Page 36 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

THIRTY-TWO

Three Miles

HANK

The underwater world envelops us in eerie silence.

Moonlight penetrates the first few feet, casting everything in ghostly blue-green light.

I activate my rebreather, the familiar resistance as it scrubs carbon dioxide from my breath.

Beside me, Gabe does the same, his movements slower but still precise despite his injury.

Fins deployed, we begin moving east toward shore. Rigel and Blake sandwich the pilots between them, sharing their rebreathers. Walt keeps close to Gabe, monitoring his condition. Carter and Jeb take point, establishing our heading.

Underwater movement brings its own challenges. The cold attacks more aggressively without the insulating layer of air between skin and water. Pressure builds in sinuses and eardrums. Vision narrows to shadowy shapes and vague directions.

We maintain formation, eight operators and two pilots moving through darkness with a singular purpose. The ocean above us lights up occasionally as search beams penetrate the surface, seeking wreckage or bodies.

They won’t see us.

Ten minutes underwater feels like an eternity. Lungs begin to burn despite the rebreathers. Muscles protest the constant fight against water resistance. The cold seeps deeper, burrowing into bones.

Ethan signals our ascent. Slowly, cautiously, we rise to the surface, breaking the water with minimal disturbance. The pilots gasp for air, their limited underwater time taking its toll.

“Aircraft?” Ethan keeps his voice just above a whisper.

“Moving west.” Rigel points toward distant lights. “Expanding search pattern away from us.”

“They think we sank with the bird.” Blake helps the co-pilot stay afloat.

“They think they killed us. Let’s stay dead.” Gabe breaks the silence, voice tight with pain. Blood continues to seep from his leg, but his eyes remain clear.

“They’ve done us a favor.” I adjust my position to better support his position. “As of right now, we’re off the grid. No one is tracking us. No one expects us.”

“We’ve got about forty minutes before the cold becomes a serious problem.” I check Gabe’s leg again. “Bleeding’s slowing. Needs attention when we hit land.”

“What’s the plan once we reach shore?” The pilot’s question comes through chattering teeth.

Ethan doesn’t hesitate. “We stick to the mission. Guardian HRS believes we’re dead. So does Malfor.”

“We find the women.” Blake’s voice carries quiet determination.

“We end this.” Jeb’s words fall like stones.

“Settle in. We swim for shore.” Ethan looks at each of us in turn. “Conserve energy. Standard formation with wounded center. Questions?”

Silence answers him. We’ve trained for worse, survived worse. The parameters have changed, but the objective remains.

The aircraft lights disappear over the horizon, leaving us alone with the sea and the night.

“Move out.” Ethan gives us our marching orders…Or rather, swim orders.

The ocean fights us with every stroke. Twenty minutes in, the cold seeps deeper. My fingers begin to lose sensation despite my thermal gloves. The first warning signs of hypothermia are setting in right on schedule.

“Keep moving.” Ethan’s voice carries across the water. “Halfway there.”

Gabe’s breathing grows labored as the combination of blood loss and cold takes its toll. I adjust my grip, taking more of his burden. He’s hampered by the injured leg. Unable to swim effectively and keep up.

“I’ve got you.” The words come naturally. Gabe and I are finally back in sync.

“Just like Bagram.” Gabe’s voice barely carries above the waves. “Remember?”

I do. Another extraction gone wrong. Another time I dragged his bleeding ass through hostile territory. “You were heavier then.”

“Less swimming, more blood loss.” His attempt at humor dissolves into a grimace.

The shore remains a distant shadow. My muscles burn with each stroke, the cold and exertion combining to drain strength. Still, I maintain my position, keeping Gabe afloat, matching my strokes to his weakening ones.

Thirty minutes in, the pilots begin to struggle, their lack of conditioning for this type of endurance evident. Rigel and Blake adjust their support, taking more of the civilians’ burden. It’s going to be a long ass swim.

“Status check.” Ethan’s voice is clipped. Strained.

“Moving.” Rigel’s reply comes between controlled breaths.

“Still here.” Blake adjusts his position on the flank.

“Functional.” Jeb maintains his position on point.

“Monitoring Gabe.” Walt keeps medical watch.

“Comms intact.” Carter confirms our connection to the outside world.

“Planning Malfor’s retirement party.” Gabe’s voice weakens but still carries determination.

“Pilots stable.” Blake reports on our civilian passengers.

“Two miles to go.” I focus on the shoreline, now visible as a darker line against the night sky.

We push forward, each stroke a battle against the forces of physics and biology. The water temperature continues to leach our heat, sap our strength, and deteriorate our cognitive function.

“Current’s shifting.” Rigel’s warning cuts through the sound of labored breathing. “Pushing us east.”

“Compensate.” Ethan adjusts his direction. “Forty-five degrees west.”

We angle against the drift, burning precious energy to maintain course. My legs feel leaden, each kick heavier than the last. Drag from the packs slows us—extra weight, extra resistance. And that’s before factoring in injuries.

Three miles through open ocean. Two-point-six nautical. In training conditions, that’s an hour-eighteen. This? This is combat insertion. Wounded. Fully geared. Fighting currents and cold. Add another forty minutes. Maybe more.

At this pace, we’re not just burning time—we’re bleeding it.

And every minute lost is another minute too late. Two hours in, I hear it.

The rhythmic sound of waves breaking on the shore carries across the water. So close now, yet still so far. My legs kick, moving on willpower alone, muscles screaming for rest that can’t come until we reach land.

“Watch for rocks.” Ethan’s warning brings renewed focus. “Coastline’s jagged here.”

The final stretch becomes a gauntlet. Waves grow stronger as we approach the shore, pushing us back, dragging us under—the land’s last defense against invaders.

My hand strikes rock, then retreats with the wave. So close. Another stroke. Another. My knees scrape against stone, then lift with the retreating water.

“Forward.” Ethan’s command is barely audible above the surf. “Push through the break line.”

One final wave crashes over us, tumbling bodies like rag dolls. I tighten my grip on Gabe, refusing to let the ocean claim him now. Not after everything we’ve survived.

And then—rock beneath my feet. Solid ground. The simple miracle of land after an eternity of water.

We drag ourselves past the water line, ten men collapse on wet rock, shivering violently as our bodies register the full extent of heat loss. No one speaks. No energy left for words.

One minute. Two. Just breathing. Just feeling solid ground beneath us.

“Status.” Ethan finally breaks the silence, pushing himself to a sitting position.

“Alive.” Rigel’s single-word assessment is laughable.

“Checking Gabe’s leg.” I force myself to focus, examining the wound in the darkness.

“Perimeter secure.” Blake scans the shoreline, professional even now.

“Need to get warm.” Walt’s medical training asserts itself. “Hypothermia setting in for all of us.”

“Shelter first.” Jeb forces himself to his feet, scanning the rocky shoreline. His eyes narrow, focusing on something in the darkness. “There.”

I follow his gaze. A dark opening in the cliff face, barely visible in the moonlight. Natural cave or coastal erosion, impossible to tell from this distance.

“How far?” Ethan struggles to his feet, swaying slightly.

“Hundred meters.” Jeb points along the shoreline. “Looks accessible.”

“Move.” Ethan’s command galvanizes us into action.

We help each other stand on shaking legs. Ten men who officially died in a helicopter crash, now ghosts on a hostile shore. Shivering, wounded, stripped of support and supplies.

I loop Gabe’s arm over my shoulders, taking his weight. “One step at a time.”

“Just like old times.” His voice comes weak but determined.

“Shut up and walk.” The familiar pattern of our interaction grounds me, gives me strength I didn’t know I had left.

We make our way across the rocky shore, a ragged line of walking dead. Every step is an act of defiance against the ocean that tried to claim us, against the enemy who thinks they’ve won.

The cave mouth looms before us, a deeper darkness against the night. Jeb enters first, weapon drawn, clearing the space.

“Clear.” His voice echoes slightly. “Goes back about thirty feet. Dry ground. Defensible position.”

We stumble inside, helping each other over the uneven ground. The cave provides immediate shelter from the wind, and the temperature difference is noticeable even to cold-numbed skin.

We all reek of brine, blood, and exhaustion—except the two pilots laid out near the back, bundled in mylar, recovering from hypothermia.

Three miles in open ocean. In the dark. We nearly drowned out there, but it wasn’t our day to die, but damn if it didn’t try hard to be.

Rigel flops down next to Blake, huffing, dragging a hand through his drenched hair. “This is bullshit.”

Walt moves to Gabe, helping him sit against the cave wall before examining his leg. “Need to clean and close this wound.”

I help Walt clean Gabe’s wound, holding the light stick while he works. The gash runs six inches down Gabe’s outer thigh, deep enough to need stitches.

“Going to hurt.” Walt prepares a needle from his medical kit, the thread already attached.

“Just do it.” Gabe’s jaw clenches in anticipation.

I place my hand on his shoulder, an unconscious gesture of support. “Remember Kandahar?”

“You mean when that farmer’s kid tried to stitch me up with fishing line?” A ghost of a smile crosses his face, focusing on the memory instead of the present pain. “Said I’d live longer if I stopped screaming.”

“You told him you’d live longer if he stopped sticking you with a rusty needle.” I maintain eye contact as Walt begins stitching. “Then you gave him your last chocolate bar.”

“Kid had steady hands.” Gabe’s fingers dig into my forearm as the needle pierces flesh again. “Unlike some medics I could name.”

“Criticizing the guy with the needle?” Walt’s voice carries dry humor despite the gravity of our situation. “Not a smart move.”

The familiar banter helps all of us—gives Gabe something to focus on besides pain, gives Walt a rhythm for his work, gives me the illusion that something in our world remains normal.

Ten minutes later, Walt finishes the last stitch and applies a waterproof dressing. “That’ll hold until we get somewhere with proper medical.”

“Thanks.” Gabe’s face has gone pale, but his eyes remain clear.

“Rest now.” Walt moves to check on the pilots, who look shell-shocked by their ordeal.

I help Gabe into a more comfortable position, arranging one of the emergency blankets around both of us. Shared body heat is the most efficient way to combat hypothermia in field conditions.

“Like our first date.” Gabe’s attempt at humor comes through chattering teeth.

“You wish.” I adjust the blanket to maximize coverage. “Our first date had a lot less blood and hypothermia.”

“Debatable.” His body shakes with cold, muscles involuntarily contracting as his core temperature struggles to stabilize.

“Gear assessment.” Ethan slumps against the wall, voice ragged with exhaustion.

I check my waterproof pack, cataloging what survived. “Emergency blankets intact. Light sticks. Basic medical. Protein bars. Two magazines dry.”

Similar reports come from the others. We’ve lost most of our equipment, but the essentials survived—enough to keep us alive, if not comfortable.

Ethan gestures to the team. “Everyone, pair up for warmth.”

Standard cold-weather survival protocol. Shared body heat, emergency blankets, and minimal movement to conserve energy.

Across the cave, the others pair up—Ethan with one of the pilots, Walt with the other, Rigel with Blake, Jeb with Carter. Gabe and me.

Ten men reduced to shivering bodies huddled in a cave, fighting basic survival needs while planning their next move.

“Get some rest.” Ethan’s voice carries from the darkness. “Two-hour rotation for watch. Rigel first, then Blake, Walt, me.”

“What’s the plan?” Blake’s question speaks for all of us.

“At first light, we assess our position, inventory gear, and treat injuries.” Ethan’s answer comes without hesitation.

The cave falls silent save for the sound of waves crashing against the rocks outside. Gabe shifts beside me, shivering from cold and blood loss.

I drift toward sleep, my body surrendering to exhaustion. Sometime later, Gabe’s voice pulls me back.

“Hank.” His words come softly, meant for me alone. “I hear something.”

My eyes snap open; my senses are immediately alert, despite the bone-deep fatigue. I listen, filtering out the sound of waves, of breathing, of wind against rock.

Footsteps echo near the mouth of the cave—slow, deliberate. Every instinct fires hot. This place has no back door. No fallback. If someone found us, they mean to finish the job.

“Defensive positions.” Ethan directs with hand signals, placing us to maximize cover and fields of fire.

“Just like old times.” His attempt at humor does nothing to mask the gravity of our situation. I help Gabe into position behind a rock outcropping, ensuring he has a clear shot at the cave entrance while remaining protected.

“Shut up and aim straight.” I position myself beside him, my SIG P226 feeling inadequate against an unknown number of hostiles.

Weapons rise in unison. Ethan lifts his rifle, Walt draws his sidearm, and Blake drops into a crouch beside me, jaw clenched.

We spent the night swimming three goddamn miles through freezing ocean in total blackness. No light. No comms. No rescue. And now someone’s coming? Through this one entrance?

We stand or die here.

No one breathes.