything as they rode back out to the destroyer the SEALs were based on right now, and of course he couldn't. He'd been in charge of the team when they went out, but now he was a subordinate.
Mal needed to stop thinking about Trent. He'd been a one-night stand, and neither of them had intended anything more from the encounter. It shouldn't matter what Trent thought about having Mal on board. Mal wasn't going onto a United States Navy vessel for a weekend romp. He was climbing that ladder to exchange information.
> He got to the top of the ladder and helped get Baudin and Lupo on board. The sailors looked at him a little oddly when he did, but these were his patients. Until he'd met with their ship's doctor and made sure they had full knowledge of the men's injuries, they were his responsibility. He offered Trent a hand too, but Trent refused.
So, that was how it was going to be then. Ah, well. Mal could live with it.
The ship's doctor stepped forward, followed by men with stretchers. Mal followed her to sick bay to hand off the cases. He had a job to do, and mooning around over inappropriate men wasn't part of it.
~
Trent helped himself to a shower. He needed it. Grime and blood were part of the job, he understood that, but no amount of training or combat would acclimatize him to the way dried blood itched. It didn't matter if the blood was his or someone else's. He could push it off during a job, like pain or hunger or fatigue, but once the job was done he needed to wash it off.
After he got cleaned up, he reported to sick bay. The doctor took a quick look at Mal's work and pronounced it good. "I don't know where he got his training, but the guy's pretty good. I wouldn't mind having him help out back here in a pinch, if we needed it." She shrugged. "I get that it's against regulation, but if shit hits the fan, you take what you can get."
Trent nodded. He knew all about shit hitting the fan and taking help where he could get it, he guessed. "How are the others?"
"Lupo and Baudin are doing fine. I'm not even sure Baudin will need surgery. We'll get that casted up and then let someone on shore make that decision." She sighed. "I'm less sanguine about Fitzpatrick, Iniguez, and Kulkarni. They're all pretty badly hurt. I'll feel better when we've gotten them to a hospital."
Trent grimaced, but that was the only reaction he allowed himself. It was the job. They got hurt sometimes. Sometimes they got more than hurt. It was a risk they took, and a risk they were proud to take for their country. "Thanks, Doc."
"No worries. Keep those clean and dry and I'll take them out in a week or so."
Trent headed for his bunk. He shared space with five other guys, but he was used to it by now. He had his own bunk and his own locker with his own things in it. He felt like a whole new man as he lay down on a clean mattress, in clean clothes, with clean skin. There were five other bodies in the room, and he could hear them breathing, snoring, and muttering in their sleep.
He settled in and closed his eyes. Would Mal even want him here, in this place?
He didn't have time to follow the thought through to its natural conclusion. He was asleep almost before he'd completed the thought. When he woke, he dressed and headed for the mess hall.
Chief found him there. "Hey, Kelly." He sat down across from Trent. "We should be putting in at Chania in just a couple of days. We can dump our little stowaways there. Before that, we should probably figure out what they know. Assuming they know anything, of course, which I'm thinking is doubtful."
Trent sighed. "They seem to know a lot." He looked around the mess room. "I don't know if it's right or wrong, but they have a lot of information. It can't hurt to get at it."
"Hm." Chief pressed his lips into a thin line. "I don't like it. I did some digging after the last time, and as near as I can tell those two are ghosts. None of their IDs come back to anyone, at all."
Trent considered. "Mal told me his mom was IRA. I don't know if that helps."
"It might. It might. I don't know. I just can't be comfortable with people who claim to be on the side of good but aren't accountable to anyone." He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "You and your men are the only ones to make it all the way through that job, Kelly."
"Chief, that's just luck. We were in the basement, so we were protected from some of the worst of it, and we got help. If Mal and Morna hadn't shown up when they did, we'd have been killed. We were outnumbered and hemmed in on both sides. It was curtains." Trent shuddered at the memory.
"You guys are SEALs. You've survived worse, and you'll do it again." Chief slouched a little bit. "That said, I'm glad they showed up. For better or worse, they did save your asses."
Trent chuckled. "That they did."
"Did you sleep with him?"
Trent almost choked on his coffee. "Wait, what?"
"He's a good looking guy, and it was one of those near-death experiences. Don't think I've never been there, Kelly." Chief snorted and passed Trent some napkins.
Trent's cheeks burned. "Okay. I might have slept with him."
"I wouldn't put that into any incident reports, but there's no shame in that." He grinned. "It's a normal thing to do. You're a healthy, single alpha, he was a healthy, willing omega — he was willing, I assume."
Trent glared. "Of course. I wouldn't touch him if he wasn't." Then he slumped. "My dad wouldn't have done it." He could barely remember his father. He remembered a few glimpses of a white officer’s uniform and a closed — and probably empty — casket. He still knew, thanks to his uncles and every Navy man who’d ever known his father, that his dad would not have had sex with someone under suspicion of terrorism.
"Your dad was married, son. And was mostly based out of Charleston. The situations were completely different. If you don't believe me, ask your uncle the next time you speak." He leaned forward. "Are you afraid this guy's going to get too attached?"
"No." Trent laughed. "No, not at all. He's not a big fan of the US. And since that's entirely who I am..."
"Yeah. It's just as well." Chief stood up. "Should we go debrief with our Irish friends?"
"Let's do it." Trent stood up.
Mal had apparently gotten a shower in too. Someone had gotten him a change of clothes. It wasn't anything fancy, just typical Navy dark blue sweats and a yellow tee shirt. Somehow it managed to look stunning on Mal, like his hair and beard were that much more intense for being set against such a drab background. Trent tried to think about something else, like Arctic assignments or cleaning latrines.
Mal looked Trent up and down. Morna elbowed him. "Working here," she said, not bothering to hide her irritation.
Mal affected a hefty sigh. Trent now knew it was an affectation. He'd seen Mal at work. He'd seen Mal in a couple of unguarded moments. That flirtatious, over-the-top persona wasn't Mal.
"Morna dear, could you be ever so kind and put a cork in it?" Mal fluttered his eyelashes at his sister. "Thank you kindly." He turned to Chief and Trent. "Are we waiting for anyone or can we get right down to business?"
Lt. DeWitt walked into the room. "Just me," he said. "Lt. John DeWitt." He offered his hand to both Mal and Morna. "Thank you for your help with saving my men. I appreciate everything you did for them."
Morna gave him a thin smile. "You're quite welcome, Lieutenant. We're not in the business of leaving good men to die, if we don't have to."
DeWitt cleared his throat. "I'm afraid to ask what your business in an Al Qaeda cell might have been."
Mal made that face at him, the one that made the blood in Trent's head rush south. "It was Daesh, actually. And we knew they were planning something near the airport. That's why we were in town."
Chief tapped his pen against a notepad. "You knew this how, again?"
Mal winked at him. "We have our little ways, Chief. We have our little ways."
Morna scoffed. "At any rate," she said, "we were scouting out the town when we were approached by two men at dinner. They were also English speakers."
"Not unusual, in a tourist town." Trent folded his hands on the table.
Mal pretended to pout. "No," he said. "When they were hitting on Morna they claimed to be consultants working on a project at the airport, but couldn't produce a business card, and that certainly aroused our suspicions. The waiter warning me not to leave them alone with my sister, that made me a little twitchy. And tracing their mobile numbers to an abandoned school?" He chuckled. "That, my friend, was the clincher."
"And you found Spam in their bunk." Chief steepled his fingers in front of himself.
"We did
. We took out four of them, but we didn't see Morna's beaux in the nest."
Morna moved. Trent couldn't see what she did, but Mal grunted and his eyes bulged. Trent would guess she'd stomped on her brother's foot, under the table. "'Morna's beaux.' Would you listen to yourself? I don't show up to see beaux with a shotgun, you horse's arse. And is it 1817 now? Who says beaux, anyway?"
Chief held up a hand. "Do you remember enough about them to give a description to an artist?"
"Oh, sure." Morna shrugged it off. "I don't see why not."
