“Now I know you’re talking crazy,” Loeb said. “Maybe those beasts were trained to use guns, but commanding other Skulls like the beasts are on their team?” Loeb shook his head. “No fucking way. Impossible.”
“Impossible because you can’t believe it,” Van said, “or impossible because you don’t want to believe it?”
Loeb just continued to shake his head, massaging his temple. “No fucking way. No fucking way.”
O’Neil let out a long breath, listening to the steady thump of the blades for a moment. “If what we saw is any indication of what the Russians are up to, there’s no question they’re behind all of this. And worse, if they can somehow control the Skulls’ behavior, then there’s no stopping what they can do.”
“Every place that’s swarmed with the Skulls might as well already be occupied by Russia—or whoever these people are,” Van said.
Tate spoke in a soft voice like he’d just been told he had a week left to live. “That means all the United States, man, is…”
He let his words trail off.
Loeb straightened. “My wife. My girls.”
“Everybody’s at risk,” O’Neil said. He looked at the medics still clustered around McLean. Felt the pain in his gut from seeing the downed operator. “The world is at an imbalance right now. All we can do is keep fighting. We will make this right. We will stop whatever is going on.”
O’Neil wanted to believe that he was right. That they could make a difference. But if what he had just witnessed was a sign of what was to come in this war, then he feared what would happen to the world if he was wrong.
-13-
McLean’s death hung over the troop. They had flown over European cities and towns left in rubble, where any chance of finding human life was bleak.
The Black Hawks were beginning their final approach to the United Kingdom. Dark skies covered their approach, dumping gouts of rain. A fitting welcome after a tragic mission.
An oppressive silence blanketed the SEALs, and O’Neil could not erase the images of those Skulls he had seen with weapons.
But even so, the trek back to their temporary overseas base gave O’Neil the slightest promise of hope.
They had made a refueling stop on the Spanish navy’s Galicia, a massive landing platform dock ship. For the first time, O’Neil saw with his own eyes that the United States was not in this war alone. The SEALs had been greeted not just by Spanish sailors and citizens that had been pressed into service, but also by Germans, Danes, Italians, and a host of other men and women who had managed to find their way to this ship for refuge.
He didn’t have long to talk to any of them—and he couldn’t freely share details about his mission—but he gleaned just enough from the crew of the Galicia to know other countries were racing to reclaim their nations from the Oni Agent and the monstrous beasts that had sent them fleeing. None of the people O’Neil saw had given up, even when their homes and livelihoods and even their families had been taken.
“It’s good to know we aren’t alone in this fight,” O’Neil said.
Tate bobbed his head. “Kind of makes me think there’s a light on the other side, man.”
“I’m not sure we saw the same thing,” Van said.
“How’d you miss seeing the Galicia?” Tate asked. “That ship is huge.”
Van ignored the half-humored joke. “All those people are on that ship because they don’t have a home. Everything they are fighting for is already gone.”
“They’re fighting for the same things we are,” Loeb said. “To take back their countries. To stop the Skulls. To protect their families.”
“Exactly what I’m saying,” O’Neil said. “I remember those first days, when the world didn’t know what was happening and, one-by-one, every line of communication went dark. We lost track of what was going on outside our homes and cities. Even if those people’s countries are as good as dead, they aren’t. And so long as they’re living and fighting to survive, we will be too.”
“Yeah, man,” Tate said. “It’s always good to know there’s someone else out there to watch your back.”
“I don’t know if any of this is going to be enough,” Van said, thumbing his cross necklace. “Only people I trust are the people in this bird and our Father in Heaven.” He leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “And we just lost one of our own. I guess I’m just not in the hopeful type of mood.”
“Christ, bro, you—” Loeb started before Van cut him off.
“Seriously, Loeb?” Van tightened his grip on the small silver cross.
“All right, sorry. Damn, brother. Things are dark, but we will turn them around. You have to be optimistic, or else why keep living?”
Van leaned back in his seat.
The first evidence that night was finally losing its grasp on the world became apparent with the lightening gray clouds.
“Back when I lived in Houston, I met this former LT from the Air Force,” Van said. “Vietnam era. I was a kid, working at my parents’ restaurant, and he walks in with one of those black hats that say, ‘Vietnam Veteran.’”
“I know what you’re talking about,” Tate said.
“I was a dumb kid. So I was worried this guy was coming in thinking he might be some racist with a chip on his shoulder because of what he saw in Vietnam, right? I got all scared, but it turned out he just wanted some pho. I came around when he was about done with his pho, and all he had were kind words for the noodles and broth.”
The chopper started to descend from the rain clouds, heading toward a patchwork landscape of green and brown fields lined with trees.
“He told me he used to eat food like that when he was in Saigon all the time. He missed it, and coming to places like ours gave him a little taste of those memories.”
“What’s all this got to do with optimism?” Loeb asked.
“Because after that, I got to talking to this man. He told me he’d been a pilot and got shot down. He was taken to the Hanoi Hilton. He was in there for nearly five years.”
“No shit,” Tate said, face drawing up in disgust.
“Like a dumb kid, I asked him how he survived that prison. As if he might want to relive those memories. He asked me to guess. I told him he was probably surviving on hope and he must be a special type of optimist to go through that kind of darkness and come out the other side intact.”
“Sounds about right,” Tate said.
Van tucked his necklace back under his shirt. “He told me I was wrong. You know what he said?”
“Tell us, bro,” Loeb said.
“He said it was because he was a pessimist.”
“How’s that work?” O’Neil asked.
“Five minutes, and we’re on the ground,” the pilot called back to the SEALs.
Van continued. “He told me the optimists in the group would keep saying, ‘We’re getting out by Christmas. I can feel it. I heard a rumor. They’ll make a deal.’ Then Christmas would come, and they’d all be there. The next time, it was Easter. Easter was the date they’d all be released. Easter would pass. And it would go back to Christmas. But this guy, this pilot, he figured they’d never get out. He was prepared to spend the rest of his life half-starved, beaten, and stuck in those rotten cells. All the other people would get their hopes up and shattered repeatedly, struggling with massive bouts of depression.”
“I don’t blame them in the slightest,” Loeb said. “But this LT you were talking to… he was, what, content with being a prisoner?”