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By Gerry Doyle

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I shook my head no and moved to hit the quick-release latch on my harness. As I did so, however, the world pitched about forty-five degrees to the left. The soldiers who were standing grabbed handholds and braced themselves against the floor. “Hold on a second,” Grimm said. ” Indeed, the floor returned to its normal angle a few seconds later, and the engine noise swelled. Then the red dystopia of the helicopter’s interior was swept away in a rush of wind and sound as a crewmember pulled himself into the cabin and yanked the door open.

Larsen was waiting for me in the control room next to the forward periscope. Four other SEALs, their weapons slung across their backs, were swarming over the equipment, flipping switches and adjusting knobs. Their voices punctuated the work with curses and an occasional gauge reading. ” Rolling my eyes was out of the question. I settled for a shrug. Larsen blinked a couple of times. Maybe he expected more. It was the first clear look I’d gotten at his face. It was hard and mean and dotted with hundreds of old acne scars.

45 “Torpedo, conn. Roger. ” Turning to me, the SEAL raised his eyebrows. Maybe a leer, maybe just a silent inquiry. “Ma’am? He wants to know if you heard. ” Jesus. “Yeah, I heard him. ” 46 III THERE WAS A SEAL leaning against the wall in the hallway to the control room, a hard, purposeful presence that was out of place in the corridor’s false opulence. When I had passed through it on the way to the torpedo room, it had seemed cramped for more than one person at a time to use. That first impression was correct; we both had to turn sideways to allow me to pass.

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