Call To Engage. Tawny Weber
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The room buzzed with mutters and complaints. Savino waited for it to ebb before inclining his head in agreement. “Captain Jarrett will be monitoring missions for the next little while. The team and Poseidon have been officially cleared of wrongdoing in the Ramsey situation, but there are some in Naval Investigation who don’t accept the official stand.”
“I’m not here to interfere or horn in on the workings of Poseidon,” Jarrett said, addressing the entire room. “I’ll do whatever I can to help clear the team, to get you guys back to business as usual.”
Wanting to believe that, Savino nodded. Then, skilled at moving past pain—even when it was a pain in his ass—he got back to the duty at hand.
“To bring everyone up to speed, I’ll recap the details of our current situation. These details are for Poseidon ears only,” he said as the men prepared to take mental notes. Everyone put away their papers, pens and electronics. They’d work from memory on this one.
“As you all know, we encountered an incident last February on a routine mission. During the extraction of a kidnapped scientist, a militant base exploded, the fire severely injuring a SEAL.” He inclined his head toward Prescott, who, according to the doctors, was lucky to be alive. “The explosion was said to destroy the formula for a potential chemical weapon and killed numerous militants, including the jihad leader and, to all appearances, one of our own.”
The words to all appearances caused a stir. Nobody spoke; nobody even moved. But the room came to attention.
“Under CIA orders and pursuant to NI protocols an investigation was launched on SEAL Team 7 and, more specifically, on Poseidon.”
Savino laid it all out. The chemical formula had been coded with a time stamp that’d put its theft at the exact time of their mission, implicating the team when its sale was discovered.
“Sir,” Loudon interrupted. “Why would Naval Investigation be looking at us for the theft? It’d make more sense to look to the militants themselves for the theft and sale of that formula.”
“It would, if not for the fact that the sale was to a tribe that group has been at war with for centuries.” Savino named the tribe, which elicited grimaces from most of his men. Because there was ugly, and there was ugly. And this group of militants had one goal and one goal only: world annihilation.
“To date, five more incidents have been traced back to SEAL missions in which weapons, information or technology was sold. Of those, three missions were led by Poseidon.”
The tension was so tight it was as if the room had turned into a vise. Savino didn’t need to look around to see the men’s reactions. He could feel them. Hell, he had them.
Fury, betrayal and just a hint of worry.
Only a stupid man thought he was invincible. Only an arrogant man thought his mantle of right protected him from persecution. Even Jarrett grimaced, his jowls tight as he shook his head in disgust.
“I don’t have to tell you the ramifications of an NI investigation.” Savino slid a sideways glance at Jarrett. Babysitters were only the beginning, he knew. “The damage that it can cause to a career, or in this case, to the very existence of Poseidon.”
Giving up his spot behind the podium, Savino paced in front of it as he continued the briefing.
“Funds for the chemical weapons sale were traced to an account under Ramsey’s name as well as a civilian. The account is still in active use despite his supposed death. Further investigation cleared the civilian.” His gaze cut to Torres, who’d led that investigation and was now engaged to marry the civilian. “But it resulted in the kidnapping of Ramsey’s son. A team retrieved the child and detained Petty Officer Dane Adams, who while implicating himself and Ramsey, indicates that there are others still involved.”
Who?
Savino’s fists clenched behind his back as he paced, wondering for the hundredth time since this had begun what the hell NI had on Poseidon that made them so sure his team was dirty. He’d dug deep himself, but he hadn’t come up with a damned thing.
“While we do not have confirmation that Ramsey is still alive, NI assumes that he is.” Savino paused, taking the time to look from man to man, meeting each of their eyes, deepening their connection.
“I want him found. I want him taken down and made answerable for his crimes. Crimes against his country, against his uniform and, yes, against this team. He tried to set up one of our own. He tried to take down Poseidon.” He leaned back against the podium now, his usually unreadable face a study of icy fury. “Somehow, he got past us. He not only carried out treasonous actions under our very noses, but he thinks that he got away with them. We need to correct that, gentlemen.”
“What’s the plan?” Torres asked. Rightfully, as far as Savino was concerned, since he was the one who’d been specifically framed to take the fall a few months back.
“In addition to continuing with your current assignment, each of you will be taking on additional tasks. These tasks are Code Red, gentlemen.” Meaning they didn’t disclose them, not even to one another. They reported directly to Savino, and everything was done in person. No emails, no phone calls, no handwritten notes. “Poseidon has one goal now, gentlemen. To take down Ramsey and whoever else is involved. As of now, Operation Fuck Up is in effect.”
* * *
ONE THING ABOUT SEALS, they were hell on multitasking. Operation Fuck Up might be in effect, but members of Poseidon and SEAL Team 7 had other missions to carry out. So while time was devoted to tracking their treasonous teammate, the rest of their focus was on the current assignment.
When breaking into another country’s embassy on foreign soil, stealth was the keyword. When breaking in with the objective of covertly extracting a man slated for execution, a sticky layer of diplomacy was wrapped around the stealth. The priority was retrieving the hostage. Secondary was doing so without taking lives.
Using the moonless sky to their advantage, six men rappelled down from the roof. Infrared confirmed the hostage was held on the eighth floor, two guards in the room with him, four more stationed outside the door. Bars on the windows, men stationed at the end of each hallway and on the exits.
So they went in through one of the empty offices two doors down from where the hostage was being held. Working in concert, their moves as coordinated as they were automatic, the team used a silent explosive on the window bars, sliding inside as quietly as smoke.
They stunned the guards outside the door just as quietly, tucking them into the empty office, neatly bound and gagged. Elijah and Torres took their place outside the door while the other four slid into the hostage’s room.
Eyes sharp, senses on full alert, even as he kept watch, Elijah wanted to grin. Stupid reaction, but, man, it felt good to be back on track. To do what he was trained to do.
Not that he’d worried about it. Much. But he was glad to see it wasn’t an issue. Sure, his leg was a little tight, the puckered skin protesting over screaming muscles. But that wasn’t slowing him down.
As if proving his point, the signal came from inside the room. He moved with easy stealth down the hall to the left, Torres to the right, then returned the all clear.
Powers’s voice came through the comm in Elijah’s helmet, giving them the green light that he’d shut down operation of the security cameras on the rest of their floor.
Ready to rock and roll.
They moved exactly as planned. Two on point, two escorting the hostage—a Humpty Dumpty–looking guy in a three-piece suit and little round glasses—Elijah and Torres at the rear. The guy wasn’t in any shape to take out the window, but they just had to get him down one hall and over to the next to make their escape route.
Elijah scanned, his gaze always moving, his ears on full alert as he tapped into their surroundings, listening, watching as they proceeded down the antiques-filled hall, their booted feet silent on the glossy marble floor.
Quite