Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(55)

“And just in time too,” Leo muttered as the dinghy made a wheezing sound followed by a portentous bubbling. “We’ve only got a few seconds of cover left. And on that note…” He peeked around the edge of what was left of the watercraft and made a quick scan of their surroundings before ducking back. “Okay. Their skiff is under. They’re huddled in a pack about sixty yards away. We’ll have to surface three times between here and there. The last time will be close.”

“‘The only easy day was yesterday,’” Bran said, quoting the Navy SEAL motto, his face like stone. He was in full warrior mode now.

Mason was his usual silent self, simply jerking his chin in a quick downward motion.

Wolf replied with, “Wakan takan nici un,” which was his standard comeback when they were about to rush headlong into battle. He’d told them it was Cherokee for “May the Great Spirit walk with you.” From Hindu proverbs to Cherokee incantations. Only Wolf…

“Okay, men.” Leo nodded. “Let’s do this!”

He desperately wanted to peek around the other side of the craft to see if he could snatch a quick look at Olivia in her orange life jacket. But there wasn’t time. The dinghy was slipping beneath the surface of the water. He had to trust that she was holding her own—and if anyone could, it was her—as he spit out his gum and then inhaled deeply, expanding his diaphragm and increasing the capacity of his lungs. He quickly blew out all his air until he could exhale no more. Lowering his head as close to the surface as he could without going under, he sucked in oxygen until his lungs couldn’t hold another drop.

Go time!

He quickly dove down three feet, far enough that he wouldn’t have to fight the wave action at the top. Within seconds, all his men were beside him. He could see them, blurry though they were since he wasn’t wearing goggles. Each gave him a thumbs-up. And that was the signal to start swimming.

Then it was all about the muscle memory… All those endless days and weeks spent in hell, otherwise known as the pool at the Naval Amphibious Base in Coronado, California, all those long hours practicing the right stroke for the right conditions, all those training exercises geared toward crushing their fear of the ocean meant their motions were smooth and sure. Instinctual. Their heartbeats a steady tempo to match their pace.

It was quiet underwater, the only noise a gentle crackling that was the feeding of nearby fish and shrimp and the occasional burble of bubbles that trickled from between their lips. They swam ten yards in a flash. Fifteen came and went as Leo counted his strokes in his head, operating on autopilot. Little by little, he released the air in his lungs until a subtle buzzing sounded between his ears. A harbinger of low blood-oxygen saturation.

A tap on his ankle had him glancing back. Mason had fallen a bit behind the group. The guy’s muscle mass meant he had to work harder than the rest of them to stay afloat, using up oxygen faster. That ankle tap said his gas tank was running on empty. The rest of them could have continued for a few more yards, but they’d been trained to rise as a team. Reaching over, Leo poked Bran’s shoulder and Bran immediately grabbed Wolf. Slowly, the four of them broke the surface, just their noses and mouths breaching the sanctity of the water.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Dive!

Back below the waves, they continued their journey, pouring on the speed, cutting the distance to their targets as the warm water sluiced through their hair and over their skin like the gentle fingers of a lover welcoming them home. Little air bubbles tickled and teased. Eddies created by their cupped hands rushed sensuously down their bodies. Some might think it odd that free diving soothed him, calmed him.

But even as a kid, well before SEAL training had enamored him of the sanctuary found in bosom of the ocean, Leo had liked being underwater. He glanced to his right, watching Bran easily swim, then to his left, seeing Mason’s big shoulders part the drink like he was f*cking Moses and this was the Red Sea, and he knew his friends felt the same.

Tap, tap.

Again, Mason was the first to run out of O2. When they bobbed to the surface this time, Leo lifted his head to peek above the swells, blinking the water from his eyes and getting a bead on their enemies. Diving down again, he indicated with exaggerated hand signals—exaggerated because it was difficult to see in salt water—the direction and approximate distance to their targets.

The four of them took off again. Five more yards. Ten. Twenty. And when the blurry outline of legs kicking in a tangled clump came into sight, like a flock of birds in flight Leo and his men moved in unison, swimming to the surface, careful to ride the rise and fall of the waves as they refilled their lungs for the last time. Sinking deeper, they swam until they were directly below the terrorists, far enough down that their shadows in the water wouldn’t alert their enemies to their presence. There they hung, paddling at depth. He indicated which of them would grab which pair of churning feet. And after receiving a thumbs-up from each of his men, he gave one last hand signal. Go!

Like honest-to-God seals, they shot through the water, grabbing the ankles of the man they’d been assigned, unmercifully yanking their adversaries beneath the waves.

Rough hands clawed at Leo’s shoulders, his head, as he pulled his foe deeper, deeper, deeper still. The butt of his enemy’s AK grazed his temple, but he was able to twist the weapon out of the man’s hand, letting it go and absently noting its lazy descent toward the bottom. A knee landed in his groin. Oomph! Another blow connected with his midriff, forcing a bubble of air to burst from his lungs. But he was too pumped, too full of purpose and stone-cold determination to feel much of anything.