Children of the Sea 01 - Sea Witch

STANK OF CORDITE AND METAL, BLOOD and fear. Sweat ran under his helmet and soaked his arm-pits.
     
    Caleb shouted. “Get in, get in!”
     
    Specialist Mike Denuncio sprinted toward the Humvee and threw himself into the tiny foam-cushioned backseat. A flurry of pops followed him like a string of firecrackers on the Fourth of July.
     
    “Go, go, go!” Caleb ordered.
     
    The Humvee lurched. Panting and swearing, the driver— nineteen-year-old Specialist Danny Torres—engaged gears. The V-8 engine rattled and rolled. The radio shrieked and squealed. Shouting. Shots. More pops, louder. Closer.
     
    From the turret, the 50-caliber machine gun sprayed the cabin with dust and noise. Mike was reloading, slamming rounds into the chamber of his M16. The radio squawked in English and Arabic. The Humvee dodged and weaved.
     
    “Look right. Right! On the roof.”
     
    Heart pumping, Caleb returned fire. Through the bullet-pocked windshield, he saw the vehicle ahead bounce and shimmy as they roared out of ambush. The flat, featureless road ahead straightened out between a line of concrete bunkers. The Humvee picked up speed.
     
    “Okay?” Caleb shouted.
     
    “Okay.”
     
    Mike gave him a quick thumbs-up.
     
    A green and white highway sign in Arabic loomed overhead. A horn blared. A vehicle wandered the median. Rush hour, Iraqi style . Caleb inhaled cautiously.
     
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    And the road erupted in a blast of smoke and pain.
     
    He couldn’t breathe.
     
    He couldn’t see.
     
    He couldn’t think.
     
    He lay choking on dust while asphalt rained down on him, sharp as shrapnel. He covered his head. There, beneath his arm, was that a—?
    Boot. Just a boot, and a foot, and a boot tag stamped with somebody’s blood type, somebody’s social security number . . . His gunner. Jackson.
     
    Jesus God .
     
    The stench of blood and burning rolled over him. His legs . . . His left leg wasn’t working. He started to crawl to Danny, crumpled a few yards away, his uniform torn and black with blood and grime. He had to help him. He had to save him. Crawl .
     
    He put one hand on the boy’s shoulder to roll him over and stared into Maggie’s face.
     
    Her head lolled. One side of her face was black with blood. It streaked her hair and ran into the ground. Despair filled him. He was too late, she was dead, he hadn’t saved her . . .
     
    She opened her eyes—blue eyes, Danny’s eyes—and spoke.
     
    “Wake up,” she said.
     
    Caleb woke with a start. His heart pounded. His leg was on fire.
     
    Maggie bent over him, her eyes concerned—brown eyes, so deep and dark it was hard to tell pupil from iris.
     
    She laid a hand along his cheek, cupping his jaw. “Wake up,” she repeated. “You are dreaming.”
     
    “Yeah, I . . .” He struggled to sit, fighting his way through the remnants of his nightmare. “Sorry.”
     
    “You are exhausted. You should come to bed.”
     
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    “Yeah.” He got his feet under him and tried to stand. Fuck. “I, uh ..”
     
    He rubbed his face with his hand as if he could scrub away the image of Danny dying. Of Maggie, bleeding and naked at the base of the fire.
    “How long was I out?”
     
    “Not long enough, obviously.” She frowned. “You are in pain?”
     
    “Kind of,” he admitted. His leg felt as though somebody had whacked him with a baseball bat.
     
    “Your sister gave me pills. You have pills?”
     
    “In the bathroom.”
     
    “Good.”
     
    “No.” He was already reeling from the dream and stupid from lack of sleep. He didn’t need drugs. “They make me loopy.”
     
    She arched her eyebrows. “Loopy?”
     
    “Tired. I can’t do my job if I can’t concentrate.”
     
    “You are hardly alert now. You need pills. And rest. Come.” She butted her shoulder against his chest, dragged his arm around her neck. “I will help you.”
     
    “I can walk.”
     
    “Not well.”
     
    He could have protested. But the truth was, she felt really good under his arm, soft and warm and surprisingly strong. Her hair waved against his cheek.
     
    “Come on.” Her voice was breathless. He was too heavy for her. But she didn’t sound annoyed.
     
    He staggered with her to the bathroom and swallowed his pills.
    Swaying on his feet, he did his business, washed his hands, and brushed his teeth.
     
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    When he opened the door again, Maggie was standing there, so fucking beautiful his heart constricted in his chest.
     
    “Come to bed,” she said.
     
    The