Page 4

Chief Aiken Oakley

“No!” Oakley hollered as the multiple explosives from the rocket launchers blew Sawyer’s boat out of the water.

They struck the vessel with such violent force it sent a massive plume of black smoke, debris, and the men of the Neptune soaring into the sky, their bodies tumbling in the air like ragdolls.

Bile rose in Oakley’s throat.

Chaos erupted in an instant. Shouts of alarm filled the radio as his men attempted to counter while others dove to retrieve survivors.

“Come on! Get ’em up, get ’em out the water!” Oakley yelled.

His officers returned aggressive fire into the thick brush, aiming at anything that moved, while his communications officer yelled back to command for immediate air support.

The acrid smell of burning metal, mixed with the muddy scent of the Madeira River, created a pungent smell that made him want to throw up.

Oakley wasn’t about to abandon the Neptune’s crew as he scoured the water for survivors, particularly one.

Rockets were still being fired around them, causing the river to rage and spin his boat like a toy.

He kept his eyes on the surface. The simultaneous firing and the low growl of rockets launching from eighty feet away felt like he was taking punches to his gut by Mike Tyson. Brilliant bursts of orange and red skirted over his head, getting closer every second.

He was out of time.

Bodies rose to the surface, one by one, bobbing wildly like buoys in a hurricane.

Oakley caught sight of a sailor with bloodied white-blond hair, struggling with one arm to keep his half-burned face above the surface.

Bullets rained down around him and Oakley didn’t hesitate to dive into the madness, pumping his arms as he swam toward the man he knew was Sawyer.

He was swimming so hard that he barreled into Sawyer’s side. He wrapped one arm around his middle and used the other to keep his face out of the water. Sawyer’s groans of pain were a relief.

Sawyer was in bad shape, but at least he was breathing, and his lower half was still attached.

He struggled to haul them both back to his boat and had made it close enough to feel a modicum of relief until multiple low-pitched hisses rang in his ears before the thunderous pops of explosions sounded over his head.

Oakley dove under the water with Sawyer still in his arms a second before his own boat was struck at the hull, damn near splitting it in two.

The devastation of the rockets pierced the liquid silence.

After four bone-rattling jolts, he lost count.

The water convulsed, sending shockwaves rippling through the river, pushing them downstream like a tugboat. The force was so strong that his helmet and goggles were torn off by the current.

Large chunks of metal rained down like confetti. Oakley barely dodged them as he fought with all his might not to lose his hold on the limp man in his arms.

His lungs burned with the need for oxygen, but he kept swimming underwater until the surface was no longer bright orange.

Oakley broke through the water, gasping and choking for air that tasted acrid and bitter, but he gulped it down anyway.

The sound of war got farther and farther away, but Oakley stayed in survival mode. He wouldn’t surrender. He wasn’t giving up.

He struggled out of his loadout gear, did the same for Sawyer, and let it sink to the bottom of the river.

He needed to lose all the excess weight he could. It felt as if he’d been swimming forever. His limbs were cramping, and he was struggling treading water.

Oakley wanted to weep when his boots grazed the earth, telling him he was only feet from the jungle’s edge.

The steep sides of the river were an even bigger challenge. Oakley pulled on every ounce of strength he had to hoist Sawyer’s dead weight out of the water.

Once he was on a flat area, he dropped backward, his chest heaving so hard he thought he’d never catch his breath again.

Oakley thanked the heavens when Sawyer began to jerk in his arms as he coughed up blood and dirty water because Oakley didn’t think he had oxygen to spare to give him resuscitation.

He kept them crouched in the muddy trench, the tang of copper mingling with the dampened soil.

From a couple of miles, he watched the remnants of his boat and crew drift ominously downstream as the disastrous fight they’d lost came to a morbid end.

It formed a memory that would haunt and terrorize him for the rest of his life.