They just needed one quick breath of air. One breath was all it would take to get them back toward the pier, and then they could get the hell back to the Hunters. O’Neil could detonate the explosives, and that would be it.
For a moment, as he pushed himself up from the prop, climbing toward the surface, once again combatting his body’s desire to sink itself, he thought about simply pressing the detonator. About killing that ship right now, right here.
But he hadn’t just made a promise to the mercs to finish the mission.
He had made a promise to Loeb.
Told the guy he would get him back to his girls, his wife.
He knew the risk of breaking the water’s surface now. Knew that if he showed his face to the Russians, they could pinpoint his position. Direct their fire more accurately, then tear O’Neil and Loeb apart with their gunfire.
But he saw no other way. Even if he could take the rest of that swim back to the pier, with Loeb bleeding, hurt, the other operator couldn’t, no matter how strong his willpower was.
So he pushed upward. Right up against the hull, trying to stay as close to it as he could, pulling Loeb up with him. He burst out of the water and sucked down a long breath. Air never tasted sweeter, even between the odor of rot and smoke and burning oil.
Loeb’s face was even paler than before. His mouth opened like a fish on land. He sucked in a deep breath. Shouts burst overhead. O’Neil saw a few of the soldiers and sailors leaning over the side of the gunwale. They directed their rifles toward the SEALs.
“Dive,” O’Neil said simply, pulling Loeb back under the water, then pushing off the stern with as much power as he could.
Rounds screamed through the water. Loeb flailed a little, even as he kicked. O’Neil could practically feel the man’s pain. Knew what kind of agony must be searing through him from the agent coursing in his bloodstream to the wound in his side to his lungs yearning for oxygen.
O’Neil took them past the reaching arms of sinking Skulls, back toward the picked-over corpses of other failed experimental subjects and prisoners the Russians had terrorized. Made it the pier.
He pulled himself up to the side, grunting and screaming with the agony in his muscles. Bobbed next to the pier, water lapping over him. Felt like his bones were trying to rip through every fiber of tissue in his body as he dragged Loeb out of the water, then pushed the guy on the pier first. Then O’Neil finally climbed up.
Loeb was on his hands and knees, retching and coughing. But they didn’t have time to recover. O’Neil scooped the man up, forcing him to stand. He let Loeb lean on him as they ran as best they could between the bodies littering the pier and the crates and oil drums. Gunfire from the sailors and soldiers on the ship pounded around them, but O’Neil never glanced back.
A few Skulls looked up at them from their meals of fresh human meat.
But he carried with him that image of Virginia Beach. Of a time when all his teammates were alive. When it wasn’t just him and Loeb finishing a mission. It was just enough to keep the Skulls focused on their food, satisfied with the fresh meat sloshing between their knife-like teeth.
Another explosion roared from the warehouses. A column of fire split the dark sky, illuminating nearly the whole base for a moment. O’Neil could feel the heat and pressure roll over him from the blast.
The Russians were losing this place to the Skulls.
All because they had turned him and his teammates into tools for their own cause. And O’Neil had successfully turned the tables on them.
Shown them the power of a few Navy SEALs and disgruntled civilians who would take no more abuse.
“I’m not… I’m not going to make it,” Loeb said, clutching his side with one claw.
“We’re almost there,” O’Neil said. “Just hang on a little longer. We’ll get out of here with those mercs, take a ship back to the US, and we’ll be back in Frederick before you know it.”
More gunfire rattled from the ship. Soldiers and sailors continued to fire at them, even as they approached the end of the pier. Rounds pinged off the ground and sent splinters flying from the crates. Loeb leaned heavier and heavier on O’Neil’s shoulder.
“Don’t you fucking stop, man,” O’Neil said. “Don’t you fucking stop.”
Loeb didn’t respond. He just kept limping along. The screams of other Skulls erupted from everywhere around the base, filling the air with a violent chorus of ungodly voices.
They were at the end of the pier now. He heard the first rumble of a ship engine travel over the harbor. The Russians thought they could still escape. That they might win something after this tragic day.
“Come on, brother,” O’Neil said.
Loeb looked at him, his mouth hanging open, face ghostly white, every vessel beneath his skin visible now. Blood covered his side and drenched what was left of his uniform. Long fractures spiderwebbed from the gunshot wound in his side.
He must have been hit when they were underwater. Or maybe shortly after Tate had died.
It didn’t really matter when he’d taken the shot. O’Neil just didn’t want to believe what his eyes were telling him.
Loeb’s fingers wrapped around O’Neil’s upper arm. He squeezed hard enough for it to be slightly painful. “O’Neil, I am not going to make it. Let me die here. I can’t—”
His face scrunched up, his whole body contorting in a wash of pain. “Give me a minute.”
O’Neil felt his adrenaline fading even as the battle raged on. He heard other blasts, gunshots from everywhere. Felt the anger of the Skulls. Heard the rattle of automatic gunfire.
But he tuned it all out. Because at this point, he didn’t give a shit about anything else. Just his brother. Loeb.
He set Loeb against the side of a crate. Let the man prop himself up so he could get a clear view of the ship, then tore off part of the bottom of his pants. Tried to fashion it into a bandage and secure it to Loeb’s side.
“We’re getting you back to your girls,” O’Neil said, tightening the bandage.
“No…” Loeb managed. “It won’t… help. Just…”
He held up a hand, pointing at the ship, his finger trembling. Then his arm fell to his side, his eyes glued on the freighter.
O’Neil knew what he wanted. He fished the detonator from his pocket. Thought once more of Hassan. Van. Tate.
He pressed the detonator into Loeb’s hand. Had to help the SEAL close his fingers around it.
Then he put his thumb over Loeb’s. Together they pressed the button. He took his hand from Loeb’s, letting the man hold the detonator.
Only a second passed.
Water geysered from the stern of the ship with a brilliant flash of white light. Metal puckered and groaned. Shrapnel erupted from the water and peppered the pier. The ship’s engine growled louder, then let out a high-pitched, grating sound as the vessel started to list.
That ship would never leave. The vessel was just as dead as the monsters trapped beneath it in the silt and sand. It would rest in that graveyard with its cargo of Skulls, another army of beasts that would not make landfall on some hapless city struggling to survive the apocalyptic landscape.
Another boom burst through the ship, and flames spewed out from the rent metal splitting up its side. Dark smoke rolled out from the fatal wound.
“We did it, Loeb,” O’Neil said, voice rasping, lungs scratchy with the smoke filtering around him. “We fucking did it.”
He clapped Loeb on the shoulder.
The operator made no reply. The detonator clattered to the concrete.
O’Neil turned to see the light of those distant flames flickering across Loeb’s still face, his vacant eyes directed in an eternal gaze toward that ship.