Point of Contact

“Adara, you head back to the hostages and do what you can for them to make them comfortable. Like Jack said, keep them locked in until we give the all-clear. Apprise them of the situation, that they’re safe and that we can’t leave the platform until the storm passes, probably tomorrow morning. You need anything else from us?”

Adara tapped her med kit. “I’m good to go.” She headed for the door near Dom, still seated, lightly brushing his broad shoulder with her hand as she passed, hoping no one else caught the gesture.

“Dom, when you’re up to speed, I want you to secure that C-4. Grab one of us if you need help.”

Dom stood, grimacing. “I’m on my way.” He stretched out some kinks as he headed for the drilling room.

“Jack, you and I will do the booby-trap search first and clear those. Then we’ll search the Green Army people for pocket litter and any other intel we can find on them, then grab fingerprints and DNA samples for the Langley crew to sort out and catalog.”

“And then we toss ’em?”

Ding nodded. “They’re chum, as far as I’m concerned. It’s not like this is a crime scene that needs to get processed.” In Ding’s mind, what The Campus did here tonight was righteous. It just wasn’t entirely legal. They had to cover their tracks.

Jack’s father, an ex-Marine, had instilled in him a deep respect for the honored fallen, but in this case he couldn’t agree more with Ding. The terrorists had almost killed him and his team. These were cold-blooded fanatics who butchered innocent civilians. They’d lost the right to be treated with respect, either in life or in death.

“You good?” Ding asked. He laid a hand on the taller man’s arm. Jack nodded, his mind elsewhere.

“Yeah, just processing.”

“Nothing else?”

Jack couldn’t lie to Ding. He respected him too much for that. “Can’t help but feel I screwed up tonight.”

“I get it. We’ll talk later. For now, we’ve got work to do.”

“Roger that.”

* * *

Jack vomited again, but nothing came out. The long rolling ocean swells and steady bouncing of the CB90 fast-attack craft made him seasick, but the sickeningly sweet smell from the chemical toilet he was hunched over made things even worse. It was going to be a helluva long ride from the oil rig to the Norwegian coast if he had to stare into this crapper the whole way.

A loud knock rattled the bathroom door.

“You all right in there?” It was Ding.

Jack spat and wiped away a long string of drool. “Freaking fantastic.”

“Sounded like you were choking a moose.”

Jack climbed to his unsteady feet. “Be right out.”

He splashed cold water on his sweaty face, rinsed his mouth out, and toweled off. When he yanked the door open Ding was waiting for him in the cramped hallway.

“You look like hell.”

“I just blew a plate of poached salmon,” Jack said. “But thanks.” The thumping deck beneath his feet and the close warm air made his head spin again.

“Let’s go topside, get you some fresh air.”

“Roger that.”

* * *

The ship’s movement on deck was more violent than below, but the cold, fresh morning air and the freezing spray against Jack’s face did the trick and his nausea subsided. He held the rail tight and watched the far horizon, almost as dark as evening with the cloud cover and polar night at this latitude. Ding stood behind him to avoid getting hit by any water — he didn’t suffer motion sickness of any kind.

Jack ran through the night’s events one more time, step by step. He was honest enough to know where his performance was up to grade and humble enough to know when he was luckier than good, especially on this op. The rescued hostages were grateful and in good spirits and would soon be examined by the medical staff at Haakonsvern Naval Base. But Adara was a terrific combat medic and she’d already treated the minor flesh wound one hostage sustained.

Clark had called them to offer his congratulations. The CEO of the wildcatting company was thrilled, as were the families of the survivors. By any measure they had overcome extreme conditions and perilous odds and won the day.

So why did he still feel like shit?

“Feeling better now?” Ding asked. He had to shout over the roar of the big twin V8 diesel engines powering the thundering Kamewa hydrojets.

“You have no idea.”

“Then why does your face look like you just swallowed an ashtray?”

“I screwed the pooch, Ding. You know I did.”

“Why? Because you hesitated?”

“Dom got shot, you could’ve been shot — and I had a combat knife shoved into my gut.”

“Nobody got hurt.”

“In spite of me, not because of me.”

“At least you own it. That’s what’s important.”

“If I hadn’t hesitated, if I had reacted faster, maybe I could’ve prevented all of it.”

“Was it the knife that froze you?”

“No. At least I don’t think so. It was the girl. Both women, really. I saw their coveralls and I saw the oil stains, and I ‘knew’ they were hostages.” He didn’t have to remind Ding that when they examined the women’s bodies, they discovered that the dark oil stains were actually the dried blood from the hostages they had slaughtered with the same knife used on Jack.