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GUNNER WOKEup slowly, groggy. Disoriented. What was that beeping noise? The vague thought crossed his mind that somebody should make it stop.
He cracked one eye open. Weird. It wouldn’t open all the way. He tried the other eye. Better, but he was in a darkened room. In a bed. How in the hell did he get here?
As he regained more awareness of his surroundings, pain began to flood his consciousness. Layer upon layer of it. Sharp surface pain of lacerations. It felt like a few of his cuts had been stitched. The deeper throb of bruises. Damn. He felt that all over his body. Top to bottom, front to back… he felt like one giant bruise. And beneath that, the intense ache of cracked bones. Felt like several ribs had been busted, if the pain whenever he inhaled was any indication. What the hell had happened to him?
Accident of some kind? He didn’t remember one. Car? Motorcycle?
He sat up—or at least he tried to—but was swamped by a whole new layer of pain so bad, he fell back to the mattress, groaning at the pounding waves of agony rolling through his skull.
A door opened into the room, throwing a wedge of light on the floor. A big, thick shadow entered, and he braced himself for more pain. Was he a prisoner? Was this some kind of mind-bending interrogation? Had he been drugged? Alarm that he couldn’t remember ripped through him.
A gray-haired man stepped up to his bed and turned on the light beside it. Gunner squinted and registered that his bed was elevated well above the floor, kind of like a hospital bed. No, wait. His body was inclined gently upward from the hips, and the sheets were white. He wore some sort of thin cotton gown thing.
Jesus H. Christ. He was in a hospital.
“How’d I get here?” he rasped.
He squinted through his good eye and made out a black uniform. A shitload of colorful medals splashed all over the burly chest. A whole lot of gold braid on the lower sleeves. The bright gold of a Budweiser pin—
The symbol, an eagle holding a three-pronged trident and a rifle, slammed into his memory gap, shaking a big chunk of it loose all at once. His name was Gunner Vance, Navy Master Chief, SEAL Team Ten. And the man standing beside him was Rear Admiral Jonathan McCarthy, commander of all the SEAL teams on the East Coast of the United States.
Well, go fuck a duck.
What had he done to rate the big kahuna coming out to see him like this? No doubt it was either stupidly heroic, or just stupid.
“How’re you feeling, son?” the admiral asked.
“Like I got into a fight with a locomotive and the train won.”
“I’m told you’ll make a full recovery.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, sir, a full recovery from what?”
“Well, you sustained quite a few superficial injuries this morning. Although from the look of you, I imagine they don’t feel so superficial.”
No lie.
“What… happened?”
“You don’t remember?” the admiral asked with a sharp edge in his voice.
Well, duh. If I remembered, why would I ask?
“Winds changed direction and went out of limits while you were on a training jump. The jumpmaster threw you men out at low altitude, and you were blown way off course into a wooded area. Came down through some trees. Could’ve been real bad.”
No shit, Sherlock. He could’ve died. Two things that did not mix at all were trees and parachutes. Horror unfolded in his gut, a slow burn that ate through his innards with the indecent agony of acid eating through steel. It bubbled and hissed, chewing through sinew and muscle and soft organs until all that was left was a goo of pain.
He closed his eyes, suddenly too exhausted to hold them open. “How did it happen?”
The admiral said candidly, “Weather shop screwed up. They didn’t pass the updated winds to the flight crew.”
“The pilots should’ve known they were encountering strong winds and told the jumpmaster.”
“Same difference.” Admiral McCarthy shrugged. “Communications broke down.”
“Anyone else get hurt?” he asked quickly.
“No. Just you. Rest of the jumpers made it over the trees to a field.”