Page 2 of Surge

“So make sure the dog lives,” Garrett said. “We’ll chopper in, hit the beachhead a klick outside Tadjoura. Hoof it to the sector defined by intel. Let the MWD do her thing and sniff out the workhouse. Then Sensitive Site Exploitation: Secure the site. Document the site. Search the site to learn what the terrorists planned against the US. All to rout that lipid. Any questions?”

“Negative,” came a chorus of replies.

“Lives are depending on us. We fail, thousands die. This time, it’s our own—Americans.” He skated Caldwell a glare. “This mission can’t fail, or we fail them. Let’s move out.”

The team checked their gear. Garrett clipped his M4A1 to his sling harness, double-checked his Sig, then set the comms piece in his ear. He started toward the hangar doors.

“What’s this?” King taunted as he snatched something from Samwise.

“Hey!”

Garrett looked over his shoulder and saw the big guy angling away from the handler, which amped Tsunami.

King whooped. “What?” The big guy whipped out a huge smile. “How did you get a beauty like this to marry your ugly mug?” He looked closer. “I need one of Zim’s microscopes to see the diamond. Cheap, man. Too cheap.”

Samwise snatched it back and, over the rotor, shouted, “Because unlike you, I have style.”

King barked a laugh and headed out to the tarmac.

Eyeing the picture his friend held, Garrett saw him start to tuck it away. “You asked her.”

Grinning, Samwise nodded.

They fist-bumped over Tsunami’s head. “Finally. Good job.” But why did this feel like a bad omen? Every mission they went on was one they might not come back from. And Sam wanted to put a wife through that? Too much risk . . .

In the helo, the MWD team sat across from him, the fur-missile stuffed between both Garrett’s and Samwise’s boots.

Jutting his jaw at his buddy, Garrett dropped on the net seat and felt his back pop. A dozen years as a SEAL had battered his body. Broken fingers, twisted ankles, a few bullet wounds, whiplash . . . This was it. His last mission. Time to get out before he came back in a pine box or sans a limb. He wasn’t signing the reenlistment papers. Not that he had Samwise’s attractive reason waiting back home.

Home . . . They had to do this mission right, or thousands of Americans would die.

That’s why he’d become a SEAL—for the people, the innocents. No re-upping meant he couldn’t help people in the only way he knew how and was skilled at. How could he not sign the papers? This was his life’s purpose, even when a pre-mission briefing meant listening to CIA operative Bryan Caldwell. When Zim crowded in around him, Garrett felt the gas mask providing tension. He shifted it . . . and his thoughts went to the mission in Burma. Caldwell had been a jerk then too, but the HUMINT he’d brought to the table had been flawless.

Garrett narrowed his eyes. Okay, mostly flawless. He could admit that . . . Either way, a threat against the good ol’ US of A wasn’t one he’d take standing down. No way he’d sit on the bench while terrorists attacked his country. It was the only reason he’d listened to the man’s lecture about the Sachaai and the political landscape fueling them: America was friends with the “westernized” Pakistani president, whose politics stood in direct opposition to the Islamic terrorist cadre’s goal.

Garrett refused the headache trying to take over his brain.God, help us.

Hand still on the mask, he scanned Charlie team. Felt the buzz of adrenaline as the chopper zipped them closer to target. These were the best of the best. Warriors. Hunters. SEALs. His men.

Warmth pressed against Garrett’s calf, and he eyeballed Tsunami. In the dark, the pure-black Malinois looked more like a phantom than a dog. Soulful brown eyes squinted at the terrain, blurring a hundred feet below. Her pink tongue dangled, and she shifted her position, those keen eyes sweeping up to him. When she noticed him looking at her, she jammed her snout up under his hand and thrust upward with that powerful Malinois neck, insisting he pet her. This hard-hitting Malinois and her snout were the key.

“You help us do this, and I’ll buy you a steak,” he muttered, knowing the Malinois could hear him over the thunder of the chopper and elements. When Garrett didn’t immediately pet her, she nudged his hand again.

With a quirk of his lips, Garrett gave in. Always did like a girl with attitude. “One day,” he said in a quiet tone, “that attitude will get you in trouble.” A double pat to his shoulder drew his gaze to the flight chief, who held up both palms.

Garrett nodded and keyed his mic to Charlie team. “Ten mikes out.”

Tsunami stood and her tongue disappeared, ears up and trained on the beachhead. The four-legged warrior was ready for action.

Garrett looked out at Tadjoura. Home to around 45,000, it was the third-largest city in Djibouti and had a smattering of white houses that all looked alike.

The flight chief held up three fingers.

“Three mikes out,” Garrett announced to Charlie as he shifted to the edge of the nylon seat. Brought his M4 around in front of him and lowered his NODs.

The helo descended, dust and dirt swirling in a cloud as it held station over the tiny sheltered beach they’d mapped out one klick north of Tadjoura.

Garrett hit the beach and rushed forward, dropping to a knee to provide cover as the rest of Charlie deployed behind him. He scuttled up to a six-foot wall and pressed his shoulder against the concrete. He scanned up and down the beach as the rest of the team dropped in. Zim patted Garrett’s shoulder, giving the ready signal, and he pushed up, his boots digging into the sand. Eyes out, ears alert, and heart steady, he trekked down the deathly quiet street that paralleled the gulf.