Elle James - Navy Seal To Die For

Her heart beating so fast she thought it might explode out of her chest, Becca peered over the side of the inflatable raft. The dark surface of the water appeared smooth, but there was tall grass all around. “I don’t see any alligators,” she said.

Quentin didn’t answer. He’d turned back to the aircraft, smoke billowing up from the engine in the tail. “Everyone out!” he shouted. He reached up as Natalie Layne appeared in the doorway. “Lose the shoes.”

She kicked off her high heels and leaned out into Quentin’s arms. The raft rocked with the added weight. One by one, the SEAL team and Lance climbed into the raft, followed by the flight attendant, pilot and copilot.

Once everyone was on board the rubber raft, Quentin said, “Now let’s get away from the fuselage before the aviation fuel ignites.” The SEALs dug their arms into the water and paddled, doing the best they could to move the unwieldy craft through the marsh waters and away from the plane.

They hadn’t gone more than the length of a football field when an explosion rocked the air.

Quentin shoved Becca into the bottom of the raft and threw himself over her body. Debris dropped into the water around them.

Quentin jerked and cursed. Then he sat up and looked back.

Without his weight on her, Becca sat up and followed his gaze. A mushrooming cloud of flame and smoke rose into the air.

Becca clutched the side of the raft, her body shaking. “Damn, that was close.”

“Yeah.” Quentin ripped his shirt open and dragged it off his shoulders, wincing as he did so.

“Hey, Loverboy,” Montana said. “You took a hit.”

Quentin nodded, his jaw tight.

“Let me see.” Becca scooted around to get a look at his back.

A jagged piece of metal about two inches long stuck out of the man’s shoulder. “Pull it out,” he said through gritted teeth.

Becca bit her lip. She’d been trained to leave embedded objects for a surgeon to extract. But with no surgeon around, and no telling how long it would be until someone found them, she couldn’t let him suffer. Picking up Quentin’s discarded shirt, she wrapped it around the sharp edges of the metal and paused. “This might hurt a little.”

“Just do it.” Quentin’s jaw tightened and he clenched his fists.

Before he finished his command, she gripped and pulled. The shard was only an inch deep, but once removed, the blood flowed.

“Here.” Duff pulled his T-shirt over his head and handed it to Becca, along with a knife. She cut the shirt into long strips, wadded one into a pad and pressed it to the wound. “Hold this there,” she said to Duff.

Duff held the pad in place while Becca tied the other strips of fabric together and then wound them around Quentin’s shoulder. She created a big knot over the wound to add continued pressure to stop the blood flow.

All the while she worked on Quentin, she couldn’t help but notice the breadth of the SEAL’s shoulders and how solid his muscles felt beneath her fingertips. If she didn’t have a mission to complete, and if Quentin wasn’t a navy SEAL, she might consider going out with him. Maybe. The truth was, she couldn’t stop in her pursuit of finding her father’s killer.

Once done, she sat back and assessed the damage. “Barring a swamp-water bacterial infection, you’ll live.” She turned toward the smoldering plane. “On the other hand, the SOS plane is a complete wash. What happened?”

“Something hit the plane,” Duff said.

Quentin nodded. “And since it didn’t impact the nose or the fuselage but knocked out the engine, we either sucked a pelican into the engine, or were hit by a heat-seeking missile.”

“What?” Becca looked around the swamp. “We’re in Louisiana, not the Middle East.”

Sawyer pulled out his cell phone and held it up. “If I can get cell service, I’ll contact our unit. We aren’t too far from Stennis.” He tapped the screen and waited.

Becca plucked at her damp blouse, realizing a little late that the wet white fabric did nothing to hide what was beneath. Thank goodness she had on a bra. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling a little silly for the panic attack that made her leap out of the airplane into an alligator-infested bayou. “Where are we, anyway?”

Quentin pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket and shook it. “I’d tell you if I could get my GPS up. I think my phone is toast. These things don’t do well submerged.”

Becca twisted her lips. “Sorry.”

He shrugged and tucked the phone back in his pocket. “What happened back there?”

She glanced away. “Nothing. Just a little claustrophobia.”

Natalie snorted. “A little? You were getting out of that plane if you had to tear a hole in the fuselage to get there.”

“I’m glad we all got out before it blew,” Duff muttered staring down at the screen of his dry mobile phone. “We’re in a marsh near the Pearl River. If Sawyer can contact the team, they can come get us.”

Sawyer had his cell phone pressed to his ear. “This is Chief Petty Officer Houston, let me speak to the LT... I don’t care if he’s on lunch break. This is an emergency. Get him.”

All faces turned to Sawyer.

Becca held her breath and strained to hear.

“LT, we have a problem. The plane we were flying in crashed in a marsh close to the base... Yes, sir. We all got out alive. Thanks to the pilot.” Sawyer nodded toward the pilot, who’d landed the plane under the worst circumstances. “I’ve got the app to find my cell phone. You can track us with it.” He gave the LT the login and password to track his phone. “How soon can someone be here? Twenty minutes? Make it less. We’re sitting ducks in this life raft and we don’t know whether the guy who shot us down is still out there.”

Becca glanced around the marsh. So far the only other living creatures were those that belonged in the swamp. Theirs was the only boat afloat.

Quentin also stared around the bayou. “If someone shot us down out, they might come back to finish off any survivors. And that smoke signal will make it all too easy to find us. Perhaps we should find some cover and concealment.”

“Right.” Montana nodded toward a stand of cypress trees a couple hundred yards away. “Let’s make for the trees.”

Without a paddle to propel the raft, they made slow progress toward the stand of trees. Everyone who could leaned over the side and paddled with their hands.

Already wet, Becca did her best tucked against Quentin, who sat behind her. All the while she watched the water for alligators, praying none of the crash survivors lost an arm to the gaping maw of one of the swamp reptiles.

Halfway to the trees, Becca paused and tipped her head, the thick humidity of southern Mississippi causing sweat to drip into her eyes. A sound reached her over the splashing of the water.

“Shh!” she said. “Listen.”

All hands stilled.

There it was again. The thumping sound of rotors beating the air.

“Helicopter.” Quentin twisted left and right.

Sawyer straightened, looking to the sky. “Where’s it coming from?”

“Did you ask the LT to send a chopper?” Duff’s voice was low and intense.

Sawyer shook his head. “The LT said he’d send out a boat.”

“Damn.” Quentin leaned over the side and paddled faster. “Let’s get to those trees!”

Becca studied the horizon, turning for a three-hundred-sixty-degree view. “It could be a coast guard rescue helicopter.”

“I’m not willing to bank on it.” Quentin continued paddling, along with the other SEALs.

Becca bent over the side and contributed to the effort, glancing up, searching the horizon.

The dark silhouette of a helicopter detached from the horizon, rose into the air and headed straight for the burning hull of the SOS jet.