was cryptology, or deciphering code, Elijah had still taken part in dozens of similar missions in his ten years as a SEAL, so the basics were ingrained and as familiar as his own name.
However, hostage extraction was always a delicate undertaking, and he’d been out of the game for a few months, so he took special care in his notes. He crafted suggestions, backup scenarios. After eyeing the schematics of the embassy they’d be infiltrating, he sketched alternate escape routes.
Chances were he’d be on the copter, monitoring communications. He knew the wisdom of such an assignment. He’d been sidelined for a while; others had earned the privilege of boots on the ground. And his specialty was, after all, communications.
Still, he chafed at the restriction.
He wanted—needed—action.
He had to prove he had what it took. That he was still a SEAL in top form. One of the elite. The best, dammit. He needed to prove it to the team. To Savino.
And, yeah, to himself.
Elijah’s pencil flew over the page, lead scratching out a list of reasons to offer his commander to convince the man that Elijah should be part of the ground team. Then Savino began assigning roles.
“Lansky, Torres, Prescott, Loudon, Masters, Rengel. You’re on the extraction. Lansky and Masters will enter here and here.” He tapped the blueprint of the embassy with his stylus so the screen lit with red dots. Then he tapped again to light four green dots near the delivery docks. “Prescott, Torres, Rengel and Loudon, you’ll come in from the water.”
He finished with, “Danby, Ward, Powers, you’re in the air with Jarrett.”
He was on the ground? Not in the air? Hell, yeah, his mind celebrated. His first mission back on active duty since he’d damn near exploded into a few hundred painful pieces, and he wasn’t holed up in the back seat. Nope, he’d be right there in the thick of the action. Right there, where it was all going down, he thought, rubbing a hand over his thigh.
Elijah’s other hand gripped his pencil so tightly that he flattened the wood, destroying it with a resounding crack. Yeah, he’d smile. Just as soon as his gut unclenched.
“Any questions?”
A few men shook their heads. Others silently gathered their notes. A couple simply waited.
“Torres, Lansky, Loudon, Prescott and Ward, remain. Everyone else, dismissed,” Savino barked, releasing all the men except the members of Poseidon.
* * *
NIC SAVINO GLANCED at the clock, confirming that he was right on schedule. He patiently waited for the room to clear of everyone but his elite team. Even as some men moved out, others moved in until there were thirteen of them in all.
He glanced at Jarrett, who clung to the chair as if he knew they all wanted him gone. He looked like a grumpy bulldog guarding his favorite bone.
“Comfy, Captain?” Savino asked, his words calm and his expression pleasant.
“Orders are orders, Savino,” Jarrett said, rising to speak in Savino’s ear. The man kept his words pitched low, as if trying to keep them from the rest of the room. Ridiculous, since Poseidon heard everything.
From the expression on the men’s faces, they definitely heard. And didn’t like. Savino could relate.
But, as Jarrett said, orders were orders. And Admiral Cree had decreed that until Ramsey was in the brig and Poseidon in the clear, they’d have company. So Savino gestured to the chair and suggested the man sit back down. After all, it wasn’t Jarrett’s fault that the team was under supervision.
Savino was a man who epitomized control. Some would say it was his trademark. He’d used it, and rigid focus, to form a team of special operatives, skilled assets, into even more. Poseidon was the elite among the elite. Unlike DEVGRU, the Navy’s Special Warfare Development Group, Poseidon wasn’t open for applications. It was composed of men he’d handpicked ten years before. Men who had, over the course of a decade, trained together, fought together, bled together, until they were, essentially, one.
And now that one was threatened.
“Gentlemen, in case you didn’t notice, we’ve earned ourselves a babysitter.” The room buzzed with mutters and complaints. Savino waited for it to ebb before inclining his head in agreement. “Captain Jarrett will be monitoring missions for the next little while. The team and Poseidon have been officially cleared of wrongdoing in the Ramsey situation, but there are some in Naval Investigation who don’t accept the official stand.”
“I’m not here to interfere or horn in on the workings of Poseidon,” Jarrett said, addressing the entire room. “I’ll do whatever I can to help clear the team, to get you guys back to business as usual.”
Wanting to believe that, Savino nodded. Then, skilled at moving past pain—even when it was a pain in his ass—he got back to the duty at hand.
“To bring everyone up to speed, I’ll recap the details of our current situation. These details are for Poseidon ears only,” he said as the men prepared to take mental notes. Everyone put away their papers, pens and electronics. They’d work from memory on this one.
“As you all know, we encountered an incident last February on a routine mission. During the extraction of a kidnapped scientist, a militant base exploded, the fire severely injuring a SEAL.” He inclined his head toward Prescott, who, according to the doctors, was lucky to be alive. “The explosion was said to destroy the formula for a potential chemical weapon and killed numerous militants, including the jihad leader and, to all appearances, one of our own.”
The words to all appearances caused a stir. Nobody spoke; nobody even moved. But the room came to attention.
“Under CIA orders and pursuant to NI protocols an investigation was launched on SEAL Team 7 and, more specifically, on Poseidon.”
Savino laid it all out. The chemical formula had been coded with a time stamp that’d put its theft at the exact time of their mission, implicating the team when its sale was discovered.
“Sir,” Loudon interrupted. “Why would Naval Investigation be looking at us for the theft? It’d make more sense to look to the militants themselves for the theft and sale of that formula.”
“It would, if not for the fact that the sale was to a tribe that group has been at war with for centuries.” Savino named the tribe, which elicited grimaces from most of his men. Because there was ugly, and there was ugly. And this group of militants had one goal and one goal only: world annihilation.
“To date, five more incidents have been traced back to SEAL missions in which weapons, information or technology was sold. Of those, three missions were led by Poseidon.”
The tension was so tight it was as if the room had turned into a vise. Savino didn’t need to look around to see the men’s reactions. He could feel them. Hell, he had them.
Fury, betrayal and just a hint of worry.
Only a stupid man thought he was invincible. Only an arrogant man thought his mantle of right protected him from persecution. Even Jarrett grimaced, his jowls tight as he shook his head in disgust.
“I don’t have
