This book is dedicated to all the families of military personnel who have kept the home fires burning and welcomed their loved ones home with open arms.
Hunkered low in the underbrush, Navy SEAL Chief Petty Officer “Rip” Cord Schafer gripped the M4A1 rifle with the SOPMOD upgrade and inched forward, carefully placing every step to avoid tripping, snapping branches or making any other loud noises. Loaded with sixty pounds of equipment specially selected for this mission, he was ready for anything.
Gunny took point, leading the team into the Honduran camp, keeping to the darkness of the jungle. Moonlight shimmered through the occasional break in the dense overhead canopy, barely making it down to the jungle floor.
Rip had his headset in one ear and listened for sounds of the camp with his other.
Montana eased up behind Gunny, followed by Sawyer, then the newest SEAL, Gosling, with Rip bringing up the rear.
Their mission: extract one undercover DEA agent from a terrorist training camp deep in the jungle of Honduras.
No matter where he looked, Rip could detect no sentries standing guard or patrolling the compound. Strange. The DEA agent had been adamant about being pulled out. He’d feared for his life and had been concerned the information he needed to pass on might be lost.
In his brief plea to be extracted, he’d given specific GPS coordinates. When Gunny reached the position, he held up his fist.
The team stopped in place and hugged the earth, waiting.
He pointed to Montana and Sawyer and gave them the follow-me sign.
The three surrounded the door of the building. Gunny nudged it open and disappeared inside. Montana and Sawyer followed. Gosling and Rip remained outside, providing cover.
Seconds later, they hustled out a man wearing rumpled clothing, his shoulder-length hair straggly and unkempt. He ducked low and moved quickly between them, hurrying toward the path leading out of the camp.
Gunny motioned for Gosling and Rip to fall in with the team. They had their man, and it appeared as though they were going to make a clean getaway with none of the terrorists aware of the agent’s departure.
The hair on the back of Rip’s neck stood straight up. The entire mission had been too easy. If there was any real danger, wouldn’t there have been sentries on alert, wielding machine guns and willing to cut down anyone who stepped into range?
They cleared the edge of the camp, heading back to the river and the waiting boat.
Gunny was in the lead again, followed by Sawyer. Montana was in front of their extracted DEA agent and Gosling behind him.
The agent stumbled for a moment.
Gosling didn’t adjust his stride in time. He caught up with the man then gave him a hand to right himself.
The sharp report of gunfire ripped through the night, shattering the silence.
Gosling collapsed where he stood.
Another shot rang out and the DEA agent grunted and crumpled to the ground.
Instinct made the remaining members of the SEAL team drop to their bellies.
His heart slamming into his ribs, adrenaline racing through his veins, Rip low crawled to the two men who’d been hit. He shone his red penlight over Gosling. The man had taken the bullet in the throat. By the dark stain spreading in a wide blob on the ground around him, Rip suspected the bullet had cut a hole in the young SEAL’s jugular vein. He lay sprawled on his side, his body completely still. Rip covered the wound with his hand, but nothing he did could slow the flow of blood.
“Roll call,” Gunny spoke into Rip’s headset. One by one the other team members reported in.
“Montana.”
“Sawyer.”
“Schafer,” Rip said. His heart in his throat, he reported, “Gosling took a hit.”
Sawyer spun around and low crawled with his weapon in front of him to where Gosling lay unmoving. He jerked Rip’s hand off the wound. “Damn.”
Gunny muttered a curse, “Status.”
For a moment Rip closed his eyes, thinking of his last conversation with the young petty officer. Gosling’s wife was expecting their first child. He’d been so proud, scared and excited all at once.
Sawyer answered, “Gosling’s dead.”
Though Rip knew it, hearing Sawyer’s confirmation made it all the more real and heartbreaking. Overwhelmed with grief but knowing they still had to get the agent out, he moved toward the other downed man a yard away. The agent had been hit in the chest. Without the armor plate the SEALs wore in their vests, he hadn’t been protected.
“Our guest?” Gunny demanded.
Rip felt for a pulse. As he pressed his fingers to the base of the man’s throat, a hand snaked out and grabbed his wrist with surprising strength.
In the darkness of the night, Rip could see the whites of the man’s eyes staring up at him.
“Set up,” the agent said, his voice nothing more than a guttural whisper. He reached up to the medallion around his neck, yanked it free and pressed it into Rip’s hand. “Find out who.”
“Who what?” Rip asked.
“Status on our extraction?” Gunny’s voice sounded loud in Rip’s ear.
“Conscious, but not good,” Rip replied, stuffing the medallion into his pocket.
Shouts could be heard in the village behind them as the occupants raised the alarm. Lights blinked on and headlights lit the night. The tap, tap, tap of gunfire broke through the night’s silence.
“Let’s get out of here.” Gunny raced back to where Sawyer and Rip were leaning over the wounded men. “I’ll take the agent.”
The agent gripped Rip’s arm and refused to let go.
