There was nothing he could do but shield himself with his right arm and hope he didn’t lose it. He heard four pops in succession and watched the top of the pirate’s head explode.
Cal!
The pirate crumpled midscream and fell on top of Crocker, who remained focused on the blade of the machete. He managed to twist away to avoid it. Blood and brain matter sprayed everywhere.
The other pirate screamed and reached for his pistol. Crocker saw his sneakered foot out of the corner of his right eye. Pushing the other man off him, he grabbed the foot and yanked it with all his might.
As the second pirate tumbled, Cal quickly finished him off with a head shot from his 9-millimeter.
No time to catch their breath. The two SEALs freed the prisoners and carried them down to the main deck. The captain slipped in and out of consciousness. His wife kept sobbing and talking to herself, something about church steps and the smell of orchids.
Twenty minutes later they were helping them and the injured crew members onto a medevac helicopter. And then they were all off into the inky night, the burning vessel getting smaller behind them.
Crocker turned to Akil and asked, “How’s your hand?”
“The bleeding has stopped. I’ll be fine.”
“Glad to hear it.”
He looked at the bite mark on his wrist and sighed.
It hadn’t been pretty, but they had prevailed.
Chapter Three
Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothing.
—Fight Club
Crocker dreamt he was surfing off the west coast of Maui with his teenage daughter. She wore a bright orange bikini and a big smile as she waved to him from the water. He didn’t see the huge wave building up behind her until it was practically right over her head.
He shouted, “Jenny, watch out!” as the wave came crashing down—hundreds of tons of water.
And then he awoke.
His surroundings weren’t immediately recognizable. The bunk he lay in was tight and the air around it stifling hot. To his right he saw a blue wall with a framed photo of a blue whale bursting out of the water.
He sat up, read the name printed on the bed’s top sheet—USS Carl Vinson—and relaxed.
As he scanned the contents of the eight-by-ten room—a chair and a counter built into the wall that served as a desk, his gear and clothes stacked neatly on the bunk below—the events of the previous night came rushing back at him, increasing his anxiety. He sensed that he’d left something undone.
What? He’d never called his wife, who was scheduled to leave for Cairo, Egypt, sometime soon. He had wanted to reach out to her before she left. Their friends jokingly called them Mr. and Mrs. Smith, like the married CIA assassins in the Brad Pitt–Angelina Jolie movie.
He pulled on a freshly laundered shirt and pants, found an office with a satellite connection, and, not knowing his wife’s time of departure or the time difference between the Gulf of Aden and Virginia Beach, Virginia, called home.
No one answered, so he tried his daughter’s cell phone.
“Hey, Daddy, what’s up?” Jenny answered brightly on the third ring, sounding as if she was only a few blocks away.
He loved it when she called him daddy. “Where are you?”
“I’m staying with my friend Francesca.”
“Francesca?”
“Yeah. Remember Francesca?”
He did, vaguely. Another tall girl with long brown hair. “Yeah, sure.”
“I’m watching her dad make paella in a special pot Francesca bought for his birthday. Have you ever had it?”
“Paella, yeah. It’s good.” Memories of one of his favorite cities, Barcelona, flooded back, along with an image of a Spanish girl he’d dated before he was married—dark hair, dark eyes, magnificent body.
“Where’s your stepmother?” he asked.
“She left for the airport early this morning. I guess she’s in the air somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean by now.”
Jenny was the product of his first marriage—a clever girl, charming, pretty, full of energy and mischief like he’d been at her age. No, he’d been far worse.
Still, she had her own mind and never listened to anyone, especially her mother, who couldn’t deal with her. Reminded him too much of himself, which made him worry. She needed direction, goals. Like Crocker had before he joined the navy at nineteen.
He knew there wasn’t much he could do now except tell her he loved her and hoped to see her soon.
“Sure, Dad. When do you think that will be?”
“Probably in two weeks, when the race is over.”
“What race is that?”
ST-6 operators weren’t allowed to tell their families where they were or what they were doing. But in addition to his SEAL commitments, Crocker competed in long-distance endurance events. So he told her, “I’m running in an ultramarathon, the Sahara, that starts in a few days.”