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Pacific Ocean
15 February
It had seemed like the longest forty yard sprint of his life. He had used every remaining ounce of energy to overcome the pain and exhaustion to run as fast as he could. He wanted to draw their fire as much as possible. The bullets had zipped by and ricocheted off the asphalt next to him. It was a last-ditch effort to give Decker and company just a few more seconds.
The water had been colder than he had expected. Bullets peppered the water as he dove in and swam as deep as he could. It had been dark. He had no idea if he was even going the right way, but he swam anyway. He needed distance.
He had stayed beneath the surface for as far and as long as his lungs would allow and then swam some more. His lungs burned. It was like a drowning nightmare. When his body had given up, he reached the surface. He had found himself away from the boathouse. He had been swimming toward the bay’s inlet instead of the boathouse.
Spectre had nearly given up when he saw the boat speeding toward him. They had nearly run over him before spotting him in the water. Graves and Salvo had helped pull him up into the boat as they ducked from the unaimed rounds being thrown in their direction.
Decker had limped over and grabbed Spectre as they pulled him into the thirty-six-foot crew boat and sped away. They were still holding onto each other as they passed the outer reefs and Eastern Island through the narrow channel into the Pacific.
They weren’t traveling in any particular direction other than away from the island. The boat had a GPS, but Graves hadn’t been able to get it running. It had taken him a bit of tinkering to get the boat’s twin two hundred horsepower motors started. It was apparent they had been sitting for a long time.
Spectre and Decker sat in the back of the boat facing the receding island as they raced away into the Pacific Ocean. They didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. They were finally together again. They both felt a sense of relief, even though they both knew they weren’t out of danger yet.
The detonation of the bomb caused Spectre to dive over Decker, shielding her with his body as he looked away. The shockwave nearly flipped the boat as Graves ducked down by the pilot’s console and struggled to keep the boat going straight.
“Hold on!” Graves yelled as he maneuvered the boat away from the island cluster.
Spectre didn’t move while shielding Decker. Nothing else in the world mattered. If it were their time to die, he couldn’t think of a better way, but his goal was to shield her for as long as possible. Decker made no attempt to push him away, holding him close as the two shared a final embrace.
“Don’t look at it!” Lee yelled from the front of the boat. He was tending to the Secretary of State. She was stable, but desperately needed medical attention lying near the bow of the boat.
The small crew boat fought the rough seas for a few more minutes before the engines sputtered and quit. The boat coasted to a stop. Graves did his best to restart the engines to no avail. They had starved the engines of what little fuel remained. They were floating listlessly at sea.
“How far are we?” Spectre asked as he slowly rose to his feet. “Should we paddle?” He remembered his Air Force mandated Chemical, Biological, Radiological, Nuclear, and Explosives training. He figured that they needed to at least be five miles away to be out of the immediate danger area.
“Well, the gauge said twenty-five knots and I’d say we were moving for about ten minutes before it blew,” Graves said. “So, we’re not dead yet.”
“I’ll look for paddles,” Spectre said. He hobbled to the front of the boat, opened the access panels, and searched for paddles. After a brief search, he came up with a small set. “This may take a while,” he said, holding them up.
“Won’t be necessary,” Graves said as he pointed to three approaching boats.
In the distance, Spectre saw three inflatable boats approaching with black-clad men lying prone on the sides. They spread out and surrounded the disabled boat as they closed in. They moved with effortless efficiency as they rendezvoused with the boats.
“Friendly?” Lee asked.
“How many rounds do you have left?” Spectre asked.
“Half a mag,” Lee replied.
“Then let’s hope they are,” Spectre said.
The men approached the boat and boarded it while wielding MP-7 submachine guns. Their faces were painted black and Spectre noticed one of them had a helmet-mounted camera.
“Everyone on the deck!” one of them yelled out. Spectre noticed his English had a bit of a southern drawl to it. It was the most relieved he had ever been to hear an American accent. “Drop your weapons!”
Spectre and company complied, dropping to the floor with their hands up. Six men boarded the boat. Spectre heard one of them yell out for a corpsman as they tended to the Secretary of State.
After Flexi-cuffing his hands, they helped Spectre and the others to their feet. “What’s your name?” the man asked.
“I’m Cal Martin,” Spectre said. “We’re all Americans.”
“Where’s the President?” the man asked.
“On the way to Hawaii by now, we hope,” Graves said. “I’m Master Sergeant Gary Graves.”
“We have the Secretary of State. She needs medical attention,” Spectre said. “We were all on Air Force One.”
“I understand, sir,” the man said. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Edelman, United States Navy. For your safety and ours, we’re going to keep you restrained until we can sort your identities out and get you to a safe location.”
“Whatever you say, buddy,” Spectre said with a grin. “Just get us out of here.”
“Chariot, this is Alpha One, we’ve got six in custody, no sign of Eagle,” Edelman said into his throat mic.
“Are there any others?” Edelman asked Spectre.
Spectre shook his head. “We’re all that’s left,” Spectre said. “But it might be a long ride back to civilization on those dinghies you’re driving.”
Edelman dropped his stern expression and flashed his bright white teeth contrasted against his painted face. “Don’t worry, sir. We brought a nuclear sub just for you.”