Page 96 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

“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.