“She’s right.”
Raskin stared at me as if I had just answered a question he had not known existed.
I settled behind the rifle.
The Barrett was cold against my cheek.
My father’s voice rose from a place deeper than memory.
The sea tells you everything, Meera. You just have to know how to listen.
Through the scope, the world narrowed.
Rain became streaks.
The reef became shadow.
The skiff jumped in and out of the waves, its mounted gun flashing like an angry pulse.
A Marine crawled toward another body, dragging someone wounded behind cover.
The hostile gunner shifted.
Too fast.
Too protected.
Too far.
“Chief,” Raskin said behind me, and his voice cracked around the title.
I did not answer.
My breathing slowed.
Inhale.
Hold.
Measure the roll.
Exhale.
The ship rose.
Fell.
Rose again.
I watched the gust cycle move across the water in silver scars.
The target leaned into the gun.
“Chief,” Raskin said again, lower now, stripped bare of command. “Please.”
There it was.
Not an order.
Not arrogance.
A plea.
I adjusted by less than a breath.
My finger found the trigger.
For one impossible second, I was sixteen again, standing on a lighthouse balcony beside my father, rain stinging my skin, his rough hand on my shoulder.
“What do you misread?” he asked.
Nothing, Dad.
The ship dropped beneath me.
The skiff lifted.
The gunner turned.
I fired.
The Barrett erupted.
The recoil slammed through my shoulder, thunder cracking across the deck so violently several men flinched backward. The muzzle flash lit the rain gold for a fraction of a second.
Then came silence.
Not real silence.
The storm still screamed.
The alarms still wailed.
But every human being on that deck stopped breathing.
Mercer stared at the monitor.
Portman whispered, “Come on.”
On the screen, the gunner collapsed away from the mounted weapon.
The skiff lurched.
Then a secondary flash burst from the engine compartment as the round punched through more than flesh and found metal behind it.
The mounted gun went dark.
Someone shouted, “Hit!”
Another voice screamed, “Direct hit! Direct hit!”
The deck exploded into movement.
Orders flew. Rescue teams launched. Men who had mocked the Barrett now stared at it like a holy relic.
I lifted my face from the scope.
Raskin stood three feet behind me, rain streaming off his gray hair, mouth open, eyes glassy with shock.
“That was…” He could not finish.
I rose slowly, shoulder already beginning to throb.
Mercer grabbed my arm. “Meera.”
The use of my first name told me something was wrong.
I looked back at the monitor.
One Marine on the reef had stood.
Then staggered.
Then waved both arms in the air.
Not a military signal.
A human one.
Alive.
They were alive.
All twelve.
The rescue boats cut through the black water like knives.
And Major General Cole Raskin, the man who had laughed at my rifle in front of everyone, turned to face the deck crew and said in a voice rough enough to break:
“Chief Dalton just saved those Marines.”
No one spoke.
Then one sailor began clapping.
Another joined.
Then another.
The sound spread across the storm-battered deck until even the rain could not swallow it.
I wanted to feel triumph.
I wanted to feel vindicated.
Instead, I felt something cold move through me as I watched Raskin staring at the destroyed skiff on the thermal feed.
Because behind the wreckage, for one brief second, another heat signature appeared.
Farther back.
Hidden beyond the reef.
Not enemy.
Not Marine.
A lone figure standing on the rocks where no one should have been.
Then the screen glitched.