Page 1 of Green Ravens (Ravens #2)
SWCC Chief Warrant Officer Styles Sawyer
Special Warfare Combatant Craft Chief Warrant Officer Styles Sawyer sat at the rear of the dank confines of one of the USS Rimlin’s strategy rooms with his crew standing behind him. He referred to deck one as the belly of the beast, though there were still multiple decks below him.
This was the section of the two hundred forty-four-foot-tall aircraft carrier where he was briefed on his missions, where he was thrown into the thick of it, into the world’s most dangerous situations, so it always felt like a room that swallowed him whole.
Over forty US SEALs and boat operators filled the space as they listened to the details of their upcoming mission.
An operation that was his specialty—personnel recovery.
“Three CIA agents were ambushed on their way back from their check-in point in Porto Velho.” The lieutenant nodded to another officer to change the images on the screen behind him. “Regrettably, two were killed, gunshots to the head, the other was abducted. The agents were acquiring information on the Woyashi terrorist group responsible for the Swiss embassy bombing and the assassination attempt on General Elias Silas. The abducted agent is believed to be in possession of a hard drive that holds classified information on Woyashi’s current dealings with a weapons of mass destruction physicist.”
The Lieutenant. paused. “Any questions?”
“Do we have any details on the abductee’s status, sir? Are they ambulatory?”
Sawyer recognized the lieutenant of one of the two Navy SEAL teams responsible for the breach. Meehaus was an absolute monster the second his boots hit the ground. The hostage was lucky to have him leading the charge.
“We don’t know his current condition, but we do know this group is ruthless and violent, and their methods of interrogation are brutal. So you’ll need to be prepared for a carry.”
Meehaus nodded.
The Lieutenant. waited to see if anyone else had something to ask or add, and when they didn’t, he began to go over the details of the SEALs’ drop site.
“Intel confirms the hostiles have a camp in Novo Aripuan?. They have heavy artillery so be prepared for return fire. Their numbers are roughly four or five dozen men, so watch your backs and each other’s.”
The mission specialist, Master Chief Robinson, motioned toward Sawyer.
“Because of the severity and threat level of this mission, we brought in two of the fleet’s best boat teams to pull you boys out of the trenches. Chariot , commanded by CWO Oakley, and Neptune , commanded by the infamous CWO Sawyer.”
There were a few “Hooyahs” and whoops thrown in their direction, especially at Oakley as he stood wide-legged with his arms crossed over his broad chest and his infamous light-hazel eyes shining pale yellow in the sunlight hidden behind a pair of gold-rimmed aviator shades.
The Lieutenant. dismissed them, and each team filed out of the room and went in their own directions.
Sawyer hung back to say a few words to Oakley. He hadn’t worked with him before, but his reputation preceded him.
Sawyer and his crew were notorious for skirting the rules, but when a mission operator called for the best, Sawyer was the one who answered. But he made no mistake that Oakley’s guys were in a very close second.
While Oakley had a conversation with a couple of boys from the SEAL team, Sawyer tried not to pay attention to the way the other boat chief filled out his fatigues.
He didn’t usually size up other men. Maybe it was hero worship.
“You ready to take a swim, chief?”
Sawyer jerked his head up to find Oakley’s attention square on him.
“Always ready,” he answered, taking Oakley’s outstretched palm and giving it a firm shake.
“What can I do ya for?”
Oakley had a deep voice, with a smooth baritone timbre.
“Well, it’s not often I meet a legend.” Sawyer smirked, staring at his own reflection in Oakley’s black lenses.
The room was dark as fuck, but he knew why Oakley hid that miraculous glare, or so he’d heard rumors. Apparently, the man caught quite a bit of ridicule for his eyes, being called everything from doll eyes to piss holes to oracles.
Oakley smirked. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, chief.”
Sawyer was stunned when Oakley turned his back on him and left the room without so much as a “see ya.”
Well fuck.
He’d heard Oakley wasn’t big on small talk. Sawyer supposed that was one thing he could mark as truth.
Instead of taking offense, he chalked it up to the looming mission. They were buckets up at zero eight hundred. Maybe Oakley wanted to be alone to get his head ready for the fight.
SWCC Chief Warrant Officer Aiken Oakley
“Well shit,” Oakley muttered on his way up the narrow stairs. “I was not expecting that.”
He’d heard a lot of stories about Chief Sawyer and his crew, about his bravery, his sharp thinking, and his unshakable duty to his men and his country. But what Oakley hadn’t heard was how fucking sexy he was.
Sawyer was so damn hot, and he didn’t even realize it.
Oakley had watched him from the corner of his eye while he finished his conversation with Meehaus.
Sawyer stood off to the side with his hands clasped behind his back, assuming an authoritative stance as if it were second nature, and his biceps were big enough to be seen through the thick material of his camo jacket. His green eyes were cast downward, and his sandy-blond brows were lowered in a deep V as if he were deep in thought.
With hair so blond it was almost white, the chief was effortlessly handsome.
Oakley didn’t get much downtime for dating. As a matter of fact, he had zero time for it. But when he was aching enough, he found a guy—or every blue moon, a woman—wanting a couple hours of no-strings-attached fun in whatever country’s port his team was in.
It’d been too many years to count since a man had caught and held his attention.
Maybe it was the way Sawyer stared at him like an admirer, not of his eyes—Oakley kept those hidden—but of his skills.
Most officers he met only thought of one-upping him. Envy and jealousy were two of Oakley’s biggest turn-offs.
The glint of wonder in Sawyer’s light eyes had Oakley hauling ass from him as quickly as possible before he returned the gaze and gave himself away.
Oakley found his crew in one of the rec rooms, shooting the shit like he knew they would be. They’d ditched their uniforms and dressed for a night out, already passing some flasks around.
“All right, you motherfuckers better not get crocked tonight so you’re dragging ass before we go up,” Oakley bitched, knowing his crew would never do that.
He had the most disciplined boatmen in the Navy, and he dared anyone to challenge it.
“You got it, chief.” His engineer laughed and raised his flask in a mock salute. “We’ll be at the Lighthouse if you wanna join us.”
“I’m hitting the goat, assholes. I’m tired,” Oakley muttered and headed back to his room.
After a hot shower and forty-five minutes of going over mission reports, he decided to let up on obsessing over details and do something to clear his mind.
His crew’s lives and those of the SEALs on the ground would be in his hands tomorrow. He needed to be sharp.
Oakley decided to walk to the bar after all. It wasn’t far outside the main gate. The night air was a crisp sixty-five, so the silent two-mile walk would do him good. A couple of beers and talking shit with his boys would be the perfect way for him to take his mind off tomorrow.
There weren’t many cars or bikes in the parking lot, which meant nothing if there was a crowd because most enlisted personnel opted for Uber and Lyft when going to a bar instead of risking a DUI.
Oakley trudged over several yards of gravel until he got to the wooden door of the weathered brick building. He yanked on the door knob shaped like an anchor and was accosted by the scent of grilled meat, raucous laughter, and classic rock blasting from a jukebox that was stupidly positioned at the entrance.
The bar was pretty full for a Wednesday night.
The standing tables around the small dance floor had clusters of people eating, drinking, and cheering to rounds of shots.
Flags, memorabilia, medals, and framed photos of uniformed men and women in action from all branches of the military covered almost every free space of the olive-green walls.
It didn’t take long for Oakley to spot his crew members huddled around a low-top table they’d pulled flush against a large curved booth. His guys always opted for the seats closest to the dart boards and pool tables.
His best friend and second-in-command, Steve Dusmeyer, pointed to the stool beside him when he saw Oakley making his way toward them.
“I knew you’d show about this time. Here, the waiter brought this a minute ago.”
Dusmeyer pushed a mug of ice-cold Yuengling Black & Tan in front of him.
Oakley grunted his thanks and downed half of the dark brew in one gulp.
Fuck, that’s good. And just what he needed.
He noticed several of his guys were gone, and a couple of others had girls they were cozied up to, no doubt trying to convince them to make a bad decision for one night.
The few already committed to partners stateside were taking turns at the dart board.
Chuckling, Oakley elbowed his friend in his side and tilted his head toward a brunette with pretty skin, wide hips, and a nice chest, bent over the pool table, setting up a one-in-a-million shot that she banked like a shark.
“Action pretty good in here tonight, huh?”
“If you say so.” Dusmeyer shrugged, his eyes on one of the televisions tuned to Sports Center. “None of these thirsty broads can hold a candle to Miranda.”
“God, you’re fuckin’ done.”
“And happy to be.” Dusmeyer sighed. “Finding a different set of legs at every port is getting old, man. I’ve outgrown that shit, y’know. I wanna have kids, a fuckin’ family before my balls start shooting dust when I’m up in it.”
Oakley barked a gruff laugh.
His best friend was crass as fuck, but Oakley would kill and die for him. He was happy Dust had found someone. But damn, it made him take a long, hard look at his own life.
At thirty-eight, he wasn’t getting any younger, and the job had a way of tacking on an extra ten years.
Dusmeyer met Miranda six months ago—a Navy judge advocate with brains that could run circles around all of them—and he’d had stars in his eyes ever since.
His senior chief wasn’t the only one on his crew with a steady girl—White had a pretty cool guy—they were thinking of settling down with.
“I’m tellin’ ya, Chief. I’m gonna marry that woman as soon as I get the nerve to ask her.”
“Never thought I’d see the day the Dust Man found his match or a woman who could hold your interest for longer than three months.”
“Yeah, well…the game has to end at some point, yeah.”
Oakley left their conversation at that. It was getting a bit too real for him.
When he searched for their waiter to order another beer, he was surprised to see Chief Sawyer sitting alone on the last stool on the other side of the bar.
Because of the lack of lighting and the distance from the action, not many ventured over there.
But there he was, in a tight white T-shirt beneath a worn brown leather bomber jacket, with half his stern face and blond hair concealed by the shadows.
As if Sawyer could feel Oakley’s eyes on him, he slowly lowered his gaze from the television mounted over the bar and locked eyes with him in a way that was damn near challenging.