Edward Crichton - The Last Roman

“Hello, Jacob…” she said. “Anybody home?”

I jerked my head in response and turned to look at her.

“What?” I asked.

“I believe you were about to finish your story. You and Santino were in a hospital?”

I turned away and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

No. I couldn’t tell her quite yet.

“Sorry, Helena,” I said looking back at her, “but the rest of that story can wait for another time.”

Her eyes narrowed in confusion, probably wondering what could be so personal that I couldn’t tell her after she’d so readily offered her own story. She opened her mouth to inquire further, but she never got a chance to finish her question before Billings began his briefing.

“All right, mates,” his voice, from an American’s perspective, was a typical British drawl, “I’ll try and keep this short. I know you’ve already been briefed on your specific mission parameters, but I’ll key you in on the operational position of my sub.”

Billings pulled up a map of the Mediterranean Sea on a projector, and zoomed in on the Eastern coast where we would be making our insertion. The map looked similar to the one McDougal had presented earlier.

“We’ll be dropping you off here,” he said, indicating a point on the map with a laser pointer, “a few miles off the shore line. Once you disembark, you’ll be on your own. Our presence here is completely off the grid. We’re not even supposed to be in the Mediterranean.”

He manipulated the map to show the satellite imagery of the port we were going to hit. The image showed a shabby town, looking typical for the impoverished area. The port had numerous ships docked, cargo ships mostly, but no military gear.

“This image was downloaded ten minutes ago from an Argos II Surveillance Satellite that will remain in geosynchronous orbit throughout the duration of the mission. The port has little to no military presence that we can see, and intelligence and satellite imagery confirms there won’t be any guards in the area. Your target ship just docked, but unloading isn’t scheduled until later tonight. Your contact in town is part of the crew, so our information should be accurate.”

He shifted the image again, zooming out and eastward towards the town.

“As you can see, the town is quite the opposite of the port and is crawling with armed guards, patrols, and picket points. Intel suggests this activity is normal for the area, so expect plenty of armed resistance. When it’s time to leave, you will need to get back to the port so we can pick you up. We’ll have a team waiting to bring you back to the Triumph. Chopper extraction is out of the question, as resources in the area are negligible.”

That last part caused me to wince. Even if things go completely by the book, and we accomplish our mission goals without alerting anyone, extraction will still be the most difficult part. Commandeering a vehicle will be difficult without alerting any guards, especially if that image was right, and the bad guys had check points set up. Picking up Helena would only complicate matters, but if we had to come out guns blazing, having her covering our asses would be invaluable.

“If there are no other questions, we’re done here. We’ll be arriving at our drop off point in six hours. Questions?”

The Praetorians were silent

“Well then. Good luck, chaps.”

War

Mediterranean Sea, Syrian Coast

July, 2021

Five hours later, we were once again in our wetsuits and awaiting the go ahead to get our feet wet. The past few hours had been relatively uneventful, a first for me these days. I spent the time chatting with Santino, trying to catch up on lost time, checking out my gear, and making sure my magazines were fully loaded and secure on my rig, which was once again, safe in its water proof bag.

To get off the sub we were going out the same way we came in, through the top hatch. Helena and I were first out and were well on our way to removing the CRRC from the sub’s external equipment locker by the time Vincent and Santino pressurized the hatch.

The Combat Rubber Raiding Craft was simple in design and nature and had a legacy almost as long as the SEALs themselves. Stored, it was the size of a small sofa, folded around its high powered engine. When we disengaged the mechanism keeping the sub’s external storage area door closed, the CRRC shot out, inflating as it sped towards the surface.

Helena stared up after it, prompting me to give her a quick nudge. When I had her attention, I pointed upwards and waggled my hand in a swimming motion, indicating her to head up after the boat. She nodded and went on her way.

I waited a few seconds for the next group to come through the submarine’s hatch. As soon as I saw Santino’s head pop out, I began my ascension.

Breaking the surface, it was a quick swim to the boat which was conveniently deployed and ready to go, and a simple exertion of muscle got me aboard. Helena was already there, removing her re-breather and donning her combat armor. She cut a pretty sexy figure in the moon light, as her wetsuit glimmered tightly against the curves of her body and her damp black hair shimmered in the gentle moonlight.

I couldn’t help but smile as she covered her hair with a backwards baseball cap and painted her face with a stick of black camo chalk. She went light with the chalk in areas that produced natural shadows like her eye sockets, and darker in places that reflect light, like her cheeks and forehead. Good training, and I had to admit the hat was rather fetching on her.

“What?” She asked, noticing my attention. “Does it work?”

She started performing poses with the hat and made goofy facial expressions as she modeled it for me.

I laughed. “It looks good. You may pass for a sniper yet.”

“Ha. You know, we never got around to finding out who’s the better shot. When we get back. You and me. On the range. Maybe then you’ll put your money where your mouth is.”

Her banter was calming and the playful infliction took all the sting out of her comments as she handed me the chalk.

“You’re on, sister,” I shot back.

As I took off my re-breather gear, Santino surfaced just off the starboard side.

“Hey! Quit smooching and help me up.”

***

Once the entire team was aboard and our combat gear ready to go, Bordeaux activated the engine and we sped away quietly.

It was only during these few minutes before things got interesting that I started to worry. It wasn’t that I was afraid, just that I thought too much. People do it all the time. I can remember nights before a big test back in college where I would spend hours awake, trying to process the information, only to end up confusing myself even more by morning. Same thing applies here, only if I second guess myself now, I could not only get myself, but my entire team killed.

I glanced up at the moon, thankfully only a quarter full and dim, and wondered why I really transferred my service. I’d just settled into my command as a SEAL team leader, and was working with some of the finest operators on the planet. My team and I had been deployed to Iran, Mexico, Siberia, Pakistan, North Korea, Africa, Azerbaijan and countless other countries, and each time I had made it out alive, and relatively unscathed. Except for Korea, of course. I’d had some of the most qualified men at my side to thank for that, and I remembered too many close calls that could have ended in my death if not for them. So why, only a few months later, am I sitting in this boat with two Brits, an aging priest, a beautiful Ice-Queen, a Frenchman, and of all people, Santino?

I’d always lived by the tenants of God, country, and family, only I’d never known what order to put them in. Up until the war, I’d always considered myself Catholic because that’s how my mother raised me. Granted, I understood the faith, believed in it and appreciated the values, but I’d never really felt like it meant that much to me. While I went to church when I could and tried to lead as pious and noble a life as I could, but up until maybe four years ago, I didn’t really care that much.