Bison and Pretty Boy were both grinning. Good to see them smiling after losing Powder.
“Your adrenaline’s going to pump like crazy, your heart’s gonna thump, you’re going to want to get right in the mix,” Danny said, addressing the young Marines. “I want you to stay within yourself, do your job. Listen to the sergeants. I don’t want any heroes — I want men who follow orders. Basically, I want Marines. Got it?”
The kids nodded.
Did he want heroes? Of course he did. He wanted Powder. And Liu out of the hospital.
Turn the other cheek? Bullshit on that.
So what the hell had Powder done that for? Had that passage read at his funeral?
“All right,” said Danny. “Let’s kick ass. Blow, load ’em up.”
“All aboard,” said Sergeant “Blow” Hernandez, using an exaggerated train conductor’s voice.
The Osprey pilot started the aircraft down the runway about a half-second after the hatch snapped shut. Danny cinched his seat restraints, then methodically took stock of his equipment. He’d done so on the ground — twice. Ordinarily, he didn’t worry himself into a mission, but today the review was soothing. He checked his pistols, first his service Beretta, then his personal Sig. He inventoried his grenades, checked his watch and the backup battery for his helmet. He ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the outer shell of the helmet. He retied his boots, pulling hard on the laces.
“Two minuets, Captain,” said the Osprey pilot crew chief, relaying the message from the pilots.
“All right boys, we’re just about on station,” Danny said. He took the aircraft headphones, got up, and braced himself so he could see out of the side windows. The sea was now so calm if looked as if it had been rolled out flat by a steam roller.
In the distance, he could see a dark blur Navy helicopter, part of the SAR team.
His own people had gone down somewhere about an hour north. But the odds were overwhelming they were dead; they’d gone down in the teeth of the storm.
Were the odds any worse than for the Seahawk?
“Navy’s coming up blank,” the Osprey pilot said. “We’re going to start crisscrossing northwest of the area where they think the signal came from.”
“Sounds good,” Danny told him. He told his guys what was happening, got them up looking out the windows.
“Tradition has it,” Danny told them, “that a downed pilot owes every member of the rescue team a case of beer. I’ll double that for the man who spots them first.”
“Kick ass, Captain,” said Powder.
Danny turned in shock toward the back of the Osprey. He’d heard Powder’s voice — absolutely heard Powder’s voice.
“Who said that?”
No one spoke.
“I’m sorry,” said Danny. “Was there a question?”
They were looking at him as if he’d seen — or heard — a ghost.
“All right then, let’s put our eyes to good use,” he said, struggling to raise his voice over the hum of the engines.
They had two bottles of water between the three of them, four “nutrition” bars, a working flare gun, and a radio. Chris Ferris had managed to save his pistol, but had inexplicably lost one of his boots. Breanna Stockard had her knife. Stoner had his compass.
Injury-wise, they were in decent shape, considering what they’d been through. Ferris probably had broken a rib, but otherwise claimed he was fine. Breanna had torn muscles in her back and shoulder, and had possibly broken her left tibia. Stoner had sprained both wrists and could only partially close his numb finders. All three of them had black eyes and various cuts and bruises on the heads. Their memories of what had happened since they ejected were mostly blank and in any event, irrelevant.
As were the fates of the rest of the crew, though Breanna insisted on scanning the water for them.
“Glare’s going to kill your eyes,” Stoner told her.
“Yeah,” she said, then kept on looking. He admired that kind of stubbornness. He also admired her toughness — not a hint of a whimper.
Their water would be gone in twenty-four hours, maybe less. They’d agreed to rationing a sip apiece on the hour, but the sun was climbing and Stoner knew that the sips would become gulps within a few hours.
Making it though the day and into the night was a realistic goal. They’d shoot for that. Twelve, fourteen hours of search time — that was the best they could hope for anyway. What they needed was something to do, something to keep them sharp.
“I think we should paddle,” he said.
Breanna turned toward him. Something happened with her eyes — she blinked as if reaching into his brain, then nodded.
She understood.
She was beautiful, wasn’t she? Her raven hair and soft lips, her blue-white skin — if he squinted she could be a mermaid, singing to a drowning sailor.
“We don’t have paddles,” she said.
“We can use our hands.”
“We can kick,” said Chris Ferris, the copilot. “Like we’re swimming.”
“Tire us out,” said Stoner.
“We’ll take shifts. I’ll take the first.” He pulled up his legs and untied his boot.
“What do you think happened to your other boot, Chris?” Breanna asked.
“I think I ate it,” said the copilot. He started to undo his vest to take off his flight suit.
“Want strip-tease music?” asked Breanna.
”How does that go?” Chris asked, then immediately began humming, or trying to hum, appropriate music. He kept it up as he got down to his underwear, which he kept on in the water. His right leg and arm were almost entirely black with bruises.
“That direction,” said Stoner, pointing west. “We’ll head toward the Chinese and Indians. More people to look for us.”
Ferris eased himself into the water. He claimed it felt good, though it was obviously colder than he’d expected. He began doing a scissor kick. “I used to be on the swim team,” he told them.
This was going to get old very quickly.
“I have a question,” said Stoner after Ferris grew silent. “Why Rap?”
“Short for Rapture,” said Breanna. “My mom was a hippie. It was either that or Acid Girl.”
“Really?”
“No. Mom’s pretty straight actually. She’s a doctor. Long story.
“That’s good,” said Stoner. “Maybe they’ll come looking for us.”
“They’ll definitely come looking for us,” said Ferris from the watter.
“A hotshot F-15 jock called me ‘Rapture’ a million years ago, right after I waxed his family in a Red Flag exercise. I was flying a B-52 at the time.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“Flying the B-52 or waxing his fanny?”
“Both.”
“Both.” She laughed. “HE was trying to pick me up, I think. So I shot him down twice. How about you?”
“I’m not trying to pick you up.”
“I mean, are you married?”
“No.” Stoner laughed.
“What’s so funny? Marriage is a good thing.”
“Good how?”
“In all ways you’d expect.”
“I’m not sure I expect any ways,” he told her, staring into her eyes. The raft was so small their faces were perhaps eight inches apart. If he wanted, he could lean forward and touch his mouth to her lips.
He did want to. He wanted to more than anything else.
She turned her head toward the sky. “We should see them soon. They’ll be here soon.”
“Yeah,” said Stoner. He turned his head and looked toward the sky as well.
“Not a cloud in the sky,” said Breanna.
“Great day for a picnic,” said Stoner.
He would kiss her. He must. He felt the weight of her leg leaning against his.