A third season story.  Written for the “Again” story challenge and is the prequel to my story, When the Price is Too High, in which Chip helps Jamie come to terms with Lee’s ONI missions.  But Chip’s wise words then, were the result of his own struggles to understand why Lee continually puts himself in harm’s way for ONI.  What he learns here is what he passes on to Jamie later.

 

 

The Bear Cage

 

by Lynn

 

 

Chapter One

 

The green hue of the night goggles guided the team through the dark, abandoned warehouse.  Red laser sighting beams preceded their steps as the SEALs moved stealthily along with assault rifles poised and ready to fire.  The team of three, honed in on two stationary figures lying on the floor only a few feet from one another.  Two SEALs stood guard, sweeping their lasers back and forth as a third dropped to his knee beside one body.  He turned the man over, assessing right away that his over two-hundred pound body-frame didn’t match their intended target.  A bloody wound in his chest indicated a life-threatening wound as the SEAL felt for a pulse.  Deemed a non-threat at this point, he moved from the dead body to the crumpled form of another man taking pain-filled, shallow breaths.  He kicked away a bloodied knife lying between the two men and took a knee beside the second figure.  The prone man flinched as his crumpled form was turned onto his back, while warm blood spilling from his side emitted a greyish glow of thermal heat within the otherwise green outline provided by the night vision.  More glowing streaks on his face indicated additional injuries, this assessment verified in his groans at the sudden movement.  His eyes popped open, and the SEAL felt the man’s weakened attempt to fight back under his restraining hold.

 

“Easy there.  Kansas weatherman says warm and sunny today.”  The SEAL waited for a reply and got an airy expelled breath instead.  He leaned closer and repeated the call sign insistently.  “Kansas weatherman says warm and sunny today.”

 

“Perfect day... for a tornado,” he answered emotionless, wheezing between breaths and repeating the nonsensical phrase while silently wondering why the countersigns couldn’t be shorter, having used too much air from lungs that seemed to lack sufficient volume at the moment.

 

“Good to see you Storm Chaser,” the SEAL replied in a whisper.  “You look a little banged up.”

 

“Rough day at the office,” he deadpanned.

 

The SEAL nodded, barely acknowledging the humor as he reached for his ear piece and listened.  “Weatherman is asking for confirmation?” he asked reaching for Storm Chaser’s arm.

 

“Mission accomplished.”

 

“Noted.   We're not out of the woods yet, so let's get going,” he announced, pulling him up with an arm over his shoulder.  The move invoked a small gasp, but otherwise the injured man quietly endured the process as he was pulled into a stand.  “Doing okay?”

 

“I'm good.”

 

“Okay, here we go,” he announced, nodding to another SEAL who took Storm Chaser's other side as they backtracked out of the building.  Ninety seconds later, they cleared the warehouse and made a hasty retreat to the surrounding trees.  They moved quietly through the unfamiliar woods, with the only sound the wheezing of the injured man’s haggard breaths.

 

“We're going to have to use the stretcher, he's not going to make it,” his rescuer decided as they lowered him to the ground.

 

“I can... go... on,” Storm Chaser insisted.

 

“You know what they call me?” the SEAL replied in a faux beg-to-differ tone, while reaching into a side pocket of his black fatigues.  “Welby, as in Doctor Welby,” the combat medic continued with a small grin.  “So, just lay back and enjoy the ride, sir.  We'll get you home,” he promised, simultaneously injecting the operative with a shot of morphine. 

 

Storm Chaser smiled thinly in response before his worried brow furrowed in question.  “Cyclone?”

 

“Left with his new friends; still chummy,” Welby answered cryptically while applying a pressure bandage to his bleeding side, before placing Lee Crane on the emergency fold-out stretcher and strapping him in tightly.  The strong pain-killer did its job as the operative's eye's closed soon after, and the SEAL team continued on its way.

 

* * * * *

 

A cool breeze and salty air greeted Lee Crane the next time he opened his eyes, as a pained groan escaped before he could pull it back.

 

“Easy there, Storm Chaser.  We're waiting for our ride.”

 

“Already?”

 

“You missed a non-eventful, two-hour ride through a pot-hole infested excuse for a road,” Welby joked, his night goggles now positioned over the top of his head and smiling encouragingly, leaving out the part about the grueling hour hike to said road.

 

Lee squeezed his eyes shut and bit back a groan as the pain crept back into his awareness.  He was barely aware of the bandage Welby had applied to his side sometime along the way, all he knew was that everything hurt, and he could presently only manage shallow breaths.

 

Welby watched him with concern and then raised his head and listened toward the faint sound of a whispering motor approaching stealthily over the waves. 

 

“Hear that, sir?  You're almost home,” Welby whispered encouragingly as he reached into his pocket again.  “I'm going to have to give you some more sleep juice Chaser, we're going to have to man-handle you into the boat and I don't think it will be pleasant.”

 

“No argument here,” Lee replied wearily.  He had done his part, and now it was time to let the SEALs do theirs, not that he really had much choice anyway.  So, he closed his eyes and welcomed the relief far from the pain that even simple breathing invoked.  The medication worked fast, and soon he was floating in a peaceful bliss, barely aware of the splashing around him as he was carried through knee-deep water and loaded expertly onto the raft.  The sounds of the motored raft ferrying him to the sub were strangely muted as he watched the stars pass overhead in an almost dream-like state.  His eyes grew heavy even as Welby leaned over to talk to him, but whatever he said sounded garbled and indiscernible, so he let it pass.  He was out cold when his broken and damaged body was transferred to the submarine before it submerged silently into the night with its payload intact; a seriously injured ONI Operative and the information he possessed.

 

* * * * *

 

The small, but efficient sickbay’s only patient was tucked into one of three bunks; his wheezy breaths still labored, even with an oxygen cannula in use.  An IV drip hung nearby and his side had been cleaned and re-bandaged on what appeared to be a knife wound.  His shirt had been discarded and Welby had found a disturbing sight underneath; dark purple and black bruises spanning his entire mid-section.  A quick examination revealed three broken ribs, and he suspected several more cracked.  Without a doctor on board, the real assessment of internal injuries would have to wait until the patient was transferred to a surface vessel, but he suspected as much since Storm Chaser was now sporting a fever to go along with his other injuries.  His face hadn’t escaped the ill-treatment of his tormentors either, as dark bruises and cuts joined a split lip, swollen eyes, and a jaw that looked as if it had taken some heavy blows.  White butterfly bandages on his jaw and high on his cheek bone had abated the bleeding and provided a stark contrast to the surrounding bruises.

 

“How is he?” Captain Wilson asked quietly.  

 

“Holding his own, but I suspect a broken rib is pressing against his lung.  I may have to intubate him if his breathing becomes any more labored,” Welby answered tiredly.  It had been a long grueling night; the emotional high of a successful extraction was countered once he got Storm Chaser into sickbay where he was finally able to see the extent of his injuries.   “His wrist is bruised and swollen, I suspect a fracture,” he continued.  “I’ve splinted it and wrapped his ribs.  Probable concussion, although he was able to answer the call sign and converse rationally,” he added.

 

“It was a rough mission,” Wilson replied distantly as he studied the injured operative.

 

Welby chuckled lightly but respectfully.  “That’s pretty much what he said, ‘Rough day at the office,’” he recalled.

 

“That sounds like him all right,” the captain answered with a small sigh and a half-smile.

 

“You know him, sir?”

 

“Yeah, I know him,” Wilson answered, pausing a moment at the dark angry bruises on Lee’s abused face.  “You know what a storm chaser does, don’t you?” he asked almost whimsically.

 

“A thrill seeker who gets an adrenalin high getting as close to a tornado as possible,” Welby replied with a shrug of his shoulders for the definition he had come up with.

 

“Yeah, that’s part of it, but not the whole story.  They chase the storms and report the ‘ground truth’ to weather stations.  All the forecasting in the world can’t beat feet on the ground and eyes to the skies to tell them what’s really happening.  They go into the fray knowing they may be cheating death, so that real-time data can result in life-saving warnings, to real people in the path of the storm.  That fits Storm Chaser to a ‘T’,” he said with a nod of self-agreement, “and if he said ‘mission accomplished,’ you can bet your bottom dollar he did exactly that,” he finished resolutely before abruptly.  “Keep me informed of his progress,” he added before stepping through the hatch and closing it behind him.

 

Welby expelled a breath and returned his attention to his patient; an operative who had given his all in the line of duty and was now paying the price.  He only hoped that his skills as a combat medic would be enough until a real doctor got a hold of him.

 

* * * * *

Earlier that day…

 

“You know what I think Richards?” the heavyset man asked as his thug buddies picked Lee up from the ground after he’d been sucker punched.  “I think you’re a stool pigeon.  What?  Did they cut a deal with you?  Is that it?” he asked, drawing Lee close with a fisted hold to his collar.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lucas,” he yelled back defiantly, his arms held tightly and still shaking the cobwebs from his brain after the devastating blow. 

 

“Frisk him,” he ordered, releasing his hold as Edwards and Cox threw him against the wall and conducted a thorough search, before spinning him back toward Lucas.

 

“Nothing,” Coleton Edwards reported.

 

“See?” Lee challenged disrespectfully.

 

“You’re the only one who could have done it, Richards,” Lucas countered.  “Do you think for a minute I’d believe Cole or Jerry here are even capable of turning on a computer; much less hacking it?”

 

“You’ve got nothing on me, Lucas.  There’s no way Ryker is going believe these lies,” he argued, standing his ground and playing the best cards available to him.  In only three short weeks, he had taken over the identity of a known bad guy, infiltrated the organization, and made his way into the good graces of the arms “distributor”.  He’d proven his worth and had secured and sold for a hefty profit, some very lucrative items.

 

Lucas took a step forward, closing the gap between the two.  “Ryker’s on to you, Richards,” he delivered coolly, “seems you’ve been ratted out.”

 

Lee felt the hands restraining him tightened their hold, tugging him back as he leaned forward.  “This is a set-up.  Ryker knows I’m loyal.”  He was pretty sure Lucas was bluffing about the stool pigeon stuff and was fishing for information at this point, but he did know something.

 

“That’s where you’re wrong, Richards,” Lucas said calmly and smiling unnervingly.  “Ryker knows you stole from him… took a commission for yourself and cheated him out of a quarter million dollars.”

 

Lee stared back into Lucas’ cold eyes; there was no use denying it.  If Ryker knew about the hacking and the quarter million then the jig was up.

 

Lucas’ smile widened.  “Now the only thing left to do, is to find out where you stashed the quarter million,” he announced ominously as Lucas backed off and Ryker’s enforcer stepped forward.  A simple tilt of his head and the large, muscle-bound brute moved in, punching a fist into his cupped hand with every dangerous step forward.

 

Chapter Two

 

Blood splattered the walls as Lee’s cheek split open, high on his cheek bone.  He had borne up well under Rocco’s pummeling blows until the brute stepped back and slid on the brass knuckles.  The first thirty minutes Lucas hadn’t even bothered to ask him just where the money had been wired.  Those bare-fisted blows had been intended to set an example for any other member of the organization that dared to skim from Ryker’s profits.  So, when he was dropped to the floor breathing hard and bleeding from a split lip, it was only for show.  The real interrogation hadn’t even begun yet. 

 

Lucas had dropped to his knee and raised Lee’s head by a fistful of hair to examine the damage.

 

“You know, Richards, Ryker might just be feeling generous.  Tell us where you transferred the money, and maybe he’ll let you live.”

 

Lee had stared back without answering, knowing full well that no one got away with stealing from Ryker without paying dearly, but as soon as he gave up the bank account his life would be forfeit.  He needed to stall, till the last possible moment.  So, he stared as darkly as he could muster and shook his head defiantly.   That’s when Lucas turned him over to Rocco and his brass knuckles.  It hadn’t taken many deep blows to his gut to start feeling the damage inside.  The cracked ribs he had sustained in the first half-hour with bare fists were the first to go, breaking completely with each subsequent blow.  His gut hadn’t fared any better, and he was sure that Rocco had done some real damage inside, just how bad he didn’t know yet. 

 

He was allowed to drop to the floor once again, not for mercy sake, but because a good beating needs time to ripen, not to mention the fact that Rocco was now winded and needed a break.  He was too busy trying to pull air into his lungs in shallow breaths without hyperventilating, to celebrate the short reprieve.  His right cheek was currently planted on the dusty warehouse floor, the cold cement his only comfort at present.  He was too weak to lift his head, as blood ran down his forehead, barely missing his eye on a path of least resistance as it slid down to his cheek. 

 

His blackened eye followed the sounds of footsteps as Ryker’s computer whiz kid approached, followed by the quirky blond scientist he had briefly met earlier; it was a sure sign they expected him to turn over the money soon.  The dark-headed, long-haired whiz kid was barely out of his teens.  His lean frame was hidden behind ill-fitted bell-bottomed jeans, not as some sort of fashion statement, but because the awkward kid had his head inside computers so much that he apparently didn’t come up for air long enough to do much about his personal appearance.  Thin, wire-rimmed round glasses sat crooked on his nose, and his habit of adjusting the ever-sliding rims back onto the bridge of his nose was a nervous tick he probably didn’t even know he had.  At any rate, like most members of Ryker’s organization, the whiz kid was imported talent from the States to this out of the way island, out of U.S. jurisdiction.  The nervous scientist, Dr. Fremont, was apparently here for one reason only; to witness what happens to men who betray Mr. Ryker.

 

Seymour Snyder, his name as awkward as his nerdy appearance, was busy setting up a computer; no doubt still trying to uncover the wire transfer trail.  His computer, a Grid Compass, was a portable, luggage-sized state of the art portable computer used heavily by the military and had apparently been liberated for his use by Ryker’s connections.  It utilized a wireless modem, uploading to a series of satellites and accessing an inter-net of interconnected supercomputers.  The banking industry was among the first to sign-on to the new technology, as wire-transfers began to utilize the new technology for the newest generation of cash transfer.

 

Seymour sat at a metal workstation, abandoned from some earlier use in Ryker’s overflow warehouse.  He worked with one hand typing out commands and passwords and a finger unconsciously hooked in the side of his mouth; a typical position for him when he was focused on his task and ignoring everything else around him.

 

“I’m ready,” he announced, lifting his head and doing his best to shut-out the unpleasant business of beating information out of a man.

 

Lee’s short reprieve was interrupted as he was unceremoniously pulled back into a semi-standing position.  His legs were weak, and he was admittedly only being held upright by the rough hands on either side of his arms.  He wasn’t sure if the cavalry was in position or not, but he was fairly sure it was time to give up some information.  He’d let Rocco get a couple more shots in before he spilled the beans, just to make it look good.  After that, it was all up to Cyclone, he’d done everything he’d been sent in to do… he just hoped it was enough.

 

“Okay, Richards, it’s time to tell us what we want to know.  We’ve been playing with you up until now,” he said turning Lee’s chin to one side as if to assess the damage.  “A dead man can’t spend his loot you know?” he said trying to entice cooperation then released his chin harshly when Lee refused to answer.  “Rocco,” Lucas said, calling Ryker’s number-one bone breaker forward for a second run at his latest victim.  Rocco smiled evilly, only too glad to fulfill his only purpose in life; to enforce Ryker’s will as brutally as possible.

 

The brass knuckles glinted in the light as Lee tightened his sore stomach muscles, steeling himself against the impending blows.  The first blow sent his head careening to one side as his legs gave way like rubber and remaining upright solely because of Lucas’ thugs holding him steady. 

 

Another blow… then I’ll spill it, he strategized silently reiterating his plan, but Rocco delivered two deep punches into his side in rapid succession.  The first one took his breath away.  The second one, delivered in the same exact spot, drove the broken rib inwards.  The result was a silent gasp, followed by instant wheezing.  His captors dropped him when Rocco stepped away, obviously a master torturer who knew when to back-off before killing his victim outright.

 

Lee fell hard to the cold concrete floor, barely escaping a secondary head injury by breaking the fall with his extended hand.  This time, his pained scream was audible as he found his voice when he felt his wrist break in the fall.  He curled in pain, wheezing and tucking his arm into his chest, and agonizingly coughing bloody spittle to the floor under him.

 

“Through being greedy?” Lucas asked, dropping to his knee again so Lee could see him.

 

Lee nodded in surrender; he had played the part as he planned it, but he hadn’t expected the interrogation to escalate this quickly.  It had nearly done him in.

 

“Talk Richards,” Lucas demanded, “where did you wire the money?”

 

“Switz…” his voice fell off, unable to continue.

 

“Switzerland?” Lucas asked, finishing the injured man’s word.  “Wire the money back, and I’ll let you walk away.  Keep me waiting, and I’ll let Rocco finish you… slow and painful.”

 

“No more…. Lucas,” Lee said, his words coming out slowly and with an ample amount of resignation, which he didn’t have to feign at this point.  He was ready to give out the information his tormentor was seeking.

 

Lucas smiled with satisfaction and rose from his place.  “You have your account number?”

 

“Pocket,” Lee answered obediently as he was turned over and searched until they found a small paper the size of a business card in the front pocket of his jeans.

 

Lucas studied the paper and then raised Lee up by a fisted collar.  “There’s too many numbers here!” he yelled in his face.

 

“Every… fourth number…”

 

“You’d better not be messing with me, Richards,” he warned, then dropped him back to the floor.  He took the paper over to Seymour who pushed the glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose and started keying in every fourth number, ignoring everything else around him, including Dr. Fremont mumbling incoherently under his breath as he wiped sweat from his nervous brow.

 

“It’s a good number,” he replied, raising his head to look at Lucas.  “I’ll need his birthdate and password,” he informed, reaching for the satellite phone beside him.

 

Lucas nodded and headed back.  He found Richards to be a willing participant having reached the end of his pain threshold, now singing like a canary and giving him everything he asked for without hesitation.  With the information now in his possession he returned to the computer nerd.

 

Seymour dialed the phone number to the Swiss bank that matched Richard’s account number profile and waited.

 

“This is Lance Richards, I’d like to make a wire transfer,” he said, his voice cracking slightly for the uncomfortable subterfuge of pretending to be someone else, and much preferring his solitary work behind a keyboard.  He relayed the necessary information and waited, as Lucas leaned over to monitor the call.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Richards, how much would you like to transfer?”

 

“What’s my balance, please?”

 

“Three hundred and nine thousand dollars and twenty-eight cents.”

 

“Excellent, I’d like to make a wire transfer of three hundred thousand dollars,” he said evenly, while pushing his glasses higher on his nose once again.

 

“One moment, please,” she said after obtaining the necessary information as Lucas turned dark eyes toward Richards to assess whether he had double-crossed him or not.  “Thank you, Mr. Richards, your wire transfer has been sent.”

 

“Thank you, may I have a transaction number please.”

 

“Certainly,” she replied as Seymour relayed the number quickly to a pad next to him.

 

“Thank you,” he said and hung up the phone, glad to have the call behind him.  He turned his attention back to his computer and cleared his throat, as his fingers rested on the keyboard without moving. 

 

Lucas apparently understood and backed away from the computer so the account and password could be entered without unauthorized eyes looking over his shoulder.  Only three people knew the account and password; Mr. Ryker, Seymour Snyder, and now Lance Richards.  Once he’d verified the money had been transferred back to Ryker’s account, he would make sure that number was reduced by one.

 

“The money has been transferred,” Seymour announced, inviting Lucas to see for himself.

 

“Good work Snyder, Mr. Ryker will be pleased to know you secured his money, plus a little ‘interest’.”

 

Seymour nodded and pushed his glasses higher.  “Give me a minute to clear out,” he said without emotion, clearing his throat and signing out of the bank’s hacked system.

 

“Sure, Snyder,” Lucas said, stepping away and rolling his eyes at the kid who couldn’t stand the sight of blood.  Ryker had a lot invested in the whiz kid, and as such, it was understood that he was to be kept as far from the dirty end of their work as possible.  He couldn’t argue with the fact that the kid had had the presence of mind to check the balance and had secured an extra fifty grand for the boss.  That alone would keep him in Ryker’s good graces, not to mention the fact that Seymour had discovered Richards’ hacking only days after the transfer.   The skinny little nerd was good at what he did, and Mr. Ryker had made it clear that Snyder was to be protected from any unfortunate weeding that had to be done in his garden.  As for Fremont, the point had been well-made and by the looks of the guy, he wouldn’t be even thinking of turning on Ryker any time soon.

 

Lucas headed back over to Richards, ignoring Seymour’s keystrokes behind him, and the stowing of the portable computer into its luggage-like carrier.  He was packed up and already walking out the door as Lucas stopped in front of Lance Richards.

 

“Help him up,” he ordered as if the injured man was now welcomed back into Mr. Ryker’s fold of trusted employees.  He turned around, making sure that both the computer nerd and the flaky scientist had cleared the building and then turned back and dealt his own fist deep into Richards’ gut.  “I’d love to stick around and watch Rocco work,” he said in Lee’s ear as he bent over, gasping for his next breath.  “But I’ve got to follow that little brat back to Ryker’s compound.  Too bad, because I understand he’s going to kill you slowly,” he scoffed victoriously, reneging on his promise to allow Richards to walk away in exchange for the money.

 

“Go to hell, Lucas,” Lee managed to breathe out.

 

“I’ll get there soon enough,” Lucas answered coldly, “but you’re getting an all-expense paid, one-way ticket there right now, courtesy of Mr. Ryker,” he finished in an obnoxious laugh, as his thugs dropped Lee once again and followed Lucas across the warehouse floor.  Rocco followed as well but stopped short of the door, where he and Lucas conversed for a moment.  They sealed their conspiracy with evil, foreboding laughter that promised a very painful ending of Richards’ demise.   Then Lucas exited the warehouse still snickering, leaving Lee alone with Ryker’s enforcer, Rocco.

 

Rocco advanced, taking slow, deliberate steps while pulling out a knife from a scabbard concealed inside his jacket, and turning it to glint off the bare bulb industrial lights of the warehouse, examining with sick glee the preferred tool of his malevolent trade. 

 

Lee knew he had one chance at survival, but everything rode on two things; getting to his feet and not allowing Rocco to see that he still had some fight left in him.

 

Chapter Three

 

Welby leaned over as his patient passed an airy groan and tossed his head.  He’d been a SEAL long enough to recognize the distress and lightly touched Lee’s shoulder.

 

Lee’s eyes popped open as the combat medic’s touch penetrated his dream, pulling him to the waking world, but leaving him momentarily confused as he stared straight ahead waiting for understanding to catch up with his wakefulness.

 

“Easy there, Chaser.  You’re safe and heading home now,” he encouraged.

 

He swallowed and then turned his head to see the military-cut, brownish-blond hair of the young man, leaning over him.

 

“Welby… right?” Lee asked, not that he recognized his rescuer from the dark warehouse, but he did remember his voice.

 

“Yeah, it’s me,” he answered, smiling slightly but still concerned.

 

Lee sighed and looked around.  “What boat am I on?”

 

“The Spadefish, sir; SSN…”

 

“…668,” Lee said, finishing the boat’s number.  “Chet Wilson’s your Skipper?” he asked with a small smile, basking in the feel of a US Navy submarine surrounding him just now.

 

“That’s right, sir,” Welby replied, noting his patient’s jaw tightening and his forehead crinkling.  “I’ve got you on a morphine drip, how’s it doing for you?”

 

Lee breathed in and swallowed again, his splinted arm elevated on a pillow beside him with his hand resting lightly on his taped side.  “Taking the edge off,” he answered wearily.

 

“It should be doing better than that,” Welby said, standing to adjust the IV.  “I’m going to release a bigger drip,” he said, explaining his actions and watching for Lee’s reaction.  A moment later he noticed Chaser’s face muscles relax and sat down beside him.

 

“Better?”

 

“Yeah, thanks.”

 

“So, we’re about twelve hours out from our rendezvous with a flattop and full medical services for you.  Your fingernails are a little discolored; I expect I may have to insert a tube to aid your breathing.  I think you’ve got a rib pressing against your lung.”

 

Lee nodded slightly, an assessment he had already privately made.

 

“Is there anything you need to report before the tube goes in?” Welby asked, simultaneously taking care of both his patient and the mission.

 

“Still got my shoes?”

 

“We’re packrats around here, everything that comes in with a Spook goes out with one,” he joked with a grin, while conveying a very real rule that went along with espionage extractions.

 

Lee smiled weakly, his body feeling heavier with the new dose of pain-relief the IV was providing.  “Would be good if Captain Wilson could make his way here first,” he said, his eyes closing quite unwittingly.

 

“I’ll see to it, Chaser,” Welby promised as Lee nodded, not bothering to open his eyes before drifting off again.

 

He listened as his patient’s breathing indicated he had found sleep once again and placed a hand to his fevered brow.  He had done everything he could to make Chaser as comfortable as possible, but he was well aware that the damage inside was continuing to wreak havoc on the injured operative.  He sighed and headed for the mic to inform the Skipper of Chaser’s request, all the while hoping that the rib didn’t do any more damage before he could ensure a steady flow of oxygen to his patient. 

 

* * * * *

 

Lee pushed himself up into a sitting position, faltering when he moved to his hands and knees as Rocco approached.  It wasn’t hard to feign a weak and broken body, as he held his side protectively when he stood.  His legs wobbled until he found his footing, while blood and sweat threatened to obscure his vision.

 

Ryker’s henchman continued forward, not hurrying his steps and apparently enjoying the fact that his victim intended on fighting back. 

 

“Lucas said to make you pay, Richards, and that’s just what I’m going to do,” Rocco threatened.

 

“Listen to me, Rocco; do you think that three hundred grand is all I’ve got? There’s a lot more where that came from.  Let me walk and I’ll cut you in,” Lee bargained.  He didn’t think it would work, Rocco loved his job breaking bones too much, but it was worth a try.

 

“You surprise me, Richards.  I would have thought you’d been smarter than that,” he answered, his tone darkening as he continued.  “When I’m through carving you up, everyone will know what happens to men who betray Mr. Ryker.”

 

Lee steadied his footing, this wasn’t going to be pleasant, especially when the brute out-weighed him and wasn’t compromised by broken ribs attempting to suck the air out of his lungs just now.

 

“And it’s going to be slow, Richards,” Lucas continued, closing the distance within five feet of his intended victim.

 

Lee readied himself.  He was going to have to use the only self-defense weapon he had left.  He had a broken wrist, and a compromised rib cage that couldn’t take the abuse of the full range of motion he needed to throw a punch with his good hand, so he only had one choice left. 

 

He was banking on Rocco’s promise to inflict pain before killing him, so he was going to have to let Rocco get close enough to do just that.  He steeled his nerves, hoping to pull this off as the large man took one more step; it was all Lee needed.  Though Rocco was heavier and was bulked in muscle, they were roughly the same height; Lee’s arm reach, however was longer.  So, when Rocco lunged with the knife, Lee reached for his neck and pulled him close enough to deliver a devastating head butt.  The result was two-fold, with both men staggering away as Rocco fell heavily, unprepared for the heavy blow; while Lee ended up on the concrete floor again, curled in pain with the knife stuck in his side.

 

“Damn you, Richards!” Rocco yelled.  “You’re going to pay for that!” he yelled, rising to his feet and rushing forward, intending no mercy once he got his hands on the traitor as blood flowed freely from his forehead.

 

Lee stayed curled, moaning and writhing in pain as Ryker’s henchman barreled forward to finish him off.  Rocco threw himself over Lee, ready to pound his life away with unrelenting fists; but as Rocco committed to the attack with his full weight, Lee thrust the knife deep into his chest, aiming for the heart, and then using the last of his strength to roll away to clear himself from the brute’s fall.

 

Lee’s roll came to stop, but he was done in.  He had nothing left to give as he nursed a new knife wound in his side.  His breathing labored even more, the rib now pressing directly against his lung; tearing it, though not puncturing completely.  Incredibly, Rocco pushed himself to his knees, the bloody knife he’d dug out of his chest now in his hand and raised high to attack.  His rattled breaths were joined with a flow of blood from his mouth and revenge-filled eyes seeking to make Richards’ pay as painfully as possible.

 

This is it, Lee thought, he’d used the last of his strength… he couldn’t fight anymore.  Suddenly, the warehouse went unexpectedly black as the lights were mysteriously cut.  He heard Rocco shuffle while trying to stand, and then heard a clink as something fell to the ground, followed by a thud.  The last thing he heard was an ominous breath heaved out, almost like a balloon deflating.  It was too dark to see anything, and Lee hoped with everything in him that it was Rocco’s last breath he heard, because he had reached his end.   He fought to stay awake as the fringes of unconscious beckoned him, but his eyes unwillingly closed to welcome the darkness and a reprieve from the pain.

 

* * * * *

 

“Lee?”

 

Lee groaned before opening his eyes then smiled in recognition at the sub commander sitting beside his bunk.

 

“Hey Chet,” he said almost sheepishly.

 

“Don’t ‘hey’ me.  You bled all over my deck you know,” Chet Wilson teased and then shook his head regretfully.  “Damn it, Lee.  When is being a sub commander going to be enough for you?” he admonished unfairly.

 

“When the bad guys… stop threatening our freedom,” Lee replied, full of conviction but not delivered angrily.

 

Wilson sighed loudly.  “All right, that wasn’t fair of me.  It’s just… well, seeing your friend’s sorry six being hauled down the ladder looking half-dead…”

 

“Geez Chet… did you and Chip… work this little tirade out… ahead of time?” Lee asked squeezing his eyes shut at the headache he still sported, even medicated.

 

Wilson chuckled and sat back.  “He still giving you a hard time about ONI?” he asked, making a concerted effort to lose the intense emotions he had harbored ever since seeing Lee’s condition when he was brought aboard.

 

“Right before I left,” Lee answered with a smile.  “Only… he’s my Exec… so he was much more… diplomatic,” he finished, having to take even more breaths between his words.

 

Wilson’s countenance changed to one of concern.  “So, Welby tells me he might have to insert a breathing tube.”

 

Lee nodded and swallowed.  “I need you… to… secure the Intel.”

 

“All right, where did you stash it?” Wilson asked, going all navy and ready to help Lee complete his mission.

 

“Heel of… my shoe.”

 

Wilson headed for the duffle bag stowed with Lee’s gear.  He reached down and pulled out a bloody shirt, a wallet whose contents supported Lee’s cover identity, and finally his shoes.  He fiddled with one heel, but it was solid; then moved to the other one, fiddling with it until it swiveled and a small round disc the size of a quarter dropped into his hand.

 

“Hell, Lee.  I thought only James Bond had secret compartments in his shoes,” he quipped with a grin.

 

Lee grinned weakly.  “Works… every… time,” he jested back.

 

Wilson’s brow tightened, his concern now heightened.  Lee was taking even more breaths between words, and his lips were starting to turn a sickening shade of blue.

 

“I’ll take care of it, Lee,” he promised, before turning for the hatch and calling Welby back into sickbay.

 

Welby took one look at his patient and flew into action.  A few minutes later, the tube was inserted while his exhausted patient barely held onto consciousness.

 

“No more grief from me, Lee,” Wilson promised to Lee’s attempt to smile.  “You just rest, I’ll get both you and the Intel to the flattop,” he said, his words offering both concern and validation for Lee’s mission.

 

Lee nodded slightly and then closed his eyes.  All he wanted to do now was sleep.

 

* * * * *

 

It wasn’t until Welby showed up whispering the call sign and insisting he answer with the counter sign, did Lee realize that the lights had been cut by the SEALS just before entering the warehouse.  All of which meant, that the team had been called in ahead of time.  Their arrival so soon after Lucas left, indicated they were in position and waiting for the rest of Ryker’s men to clear out before entering.  It was all a very well-played and dangerous game designed to keep the special ops involvement secret.  Once the SEALS arrived, Lee had gladly allowed the well-trained ops team to fulfill their mission; the emergency extraction of an injured operative.  His condition, in fact, wasn’t unexpected, since he’d accepted it with full knowledge of the DF5 rating.  He supposed that was why Chip had been so ticked-off at him.

 

* * * * *

 

Three Weeks earlier...

 

“Status Mr. Morton,” Lee said, rounding the spiral staircase and walking towards the chart table.

 

“We’re running at 200 feet; standard speed; on course and meeting check points as plotted,” Chip answered efficiently.

 

“Very well, steady as she goes.”

 

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Chip replied as Lee checked the running time to the next check point.  “Lee, I need your signature to extend FS1’s next scheduled maintenance.”

 

Lee laid down the compass and straight edge and reached for the clip board Chip was holding out.  With the Admiral away in Washington, they had no choice but to postpone the standard maintenance check.  It was rather mundane, but a required detail that necessitated the captain’s signature.  Neither officer was concerned.  FS1 was kept in top flight condition and her maintenance would easily fit into the schedule next week upon the Admiral’s return.  Lee had just finished signing the extension when Spark’s voice was heard over the Com.

 

“Captain Crane, could you and Mr. Morton please come to the radio shack?”

 

A quick look toward the Communications Officer’s smiling face told Lee and Chip he had good news of some sort.

 

“What do you have, Sparks?” Lee asked upon approach.

 

“This just in from Miss Watson,” he answered with a grin.

 

Lee took the message and grinned.  “A message from Angie,” he said, clueing Chip in.  “It looks like the Admiral scored those tickets to the Army Navy game.”

 

Chip smiled broadly.  As it turned out, Seaview was in between voyages and this year, for the first time since Lee signed on with Seaview three years ago, they were going to get to attend the game.  With the game only four weeks away, it was considered a major coup to snag the tickets.

 

“Go Navy,” Chip recited.

 

“Beat Army,” Lee replied, finishing the well-versed cheer as the two exchanged smiles.  “Ah… one thing,” he continued to Chip’s raised brow.  “Full dress…”

 

“Of course,” the blond interrupted.

 

“…Because we’ll be the Admiral’s guests in the Box… along with…”

 

“Admiral Starke,” Chip finished with just the smallest of noticeable cringes.

 

Lee’s cringe however, was quite noticeable and without much attempt to hide his displeasure, until he shook it off with a grin; as long as Navy won, Starke was bound to be in a good mood.

 

“Veteran’s Stadium, Philadelphia.  I hear it’s state of the art,” Sparks added, joining in the light mood the news afforded. 

 

Lee nodded; it was the first year that the new stadium would be utilized, and with a seating capacity upwards of 65,000, it was sure to be a grand event.  But it was also somewhat bittersweet for die-hard fans to leave behind JFK Stadium and the nostalgic memories the old horseshoe stadium had provided over the years; particularly, for Chip, who had played running back for the Midshipman during his Academy years.

 

“That ought to be some game,” Sparks continued, with the win/loss record tied at 37 wins for Navy, 37 wins for Army, and 6 ties, this year’s game was hyped to be one of the biggest in the Services long football rivalry.  It had taken Navy a long time to make up the deficit of games lost, winning six of the last seven ballgames.

 

Lee smiled openly as the three briefly discussed the Mid’s roster for the year, before patting the Communication Officer’s shoulder good-naturedly.  “Thanks, Sparks,” Lee said waving the note in a good mood and turning back toward the chart table with Chip by his side.  They only got three steps away before Sparks called them back.

 

“Wait a minute, Sir,” he said, his brow tightening as he listened to an apparent incoming message while writing busily.

 

Lee waited patiently, the tone of their earlier conversation lost immediately to the boat business Sparks was now receiving.

 

Sparks tore off the coded message and handed it to Captain Crane.

 

“From ONI, Sir,” he informed.

 

Lee’s eyes dropped briefly to the message, perusing it before stuffing it into his pocket.

 

“I’ll be in my cabin,” he informed his first officer and headed straight for Officer’s Country to decode the message.

 

Chip pursed his lips while exchanging knowing glances with Sparks, each man well-aware of the precursor to an ONI mission.  He left the radio shack without saying a word and headed to the chart table, barely holding back his irritation.

 

* * * * *

 

Chip positioned himself at the chart table with a straight shot to Sparks’ domain.  He busied himself with the charts in front of him but picked up on the activity in the radio shack as the Communication Officer put through the expected call, no doubt to ONI.

 

He tossed his pencil down and conducted a quick assessment of the situation lights, then returned to position himself on the opposite side of the chart table, staring out Seaview’s windows blankly.

 

He had done this so many times he could almost begin a countdown for the expected hail.  Any minute now, he would be the recipient of an order to either ready FS1 or to attend a briefing.   He was particularly irritated, because the last time ONI requested Lee’s services he had come back with a bullet in his shoulder.  And here Lee was getting ready to do it again, go on another mission.  Oh, he had no doubt Lee would say “yes”. 

 

Such was his mood when the expected hail was heard.

 

“This is Captain Crane; Mr. Morton, please report to my cabin.” 

 

Chip reached for the mic.  His mouth pursed tightly and looked up at the speaker, muttering silently and quite sourly, “Again!”  He reigned in his attitude, successfully managing to keep his current mood to himself as he clicked the mic and responded.  “Morton here; on my way, Sir.”

 

Chapter Four

 

Chip stood at the door ready to knock but refrained a moment.  He wasn’t sure why this ONI call was bothering him any more than the other missions Lee had taken over the last three years.  He was well aware that Lee’s appointment to Seaview was predicated upon the fact that he still continue to accept missions.  That was how the Navy had secured his best friend to fulfill his Reserve duty hours, though Lee still retained the right to decline a mission if he saw fit.  He allowed some of the heat of his prior irritation to pass and completed the knock.  Upon hearing the invitation to enter he opened the door.

 

“You wanted to see me, Lee?”

 

“Have a seat, Chip,” he answered, with a nod toward the guest chair.  Once seated, Lee handed him a piece of paper, the decoded message he had received earlier.  Chip read the short message and nodded his understanding.

 

“I figured ONI was calling you again,” he managed without much emotion.

 

“Since the Admiral’s away, I need to fill you in on what I know of the mission,” Seaview’s captain started.

 

Chip took a noticeable breath in and nodded.  “Aye,” he answered.  It was all he could muster right now as his irritation returned.  He wasn’t usually privy to such discussions of ONI missions, especially beforehand.  He looked down at the decoded message; it all seemed straight forward, except for the acronyms.

 

Crane, Lee B, Commander:

Contact ONI immediately for your next assignment.

ELA: 6 weeks

DF5

  

“Six weeks?” Chip asked, raising his eyes to meet Lee’s.

 

“Estimated Length of Assignment,” Lee clarified.

 

Chip nodded, that much was pretty obvious.

 

“But it’s really as long as it takes to establish my cover.  If I get ‘in’ sooner, it won’t take that long.  ONI is anxious for the Intel, and I’m the diversion,” he said, giving further details from the ONI call he had made.

 

Chip bit his bottom lip, working hard not to allow his earlier attitude back into the forefront.  He was sure he wasn’t successful though; Lee knew him too well.

 

“Diversion?”

 

“There’s already an operative in place, he needs to pass the information in such a way that his cover isn’t blown,” Lee answered matter-of-factly, his hands folded in front of him as he leaned over the desk.

 

“And DF?” Chip asked, figuring he was getting close to what Lee hadn’t told him yet.

 

“Detriment Factor.”

 

Chip’s lips pursed tightly as he nodded.  “As in damage, harm… injury?” he asked rather facetiously, listing off a few synonyms that came immediately to mind.  He knew where this was headed, and he didn’t like it one bit.

 

“Chip, normally this kind of information wouldn’t be shared outside of ONI, but with the Admiral away, I need to prepare you for the likelihood of the mission fall-out,” Lee explained evenly and without emotion.  “DF5 is the highest Detriment Factor rating on the scale, indicating that it’s not just a possibility, or probable, but ONI expects the operative to sustain physical damage in completing his mission.”

 

Chip sighed audibly, tossing the decoded message onto the desk and sitting back in his chair, his irritation taking a turn toward outright anger.  “And what about the extraction?  Are they planning to leave you bleeding and dying somewhere as well?” he asked tensely.

 

Lee’s eyes remained fixed on Chip as he answered calmly.  “There’s no Disavowal Disclaimer, an extraction plan is in place.”

 

“Well, that’s comforting,” Chip shot out, dropping his naval decorum in favor of a disgusted brother.  “And I assume you’ve already accepted this mission, since you’re choosing to bring me in on the details.”

 

That was it; he knew he had crossed the line as Lee’s eyes darkened.

 

“I didn’t ask you here to obtain your blessing on the mission, Chip.  I ordered my First Officer here to inform him to be prepared to take on the duties of acting-captain of this vessel.  If you feel that task is too difficult for you, I’ll make other arrangements,” he finished, never raising his voice and taking control of the meeting’s tone.

 

Chip straightened slightly and nodded.  “Aye Sir, there’s no need to make other arrangements.”

 

Lee nodded and sighed, obviously allowing Chip way more emotion here in the privacy of his office, and willing to allow forgiveness for his mood. 

 

“Sir,” Chip addressed respectfully, “what does Admiral Nelson have to say about this?” he asked, staying in proper decorum for addressing his superior officer, but still not ready to let go of the fact that Lee Crane was taking a mission knowing damn well he was going to return in need of medical services.  Hell!  That was putting it mildly, he fumed silently.

 

“I haven’t spoken with the Admiral, but I’ve been assured that he’s been fully informed.”

 

“Aye Sir,” Chip answered dutifully, before deflating slightly.  “I’m sorry, Lee,” he conceded not the least bit happy with the situation, but not wanting to be a liability to his best friend either.

 

Lee raised a hand of deference.  “Forget it, Chip,” he said willing to give him a pass, but knowing full-well that his best friend wasn’t happy with him, despite his apology.

 

“When do you shove-off?” Chip asked, his attitude in check, but the fire in his eyes still apparent.

 

“The Navy will be sending a chopper, we’ll proceed at flank to these coordinates,” he said, handing over another piece of paper.  “ETA is two and half hours.  You’ll continue with the voyage and the mission parameters as planned.”

 

“Aye Sir, I’ll get right on it,” he replied, referring to the new coordinates. 

 

“Thanks, Chip,” Lee replied, their conversation rather mechanical and emotionless at this point.

 

“Is that all, Sir?” Chip asked standing.

 

“That’s all.”

 

Chip nodded and headed to the door.

 

“Chip,” Lee called from the desk, just as he reached for the door knob.  Chip stood with his hand on the knob but not immediately turning toward Lee’s voice. “Never mind,” he said, rethinking his next words.  “Dismissed,” he continued. 

 

Chip nodded, leaving without even the expected “Aye Sir”.

 

He closed the door behind him and leaned back heavily.  “Why wasn’t I able to give Lee what he needed, just now?” he asked silently and then shook his head defiantly.  “Because, I’m tired of being an enabler for this madness,” he answered silently.  “Damn it, Lee,” he grumbled, pushing off the door and heading to the Control Room to see to the course correction.  He fumed along the way as he realized that it fell upon him to order the sub to flank speed, so that his best friend could make all haste to come back in six weeks, “harmed, damaged, and injured.”  He headed toward the spiral stairs with his opinion of ONI and its damned “Detriment Factor” dropping even more, if that was at all possible.

 

* * * * *

 

Lee stared straight ahead at his bunk as Chip closed the door behind him then sat back reflectively.  He had no doubt that Chip’s apology was sincere, but he also knew that the apology was for showing a near insubordinate attitude.  It wasn’t regret for the attitude, only for letting it show.    He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply and expelling a long breath out.  He practiced the breathing exercise several more times and then opened his eyes and pursed his lips.  That was all the time he had for Chip’s displeasure with him.  As captain, he expected nothing less than professionalism from his First Officer, and he had no doubt he would have that.  As brothers, he expected Chip to respect his decision, whether he was ready to do that was his problem and one that he would deal with upon his return… if he returned.

 

He stood and headed to his closet, pulling out his sea bag.  His cover required civvies, not necessarily his black spy attire.  So, he packed his black slacks and left the black turtleneck behind, it was warm where he was headed and the outfitters would supply whatever else he needed.  He stuffed the rest of his clothes in the bag and grabbed his toiletry kit from the head.  He stopped to look in the mirror wondering if he should let a beard grow out for the assignment, then shook his head.  That would be decided for him once he got a good look at the bad guy ONI was currently holding.  It was his identity he was taking over, past that he didn’t know too much more about the scope of the mission.  Only that an operative was already on the inside and he needed to infiltrate the organization then provide a prearranged diversion so that the Intel could be passed under their radar.  His diversion accounted for the DF5 rating, as it would entail purposely getting himself caught so that the inside operative remained above suspicion should the Intel be noticed as missing.  The rest of the details he would get soon enough once he was formally debriefed. 

 

He carried the sea bag to the door then stopped, dropping the bag on the deck and heading back to his desk in a second thought.  He sat down and scribbled out a quick note then addressed an envelope before he slid off his black onyx ring and deposited it, and the note inside.  He opened his middle desk drawer and placed the envelope prominently in the center of the drawer, with Chip’s name in full view of whoever might clear out his desk if things didn’t go well.

 

The deed was done rather unemotionally.  He was in spy mode now.  He crossed the deck to the door and picked up his sea bag, leaving whatever baggage his and Chip’s falling out had produced firmly behind in his cabin.

 

* * * * *

 

Chip watched as Lee made a circuit around the Control Room, almost as if he were soaking in the feel of the boat before leaving.  He had come down the spiral stairs and deposited his sea bag at the bottom of the Conning Tower ladder, before stopping briefly to confer with Sparks.  Then he walked toward the chart table, his face even and emotionless.

 

“Status, Mr. Morton?” he had asked. 

 

There wasn’t a hint of anger, terseness, or even disappointment; just the familiar request of the captain inquiring of his vessel.

 

“90 feet, running at flank as ordered, Sir,” Chip had replied, matching Lee’s professionalism and offering no hint to the Control Room that the two had had words earlier.  “ETA, one hour and fifteen minutes,” he finished.

 

Lee had nodded, checking their position for himself.  “Very well, carry on.” 

 

His jacket and cap were laid neatly across the conference table in the nose, other than the fact that he was wearing his dress blues instead of his shipboard khaki, there was no indication that Seaview’s captain was about to embark upon a dangerous and potentially painful mission.  He had instead, chosen to use his last hour running his beloved submarine.  All of which, caused Chip to sigh inwardly as he realized how devoted Lee was to Seaview. 

 

He was privately torn between the absurdity of Lee’s decision to accept a mission that promised injuries upon completion, and the fact that his devotion to Seaview had produced no less devotion in her Captain, resulting in many injuries as well.  Still, he couldn’t and wouldn’t sanction this ONI mission, but what he could do was look after Lee’s boat.  That was the support he could offer his friend and captain, the rest they would have to hash out after the assignment. 

 

The hour passed quicker than Chip would have wanted as he went about his duties while privately observing Lee’s attention to the details of the boat, when it finally dawned on him what his best friend was doing; saying his goodbyes.  His anger returned at the fray Lee had willingly agreed to participate in and pursed his bottom lip as his bad mood returned.

 

“Contact with the helicopter, Skipper,” Sparks called out from the radio shack.  “They report being twenty minutes out from our present position.”

 

“Very well,” Lee replied, returning to the chart table and picking up the mic.  “Engine Room, All-Stop.”

 

The order was acknowledged as Lee checked their present position and logged it.  “Mr. Morton, prepare to surface.”

 

“Aye Sir,” Chip replied, reaching for the mic.  “Blow all ballast tanks; up bubble, ten degrees on the planes.  Surface, surface.”

 

The well-oiled machine of Seaview’s command team hadn’t faltered in the terse words spoken earlier as the windowed submarine responded and slowly rose to the surface.

 

Chip held the mic in his hand while Lee walked to Seaview’s windowed bow and watched as the sunlight penetrated the once dark ocean.  Soon, bubbles pressed against the windows and the sub broached the surface, gently bobbing on top.  “Crack the hatch, look-outs topside,” he ordered and then shipped the mic as Lee stood without moving.  Chip moved up beside him.  “Look-outs posted, Lee,” he reported softly, noticing the self-reflection in his friend’s eyes.  It had nothing to do with them and everything to do with Lee soaking in every last possible moment aboard his boat.

 

Lee nodded silently and then seemed to turn a decisive corner from his introspective mood.  “Very well, Chip,” he said, turning toward the conference table to collect his jacket and cap.

 

He crossed the deck silently as Chip followed behind.

 

“Riley, take the Captain’s sea bag up to the hatch,” Chip ordered while Lee stopped at the radio shack.

 

“The chopper reports it’s five minutes out, Skipper,” Sparks relayed.

 

“Very well, send my compliments and inform them I’ll be waiting topside.”

 

He turned back to the ladder and took the rungs upwards with Chip following behind.  Once they reached the top Lee picked up his bag and started for the tower’s vertical hatch.

 

“Lee,” Chip called, quietly.

 

Lee stopped but didn’t turn around.

 

“I’ll take good care of her… she’ll be here waiting for you when you get back,” he offered sincerely.

 

Lee’s shoulders heaved before turning slowly.  “That was the best thing you could have said, Chip,” he said, with a small smile of appreciation.

 

“Chopper off the port bow!” the look-out called below.

 

Lee nodded in silent acknowledgement then turned and stepped out of the hatch with Chip following, holding their hats to their heads as the chopper blades whipped up both wind and mist in its thunderous roar. 

 

He hadn’t softened on his anger toward the ONI mission, or Lee’s willingness to take the assignment for that matter; but he wasn’t about to let his best friend go off to face the lions without letting him know how he felt.

 

“Take care, Lee,” Chip said, leaning in to avoid yelling across the deck for all the look-outs to hear.

 

The helicopter hovered expertly over the deck as Lee smiled.  “I’ll be back in time for the game,” he said confidently, and then trotted across the wet deck, tossed his sea bag to the corporal waiting inside, and climbed aboard. 

 

Lee didn’t look back as the chopper rose from the deck.  He belonged to ONI until his assignment was complete, a thought that still didn’t sit well with Chip Morton… not one little bit.

 

Chapter Five

 

His own airy breaths woke him as Lee opened his eyes and stared ahead.  He could feel his heartbeat pounding out a loud cadence in his head and was feeling hot and miserable; the sure signs of a fever.

 

“Chaser?”

 

He rolled his head toward Welby’s voice and swallowed awkwardly thanks to the tube providing oxygen straight to his damaged lung.

 

“I thought you were coming around,” he said, his brow creased with concern despite his smile.  “So, were eight hours from our rendezvous with the USS Constellation,” he informed casually.

 

Lee nodded appreciatively for the information, almost too tired to respond.

 

“I know you’re feeling pretty crappy about now.  There’s not much I can do about the internal injuries until we transfer you to the flattop, but the Doc did authorize antibiotics…”

 

Lee’s brow furrowed instantly.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered,” Welby reassured.  “I’ve been informed that you’re allergic to penicillin,” he said showing Lee the vial before reaching for his port to inject the medicine.  “This should help some,” he continued.  “I uh, think I felt a hematoma on your left side; a bleed from your spleen I’m guessing.  So, you just rest and lie as still as possible.  We’ll get you to a proper sickbay in no time,” he promised.

 

Lee nodded slightly, blinking his eyes decisively.  It was all he could do to offer his thanks with a tube shoved down his throat and insides protesting his recent treatment.

 

“You’re welcome, Chaser,” the combat medic replied, stepping away as Lee’s eyes closed once again.

 

* * * * *

 

Commander Lee Crane saluted sharply, his service cap tucked under one arm and standing at attention, presenting himself as ordered.

 

“At ease, Commander,” Admiral Johnson greeted, returning the salute and introducing the other participant in the briefing.  “This is Captain Miller, he’s the architect of the plan we’re working.”

 

“Captain Miller,” Lee greeted with a shake.

 

“Nice to finally meet you, Commander Crane,” he returned sincerely.  The blond officer’s hair was greying significantly, even though he was only in his late forties.  His brown eyes carried confidence both in himself, and the plan he had forged.

 

“Thank you, Sir.”

 

“All right gentlemen, let’s get started,” Johnson said, moving on and getting down to business.  “Grant, why don’t you bring Commander Crane up to speed.”

 

“Certainly, Admiral,” Miller said nodding as Johnson pressed several buttons on a panel on his desk, dimming the lights and lowering a projection screen.  “This is Carlton Ryker, originally from Chicago and transplanted on this out-of-the-way Atlantic island.  It’s conveniently out of U.S. jurisdiction and close enough to supply South American guerillas in a variety of countries.  He is also heavily connected to several African countries across the Atlantic who broker deals for him in Europe.  He’s very dangerous and successful, widely because he keeps his organization so small.”

 

Miller had toggled through a number of photo frames, catching Ryker in various situations as he was photographed covertly, along with photos of the island and its exact location.  His next frame settled on a tall man with dark hair and similar build to Lee.

 

“This is Lance Richards, originally from Boston.  He’s a known thief for hire, specializes in high-end electronics for military applications.  We recently nabbed him and began making preparations to insert him into Ryker’s organization.  We’ve been trading correspondence and managed to broker the deal for him to work for Ryker.  As you can see, you bear a close enough resemblance to pass, especially since Richards never goes anywhere without his dark sunglasses, and Ryker has never met him before.  The cover for Richards going from freelance to working for Ryker is that your business has been hampered lately with the feds closing in, and you need to disappear from their radar.  Ryker is buying it, but he’s cautious.  Mostly, he wants Richards’ skills to secure this,” he said, toggling to the next picture.  “It’s a new land-based scrambler that interferes with electronics aboard tanks with less than 30mm of armor.  As you can see it’s portable, and ONI is going to allow you to broker a deal with a unit.  It should allow for a large payout and put you in solid with Ryker.”

 

Another frame passed, as Lee leaned forward.

 

“I believe you’ve worked with Bill Watkins before?”

 

“Yes, he’s an excellent operative,” Lee replied, shaking his head slightly at Bill’s ability to transform so handily from a confident, able ONI operative to an awkward looking computer nerd.

 

“He’s our inside operative and has been in place for six months now.  He has significant information to pass along, but we’re not ready to pull him out just yet.  Our objective here is not just to reel in Ryker, but his connections as well.  Watkins’s role is similar to the one he played in Bishop, California last year,” Miller said making eye contact with Lee.

 

Lee nodded, Bill’s skills at computer hacking had provided the proof they needed to nail Melanie Ross and her bully boyfriend, Trevor Monroe, for the theft and sale of US secret military components manufactured at the plant.  He remembered the mission well, because Harry had taken a bullet meant for him, after Trevor vowed vengeance for Lee’s involvement in ruining their scheme.*

 

Miller nodded and toggled to the next picture; a seemingly unrelated picture of a tornado on a Kansas plain.

 

“You’re being inserted into Operation Whirlwind,” he continued flatly, moving onto the next photo, a closer view of the whirling, violent winds of a deadly tornado.  “Your code name is Storm Chaser,” he said, turning toward Lee to address him completely.  “We’re sending you into the storm with full knowledge that you will be overtaken by a Force 5 tornado.  Once Watkins exposes you, you’ll be at the mercy of Ryker’s enforcer, Rocco Sandusky.  There’s no easy way to say this, Lee,” Captain Miller said, dropping the honorifics to offer a candid and honest assessment.  “Ryker will make an example of you, but Sandusky never finishes off a job with an audience; he prefers no witnesses when completing a hit, even those from Ryker’s organization.  That’s when we’ll make the extraction, and I guarantee there will be an extraction,” he vowed fervently as Johnson turned on the lights via the control panel on his desk.

 

“You should know that this part of the plan was highly contested by more than one player,” Admiral Johnson informed.  “Not the least of which was your inside partner, Bill Watkins; and out of military courtesy, a very adamant Admiral Harriman Nelson.”

 

“Aye, sir, I was aware that Admiral Nelson had been advised,” Lee replied, privately appreciative of Harry’s concern, and glad he hadn’t been around for the explosive response that must have occurred when he was informed.

 

“The decision to retrieve the Intel at yours or any other ONI Operative’s expense wasn’t made lightly,” Johnson assured, in a rare explanation of the decision process.  “The stakes are higher than military gun-runners.  Ryker has been inquiring about nuclear options; namely, making plans to cash in on the recent de-nuclear agreement.  There are several hundred nuclear missiles on both sides that are slated to be destroyed in the first phase.  In short, he’s trying to make one or two disappear before they can be destroyed and plans on rerouting them to the highest bidder.”

 

“That would take an inside person very close to the nuclear stock-pile destruction project,” Lee noted, his forehead wrinkling at this new information.

 

“That angle is being worked by another operative, but the Intel Watkins provides will potentially provide us with Ryker’s intended buyers.”  Johnson breathed out heavily, pursed his lips and folded his hands in front of him.  “As you can see, we can’t risk losing Watkins on the inside until those buyers have been exposed.”

 

“Aye sir, I fully understand what’s at stake, and I’m ready to proceed,” Lee said, reaffirming his decision to accept the mission.

 

Johnson barely acknowledged and continued, moving on in his usual emotionless manner.  “The rest of the details are in your mission profile,” he said, referring to the thick manila folder on the desk in front of Lee. “This office appreciates your sacrifice,” he said nodding toward the folder in a move that told Lee the briefing was over.

 

“Aye sir,” he said picking up the folder and standing.  “By your leave, Admiral, I’ll ready myself for the insertion.”

 

“Very well, Commander,” Johnson said.

 

“I’ll field whatever questions you have concerning the mission profile after you’ve had a chance to read the file, Lee,” Captain Miller said, standing as well.  “You’re quarantined from this point on.  No outside contact with anyone not associated with the mission,” he admonished.

 

“Aye sir,” Lee agreed.

 

“Very well, my aide outside will escort you to the ready room where you can get caught up on the specifics of the mission parameters.”

 

Lee tucked his service cap under his arm and saluted before leaving Johnson's office.

 

Miller waited until the door closed behind Lee before turning to Admiral Johnson.  “I wish I felt better about keeping him in the dark about the ‘other’ detail.”

 

“He has enough to burden him without adding another layer,” Johnson replied matter-of-factly, succinctly closing the matter from further discussion.

 

* * * * *

 

Lee settled into the ready room to privately pore over the entirety of the mission parameters.  Everything from codes, to covers, to the extraction plan was covered in the comprehensive briefing folder.  He opened the folder and then stopped to breathe in deeply as he considered the meeting in Johnson’s office.  He had accepted the mission with the DF5 rating believing that ONI wouldn’t ask the sacrifice of him unless the stakes were high, and so he was grateful to understand the seriousness of successfully retrieving the Intel in a manner that protected Bill’s cover for future information.  He counted it as a gift to have been informed of the nuclear threat.  Now, no matter what happened, he would have no regrets and no second guessing his decision about the high price he was about to pay. 

 

On that thought, he opened the folder and began reading the mission parameters, committing to memory every detail and throwing himself completely into his cover identity of Lance Richards. 

 

* * * * *

 

“Ah… Mr. Morton?” Chief Sharkey said almost apologetically. 

 

“Yes, Chief,” he answered emotionless. 

 

The Exec had an unreadable countenance, and his command glare was legendary among the ratings.  So, it wasn’t anything that just anyone would notice, but Sharkey had gotten real good at reading all three of the command team’s moods and expressions.  Right now, the Exec was mad as hell, even if no one else could tell, and he knew it had everything to do with the Skipper leaving yesterday for an ONI mission.

 

“Uh… Sir, I submitted a request for Reactor Room maintenance,” he asked with a sheepish smile and knowing that such maintenance required the Skipper’s approval.

 

Chip nodded and pursed his lip slightly.  “I’m sure it’s still in Captain Crane’s office.  I’ll take care of it,” he replied, laying his pencil down.  “Mr. O’Brien, you have the conn,” he said over his shoulder as he turned toward the spiral stairs.

 

* * * * *

 

Chip reached for the door knob to Lee’s cabin and paused a moment, staring at the red placard on the door reading, Captain Crane.  He took a deep breath and turned the handle.  He was still angry with Lee’s decision to take an assignment that promised him a trip to Sickbay.  It was bad enough that ONI had tagged his reserve duty to begin with, but Lee didn’t have to take every assignment they threw at him. 

 

He entered Lee’s cabin and closed the door behind him.  His anger had risen and fallen like a yo-yo, ever since ONI’s first contact with his best friend.  He’d been able to put off his disdain long enough for Lee to jump on his helicopter and ride off in the opposite direction of the setting sun. But it had quickly returned when he considered the possibility that he was actually enabling Lee to be so reckless with his personal welfare, and that thought made his blood boil. 

 

Chip headed to the desk, checking the in-box and thumbing through several files Lee hadn’t had time to address before leaving.  He found the one he needed and opened it; as he suspected, it wasn’t signed yet.  He moved behind Lee’s desk in search of a pen and sat down, opening the middle drawer.  His hand froze in place when he spotted an envelope addressed to him.  Slowly, he reached for it and placed it on the desk in front of him.  He drew a cleansing breath and then pulled out the letter opener from the middle drawer as well.  Almost mechanically, he sliced through the sealed envelope and pulled out the handwritten message and Lee’s ring; his father’s ring. 

 

Chip,

As officers, sometimes we’re given the privilege of knowing the bigger picture before a sacrifice is made, but more often than not, that’s not the case.  I accept missions believing that I can make a difference in not only national security but in protecting our way of life as well.  How this mission plays into that, I don’t know, but I don’t need to.  I don’t need to personally know the lives that may be saved, or the young men who may never have to go to war because of what I do.  I don’t need to know the mothers, wives, or children who’ll never know they were spared the task of grieving their loved ones because we averted disaster through these clandestine means.  I hope that makes sense.

 

When I leave here, I won’t have the luxury of thinking about my life here on Seaview, but it’s what keeps me going.  Leaving Seaview in your hands frees me to devote all my attention to the ONI mission.  I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not from your perspective, but it’s what keeps me fighting to come home.  Take good care of her for me.

 

Lee

 

PS – I’ll be back in time for the game.

 

Go Navy!

 

* * * * *

 

Chip laid the letter on the desk and then sat back heavily into the high-back desk chair.  He tilted his head back and breathed deeply, closing his eyes and working to keep them from misting, while he wrapped his hand around the ring in a tight fist. 

 

Lee didn’t open up about ONI very often, and they had never had as frank a conversation as the one his best friend had penned just now.  Admittedly, their discussions were usually one-sided as he unloaded, with Lee graciously allowing him to vent.

 

Damn it, Lee, he thought silently as tears pooled in his eyes.  He didn’t quite know what to do with the letter, except that he knew without a doubt, that no matter how much anyone protested, no one could talk Lee Crane out of doing what he believed was right.  Furthermore, he realized that he was indeed an enabler to the ONI missions by promising to take care of Seaview, and therein lay the rub.  For he also realized that Lee’s trust in him played an important role in his ability to put all his concentration into an assignment, and therefore played a very real part in his ability to make it back home.  He sighed audibly upon that realization and stared blankly ahead.

 

He couldn’t exactly say he had peace about the situation… only that he understood Lee Crane a little better.

 

Chapter Six

 

“You wanted to see me, Doc?” Captain Wilson said, stepping inside the sickbay hatch.

 

“Aye sir,” Welby replied, stepping away from his patient to confer with his skipper in lower tones.

 

“How’s he doing?” Wilson inquired, his brow tightening in scrutiny.  The beating Lee had sustained was apparent, even with the bandages and care Welby had given.  The bruises had darkened on his face, while the butterfly bandages barely concealed several nasty cuts, and his ribs looked like a massive conglomerate of bruises in three different shades.  His wrist was splinted and laid heavily across his middle, while the bandage on his side sported blood which had bled through before but had since stopped.  All of which, just emphasized the ominous look of the breathing tube.

 

“That’s why I needed to talk to you, Skipper,” Welby answered quietly.  “His condition has deteriorated significantly; it’s what’s going on in his insides right now.  I don’t know if he can wait six more hours before a surgeon gets hold of him.”

 

Wilson took a deep breath and nodded; he could see for himself that Lee had taken a turn for the worse.

 

“All right, Welby.  Get your patient ready, I’ll request a medivac from the Constellation.  Be ready to transfer him in thirty minutes.

 

“Aye, sir.”

 

* * * * *

 

“Chaser?” Welby called, barely breaking through the fog of Lee’s fever.

 

His moan was hampered by the tube as he rolled his head toward Welby.  He focused on the concerned eyes over him, his brow hot with fever and his eyes struggling to focus.  The smell of salt water and the warmth of the sun suddenly registered as he looked beyond Welby’s face to the blue sky above.

 

“We’re going to medivac you to the Constellation,” Welby explained.

 

Lee nodded, his eyes narrowing as he realized that he had been moved from sickbay without even being aware of the move.  He knew he was feeling like death warmed over, but he must have really been out of it to miss the stretcher being hoisted up the vertical hatch.  He turned his attention back to Welby.

 

“You’ll go up first in the basket,” Welby continued, “and then me.  I guess you’re stuck with me for the ride,” he joked with a small smile that Lee tried to return.  “The Skipper will follow, he said to tell you he’s got the package and he’ll report straight away.”

 

Lee nodded and swallowed, all this would be for nothing if the Intel didn’t reach ONI.

 

“Okay, here they come,” Welby said, looking out across the sub deck to the helicopter approaching. 

 

The Spadefish’s deck was rounded, and not nearly as wide as Seaview, so Lee’s stretcher would be loaded into the basket and hoisted up.  He was secured tightly, his arms tucked inside and completely useless.  He had faith in his rescuers, but he couldn’t help but notice a daunting feeling of helplessness as he was raised upwards.  In no time, he was aboard, and being fussed over by a marine medic.  He remembered enjoying the change of scenery and the fresh air, but he must have lost consciousness again, because it seemed just a blink before Welby was positioned over the top of him once again, smiling and saying something he couldn’t understand.  His eyes fluttered as he fought the weariness, currently demanding he return to the deep sleep it desired.  But he continued to fight the heaviness in his eyelids; he needed to see that Chet was aboard with the Intel first.  His forehead tightened and his breathing deepened when it seemed too much time had passed.

 

“Easy there, Chaser,” Welby comforted, looking toward the open door as the hoist brought up their third passenger.  “See?  The Skipper is here with the package,” he assured.

 

Lee’s relief was instantaneous and he nodded appreciatively toward the perceptive SEAL.  He caught sight of Chet stepping out of the sling, finally giving himself the luxury of believing that his mission was nearly complete.  He had done all he could possibly do at this point, and reluctantly turned the watch over to his rescuers.  His eyes closed without trying as even the sound of the chopper was lost to the darkness of unconsciousness.

 

* * * * * 

 

Stepping into the “skin” of Lance Richards had been an unsavory task for Lee.  Richards was a bad guy with layers and layers of vices.  Stealing highly sensitive electronics and selling out his country were at the top of the list, but his reputation for high rolling and fast women also preceded him.  It was the latter that had finally snagged the criminal as ONI’s own, Felicia Davenport, easily reeled him in, hanging all over him at the crap table until the real Lance Richards happily followed her to a cab, where he was apprehended away from prying eyes.  When Lee reemerged as Richards, he did so under the cover that he had almost been caught by the authorities and had begun negotiations with Mr. Carlton Ryker.  Their negotiations had been conducted by an ONI team over a fax phone, under the premise that the calls couldn’t be bugged.  So, when he emerged as Lance Richards, no one was the wiser.  Even Ryker only knew of Richards by his reputation in the business.

 

When Lee stepped off the airplane wearing Richards’ signature sunglasses and dressed in a similar wardrobe of a short-sleeved polo shirt tucked into snug fitting blue jeans, he was easily accepted as the Real McCoy.  He played the part of a criminal running from the “Heat” and desperate to fall off the face of the earth for a while, but still too greedy not to be working and hauling in a steady flow of cash for himself. 

 

He had won a position on Ryker’s payroll by promising connections good enough to haul in a new Tank Buster Scrambler.  Ryker’s organization was small and tight, and as the new man, he expected to be tested.  He was vetted by both subtle and non-subtle means, and due to his keen memory, he was able to pass muster.  A week later he was able to secure the promised component, which he did by a prearranged plan designed to make him look especially good at what he did.  Even with the score, he was the new guy, and not entirely trusted.  He was aware that his movements were being watched, but however careful, Lucas, the boss' right-hand man was, Ryker seemed to take to him, or at least his ability to secure lucrative components.

 

During that time, he had no contact with Bill Watkins, except for when he was in the company of Ryker or Lucas.  Bill had played his part perfectly, rarely looking anyone in the eyes and always pushing the wire rim glasses higher on the bridge of his nose in a perfectly played nervous tick. 

 

Two weeks into his cover, he was given a little more breathing room as some of the scrutiny of being the new guy had lessened, much to the chagrin of Lucas.  It seemed that Ryker had found a new valuable player in Lance Richards, and Lucas no doubt, was feeling threatened.  Lee needed to be careful not to tip his hand before Bill was ready to act, so he continued to ingratiate himself into Ryker’s good graces.  In so doing, he was able to ascertain that the alleged plan of stealing from stock piles of nukes slated for destruction was a real threat.  He would report that information, but his role here was to play the courier, it was Bill’s job to secure the evidence, and therefore wouldn’t do anything to bring attention to himself until it was time to get himself caught.

 

Three weeks into the assignment, Lee had worked his way into Ryker’s trust, as far as dirty, rotten scoundrels trusted each other, that is.  Lucas was obviously not happy with Ryker’s new golden boy, but wouldn’t dare make a move against him, not as long as he held Ryker’s favor anyway.  It was unfortunate to garner such attention from Lucas, he was sure that was going to hurt later, but it was the way of the underworld and not completely unexpected. 

 

He continued working to become indispensable to his new boss, not only because it was his cover, but because his betrayal would be all the more distasteful and thereby create the type of diversion they needed to keep Bill off their radar.  If there was anything bad guys understood it was loyalty and betrayal, everything else fit somewhere in the gray world of their moral existence; but loyalty and betrayal were black and white in their books.

 

A couple of days into the third week he finally got the code to proceed with the operation.  It was time to step into the Bear Cage.

 

* * * * *

 

Chip read Lee’s letter again.  Three weeks had passed since Lee left and he had finally made peace with himself; not with ONI or the mission, he silently qualified.  He still retained the right to disagree with the espionage agency’s use of his best friend. 

 

The voyage had proceeded without Lee at her helm, and the Admiral on board for that matter, since Washington had taken advantage of his stay in D.C. for consultation on several Pentagon projects.  Angie had reported that the Admiral was unavailable for most of the last three weeks and all correspondence was filtered through her.

 

He had had a lot of time to reflect, and the hour he spent each night in Seaview’s weight room had helped him to let go of the anger and accept the fact that the issue here wasn’t Lee Crane accepting ONI missions, but why he accepted them. 

 

Reading the letter again, he realized that Lee had left a major clue in the letter to what made him tick, rather inadvertently, he realized.

 

Chip,

As officers, sometimes we’re given the privilege of knowing the bigger picture before a sacrifice is made, but more often than not, that’s not the case.  I accept missions believing that I can make a difference in not only national security but protecting our way of life as well.  How this mission plays into that, I don’t know, but I don’t need to.  I don’t need to personally know the lives that may be saved, or the young men who may never have to go to war because of what I do.  I don’t need to know the mothers, wives, or children who’ll never know they were spared the task of grieving their loved ones because we averted disaster through these clandestine means.  I hope that makes sense.

 

When I leave here, I won’t have the luxury of thinking about my life here on Seaview, but it’s what keeps me going.  Leaving Seaview in your hands frees me to devote all my attention to the ONI mission.  I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not from your perspective, but it’s what keeps me fighting to come home.  Take good care of her for me.

 

Lee

 

PS – I’ll be back in time for the game.

 

Go Navy!

 

The content of the letter was Lee Crane, no doubt about it; duty and honor through and through, were the essence of his being.  But the postscript at the bottom was what finally melted Chip’s hardened heart to accept his explanation.

 

PS – I’ll be back in time for the game.

 

Go Navy!

 

This duty and honor was something he witnessed as far back as Annapolis, and it centered on the Army-Navy Game.

 

* * * * *

 

It was the end of their second year at the Academy, or “Midshipmen third-class” as is properly addressed, and just before summer break when Lee returned from an unexpected meeting with the Brigade Commander. 

 

“So, what’s up?” Chip asked, curiously.

 

“Jeff Henderson just dropped out of the Prisoner Exchange, they need a replacement,” he answered with a shrug.

 

“Aw, come on, Lee, not you?” Chip lamented, knowing that every year, seven Midshipmen second-classmen participated in the time-honored tradition of the Prisoner Exchange with Army and apparently, the Firsties had settled on Lee Crane.  The prisoners spent the entire fall semester at West Point in a student exchange with Army cadets.  Though seen as an enriching experience, it was also a challenge to accept the role, since the prisoner might find himself the recipient of some good-natured ribbing by his Army counterparts.  All of which, would also be reciprocated on the Navy side with their prisoners as well.  It was all in good fun, and the culture exchange was seen as a tradition intended to foster closer inter-service relations between the sister academies, despite their athletic rivalries.  The exchange of prisoners back to “friendly territory” takes place at the Army Navy Game in a traditional ceremony on the football field, in front of a stadium full of fans and students from each academy.  The exchange was temporary, in that the prisoners still needed to return to their host academies to complete the semester, but for the game they were allowed to celebrate the game among their peers.

 

“Here we’re finally becoming second-classmen, we’re past the Youngster stage, and now you’re going to head right back into being treated like a Plebe,” Chip continued petulantly.

 

“I’ll still be an upperclassman, so it won’t be like being a Plebe again.  It’s just good old-fashioned ribbing anyway,” Lee countered.

 

Chip sighed.  “So, what aren’t you telling me?”

 

Lee smiled, shaking his head at his best friend’s perception and shrugged his shoulders.  “If I don’t go, they’re going to go with Warren.”

 

“Patrick Warren?” Chip questioned.  “Everyone knows he’s a hot head.”

 

“Yeah, well the Firsties haven’t got that figured out yet.  Listen, he’s all right around here, he’ll lose that chip on his shoulder soon enough, but he doesn’t have the right temperament to represent the Midshipmen without causing himself and Annapolis a lot of grief.”

 

“So, you’re going to go,” Chip stated rather than asked.

 

“Come on, Chip, it’s not like I’m really a war-prisoner; it’s all for fun, and it’s an opportunity to foster good-will with the Cadets before the big game.  And besides, how many officers can say they attended both West Point and Annapolis?”

 

Chip nodded, relenting in his disappointment of losing his roommate for a semester.  They were like brothers and being the only boy in a family with four sisters, he had enjoyed the interaction, rough housing, and camaraderie. 

 

“If it’s what you really want to do, Lee, then go for it.  Hey, if I weren’t playing for the Mids, I’d go with you.”

 

Lee shook his head resolutely.  “I definitely wouldn’t want Navy’s starting Running Back anywhere else but here,” he returned with a grin.  “Besides, I really think it’ll be fun.  They’ve got a great Engineering program over there and I look forward to the challenge.”

 

“Sorry, pal, I just got used to you being around, is all,” Chip said, explaining his earlier reaction and trying to lighten the mood.  He knew his best friend pretty well, and when Lee Crane decided to do something, then that’s exactly what he did.

 

“It’s only a semester.  It’ll be over before you know it.”

 

“I guess, but you and I both know, that this wasn’t your choice.  You’re doing this to keep Warren out of trouble and to save Annapolis from looking bad,” Chip said, laying his suspicions out clearly.

 

“What difference does it make why I go, as long as it’s the right thing to do?” Lee asked flatly.

 

* * * * *

 

It had all made perfect sense to Lee, and now it made perfect sense to Chip as well.

 

Chip sighed, repeating Lee’s response once again, “… as long as it’s the right thing to do…”  Yep, that summed up Lee Crane to a “T”.  He couldn’t expect anything less of his friend and now knew he didn’t even want to try.  It’s what made Lee tick and was part of the reason he made such a good officer, sub commander... and a great best friend. 

 

“You just come home in one piece, Lee,” he said to himself, looking down at the last two words in the postscript once again; Go Navy.  “Beat Army,” he said out loud, completing the mantra before folding the letter and tucking it neatly back into the envelope.

 

* * * * *

 

“Damn it!”  They were so close!  “Don’t do this to me, Chaser!  Come on!” Welby urged, watching Lee’s open, but glossy and fixed eyes staring straight ahead.

 

“What’s going on?” Captain Wilson asked, leaning in to hear over the helicopter blades.

 

“He’s going into shock, his blood pressure just dropped and his breathing is rapid, like he’s fighting for his next breath, even intubated,” Welby replied distractedly.  “What’s our ETA?” he asked over his shoulder.

 

“Twelve minutes,” the co-pilot relayed back.

 

“Chaser, listen to me,” Welby said, calming his voice and talking into Lee’s ear.  “We’ll be aboard in less than fifteen minutes, but you’ve got to help me here.  I’ve never lost a patient, which means you have to help me keep my record,” he bargained, raising Lee’s feet and adjusting his IV for more fluid flow.  “I’m working on getting you more oxygen, but I need you to calm your breathing,” he continued.  He wasn’t a doctor, but it looked like septic shock to him, probably caused by internal injuries poisoning his system with toxins.

 

“That’s right, Lee,” Wilson said, leaning in as Welby and another medic scrambled to stabilize their patient.  “You’ve got to report, Lee.  I’ve got the disc, but you saw things you need to report.  I’m right aren’t I?” he asked, having no indication that Lee had anything indeed to report, but knowing that his sense of duty was strong and the suggestion might be enough to keep him fighting.

 

Lee blinked, and Chet leaned in closer when it appeared he was getting through and added another angle to reach his will to survive.

 

“And what’s Admiral Nelson going to do with that fancy sub of yours if you give Welby here trouble?” he asked, watching Lee blink again, as if he were coming out of a trance.

 

Welby leaned in again, having done everything he could do at this point and focused on his patient.  “That’s right, Chaser.  Slow your breathing down.  The oxygen is flowing, just let it work,” he coached, and then sighed when Lee seemed to respond favorably.  “That’s it, Chaser, you’re going to make it,” he encouraged, before looking down at his watch to count the minutes to touchdown.

 

Chapter Seven

 

Lee was barely coherent when his body began giving out on him.  He could hear the commotion around him but was only remotely cognizant of his surroundings.  He heard someone talking.  It was Welby… he sounded almost frantic, which was strange because he was feeling rather at peace; even the tube down his throat wasn’t really bothering him right now.  His eyes were open but he really couldn’t see anything, there was a strange white curtain closing in from the sides of his peripheral vision.  As the curtain closed in around him, his body felt heavy, as if he were just too tired to fight anymore.  He was barely aware of the rapid breaths he was taking, as his blood struggled to carry sufficient oxygen to his vital organs.  He was about ready to let the white curtain envelope him completely, when another voice forced its way into his awareness. 

 

Was it Chip?  No, not Chip, he corrected himself, concentrating on the insistent voice.

 

Report… I’ve got to report? he questioned himself.  Didn’t I complete my mission?  But I haven’t got anything left to give, he lamented.  He was so tired… surely, he had given enough?

 

The voice spoke again, this time he recognized it was Chet Wilson and struggled to hear more clearly.  His voice was slightly distorted, and it sounded as if a long play record was being played at the wrong speed, with him catching only a few words here and there.   

 

Report?  he silently repeated before a recent memory came rushing back in, shocking him back to full awareness and demanding him to fight the white curtain before it took him away to a place he couldn’t return. 

 

* * * * *

 

He had received Bill’s code to set this part of the operation into place.  Bill was handling the actual transfer of funds, so breaking in was all for show, but he needed to leave a trail that would immediately absolve his fellow operative of the deed if things went south before they could enact the entire plan.  The trick was he needed to do this without being caught, since it was up to Bill to expose the theft.  His years as an ONI operative had made that a fairly easy task to accomplish.

 

Everything about the mission had been carefully planned out ahead of time to protect Bill’s cover, Seymour Snyder.   As such, he had to pick the lock to enter the office Bill utilized, there was no conveniently unlocked access to anything he needed.  Once inside, he worked with a penlight to keep the light from seeping under the door exposing his unauthorized entry.  A small beam of light from his penlight moved across the office in a purposeful sweep looking for the clues he needed to complete his mission.  Bill had established his cover as a computer geek with few social skills and an introvert, who much preferred to lose himself in books or the growing world of computer programming and its counterpart; computer hacking through back doors and flawed security programs.  So, anyone who happened into his hacking domain would find an office with three or four different computers all working through their own hacking or phishing formulas, wired through dedicated phone lines and modems. 

 

His desk could be described as “organized-chaos” since his system made sense to him alone.  It was a veritable maze of reports, code books, reference books, stacks of Computer Digest Magazines, and even more stacks of at least ten different comic book serials, which he followed religiously, never missing a printing.  Post-it notes hung along the walls and the bookcases, in reminders from everything as trite as to empty his trash can since cleaning services weren’t allowed in his office, to important tasks such as which computer system he intended to infiltrate next.  Taped in various places around the room were inspirational notes he gleaned from his beloved books; some notable authors, some from the comic books of superheroes he pored over zealously.  The “gems” were printed on green and white striped computer paper.  He hadn’t bothered to trim away the track holes of the dot-matrix printer and none were hung meticulously straight, but rather haphazardly about, in what mirrored his fast-moving brain which didn’t have time for such matters before moving onto to his next challenge.  The printouts were changed occasionally when something new caught Seymour’s interest.  When he ran out of room, he simply removed one and left it in an ever-growing stack of loose papers on top of a filing cabinet in the corner.  Even in the six months he had been undercover, he had managed to create quite a stack of discarded “gems”.

 

It was these writings Lee was scanning for his clues.  Amid thoughtful gems from great minds of the past, were also quotes from not-so inspired sources.  And so, right alongside quotes from Confucius, Plato, Robert Frost, and Albert Einstein, one might just as easily find other “notable” philosophers and thinkers such as Bruce Wayne’s latest gem as he fought the evils in Gotham City, Dr. Seuss, or even one from Mr. Spock.  

 

He scanned the wall hangings looking for one printout in particular, which he found rather quickly despite the mess of papers decorating nearly every empty spot on the walls.  It was a printout formed from the numbers zero and one in the shape of a cowboy riding a twister; under the printer “art” were the words, “Pecos Bill Rides Again.”  If Lee hadn’t been so focused on his mission, he would have smiled at the play on words since Bill’s code name was “Pecos” and his job here was to tame the tornado of destruction brought about by Ryker’s organization.  However, at this point, his attention was keenly focused on following the tail of the tornado down to where it should roughly point to the location of the disk he was to retrieve. 

 

His light followed the path downward and settled on a paperweight.  The Pet Rock, a passing craze of mid-seventies seemed much too easy of a hiding place as Lee picked it up to examine the bottom.  He sat it back down when the disk wasn’t there, not surprised at his lack of success then continued to follow an imaginary line toward the green blotter on the desk.  He raised the blotter’s corner and still found no disk.  It was roughly the size of a quarter and he knew that Bill’s hiding spot would have to be well-concealed, since Ryker didn’t truly trust anyone under his employ.  So, he followed the imaginary line further down to the wood table beside the desk.  A stack of papers covered the table and still no disk.  Undaunted, he dropped to his knees and shone the light under the table where he was greeted to an unsightly sea of hardened used bubblegum, stuck there when Seymour Snyder was done chewing.  A closer inspection noted that four pieces of fresh bubblegum weren’t quite as hard, and a glint from the light revealed the hidden disk.  He pulled away the bubble gum, effectively “gluing” the disk in place and redeposited the gummy mess on another empty spot, until the disk was freed. 

 

“Thanks a lot, Bill,” he thought sarcastically at his sticky fingers, which he wiped on his pant legs.  He then opened the heel of his left shoe, depositing the disk safely inside, before blowing a relieved breath at completing the most important part of his mission.  His next task was to look for any additional instructions or communications Bill might have left for him. 

 

He stepped back and followed his penlight from printout to printout, looking for keywords that would clue him into a hidden message.  He found what he was looking for in between Mr. Spock’s, “Live Long and Prosper” and Ernest Hemingway’s “In order to write about life, you must first live it,” to find the keyword he was looking for: “Geniuses were like storms or cyclones, pulling everything into their path, sticks and stones and dust,” penned by famous aviator Charles Lindberg’s accomplished wife, Anne Morrow Lindberg.  The keywords he was looking for were anything having to do with tornadoes, its properties, or any synonym thereof.

 

He quickly scanned the wall for any other references and found nothing else, so he refocused back on the message, quickly deciphering it.  “Cyclone” was the codename of the third operative involved in the mission, the one Johnson explained was working the nuclear threat from another angle.  He was under the impression that Cyclone was working the mission at the source of the nuclear stockpile slated for destruction, so he didn’t quite know what to make of the message.  He figured it would make sense at the right time and conducted one last check of Bill’s wise quotes, including Plato’s assertion that “Love is a serious mental disease,” and satisfied himself that he had gleaned everything. 

 

He headed to the door, listening for signs of anyone in the hallways and left, making sure to look up at the hidden camera at the end of the hall, which would positively identify him once Bill blew the whistle on him.  He returned safely to his room on the other wing of Ryker’s complex and waited for the proverbial manure to hit the fan.

 

* * * * *

 

The next day he went about his business expecting Ryker to confront him at any moment, but if anything, his new boss seemed to take him further into his confidence.  As it turned out, Ryker turned out to be the middleman of the plan to steal not one, but two, nuclear missiles from the stockpiles slated to be destroyed as a result of the recent de-nuclear agreement.  He had been approached by men who had purported that not only could they steal the nukes, but the paperwork for the inspection teams would be clean. 

 

“That’s a pretty tall order, Mr. Ryker,” Lee commented, after Ryker explained the matter.  “Just how are they going to steal two missiles without someone noticing?  I’m damn good at what I do, but even I couldn’t pull off swiping two missiles from under their noses.  Their size alone…” he said with a shrug but stopped as Ryker smiled knowingly and poured himself another drink.

 

“Well, it would be a trick stealing a nuclear missile, wouldn’t it?” he asked, obviously playing with Richards’ current confusion.  He carried his drink back to his high-back, leather winged-chair and sat down, taking a swallow before letting his newest associate in on the plan.  “But what if we only took the most important part of the missile?” he asked, swishing the ice around the dark liquid.  His hair was styled to perfection, and his expensive Armani suit was fitted and worn without a tie.  He was in his mid-forties and was clearly living in the luxury his “business” deals afforded.

 

Realization hit as Lee smiled. “You’re just going to steal the nukes and let them destroy an empty missile,” he stated with an evil grin and an appreciative twinkle in his eye, playing his part of a thief and traitor to perfection.

 

“Missiles are a dime a dozen in certain countries of the world.  All we need to do is supply the nukes and let our buyers work out how to retrofit them into their delivery devices.”

 

“Sounds like a plan, only…” Lee questioned, but stopped as Ryker smiled again.

 

“Only, how does one go about removing a nuclear device from a missile?” Ryker asked, finishing Lee’s question for him.

 

“Exactly, it’s got to be a pretty technical endeavor,” he agreed.

 

“That’s what I like about you, Lance, you’ve got a head on your shoulders, which I intend to take advantage of when it comes time to deal with the buyers,” he added, taking another swig and emptying the alcohol from the glass.  He continued swishing the ice cubes around the glass, watching the melting cubes almost distractedly.  “Still confused?” he asked, setting the glass down and leaning forward to converse with Lee, in a move that said he had come to respect him in the short time he’d been aboard.

 

“Completely, I mean, as good as I am, I wouldn’t know how to disconnect a nuke,” he admitted, even though Lee Crane was capable of doing it, he knew that Lance Richards wouldn’t be able to accomplish such a feat.

 

“Even with specs?” Ryker asked with a raised brow.

 

“I’m good with specs, Mr. Ryker, you know that, but disconnecting a live nuclear device isn’t a job for amateurs,” he answered frankly.  He was well aware that ONI was handling this part of the mission with another operative, but he was in a perfect position to learn about the heist and couldn’t allow this opportunity to slip away.

 

“You’re so right, Lance.  That’s why I’ve secured a scientist, one who actually worked on the development of the missiles.”

 

Lee’s brow tightened, it was the right amount of surprise as Lance Richards, and successfully hid his very real concern for the information Ryker had freely shared.  Ryker had the funds and the means to pull this off.  It was a dangerous combination, and for the first time, he really believed the heist was possible. 

 

“I knew you’d appreciate the set-up,” Ryker said, sitting back and reaching for a cigarette.  “Lucas thinks that any idiot with a screwdriver can pry the nuke loose,” he mocked, referring to his right-hand man who as of late, had taken a noticeable backseat to Lance Richards’ superior abilities and skills.  Ryker wasn’t blind to Lucas’ envy and indeed, rather enjoyed the rivalry.  It kept his associates from becoming complacent and in turn, encouraged them to work even harder to retain his favor.  “In fact, this particular scientist is on the disarmament inspection committee,” he added, blowing a satisfied puff of smoke out.

 

Lee whistled between his teeth.  “There’s got to be a story behind why he would be willing to risk his career to be involved,” he questioned, looking for whatever information Ryker was willing to share.

 

“Greed is usually enough, but in this case a healthy shot of bitterness sealed the deal.  His work was over-looked and whatever scientific credit he was seeking went to another scientist,” he explained, a thin smile spreading across his face at the major victory he had secured for his plans.

 

Lee chuckled, joining his boss in appreciation for the scheme and sat back, his own glass empty in his hand, having not been invited to refill it.  Instead, he sat back waiting for Ryker to clue him in what to do next.  Too many questions were dangerous, so he needed to back-off and play the part of a high-tech criminal, not an undercover operative ferreting out information.

 

“Now that you know that the nukes are attainable,” Ryker continued, “I want you to ensure the best price for this organization.  My original contract was for a small, inconsequential country seeking to buy a nuke like they were buying surplus war rifles,” he added sarcastically.  “It would have been a healthy profit, but I expect you can broker a much more profitable deal,” he added, his tone informing Lee that this wasn’t a request, but a command to produce a higher profit in order to retain his high-standing in Ryker’s organization.

 

“I can do it,” Lee returned confidently.

 

“Good,” Ryker answered without emotion, Richards’ answer was not only expected, it was the only one that was acceptable.

 

“When will the merchandise be ready to sell?” Lee asked, seeking a time-frame for the heist.  He knew he was about to be extracted, and this information was just as vital as the disk he now carried in the heel of his shoe.

 

Ryker blew another breath of smoke out, then casually ground the spent cigarette into the ash tray beside him.

 

“Within the week,” Ryker answered flatly.

 

“All right, I’ll get on it, Mr. Ryker,” Lee replied standing and taking the cue from his boss that the conversation was over.

 

* * * * *

 

Lee returned to his room, a rather large two-room suite with its own desk and sitting area, presumably to begin making preparations for the sale.  He headed to his desk to make a few phone calls which he knew would be monitored, just to make sure he could show he was putting forth some work.  Though these calls were made to several of Lance Richards’ real contacts obtained by ONI and would do him no good in passing along information to ONI. 

 

He expelled a breath and realized that what he needed was for Bill to expose his “theft” so that the unsavory duty of being Rocco’s punching bag could commence, putting the extraction plan into high-gear.

 

“What are you waiting for, Bill?” he asked silently, feeling the need to report sooner, rather than later.

 

* * * * *

 

“We’re almost there, Chaser,” Welby encouraged.  “I can see the flattop up ahead.  The Doc’s going to fix you up right.”

 

Lee could hear Welby talking to him; his eyes were closed, but he wasn’t unconscious.  He was concentrating on breathing and had managed to keep himself from drifting too far from the voices that had become his anchor.  It was something Chet had said that had kept him from giving in to the weariness and struggling to breathe; to let it all go and succumb to whatever that white heavy curtain of fog in his tunnel vision was offering him.  It was what he saw while undercover, something that concerned him greatly.

 

He felt the helicopter set down on the deck and opened his eyes wearily; almost immediately, his stretcher was in motion.

 

“You’re going to be all right, Chaser.  Just hold on a little longer,” Welby said, from his left side, trotting alongside the stretcher.

 

Lee nodded his thanks, just before the SEAL field medic was forced to allow the stretcher to move ahead when they entered the first hatch on their journey to sickbay.  From that time on, it was all a blur of voices he didn’t recognize urging him to hold on, while they ferried their dangerously injured patient through the bowels of the ship to the care he needed.

 

* * * * *

 

Welby followed Chaser into sickbay, where the doctors were waiting to treat their patient.  He supplied Chaser’s vitals and pertinent information as the Navy physicians worked quickly to assess his greatest need.  His physical appearance was enough to invoke concern from anyone who caught sight of the severely beaten man. 

 

His face bore fully ripened bruises, dark and black in appearance, contrasted by several butterfly bandages on jagged cuts to his cheek and jaw, while a bandage on his forehead still sported dried blood.  His right wrist was immobilized with a field splint, but the most concerning injuries were the ones discovered when the blanket was discarded, revealing dark bruises covering his sides and abdomen.  Immediately, the doctors were concerned about internal injury.  The hematoma on his left side supported Welby’s assumption that he was bleeding internally, possibly from his spleen.  But even the knife wound on the same side was upstaged by the breathing tube and the possible lung injury, more than likely injured by one of three broken ribs they had already found.

 

“I need X-Ray’s and Scans, and I need the bloodwork Stat,” the surgeon ordered over the hustle and bustle of sickbay’s emergency room.

 

“Commander Crane,” the surgeon said, leaning over and speaking calmly into his ear.  “I know you’re in pain but hold on.  We’ll be prepping you for surgery soon,” he informed.  His words were met by only the smallest of indications that Lee was still conscious.  “Let’s get moving, I need to know what I’m dealing with here,” he urged his staff as the gurney was moved out of Welby’s sight.

 

The young SEAL sighed, it was out of his hands now; he’d done what he could for the operative.  It’s up to the surgeons now, he thought as he blew out a breath of helplessness, mixed with real concern for the injured man.  Up until this point, he’d only known the operative as Storm Chaser, he hadn’t even been aware that the officer was a commander.  It wouldn’t have mattered anyway; every man he cared for got the same dedicated treatment. 

 

“Come on, Welby,” Captain Wilson urged.  “Why don’t you head to the Mess and unwind a little,” he said, it what was more of an order than a suggestion.

 

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Welby replied, walking slowly out of sickbay and finding it hard to leave when Chaser’s condition was so precarious.

 

Chet stood a moment longer, then turned and headed for the Bridge to report and turn over the disc Lee had given so much for.

 

Chapter Eight

 

Chip signed off on the last report in his In-box.  Bobby had stepped up to the plate and taken on the XO duties as they continued their voyage.  Even so, he had struggled to keep up with the workload, especially with Harry and Lee off-boat at the same time.

 

He smiled at the thought of Harry’s reaction to Lee’s assignment, and figured Washington had had an ear-full from the fiery admiral.  Nelson could give as good as he got, so he was sure that ONI’s plan had garnered his full fury.  Though the thought was satisfying, he had finally lost his own fire, which was a good thing.  He had stewed like a pressure cooker ready to explode until he had made peace with Lee’s decision.  Maybe ‘peace’ wasn’t the word for it, he amended silently, but the last words in Lee’s postscript had inadvertently reminded him of Lee’s high sense of duty.  It had helped him to put his best friend’s dedication into perspective, and the memory of Lee playing “prisoner” for the Army-Navy game for a semester had helped him remember what made his best friend tick.

 

He sat back in his chair and leaned his head back, allowing himself a few moments of retrospection as he remembered that particular game and Lee’s homecoming; the Prisoner Exchange.

 

The stadium was packed and the crowds were excited and ready for the big game between the two rivals.  The December day was crisp and cool as both academies marched out their prisoners.  The Midshipmen, in dress blues with their heavy wool overcoats, were escorted to the middle of the field by Army.  Conversely, the Cadets crossed over in their grey dress uniforms and overcoat; each group of men sharply representing the best their respective academies had to offer.

 

Chip was in the tunnel waiting to be released to the field; but even from where he was, he could spot Lee’s tall, lean form marching across the field in front of Army’s colors.  They stopped their precision march at mid-field, facing their Army prisoner counterparts.  Chip watched with personal interest; every Midshipman was proud of the returning prisoners, but it was more than that; he was getting his brother back.  The whole point of a cultural exchange was to live the life of the rivalry academy, so even their time off was spent with their new Army buddies, and they had kept in touch with nothing more than a few phone calls.

 

The Exchange was completed as both sets of prisoners marched in what amounted to a U-turn, to end up in front of their own colors.  The excitement in the tunnel ratcheted up as the former prisoners marched forward and were then dismissed, running into the stands to be greeted by their jubilant classmates.

 

It was the last of the traditions to be completed before the big game and Chip, like many other players, had found himself unable to stand still as the adrenaline coursed through their athletic frames.  He had lost sight of Lee in the sea of Midshipmen welcoming him back in the stands.  But even so, with his best friend back in friendlier territory, his mind was completely on the task of “Beat Army” and the goal “to sing second”.

 

He smiled at the memory.  It had been a sweet victory that year to beat Army 19:14, and when Navy’s Alma Mater was sung last, he couldn’t help the mist swelling in his eyes.  The emotions of the big game had been become even more powerful knowing that his brother was home again. 

 

If only this mission was so simple, he thought wistfully, and contemplating the contrast between the two homecomings; one from a time-honored tradition that amounted to little more than some harmless teasing and pranks, whereas Lee's mission promised a homecoming plagued with injuries and little, if any, recognition for his sacrifice. 

 

He didn’t have time to consider that thought longer, however, when the intercom buzzed, interrupting his contemplations.  He sat forward and reached to press the receive button, instantly returning to acting-captain mode.

 

“Morton here.”

 

“You have a call, Sir,” Sparks relayed, pausing for only a moment before identifying the caller, “ONI,” he finished as Chip’s mouth pursed instantly.

 

“Very well, patch it through.”

 

* * * * *

 

The haze produced by anesthetics greeted him first as he blinked his eyes open.  It took only a moment for him to realize where he was as a soft breath of subdued pain escaped.

 

“I was hoping you’d wake before I had to leave.”

 

Lee rolled his head toward the friendly voice, grateful that the dreaded tube had been replaced by the less intrusive oxygen cannula. 

 

“Hey Welby,” he replied, trying to put as much strength into his voice as possible.

 

“Hello Commander,” he replied, beaming from ear to ear.

 

“I guess your record is still intact?” Lee quipped, his voice rough and tired sounding.

 

“I wasn’t even sure you heard that,” he chuckled in response.  “Yes sir, my record is still good.”

 

“Thanks for pulling me through,” Lee said, stopping to swallow and bear down on the pain beginning to surface again.  The surgeon had already been by to explain that he would be flat on his back for several days and that though the surgery went well, he was still very ill.  They were watching his blood count for signs of internal bleeding again, and he was under close watch for the possibility of dialysis.  And though the antibiotics were on their way to working, the sepsis had pushed back his recovery.

 

“You’re welcome, sir.  You take care out there, sir,” Welby said, standing and giving way to his commanding officer behind him.

 

Lee nodded, too tired for much more as Welby smiled again and headed out of sickbay, while Chet took a seat beside him.

 

Wilson blew out a breath.  “You gave us one hell of a scare, Lee,” he said, sighing loudly.  Lee didn’t really feel the comment needed an answer but allowed a small upturn of his mouth before swallowing back a grimace.  “The Spadefish is about thirty minutes out, so I’ve got to make this short,” he continued.  “This is madness, Lee.  Why do you keep going out there like this?”

 

Lee remained emotionless, despite Chet’s admonishment and spoke evenly, “Has ONI briefed you on the mission?”

 

“No, I just turned over the disk and that was that,” he answered flatly.

 

There was nothing else to be said since Lee couldn’t enlighten him on the specifics, so he gave him the safe answer.  “I agreed to continue taking missions when I took command of Seaview,” he answered graciously.  It wasn’t that he had to explain anything to Chet, but he was aware that his current condition was shocking to even the most hardened battle-worn warrior.

 

“I figured that, but this one wasn’t just a mission.  It was a damn near-suicide run, and I’m pretty sure you knew it ahead of time.  You’ve got to get over this need to be a hero.  You’re in command of every sub jockey’s dream; it should be enough.  Just do me a favor, Lee.  Think about it.  All right, I’m done,” he said trying to lose his fervor and deflating noticeably as his shoulders heaved with his breath out.

 

Lee smiled weakly, allowing Chet his indignation.  “You’ve got a good crew, Chet, and a good boat,” he complimented, changing the subject to better ground.

 

Chet returned his smile, it wasn’t a full one, but he was trying.  “Thanks, Lee.  You just do what the Doc tells you,” he said standing to go.  “And next time, don’t bleed on my deck,” he added, managing a real grin and shaking a finger playfully.

 

Lee’s chuckle faded as Chet left, and then sighed as the pain crept back.  Dr. Chen had allowed the short visit, but was fortunately, ready with his pain medication as the corpsman arrived almost as soon as Wilson left.  He appreciated the relief and closed his eyes.  He would need the rest, figuring he would be debriefed sometime soon, and was actually looking forward to reporting.  Even flat on his back and just out of surgery, he hadn’t lost track of the mission and the very real concern he had for the operatives still in the Bear Cage.

 

* * * * *

 

It had been two days since he had “broken” into Bill’s computer domain, and the young operative still hadn’t exposed him as the “thief”.  Of course, the theft was the red herring to cover for the information on the disk.  When Bill was ready to put the plan into place, he would expose the transfer of cash out of Ryker’s account.  Any amount of money stolen from Ryker would have been enough to land Lee in hot water, but the quarter million that was transferred would ensure an adequately ticked-off criminal boss seeking to teach a lesson to all his associates at Lee’s expense.  Though he wasn’t looking forward to that lesson, it was a necessary part of the extraction of both himself and the disk.  Though extreme, it ensured that should the information be discovered as missing, Lance Richards would be the first and most likely suspect, thereby protecting Bill’s valuable cover. 

 

He had no clue what Bill was waiting for and worked hard to maintain an even keel, as if everything were fine and he wasn’t about to be beaten to a bloody pulp by Ryker’s enforcer.  But the information Ryker had shared with him about the specifics of the plan to steal the nukes from the missiles had upped the ante, and he was anxious to get the necessary pain out of the way in order to report. 

 

The question of what Bill was waiting for was answered when he was invited to dine with Mr. Ryker and his “guest”. 

 

* * * * *

 

Lee dressed appropriately for the formal dinner Mr. Ryker had invited him to attend.  He wasn’t sure if Ryker was playing games with him, but whatever the night held, he needed to appear innocent until the plug was pulled on the charade.  Being invited to dine with Mr. Ryker was a rare privilege and signaled he was either still in favor with his boss… or he was about to be exposed.

 

Wearing a black suit and tie over a white dress shirt, he headed to Ryker’s private wing with the disk safely secured inside the heel of his dress shoes.  As he walked along, he noted that Lucas wasn’t dressed for dinner, indicating that he hadn’t been invited.  He added a small smirk as he passed Ryker’s “right-hand” man, making sure to keep the rivalry between them alive, even though he knew it would ultimately be used against him once he was exposed for the theft.  It was all part of the game, and he played it flawlessly, not letting on that he had “betrayed” Ryker and stolen a quarter million dollars right out from under his nose.

 

He arrived at the dining hall where he straightened his tie as Rocco paused a moment before opening the door and allowing his entrance to the private dinner party.  The dining room was large and opulent with a fully stocked wet bar on one end and a large dining table that was shortened and lengthened with table leaves to fit the need.  By the looks of the room, Ryker was easily able to sit twenty guests to a formal sit-down dinner.  Tonight, however, the table was reduced to fit eight guests, with only four place settings laid out.

 

He spotted Ryker and his guest with their backs turned toward him in a private conversation and headed to the wet bar, where Bill was standing awkwardly by himself.  He managed to keep his amusement tamped down at the sight of the young operative.  He would never get over Bill’s ability to transform himself from a handsome, well-kept officer to a nerdy geek with few social-skills and even less grace in his appearance.

 

He walked to the bar and ordered a Canadian Whiskey with a shot of lime, straight up and greeted Bill. 

 

“Seymour,” he greeted in his cover, which included a smirk for the computer geek’s awkward attempt to “dress” for dinner.

 

Seymour nodded uncomfortably and took a swig from his glass, placing it on the wet bar next to the glass the bartender set down for Lee.

 

“Another ginger ale, Mr. Snyder?” the bartender asked professionally.

 

“Yes, with a cherry this time,” he replied as Lee scoffed, picked up his shot of whiskey and stepped toward the dining table, obviously finding Seymour’s company too boring to even attempt a conversation.

 

“Ah, Lance,” Ryker greeted, turning slightly at the sound of steps behind him, “I want you to meet my very special guest,” he said, turning completely and nudging his guest by the elbow to turn in greeting as well.  “Dr. Fremont this is Lance Richards.”

 

Lee smiled politely and reached a hand for a shake.  “Dr. Fremont,” he greeted.  The scientist’s blond hair contrasted against the black thick-rimmed glasses he wore, and he had a small scar along his chin. He seemed a bit overwhelmed and nervous about the company he was keeping and the subsequent deal he was making.  

 

“Mr. Richards,” Fremont greeted in a hand shake as Bill’s cryptic message suddenly made sense. 

 

Geniuses were like storms or cyclones, pulling everything into their path, sticks and stones and dust.

 

The genius scientist that Ryker had secured to steal the nuclear devices was paying the organization a visit.  Now he understood why Bill was waiting to expose him.  Whatever information he gleaned from dinner tonight would need to be reported to ONI once he was extracted.

 

* * * * *

 

Lee shivered under layers of blankets as Dr. Chen listened to his heart then slid the stethoscope from his ears to rest against his neck.

 

“Along with your injuries, we’re still dealing with sepsis,” he explained.  “The narrow-spectrum antibiotic given on the submarine wasn’t enough to prevent the infection.  However, the broad-spectrum was administered within an hour of your first symptoms, so you have a good chance of beating the sepsis without complications to your organs.  Unfortunately, even though your sepsis was diagnosed early and is considered mild, it’s still a very dangerous condition and it’s going to buy you at least an extra week in the hospital, and that’s after the infection is eradicated.  I’m afraid you’re looking at the next ten to fourteen days in bed,” he added.

 

“Okay, Doc,” Lee agreed wearily, at the rate he was currently feeling that sounded just about right.  “Is ONI aboard yet?”

 

“Yes, but I’m not sure you’re up to a debriefing, Commander.”

 

Lee swallowed.  “I just need a few minutes, Doc.”

 

Dr. Chen looked down at his patient and breathed heavily in thought, considering the price his patient had paid to fulfill his duty.  “Very well, Commander, but not for a full interview.  I’ll give you a few minutes and that’s all,” he answered resolutely.

 

“That’s all I need.”

 

The doctor nodded and added a concerned smile, then stepped away to inform the captain of his patient’s request.

 

* * * * *

 

“And this is Mr. Snyder,” Ryker said, turning Dr. Fremont’s attention to Bill.  The young man had attempted to “dress” for dinner, but his brown polyester leisure suit with white threaded seams was five years out of style and hung woefully too large on his lean frame.  Additionally, he had attempted to style his hair with tonic, but ended up producing a greasy uneven part instead.  Ryker would have been embarrassed had Dr. Fremont not shown his own lack of style in wearing a frumpy brown suit he had deboarded the plane in earlier in the day.  He figured it was a genius thing and ignored their lack of finesse; they were under his employ for their brains, not their fashion sense.

 

Bill extended a hand, offering a weak handshake to Dr. Fremont.

 

“Seymour here is a computer whiz, and I do mean whiz,” Ryker bragged.  “He’s worth his weight in gold and has been monitoring the stockpile database.”

 

Fremont finished the shake and withdrew his hand from the awkwardly weak shake executed by both men.  “He broke into the government nuclear stockpile database?” he asked incredulously.

 

Lee took a swig of his whiskey and listened with interest as Ryker smiled widely.

 

“Oh yes, Dr. Fremont.  We’ve been monitoring your progress to make sure the goods you promised arrive without a ‘government escort’,” Ryker quipped, as Lee and Fremont chuckled along with their host.  Bill, however, just cleared his throat and looked down, uncomfortable with his work being discussed openly and not wise enough to know that he should laugh at anything his boss said that was remotely humorous.

 

“And Mr.… Richards is it?” Fremont asked as Lee nodded an affirmative.  “What is his part in this endeavor?”

 

“Lance is new to the organization, but he’s been in the business for a good many years.  His connections with the military electronics ‘buyers’ will net us a handy profit.  I just can’t advertise this in the Sunday papers, you know?” Ryker said playfully. 

 

“Of course not,” Dr. Fremont agreed before turning toward Lee.  “I do so hope that you know the right people, Mr. Richards, you can’t sell a nuclear warhead to just anyone you know?” Fremont said, hypocritically ignoring the fact that he was a disgruntled nuclear scientist who thought he could keep his scruples by questioning the buyer’s list.

 

“Oh, I’ll be careful,” Lee replied, finishing off his drink while looking over his glass at Ryker and feigning an attempt to hide his smirk for Fremont’s attempt to find honor among thieves and rotten nuclear scientists attempting to soothe their guilty conscious.

 

“Ah yes, the staff is ready to serve dinner.  Shall we gentlemen?” Ryker invited with a sway of his hand toward the table, his congenial behavior an attempt to appear harmless to Fremont since the scientist was clearly uncomfortable.  Indeed, this dinner was his attempt to ease the scientist’s mind.  It was his understanding that the nukes would be secured within the week and that Fremont desired a face to face to ensure certain things.  Of course, his payment was first and foremost on his mind, though his second concern was that the nukes would go to a “responsible” country and not to “rogue states”, as he put it.  Ryker thought it was laughable that the scientist even thought he could influence his decision where the product went; but until he actually had the nukes in hand, he would appear to be genuinely interested in Fremont’s concerns.

 

* * * * *

 

ONI had informed Chip Morton that Lee had been extracted and was currently aboard an aircraft carrier somewhere in the Atlantic.  As Seaview’s acting captain, he had received the call as a courtesy, but he figured that Lee had requested it personally.  He’d been informed that his best friend was in serious, but stable condition.  It hadn’t been unexpected, Lee had warned him to expect as much, but the call had been sobering.  He understood that Lee was to remain aboard the carrier for three days, before being transferred to shore for the rest of his recovery at a Naval base hospital.  Other than that, they hadn’t offered any more details as to Lee’s condition.

 

With the Admiral away and FS1 not at his disposal, there wasn’t much he could do but finish the voyage.  Seaview was currently four days from Santa Barbara, and so he’d just have to wait.  He was grateful that Harry would at least be able to fly out to the carrier.  It was a comforting thought to know that Lee wouldn’t be alone while he was apparently so seriously injured.

 

Chip signed off on the log book before turning over the conn and heading up the spiral staircase.   He had promised Lee that he’d look after Seaview, and that included tucking her in at night with a boat walk-through.  But first, he needed to work off some pent-up energy in the weight room.

 

* * * * *

 

“Commander Crane.”

 

Lee roused himself, unaware that he had drifted off.

 

“I’m Captain Taylor, ONI.”

 

“Captain,” Lee greeted, his forehead creasing unconsciously and obviously uncomfortable.

 

“Dr. Chen says we have to cut this short,” Taylor said, leaning in to hear.  A privacy curtain was in place, but it wasn’t the best circumstances for reporting on a top-secret operation.  “Do you have pertinent information not contained on the disk?” he asked, whatever shock he might have had at the operative’s condition had been well-concealed.

 

Lee nodded and swallowed.  “I don’t know what’s on the disk, so this may be repetitive,” he stopped to take a breath.

 

“Go on.”

 

“Cyclone was at Ryker’s, I expect you know that much,” Lee reported.

 

“The SEAL team reported seeing him at the warehouse,” Taylor replied.  “But we’ve been out of contact with him for several weeks.”

 

“I figured that’s why he insisted on meeting Ryker, to inform ONI that the deal is to take place in five days.  Pecos waited three days until he arrived before exposing me so I could bring this information to you.”

 

“Five days… that would be Wednesday?” he clarified.

 

“Aye sir, no details of the sale were discussed,” Lee continued.

 

“It’s been prearranged,” Taylor informed, unconcerned with the lack of details on that front.  “Very well.  Did Cyclone pass any code words?”

 

“No sir.  We were never alone and he made no attempt to sneak any codes under the radar.”

 

Lee’s next breath was mixed with a subdued groan.

 

“Okay Commander, I think your doctor has a hypo with your name on it,” Taylor said standing.

 

“Wait sir,” he said, slightly out of decorum for speaking with a superior officer.

 

“Go on,” Taylor replied, dropping to his seat once again.

 

“As far you know… Cyclone and Pecos are still good?”

 

Taylor nodded.  “Every indication is their covers are still good.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

Taylor placed a hand on Lee’s shoulder and squeezed lightly.  “Well done, Storm Chaser,” he said, before standing and leaving quickly in order to make a secure call and get ONI ready for the storm clouds ahead that promised to unleash a supercell of tornadic activity. 

 

* * * * *

 

Lee returned to his room after dinner and dropped heavily into his desk chair, recalling Bill’s cryptic message and finally understanding its meaning:

 

Geniuses were like storms or cyclones, pulling everything into their path, sticks and stones and dust.

 

When Ryker had informed him about securing a scientist to remove the nuclear devices and alter the stockpile records, he had naturally believed the “genius” traitor to be a great threat to national security.  So, he was completely caught off guard when he met Dr. Fremont and recognized the ONI operative; codename Cyclone.

 

He had no idea why ONI had kept him in the dark concerning Cyclone or his mission, but it now made sense that in order to send Ryker away for good, they would need irrefutable evidence of his crimes.  Bill had worked from the inside and Cyclone from the outside; together, their evidence would shut down Ryker for good and bring in many of his business contacts as well.

 

He understood now why Bill had waited to expose him.  If Cyclone’s cover was as deep as his and Bill’s then likely the only way to inform ONI of the impending sale was through him.  He had always intended on making it home, but this information made it imperative.  Cyclone was counting on him to deliver the message of the impending storm, and the burden of becoming the diversion now extended to protecting two operatives.

 

He took a deep breath and then stood, loosening his tie and heading to the changing room.  He returned a few minutes later wearing a pair of black jeans and a short-sleeved polo shirt and carrying his black dress shoes.  He adjusted the left heel, quickly transferring the disk to the heel of the casual shoes he now wore.

 

He stood and blew a breath out then headed for his desk to appear to be working.  If he hadn’t missed his guess, Bill was about ready to make a “discovery” of missing funds and he couldn’t afford to be “caught” in bed wearing pajamas.  He needed to be dressed with the disk safely stowed away in his shoe.  It was going to be a long night, and even a longer day tomorrow.

 

The storm clouds had risen on the horizon; a dangerous anvil storm cloud was in sight; and the heavy rains and winds were heading their way.  The three operatives had just stepped into the Bear Cage.

 

Chapter Nine

 

Lee’s face was pale, especially against the dark bruises and stark white bandages.  Dr. Chen had assured him that the broad-spectrum antibiotic was working, but it would be a rough ride until the sepsis was completely eradicated.  He had spent the last three days shivering and feeling ill and miserable.  It hurt to breathe with a healing lung and broken ribs, and the knife wound’s dull ache often spiked if he moved wrong.  His doctors were weaning him down from the higher levels of pain medication in order to prevent addiction, which he appreciated, but he was no longer pain free.

 

Not for the first time, he tossed his head uncomfortably; more from concern he still had for his fellow operatives and his inability to help them at this point.  To make matters worse, Chet’s words were weighing heavily on him.  He had been gracious and had allowed his old friend to make assertions about his motives for accepting a mission that promised such a physically disastrous outcome, but the more he thought about it, the more it bothered him.  Perhaps it was the physical pain and general lack of wellness he now felt, but the worry for his fellow operatives had now been coupled with a new burden Chet had laid upon him; that he was letting Seaview down.  It was a paradox of emotions that he wasn’t physically up for solving, because if he had the choice to do it all over again, he still would have gone on the mission.  So how could he resolve the fact that to protect his country and two operatives’ lives, he had to completely put Seaview out of his mind.  It should have been an easy solution, but he was too ill to reason things out, so he had spent the last three days tormenting himself with self-accusations that perhaps Seaview deserved better than a part-time captain.

 

By the third day aboard the carrier, Dr. Chen decided that he had improved enough to transfer to a Naval hospital.  He was currently tucked into a stretcher and was heavily sedated for the ride, and at least for a short time, was far from the concerns that had plagued and tormented him.

 

* * * * *

 

Lee was at his desk attempting to stay busy when he received a knock on his door.  He’d kept himself busy all morning and it was approaching late afternoon.  He was surprised that it had taken this long for Bill to get the ball rolling and was ready to get the “necessary roughness” over so he could report what he knew.

 

This is it, he thought silently as he walked to the door.  He opened it half-expecting to find a gun staring back at him, but found Lucas standing there instead.

 

“Mr. Ryker requests your presence in his drawing room,” he said evenly, showing no hint of anything unusual except their already established dislike for one another.

 

“All right, let me shut-down my computer,” Lee said starting to turn for his desk before Lucas interrupted his first step.

 

“Mr. Ryker wants to see you now.”

 

Lee nodded.  Mr. Ryker was the boss, and what Ryker wanted; Ryker got.  “Okay, let’s go,” he conceded, staying cool until he was exposed.  Until then, he would act the part of a loyal member of Ryker’s organization.

 

The two walked to the other wing in silence.  They weren’t friends, and were in fact by design, bitter rivals, so neither one felt compelled to carry on any cordial conversation.  When they reached Ryker’s drawing room, he was surprised to see Dr. Fremont there.

 

Maybe Bill hasn’t pulled the plug yet, he wondered and stepped forward to greet Ryker and his guest.

 

“Lance, come in, come in,” Ryker said, obviously still attempting to appear harmless for the “timid” scientist’s sake.

 

Lee put on his own smile.  “You wanted to see me Mr. Ryker?”

 

“Yes, I’ve got a shipment being delivered to the warehouse on the south side of town within the hour.  Dr. Fremont and I still have matters to discuss, so I’d like you to oversee the shipment.”

 

“Of course, Mr. Ryker.”

 

“Lucas will join you, but I’m placing you in charge of the shipments on this one,” he informed.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Ryker.  I’ll get right over there,” he replied, showing the right amount of respect and appreciation for the honor of taking the lead over his right-hand man.

 

“Try not to kill one another,” Ryker added with a chuckle.

 

Lee responded with a knowing grin; both men fully aware that Lucas would be none too happy taking a backseat on this assignment.  He left with a polite nod toward Dr. Fremont and hiding his silent confusion as to why Bill hadn’t exposed the “theft” yet.  It could only mean there was more to report, so there was nothing to do but keep playing the game.

 

* * * * *

 

Lee and Lucas drove silently to the south warehouse, their dislike for one another palpable.  Lee figured he’d have plenty of time to play the rivalry game once they got there and was content to let Lucas seethe in his own jealousy.  He was sure to pay the price once his “thievery” was exposed, but to play his cover completely, he had to be ambitious and step on anyone to get ahead.

 

They arrived at the out-of-the-way warehouse on the end of a very lonely street at the edge of town, and was bordered on two adjacent sides by the dense, untamed island forest.  Lee exited the black, late model sedan and looked up and down the street.  His sixth sense kicked in, noting the perfect spot for an ambush.

 

“Where’s the truck?” Lee asked.

 

“It’s not due for another fifteen minutes,” Lucas answered all too helpfully.

 

Okay, so this is it, Lee thought silently, realizing that he had done his job.  He had chased the storm past the tempest’s curtain of rain and had entered the Bear Cage.

 

* * * * *

 

“It’s the precipitation that wraps around a mesocyclone.  Within the mesocyclone a tornado can occur.  The ‘cage’ is a curtain of heavy precipitation that wraps around the rotating updraft.  If a bear is present it will be a tornado.  When a storm chaser goes in to the bear’s cage they risk being attacked by the tornado.  When precipitation wraps around the rotating updraft, the tornado is not visible unless the storm chaser is very near the tornado, or the rain curtain has not completely wrapped around the updraft.  Many storm deaths occur from not being able to see the tornado coming until it is too late.  There could be a bear lurking on the other side of that rain curtain…”** 

 

He remembered the meteorologist’s description of the Bear Cage from the mission briefing folder as he stepped into the dark warehouse; the late afternoon sun offering little sunlight through the windows that had long since been boarded up.

 

“The lights are over here,” Lucas informed walking a few steps away from him.

 

Lee’s eyes had barely adjusted when he heard something behind him, and as soon as Lucas flipped the lights on he received a devastating blow to the base of his neck.  He dropped heavily, fighting to keep consciousness while struggling to see past the stars the blow inflicted.  He was raised up by rough hands as Lucas’ minions, Edwards and Cox, held him tightly.  He was now standing face to face with the source of the unexpected blow, Ryker’s Enforcer, Rocco.  He was still dazed and hadn’t had time to tighten his muscles when the brute struck a mean blow to his gut, doubling him over and leaving him in the perfect position for the uppercut that sent him to the floor where he was allowed to writhe as he attempted to suck air back into his lungs.  Quickly, he found his lucidity, knowing that Lance Richards would deny any wrong doing, and wouldn’t give his captors anything to use against him.  He couldn’t just give into the beating that was coming; he had to continue to play his part.  More than one life was hanging on how well he did his job.

 

“It’s all over, Richards.  I knew there was something wrong with you, but Ryker thought you were his new golden boy,” Lucas spat out viciously as Lee drummed up his best defiant look.  “You know what I think, Richards?” the heavyset man asked as his thug buddies picked him off the ground.  “I think you’re a stool pigeon.  What?  Did they cut a deal with you?  Is that it?” he asked, drawing Lee close with a fisted hold to his collar.

 

The game was on.  They obviously knew about the theft, but Lucas’ job was to find out how far Lance Richards’ treachery went.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he yelled back defiantly and keeping up the pretense that he was loyal to Ryker as he was dragged across the warehouse, further from the door. 

 

“Frisk him,” Lucas ordered, as Edwards and Cox threw him against the wall and conducted a thorough search, before spinning him back toward his interrogator.

 

“Nothing,” Coleton Edwards reported.

 

“See?” Lee challenged disrespectfully, holding his middle and standing on his own.

 

“You’re the only one who could have done it, Richards,” Lucas countered, moving on since the frisk had come up empty.  “Do you think for a minute I’d believe Cole or Jerry here are even capable of turning on a computer, much less hacking it?”

 

“You’ve got nothing on me, Lucas,” Lee shot back defiantly.  “There’s no way Ryker is going to believe these lies,” he argued, standing his ground and playing up the fact that he had gained Ryker’s trust and continuing the confrontation up as part of their rivalry.

 

Lucas took a step forward, closing the gap between the two.  “Ryker’s on to you, Richards,” he delivered coolly, “seems you’ve been ratted out.”

 

Lee felt the hands restraining him tightened their hold, tugging him back as he leaned forward to counter Lucas’ accusation.  “This is a set-up.  Ryker knows I’m loyal.”  He was pretty sure Lucas was bluffing about the stool pigeon stuff and was fishing for information at this point; but he did know something.

 

“That’s where you’re wrong, Richards,” Lucas said calmly and smiling unnervingly.  “Ryker knows you took a commission for yourself and cheated him out of a quarter million dollars.”

 

Lee stared back into Lucas’ cold eyes; there was no use denying it.  If Ryker knew about the hacking and the quarter million, then the jig was up.  This was exactly what he had come for, to take the punishment and keep the heat off Bill.  Lee steeled his nerves and kept his defiance evident in his hateful glare as Lucas smiled disconcertingly, his victory complete and his spot as Ryker’s right-hand man once again secured.

 

“Now the only thing left to do, is to find out where you stashed the quarter million,” he announced coolly as Lucas backed off and Ryker’s enforcer stepped forward.  A simple tilt of his head and the large, muscle-bound brute moved in, punching an intimidating fist into his cupped hand with every dangerous step forward.

 

Rocco held nothing back, living up to his reputation as his muscled blows measured out the misery he intended.  But for every blow he took, every time his head whipped violently with the punch, every time he felt something move and shift inside his damaged gut, Lee knew he was only warming up.  He was being softened for more than punishment; Ryker wanted his money back.

 

He wasn’t sure how long Rocco had been at him; probably only fifteen to twenty minutes, but he was sure he was amply injured to begin to start spilling the prearranged information.  He only hoped Lucas agreed.  He was wrong, because Rocco kept at him for another ten minutes.  He’d been turned into the brute’s punching bag for probably close to thirty minutes now, and Lucas hadn’t asked him once about the money.  It was unfortunate, because once Lucas started the actual interrogation, he would have to hold out and not give away the information right away.  It was a strategic play to ensure his captors that they were getting everything out of him, and that he wasn’t holding anything back once he started confessing.  It was a necessary ploy to keep the disk in his shoe safe.

 

But Lucas had more on his mind than getting the money back; he was clearly out to get his own personal satisfaction at Lance Richards’ expense.  He purposely allowed Rocco to inflict his punishment without a single question.  Again, Lee was allowed to drop to the floor, no doubt to consider his predicament and wallow in pain.

 

“You know, Richards, Ryker might just be feeling generous.  Tell us where you transferred the money, and maybe he’ll let you live,” Lucas said, offering a poor rendition of the good cop/bad cop routine. 

 

 Finally, the interrogation had begun.  Though he sorely wanted to give up the information now, he had to hold out a little longer.  He needed to be completely at his wit’s end when he gave up the money to ensure that Lucas believed he had nothing else to beat out of him.  So, he defiantly shook his head no and added as dark a face as he could muster under the bruises.  He was sure he spotted a satisfied grin on Lucas’ face when Rocco slipped on the brass knuckles.

 

Damn, this is going to hurt, he lamented silently as he was pulled back up to a stand.

 

Each individual blow did its damage, but it was the totality of injuries that had gotten to him.  His face had opened up in two places leaving a bloody mess, and he had duly felt each individual rib break when Lucas finally called Rocco off.

 

He was allowed to drop to the floor once again; not for mercy sake, but because a good beating needs time to ripen, not to mention the fact that Rocco was now winded and needed a break.  He was too busy trying to pull air into his lungs, taking as shallow breaths as he could without hyperventilating to celebrate the short reprieve.  His right cheek was currently planted on the dusty warehouse floor, the cold cement his only comfort at present.  He was presently too weak to lift his head, as blood ran down his forehead, barely missing his eye on a path of least resistance as it slid down to his cheek. 

 

Even so, his blackened eye followed the sounds of footsteps as Ryker’s computer whiz kid approached, a sure sign they expected him to turn over the money soon.  Behind him stood Dr. Fremont, wringing his hands and he was sure, brought here to witness what happens to men who betray Ryker.

 

Lee’s short reprieve was interrupted as he was unceremoniously pulled back into a semi-standing position.  His legs were weak, and he was admittedly only being held upright by the rough hands on either side of his arms.  He wasn’t sure if the cavalry was in position or not, but he was fairly sure it was time to give up some information.  He’d let Rocco get a couple more shots in before he spilled the beans, just to make it look good.  After that, it was all up to Cyclone, he’d done everything he’d been sent in to do… he just hoped it was enough.

 

“Okay, Richards, it’s time to tell us what we want to know.  We’ve been playing with you up until now,” he said turning Lee’s chin to one side as if to assess the damage.  “A dead man can’t spend his loot you know?” he said trying to entice cooperation then released his chin harshly when Lee refused to answer.  “Rocco,” Lucas said, calling Ryker’s number-one bone breaker forward for a second run at his latest victim.  Rocco smiled evilly, only too glad to fulfill his only purpose in life, to enforce Ryker’s will as brutally as possible.

 

The brass knuckles glinted in the light as Lee tightened his sore stomach muscles, steeling himself against the impending blows.  The first blow sent his head careening to one side as his legs gave way completely, remaining upright solely because of Lucas’ thugs holding him steady. 

 

Another blow… then I’ll spill it, he strategized silently reiterating his plan, but Rocco delivered two deep punches into his side in rapid succession.  The first one took his breath away.  The second one, delivered in the same exact spot, drove the broken rib inwards.  The result was a silent gasp, followed by instant wheezing.  His captors dropped him when Rocco stepped away, obviously a master torturer who knew when to back-off before killing his victim outright.

 

Lee fell hard to the cold concrete floor, barely escaping a secondary head injury by breaking the fall with his extended hand.  This time, his pained scream was audible as he found his voice when his wrist broke in the fall.  He curled in pain, wheezing and tucking his hand into his chest, and agonizingly coughing blood spittle to the floor under him.

 

“Through being greedy?” Lucas asked, dropping to his knee again so Lee could see him.

 

Lee nodded in surrender; he had played the part as he planned it, but he hadn’t expected the interrogation to escalate so quickly.  It had nearly done him in.

 

“Talk Richards,” Lucas demanded, “where did you wire the money?”

 

It was time to give up the information, and he was only too happy to give Lucas the Swiss bank.  He turned over his account number and watched as Bill perfectly played the computer-whiz-kid-gone-bad.  He was nothing but a bystander as Bill transferred the funds and then packed up his computer.  He said something about waiting until he left and then headed toward the door with Dr. Fremont following behind, apparently convinced never to tick Mr. Ryker off.

 

Lucas feigned concern, as if Lee had received his due punishment and was back in the fold, no doubt for Dr. Fremont’s sake.  “Help him up,” he ordered as if the injured man was now welcomed back into the company of Mr. Ryker’s trusted employees.  He turned around, making sure that the computer nerd and the flaky scientist had cleared the building and then turned back and dealt his own mean fist deep into Lee’s gut.  “I’d love to stick around and watch Rocco work,” he said in Lee’s ear as he bent over, gasping for his next breath.  “But I’ve got to follow that little brat back to Ryker’s compound.  Too bad, because I understand he’s going to kill you slowly,” he scoffed victoriously, reneging on his promise to allow Richards to walk away in exchange for the money.

 

“Go to hell, Lucas,” Lee managed to breathe out, a sentiment his cover rendered, but Lee Crane wholeheartedly agreed with.

 

“I’ll get there soon enough,” Lucas answered coldly, “but you’re getting an all-expense paid, one-way ticket there right now; courtesy of Mr. Ryker,” he finished in obnoxious laughter, as his thugs dropped Lee once again and followed Lucas across the warehouse floor.  Rocco followed as well but stopped short of the door where he and Lucas conversed for a moment.  They sealed their conspiracy with evil, foreboding laughter that promised a very painful ending of Richards’ demise.   Lucas exited the warehouse still chuckling, leaving Lee alone with Ryker’s enforcer, Rocco.

 

Chapter Ten

 

Lee opened his eyes upon hearing the door quietly push open and the subsequent rush of air that brushed his face.  He had arrived yesterday and was still exhausted from the move, though he was grateful to be back ashore and closer to any possible updates from ONI.

 

“Hey Chip,” he greeted with a small smile.

 

A long breath greeted him as Chip took in his condition, before pulling the chair closer and sitting down heavily, obviously shocked by his appearance.

 

“Hey Lee.  They uh…told me you were banged up pretty bad…”

 

“Probably looks worse than it is,” he offered with a small shrug.  The head of his bed was only raised fifteen degrees, and his weakness from battling sepsis, along with the other serious injuries was apparent.

 

Chip scoffed and shook his head at Lee’s remark.  He thought he had worked through all the anger before getting there but seeing Lee a mass of bruises and bandages had dredged it all back up again.  “Broken wrist,” he said sardonically with a nod toward Lee’s casted wrist lying across his middle.

 

“Bad luck,” Lee explained emotionless.  “I fell on it…”

 

“While someone was beating the crap out of you,” Chip interrupted.  “Concussion,” he said, continuing his inventory of injuries to debunk Lee’s asinine remark that it looked worse than it was.

 

“I did that on purpose… head butt.”

 

“Knife wound,” the blond added.

 

“The only way I could get him close enough to head butt… it worked too,” he added emotionless.

 

“Your face…” Chip started, but Lee cut him off.

 

“I was doing okay until he put on the brass knuckles,” he informed flatly.

 

Chip pursed his lips before continuing.  “Bleeding spleen.”

 

Lee shrugged.  “Just a tear, stopped bleeding on its own.  They didn’t even have to stitch it.”

 

“Broken ribs.”

 

Lee shrugged and looked away.  Broken ribs happen when your gut is being used as punching bag.

 

“Pierced lung,” Chip continued, noticing Lee had looked away, but barreling ahead nonetheless, relentlessly making his point.

 

“Yeah, that didn’t feel so good,” Lee agreed, swallowing and ready for Chip to tick-off the fact that he had developed sepsis and nearly flat-lined on the chopper, or the fact that the doctors had just barely cleared him from needing dialysis because of taking too many blows over his kidneys. 

 

Chip sat back, his point well taken, but somehow his victory was hollow.  Lee’s current reticence wasn’t right.  He still hadn’t looked back at him and was staring blankly across the room.  Damn, this isn’t what he needed right now, Chip admonished himself.  He was about to quip some brotherly jab and let him off the hook when Lee spoke again.

 

“Don’t bother saying it, Chip.  Chet Wilson already beat you to it,” he said, exposing a hurt that Chip hadn’t expected.

 

“Chet?”

 

Lee swallowed, still staring ahead.  “The Spadefish picked me up.” 

 

There was a short pause before he continued, but Chip could see that Lee was hurting from more than his physical injuries at this point.

 

“Practically the first words out of his mouth were asking when being a sub commander was going to be enough for me… like I’m some sort of adrenaline junkie or something,” he said quietly, staring absently past some spot on the wall.

 

Seeing Lee so affected by Chet’s words should have only added to Chip’s point, but it wasn’t right seeing the fire gone from his best friend’s eyes like this.  Lee often, graciously allowed him to express his own strong feelings over the ONI missions, but he’d never seen him so defeated before.

 

“He said I needed to get over my need to be a hero…”

 

“Chet doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about,” Chip interrupted, suddenly finding his own fire after hearing the accusations against Lee that he knew to be untrue. 

 

“Maybe he’s right,” Lee countered with a small shrug.

 

“I know you Lee,” he answered ardently. “You’re not some adrenaline junkie who needs to be hailed as a hero; or some cocky, self-absorbed idiot who thinks he can cheat death playing spy games,” he continued.  “So, why don’t you tell me the real reason why you did it,” he challenged, his forceful fervency urging Lee to defend himself on the matter. 

 

The silence that followed was deafening, but he had gotten through as Lee slowly turned his head his direction.  His eyes were hauntingly poignant with the intensity Lee often had before a mission; when he was psyching himself up to enter the espionage world.  Chip realized then, that Lee was battling a demon from the mission.

 

“Bill’s still out there,” Lee said his voice soft but strong.  “You remember him?  We worked together in Bishop last year.”  Chip nodded, remembering the mission and the fact that Harry had returned with a bullet wound in his shoulder.  “He’s in the middle of the Bear Cage right now, gathering enough intel to put Ryker away forever, but if they ever find out… what they did to me won’t even compare to what they do to him.  He’ll come back in so many pieces…” he swallowed and continued.  “I was the diversion so that if the intel was spotted as missing, they would think it was me; and if it doesn’t work, Bill’s going to pay the price.”

 

Chip expelled a breath, the weight of Lee’s burden sending a shocking realization throughout his being, while also emphasizing the point that his best friend wasn’t some glory hog looking for medals through some extreme spy-sport.

 

Lee expelled a breath trying to release it all.  “I guess Chet was just trying to help,” he said graciously, sighing and looking away.

 

“He might have been trying to help, but he doesn’t know jack squat,” Chip replied heatedly.  “You’re the least likely officer out there trying to get a medal, and what he said cheapened your sacrifice.  Hell, I don’t like ONI, but it’s you I’m worried about, Lee, not your motives for going.”

 

Lee raised his eyes to meet Chip, this one final question he needed answered.  “Chet thinks I’m letting Seaview down…”

 

“You left Seaview to me to take care of, Lee,” Chip said, sitting back and daring him to say the boat wasn’t in good hands.

 

The point was well-taken, but Lee still wasn’t convinced.

 

“When I leave, I can’t afford to think about her,” he admitted, as if that fact proved Chet’s point.

 

“That’s why you keep coming back home, Lee, because you immerse yourself in your cover,” Chip offered.  “So, you just let me keep worrying about Seaview, and you just keep coming home.  She’ll always be here waiting for you.”

 

Chip’s words were powerful and Lee nodded, swallowing hard before attempting to speak.

 

“Thanks Chip,” he answered.  “I appreciate that more than you know.”

 

Chip could tell his best friend was sincere, but his mood hadn’t changed; nor his concerned countenance.

 

“So,” Chip said, drawing out the word in a purposeful change of subject.  “How’s the Admiral?”

 

When Lee didn’t answer, Chip leaned forward.  “He hasn’t been by to see you yet?” he asked incredulously, knowing that there wasn’t any meeting that could possibly be as important as Lee Crane returning from an ONI mission in his current condition.

 

Lee took a deep breath in before answering, “He’s still in the Bear Cage.”

 

“You said that before.  What’s a bear cage?” 

 

Lee was looking very weary at the moment, and Chip knew his friend’s recovery required rest, but he thought he was finally getting to the heart of his burden.

 

Lee looked down, his eyes almost haunting.  “It’s the part of a storm where a tornado hides, and it’s where the destruction is the strongest.  It’s where the… wind and the circular updraft picks up and destroys everything in its path, leaving nothing but ruin behind.”  He raised his eyes to meet Chip’s.  “I didn’t know it until the very end, but he was the third operative working the mission.” 

 

Chip sat back, the relief of Lee’s homecoming suddenly coming to a crashing halt with the revelation that Harry had been on assignment for ONI the entire time they’d been on the voyage.

 

“So, your part as the diversion…?”

 

“Was needed to protect Har… the Admiral’s cover as well.”

 

* * * * *

 

Lee was keenly aware of when Bill and Dr. Fremont left the warehouse.  He had offered no hint of recognition when he’d been introduced to Fremont at dinner the prior evening. 

 

“Mr. Richards,” Fremont had greeted in a handshake as Bill’s cryptic message suddenly made sense. 

 

Geniuses were like storms or cyclones, pulling everything into their path, sticks and stones and dust.

 

Lee kept his surprise hidden beneath a straight face that years of undercover work produced.  The dyed-blond hair, the black-rimmed glasses, and the scar covering the dimple in his chin were convincing, but he’d know those intense, blue eyes anywhere.  He’d been stunned to realize that Admiral Harriman Nelson, call sign Cyclone, was playing the part of the traitor scientist, Dr. Fremont.  Whatever the rest of ONI’s masterplan was concerning the nukes had been kept from him, but the minute he had left Ryker’s office that day, he knew that the stakes had been raised on his mission.  The umbrella of protection he was wrapping around Bill had now been extended to Harry.  There had to be a reason why Harry had insisted on meeting Ryker ahead of the deal.  He reasoned that Harry was incognito and out of touch with ONI and had used the opportunity in order to report.

 

So, when Rocco approached Lee to finish him off, he pulled out all the stops to ensure he stayed alive long enough to report.  He allowed Rocco to get close enough to pull him in for a devastating head butt, which unfortunately also resulted in an unavoidable knife in his side.  He barely had time to free the blade and ram it deep in Rocco’s chest as Ryker’s henchman attacked again.  He had no choice but to go for the kill, straight in his heart before curling in his own pain, adding blood loss to his already serious injuries.  He was completely done in and had nothing left to fight with when he heard Rocco stir and shuffle closer to him.  Then the lights were cut, and all he could do was wait to see who would get to him first; the SEALS or Rocco. 

 

It seemed like an eternity before Welby showed up, urging him to confirm his call sign.  After that, he was just along for the ride as the SEALS extracted Storm Chaser from Operation Whirlwind.  But every waking moment from that time on, had been spent thinking about his fellow operatives still in the Bear Cage.

 

Chapter Eleven

 

Chip sat beside Lee’s bed, his elbows resting on his knees and having a hard time trying to put everything into perspective.  He'd been so angry and had spent most of Seaview’s voyage trying to come to terms with the fact that Lee accepted a mission that promised him this condition.   He studied his sleeping friend’s injuries, it was hard not to.  The truth was he had never seen Lee come home this damaged before.  There had been close calls… gunshot wounds, but this felt different.  Lee had been beaten to inflict as much damage as possible… as much pain as possible.

 

Damn.

 

He took a deep breath knowing that Lee had accepted this fate willingly to protect a fellow operative in the field.  It had been an easy decision for him, and he did it without a second thought.  Chip knew the reason why; it was the same reason Lee did everything he did.  Even Lee hadn’t been aware that Harry’s life might also benefit from that sacrifice; it had just been the right thing to do.  

 

The reality of what Lee endured was sharply contrasted by Chet questioning his motives for being a field operative in the first place.  It had been an unfair assertion.  A burden his friend shouldn’t have had to bear, especially in his current condition and with his heart still very much on the mission where two fellow operatives’ lives still hung in the balance.  And when one of those operatives was a man Lee considered as close as his own father…

 

Lee expelled an airy breath waking up slowly, interrupting Chip’s contemplation.  The blond sat up, pretending to be interested in the magazine in his lap and allowing his friend to wake up without an audience.

 

“Sorry, guess I fell asleep,” Lee apologized.

 

“No problem,” Chip replied with a small grin.  “You probably don’t want to hear it anyway…” he started in jest.

 

“No, really I do.  Just start from the beginning.”

 

“The entire three-week voyage?” Chip asked in incredulous mock-humor.

 

Lee smiled.  “Yeah, and don’t leave anything out.”

 

Chip chuckled and sat back, ready to render a complete voyage debriefing and offering his best friend the best elixir he could, news from his beloved Seaview.

 

* * * * *

 

The ominous, black clouds above announced the dangerous storm’s arrival.  The typical anvil-head shaped thundercloud signaled a storm of epic proportions on the horizon.  Lee held the steering wheel tightly, fighting the wind outside as he drove into a sheet of rain.  The windshield wipers swishing back and forth at their highest speed did little to aid his visibility.

 

“Where are you?  I can’t see you!” he yelled into a transmitter, and then raised it to his ear to hear over the wind and rain mimicking the sound of a freight train in close proximity.

 

A garbled response was his only reply, so he drove onward as debris flew past his chase vehicle.  Occasionally, he would hear a “ping” on the passenger side and knew the truck was being peppered with projectiles.  It could be rocks, pebbles, or tree branches; he’d even passed a fence post pierced clean through with straw hay, just like it had been hammered in. 

 

He still couldn’t see his partners, so he raised the transmitter once again.  “Give me a land mark or something.  I’m heading east on Road 206,” he yelled once again.

 

This time he was rewarded with a crackle and heavy interference, but a faint voice was heard as well.  “Lee…”

 

He couldn’t make the rest out, but figured he must be getting close, so he continued forward.  Then he saw it.

 

“Funnel cloud!” he yelled into the transmitter.  “Find low ground!”  Suddenly, a loud pop from the passenger window preceded flying glass and rushing wind.  Debris had found its mark and had shattered the passenger window.  He ignored the stings on his cheek as blood dripped down and reached forward to wipe the inside of his window to see past the fog that the defroster wasn’t keeping up with.

 

“I see you!  I’m coming!” he promised and barreled ahead.  Suddenly, he saw it; the tail swooping downward and touching the ground, ripping up everything in its path.

 

“Look out!” he yelled, finally spotting his partners running toward him, but the tornado’s tail suddenly shifted direction and was heading straight for them.  They zig-zagged, but whatever direction they went the tornado followed, as if it were methodically seeking them out.  Then it happened!  “NO!” Lee yelled as the tornado caught up with the running men and snatched Harry and Bill into its grasp.  He was close enough to see their terror-filled eyes but couldn’t hear their calls for help over the sounds of the tornado’s growl.  Suddenly, they were gone, lost in the cyclical motion and overcome by the twister’s power.  Then the tornado switched directions, its path widened and the fringes of the tornado caught his truck, whirling it end over end until it landed in a ditch.  The pain from broken bones and something impaled in his side was nothing in comparison to his heartbreak as he watched the twister move in another direction, leaving behind a path of destruction.  Among the debris, the two broken bodies of Harriman Nelson and Bill Watkins.

 

His eyes fluttered closed as the words of Operation Whirlwinds’ architect, Captain Grant Miller, played in his head, “Scientists call this the bear cage; it’s the precipitation that wraps around the cyclonic air mass associated with a supercell.  It’s a very dangerous place to be, because once inside the bear cage, the tornado can overtake a person before they realize the twister has actually formed…”

 

His eyes fluttered closed with the full realization that Harry and Bill had been overtaken by the tornado, and that all his efforts to save them hadn’t been enough.  As the tornado took off in another direction, he was sure he heard the sinister beastly tornado laughing, taunting his pain as ineffectual and gloating in the untamed power of it destruction.

 

“Lee, wake up,” Chip urged with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

 

Beads of sweat rolled down the injured man's temple as he gasped upon waking, blinking his eyes as the last of the nightmare faded from his eyes and the hospital ceiling came into view. 

 

A nurse rushed into the room to investigate why his heart and blood pressure monitors were spiking in activity.

 

“Just a bad dream,” Chip assured her as she looked over the monitors and assessed the situation herself.

 

“Commander Crane?”

 

Lee swallowed and nodded, before finding his voice.  “Bad dream… I’m okay,” he said, adding a small half-smile.  She returned the smile, her concerned eyes offering understanding as the Navy nurse nodded back.

 

“It’s almost time for another medication dose.  I can ask the doctor about something stronger?” she offered, noting signs of pain in her patient.

 

“No, thank you.  I’ll be fine with what you’ve been giving me,” he insisted, not wanting to risk a dependency.

 

She nodded, blotting away the perspiration from his forehead and noting his monitors returning to normal.

 

“Okay, I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she promised and turned to leave.

 

Lee waited until the door closed and shook his head.  “I hate it when that happens,” he admitted, then smiled unconvincingly, attempting to shake off his embarrassment.

 

“Anything you want to talk about?” Chip asked.

 

“No,” Lee replied quietly.  “Chip, what time is it?”

 

“A little after 1100.”

 

“Wednesday, right?” Lee clarified.

 

“Yeah, Wednesday.”

 

Lee heaved a sigh.  The deal was going down today, and somewhere out there Harriman Nelson and Bill Watkins were still in the Bear Cage… with a Force 5 tornado heading their way.

 

* * * * *

 

Chip stepped out into the hallway looking for a cup of coffee.  Lee’s reticence had continued through the afternoon.  He was quiet and had closed his eyes, but Chip knew he wasn’t sleeping.  He had been more than a little uncomfortable at what he first perceived to be broodiness and wondered if Lee was suffering post traumatically.  But he was interacting with the nurses and when the two of them did talk he seemed all right.  When Lee asked him the time again, he realized that his best friend was waiting for news.  Even though he was safe and far from the mission, his mind was very much there, and Chip realized that the mission wasn’t over for him… not until all the operatives had come home.

 

Lee hadn’t shared the details of his mission, only that he had been the diversion to protect the covers of two operatives, and that one of those operatives was Admiral Harriman Nelson.  To a casual observer, one might think that his concern was only for Harry, the man he was as close to as his deceased father.  But Chip knew that concern was just as intense for Bill Watkins.  Hell, Chip silently amended, Lee had accepted the mission not even knowing who the operative was.

 

He took another sip of the hot coffee and marveled at his friend’s dedication to duty and honor.  He decided it was time to acknowledge that Lee’s ONI missions would receive no less than the same dedication and self-sacrifice he had witnessed many times aboard Seaview.  He refilled his cup from the courtesy coffee cart and sat down, coming to a conclusion that had been a long time in the making.  Chip expelled a breath, realizing that though he didn’t have to like the ONI missions or Lee’s condition upon return, it was time to remove one more burden from Lee’s shoulders; his anger.  The thought was freeing and he finally felt at peace; he only hoped Lee would find his soon.

 

He finished his coffee and crumbled the paper cup in his hand before tossing it in a nearby trash bin, when he heard his name being called.

 

“Commander Morton?”

 

Chip turned and nodded to the superior officer.  “Yes sir.”

 

“I’m Captain Miller, ONI,” he introduced reaching a hand in greeting.

 

Chip returned the shake.  “I hope you have some news for Lee, sir,” he replied honestly but respectfully.

 

Captain Miller nodded in understanding.  “Admiral Johnson and I have been kept fully apprised of Commander Crane’s condition and progress, but the information he passed on required our full-attention at HQ.”

 

“Aye sir,” Chip replied dutifully.

 

 “I understand he briefed you with some details of the mission.”

 

“Very few details, sir.  Just enough to be prepared as Seaview’s acting captain, and to express his concern for the operatives still in the field.”

 

“Very well, since you share a common concern with the mission’s outcome,” he said, cryptically referring to Admiral Nelson’s participation, “you’ve been cleared to participate in the mission debriefing.”

 

“Aye sir, thank you sir,” Chip replied, following Miller into Lee’s room and hoping the Captain had good news for both of them.

 

Chapter Twelve

 

“Commander Crane?” Miller greeted softly.

 

Lee opened his eyes immediately, confirming Chip’s assertion that he hadn’t been asleep after all.

 

“Captain Miller,” Lee greeted the ONI officer’s sympathetic nod after taking in the operative’s many injuries.

 

“I know it’s late in the evening, but Admiral Johnson and I thought you deserved to be briefed as soon as possible.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” he replied, reaching for the controls to raise the head of the bed.

 

“Commander Morton has been cleared for the briefing as well,” he informed to Lee’s nod.  “The disk Lt. Watkins provided and you subsequently retrieved, was everything we hoped for.  Furthermore, the information you passed along regarding today’s operation was invaluable to its success.  I’m pleased to inform you that Ryker and four of his associates have been arrested and are awaiting extradition, which is just a formality.  His ‘host’ island is only too happy to rid itself of his stench,” he added with more emotion than he’d shown thus far.  “Three of Ryker’s men were killed in the raid, not including Rocco Sandusky, whom you dispatched earlier.”

 

Lee nodded; he had already reported the fact and the SEAL team had confirmed it.  He didn’t think it needed any further comment.

 

“What about the other operatives, Sir?”

 

“Admiral Nelson participated in the raid without injury; Lt. Watkins took a bullet straight through his shoulder.  Ripped through some muscle, but I’m told he’s going to be fine.”

 

Lee closed his eyes and breathed deeply in palpable relief, before opening them again. “How did it go down, sir?”

 

“Admiral Nelson delivered the goods according to the mission parameters and once Watkins completed the sale with the bank transfer we moved in.  Unfortunately, Ryker put two and two together regarding the timing and started firing.  Watkins was hit before Ryker was brought down; he was shot in the leg by the way and has already been treated.  He won’t be getting out of his trial that easily, and we’ve got enough evidence to put him away for three lifetimes,” Miller assured confidently.

 

Lee blew a satisfied breath out then grimaced when his damaged lung and broken ribs protested.

 

“Commander,” Miller said, noting Lee’s discomfort.  “There is no doubt in any of our minds, that the operation would not have enjoyed a successful outcome without your sacrifice.  The evidence Watkins provided in the disk you secured was just the tip of the iceberg, but what he was able to secure in those five days prior to the raid was unquestionably the most important.  Furthermore, your report of the deal was vital in timing the raid.  ONI thanks you for your service and your sacrifice, and I want to personally thank you.”  He lowered his eyes a moment in thought before continuing.  “These types of operations may feel like we’re just callously moving pieces around on a chess board,” he offered candidly.  “We plan everything out to the most finite detail; but I can assure you, I never lose sight that those chess pieces are men, giving their all for a higher good.  I just want you to know that.”

 

“We all do our part, Captain,” Lee returned graciously.  “It was a good operation, sir.  You had the players pegged right and there weren’t any surprises… except for one notable one.”

 

Captain Miller smiled; he wasn’t surprised that the operative was calling him on that little detail.

 

“There was some… discussion about how much to tell you,” he admitted.  “It was decided that you were already carrying a heavy enough burden, Commander, and by the looks of you, I’d have to agree.”

 

“I’m not sure I agree with that, sir.  And I can tell you, I had to do a bit of an acting job when I was introduced to Dr. Fremont,” Lee disagreed as respectfully as possible.

 

“I’ll note that for future reference,” Miller conceded with a small smile, knowing that Crane deserved the right to object after being left out on Harriman Nelson’s part in the operation; and he had paid dearly for his right to beg to differ with his superior officer on this one.

 

Lee returned his smile, accepting that that was all the concession he was going to get and releasing the seriousness of the debriefing to the welcome relief that his fellow operatives had been pulled safely from the Bear Cage.

 

“Get some rest, Commander.  I imagine Admiral Nelson and Lt. Watkins will be here sometime tomorrow, they’re both anxious to see you I’m told,” he said, taking a step away and then turning back.  “And well-done, Storm Chaser,” he added smiling widely, as the architect of Operation Whirlwind reveled in the success of bringing down another bad guy.

 

“Thank you, sir,” Lee replied, finally relaxing and allowing the mission to at last, come to a close.

 

* * * * *

 

Chip was invited to the debriefing only as a courtesy, so he wisely kept his comments to himself.  Captain Miller left with a nod his direction, with Chip returning the gesture before stepping closer to Lee’s bed.

 

“Storm Chaser?” he questioned with a raised eyebrow and purposefully keeping the mood light.

 

Lee smiled and chuckled, his mood definitely lighter than it had been since he arrived.  “My call sign for Operation Whirlwind,” he explained.

 

“Whirlwind… as in tornado?” Chip assumed to Lee’s nod.  “Okay that fits,” he deadpanned, recognizing the metaphor in the light of Lee’s present condition.  “What about Watkins?” he asked out of curiosity, now that he had been briefed and was obviously cleared regarding the mission.

 

“Pecos,” Lee replied, grinning and holding his side.

 

“As in Pecos Bill?” Chip asked incredulously and laughing out loud at the tall-tale metaphor of the Texas cowboy that tamed a twister.  It was good to see Lee relaxed again, as the two enjoyed the lighter side of the espionage world.

 

“He was riding out the twister from the inside,” Lee explained, definitely seeing the humor in Bill’s call sign now that the mission was over.

 

“Who makes up this stuff?” Chip jested in laughter before composing himself.  “Okay, what about the Admiral?”

 

“Cyclone.”

 

“Cyclone?” Chip queried furrowing his brow.  He understood the tornado analogy referring to Ryker’s organization, so he wasn’t sure why they had chosen the synonym for Harry’s code name.

 

“Technically, a cyclone is any kind of circular wind storm, and so people tend to think they’re tornadoes, but more directly, it’s a strong tropical circular wind storm found off the coast of India…”

 

“So, in essence, the Admiral was the storm from the sea,” Chip interrupted and finished for him.

 

Lee nodded and grinned at how Harry’s call sign could easily fit him in several different instances beyond this particular mission.

 

“Okay, so how does Captain Miller play into all this?” the blond asked, figuring he might as well get the whole story.

 

“He was the Weatherman.”  Chip’s brow rose in question as Lee continued.  “He was the architect of the operation, predicting the storm and exactly how it would react.”  There was a moment of silence before Lee spoke again.  “And he was right about everything.  It was a well-planned, well-executed operation all the way around,” he complimented.

 

Chip sighed audibly and leaned his elbows forward onto his knees.  “And you were Storm Chaser,” he repeated, coming full circle and understanding full-well what Miller had envisioned when coming up with Lee’s call sign.

 

The mood got heavy again until Chip broke the silence.  “Lee?”

 

“Yeah,” he replied, figuring he was about to receive the full fury of Chip Morton’s wrath for allowing himself to be put in this position willingly.  He was feeling better now that Harry and Bill were safe, and figured he’d just let his best friend get it out of his system.

 

“Do you remember the Army/Navy Game after the Prisoner Exchange?”

 

Lee smiled, accepting Chip’s sudden change of topic and sighing at the memory.  “Great game,” he replied contently.  “Navy won…”

 

“Nineteen: fourteen,” they finished in unison, and then chuckled.

 

“That was a long time ago,” Lee said with a yawn, his smile fading into a satisfied grin.  The high intensity of the mission, even after he had been extracted had finally caught up with him; and whatever adrenaline or pure will-power he was drawing from, had suddenly begun to give way to the rest his recovering body desperately needed.  His eyes closed unwittingly and for once, he didn’t fight it.  “Great game,” he repeated in a near-dream state, before sleep found a willing participant.

 

Chip’s own smile faded.  He hadn’t wanted to get too sentimental with his best friend/practically brother, so he had just let the memory settle on the game for Lee’s sake.  But the unspoken sentiment brought a lump to his throat when he remembered that the best part of that game wasn’t the 40-yard run he had made that set-up a game winning touchdown pass.  No, the best part of that game was having his brother back home again. 

 

“Welcome home, Lee,” he whispered, before lowering the lights and stepping out into the hospital corridor.  He rubbed his forehead, pulling back the strong emotions before placing his service cap on his head and walking toward the elevator. 

 

* * * * *

 

“Good morning,” Chip greeted the next morning and then furrowed his brow at Lee’s obvious discomfort.  “What happened?” he asked concerned at Lee’s taunt expression and obvious weariness.

 

“I’m fine,” Lee said with a sheepish smile.  “Just that first stroll out of bed… it’s always the hardest.  The meds are starting to kick in now, I’ll be all right.”

 

Chip nodded and sat down with a sympathetic smile.  “Well, if it’s any consolation, your face is looking a lot better.”

 

Lee cracked a half-smile; his injuries were a week old, so the dark angry bruises had given way to an assortment of purple and green hues.  The cuts had healed enough for the butterfly bandages to be removed, and the swelling had receded almost completely.  “Thanks… I think.  I got a look in the mirror this morning,” he said with a shrug, not finishing the thought that he still looked as if he stepped in front of a freight train.

 

“Going to put a damper on your dating life for a couple of weeks,” Chip deadpanned.

 

“Didn’t you tell me once that women like the “rugged” type?” Lee replied, matching Chip’s attempt to keep the mood light.

 

“Rugged yes, but the ICU look is definitely out,” the blond jested playfully as the two broke out in gentle laughter.

 

“Ow… don’t make me laugh, Chip,” Lee pleaded jokingly, holding a protective hand over his side. 

 

“Is this a private party or can anyone come?” a familiar voice asked.

 

Lee’s relief was palpable as Admiral Nelson entered the room, followed by Lt. Bill Watkins, his arm tucked into a blue sling.  “Come in, Admiral; Bill,” he said, recovering quickly.  “You two are a sight for sore eyes.”

 

Lee’s words were met with slight chuckles at the unexpected pun from the man whose face still sported the evidence of his ill-treatment.

 

Chip stood and stepped back as Harry made is way over, his smile fading as worry lines etched deeply into his forehead.

 

“How are you doing, Lee?” he asked, dropping the light banter as his pent-up concern for Lee rose to the surface, especially after having had to witness the beating and not able to do anything about it.

 

“I’m doing better, Sir, feeling stronger every day.”

 

Harry pursed his lips, not one to show too much emotion with others in the room but seeing Lee’s condition had brought back the concern he’d had to bury during the operation. 

 

“I have to tell you Lee, I fought for a better solution than this,” he said, taking in the cast and healing bruises.  He’d already had a full briefing on Lee’s injuries and recovery, but it was hard to get the images from the warehouse out of his mind.  He had watched as “Dr. Fremont”; wringing his hands and playing the part of the flaky scientist selling out his country, while withholding all real concern for the man he regarded so highly.  And then to know that he was taking the punishment dished out for the sake of their covers... it was almost too much to bear.

 

“It worked out, Sir.  Captain Miller had everything pegged perfectly and I knew what I was getting into,” Lee assured.  Harry nodded back and smiled in the relief of finally seeing him for himself.  They both needed to move on so he nodded toward Watkins who had hung a few steps back with Chip.  “How are you, Bill?” he asked with a concerned glance at the young officer’s sling.

 

“I think I fared much better than you, Lee,” he replied stepping forward and dropping the formal honorifics as the operatives often did.  Of course, Admiral Nelson was another matter and he had respectfully retreated back to his proper title at the mission’s end.  “I’m really sorry about what happened, Lee.  I wasn’t happy with the plan either,” the slender but fit young man added.  While Harry wore his dress blues, Bill had opted for civvies since his hair was out of regulation.  His handsome face was no longer lost behind thick glasses and an unattractive hair style, and his nerdy appearance had given way to the confidence and demeanor of the able officer.

 

“I know.  Miller told me that you both objected.  I accepted the mission before knowing it was you, Bill, and they kept your part from me, Admiral.  I knew about Cyclone, but nothing else.  I accepted the mission on its merit alone, so there’s no burden for you to bear,” he assured both men.  “And it probably looks worse than it actually is,” he added to Chip’s loud groan from behind, Harry’s audible sigh of disagreement, and Bill’s incredulous “you’ve got to be kidding look”.

 

They all broke out in light laughter as Lee intentionally used the line he knew hadn’t worked on Chip.  He was a mess, and there was no use denying it.  Their chuckles died down and Lee sighed, content to have this moment of camaraderie with his friends.

 

“Captain Miller gave me the shortened and condensed version of the mission, but I’d really like to hear it from you,” Lee said, as Harry nodded, taking the chair beside his bed, while Bill rolled over the doctor’s stool, and Chip leaned against the wall.

 

“Well, as you know by now, I was tagged for the mission weeks before ONI contacted you…” Harry began as the four men settled in for several hours of exchanging stories from each of their own points of view.

 

* * * * *

 

Chip watched the camaraderie of the three ONI operatives.  He knew he was included in that comradeship, but he was especially cognizant of the brotherhood that naturally flowed as each shared their own part of the story.  He always knew that Lee considered it his high-duty to protect his country, that was the mark of any good officer; but he was just now beginning to understand the duty and responsibility Lee felt for his fellow operatives.  He could understand it well and had witnessed it aboard Seaview many times before.  Though he had always had an issue with Lee’s penchant to throw himself into harm’s way, he always knew that it was his responsibility to his men that drove that behavior.  It was hard to admit, and he wasn’t sure how much he’d share with his best friend, but he thought he understood Lee a little better now.  It wasn’t that he was “okay” with ONI’s part in Lee’s life, but as Lee reminded him aboard Seaview; he wasn’t asking for his blessing, only his support.  That was something he could do, he affirmed silently.

 

He listened, joining in from time to time, but was grateful when the conversation began to wind down.  Lee was looking extremely worn out, and his excursion out of bed that morning had added to that weariness.

 

“Well, we’ve got a formal debriefing to attend, so we’d better get going,” Harry announced.

 

“And I’ve got to get a haircut before then,” Bill said, with a self-conscious chuckle.  “I don’t think the brass would appreciate me showing up like this,” he added, before realizing that Admiral Nelson was actually “brass” with four very big stars himself.  “Uh… begging the admiral’s pardon,” he quickly added.

 

Harry laughed.  “Come on, Lieutenant, I’ll introduce you to a barber who’ll have you looking Navy in no time.”

 

“That’s a good idea,” Lee chimed in, “at least ONI will have to wait for your hair to grow out before sending you on another undercover geek job.”

 

“That’s the idea,” Bill replied waggling of his eyebrows; he had been in the field for over six months and he was looking forward to some well-deserved down time. 

 

It was all in good fun, and everyone there knew that anyone of these three men would answer their country’s call without hesitation.

 

“Thanks for coming,” Lee said as they headed to the door.

 

Harry stopped at the open door and looked back.  “I’ll check in on you later,” he promised before pulling the door closed behind him.

 

Lee waited until the door was completely closed and let out an audible sigh.  “That felt good,” he said almost to himself.

 

Chip settled into the chair Harry had vacated and watched as Lee closed his eyes.  A satisfied smile joined the first signs of peace on his face since Chip had arrived.  He smiled, appreciating seeing his friend so relaxed.  “Looks like it’s going to snow today,” he said, changing the subject.  

 

“Yeah, I saw that on the news.  Looks like it will be snowing in Philly this weekend too,” Lee said, his eyes still closed and referring to the big game this weekend. 

 

Chip nodded.  “Makes the game all the more exciting,” he returned casually, downplaying the fact that their plans to attend the game had been seriously and thoroughly screwed because of the mission.  Lee was improving daily, but there wasn’t any chance of him leaving the hospital by Saturday.  And even if by some miracle he could, there was no way he could show up at a stadium full of Mids and Cadets looking like he got the short end of a secret mission that no one was supposed to know about in the first place.

 

Chip smiled and chuckled lightly when his friend didn’t answer.  He was sure Lee only intended to rest his eyes for a moment, but his body had other ideas as his smile faded, giving way to a restful, restorative slumber.  He grabbed his cap and stood, lingering just a moment to make sure Lee was out cold and then headed for the door to make some plans.

 

Chapter Thirteen

 

Lee flipped the channel to find the game.  He was finally starting to feel like he was on the mend.  It still hurt to breathe, but it had only been a week since his surgery and broken ribs meant he wouldn’t be taking a deep breath without pain for several more weeks.  The knife wound was another matter, and he was grateful for the medication that took the edge off as it healed.  He was still regaining his strength from the sepsis but was comparatively feeling much better than a week ago when his sorry six was scraped off the floor of the warehouse by the SEAL team. 

 

He found the channel and settled in to watch the Army/Navy Game.  The pregame activities were in full swing, while the sportscasters quipped off interesting facts about the long-time rivalry.  The TV cameras panned over the premium box seats, glass enclosed from the weather and catered with the finest foods and drinks to celebrate the game in comfort.  He was hoping to catch a quick view of Harry’s box, but the pan was quick and his search went unrewarded.  It would have been nice to have caught sight of Harry and Chip.  It was just a long-shot anyway.  The pregame broke away to a commercial and he turned his head toward the window to watch the falling snow as a Coca-Cola jingle played in the background.  It wasn’t his plan to have missed out on the game, but it was a small price to pay for a successful mission and he was content.  Okay, a little lonely, but content just the same.

 

His door opened and he turned his head expecting the delivery of his “exciting” hospital lunch, but was shocked to see Harry, Chip and Bill entering, each with a box full of heavenly smelling food that would have made any seasoned tailgater proud.

 

“What are you doing here?” he asked incredulously; a Box at the Army Navy game wasn’t something to take lightly.

 

“If you’d rather we take our party food somewhere else, just say the word,” Chip challenged with a raised brow.

 

Lee laughed, holding his side again when he moved too much, “Don’t you dare!” he joked back as the trio started unpacking ribs, wings, coleslaw and enough fixings to feed an army… or more appropriately, a navy.  “What happened to Philadelphia and the Box?” he asked, clearly pleased to see his friends despite the fact that he had urged them to go and have a good time.

 

“I told Jiggs to live it up, and he had no problem filling the Box,” Harry said with a grin and a twinkle in his blue eyes that said he was pleased that they had surprised Lee.

 

“Be right back,” Chip said and returned only a moment later with a chair from the waiting room.  Another trip produced another chair and soon the three men were sitting back comfortably with plates full and the television turned up to enhance the excitement of the big game.

 

“Okay, here it is,” Chip said, good-naturedly quieting the group down for the last pregame event before the kicked-off, as the prisoners were exchanged with all the ceremony and pomp and circumstance that made the tradition such a beloved event.  The highlight of the ceremony was the elation and the over the top jubilation the prisoners received from their cheering classmates in the stands. 

 

Chip glanced over and noted the gratefulness in Lee’s eyes for their gesture to skip out on the live game in order to be here instead.  The Mids stormed the field and they all settled in for the duration with enough food and contraband beverages to enjoy the game in proper fashion.  There were smiles, laughs, and a good time was had all around, while Chip sighed contently, thinking that this was the homecoming Lee deserved.

 

And so, with the game in full swing the four men enjoyed the afternoon, happily leaving Operation Whirlwind and its treacherous Bear Cage behind.  The nuclear threat had been abated, the storm had passed and the disaster averted… exactly as the Weatherman had predicted.

 

The End

 

The Bear Cage

 

lynnspage@mtaonline.net

 

Notes and Credits

*See my story Showdown in the High Sierras

 

**A direct quote from meteorologist Jeff Haby’s explanation of the Bear Cage.  http://www.theweatherprediction.com/habyhints2/436/

 

See my the entire series in the following timeline order:  The Bear Cage (May 2018), When the Price is Too High (posted Jan 2015), When Duty Calls (posted June 2015)