The Power of a SEAL Read online

  Also by Anne Elizabeth

  West Coast Navy SEALs

  A SEAL at Heart

  Once a SEAL

  A SEAL Forever

  The Soul of a SEAL

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  Copyright © 2017 by Anne Elizabeth

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover image © BUK8691/Getty Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Author’s Note

  Additional Resources

  References

  Leaper and Kerry’s Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  An ode to Leaper.

  Dedicated to our men and women in uniform. Thank you for your service.

  and

  For Rose, Hooyah and hugs!

  Chapter 1

  The wetsuit outlined the curves of Navy SEAL Leaper Lefton’s muscles. His body was lean, steely, and powerful, with arms that could hold someone tight and safe for hours on end. He was humble and most often quiet, and he definitely didn’t fancy himself the James Bond type. But one might think he was, given his occupation. With a hood encasing his head and neck and the breathing apparatus and mask obscuring most of his face, his attire was ideal for covert drops, but at night, with additional gear and unknowable predators and random factors in enemy waters, the dive was doubly dangerous.

  In his opinion, brains, not brawn, were the key to locking out of a submarine in the Pacific Ocean. With less experienced newbies, it was an especially hard task. Lights on their masks illuminated very little in the pitch-black water, and everyone was hustling to get clear of each other and the giant nuclear sub.

  Being the last one out of the torpedo tube had advantages and disadvantages. Knowing that no one was left behind was the primary advantage, but being unaware of what your Teammates could see was the disadvantage. Hell, no matter how many times one practiced this maneuver, there was still a certain amount of unpredictability and chaos. Any problem meant that this mission would be scrubbed, and no operative wanted to see that happen. So that meant everyone was looking to Leaper, Mission Leader.

  Checking left and right as he cleared the giant submarine, Leaper eyeballed his Teammates, counting heads. There were several squeakers on the mission—newbies—and Leaper looked at them first. Sure, they’d practiced locking out of subs at this depth, but being on a mission made it fresh, gave them an adrenaline rush, unlike anything an ordinary soul might experience. For all the wisdom garnered in practice, it never prepared one for the racing heart and the pumping blood that happened in the heat of the moment.

  Though some might say practice makes perfect, Leaper did not believe completely in the adage. He put his trust in awareness rather than pure repetition.

  Christ! His gut was churning. Something felt wrong. He counted again, physically touching each Teammate on a limb as his blood ran cold.

  Someone was missing. Shit, shit, shit.

  Ambient noise traveled to him slowly, like taffy being stretched and pulled. His ears picked up on something—a rumble in the water.

  Hydroacoustics were tricky. Water carried sound in the strangest manner, depending on the depth, the surrounding landscape, and the proximity to everything else around them in terms of marine life. When one was suspended in the air, as in a skydive, and had just pulled the ripcord, there was an absolute silence, an indescribable hush. It was the total absence of sound. When one was in the water, it was like someone yelling at you down a long, wind-filled tunnel; the sound went out in waves that dissipated, depending on how far away you were.

  In other words, it was nearly impossible to distinguish sounds clearly. Here’s where experience paid off, and he had spent years familiarizing himself with this world.

  Leaper turned slowly, sourcing the sound. His senses told him to move to the right.

  In his periphery, he could see the sub moving farther into the darkness.

  C’mon, Hissop! Special Operator Alvin Hissop. Where, the fuck, are you?

  With no time for prayers, Leaper signaled with his hands—for those close enough to see it—and made a series of arm taps for those whose light could not follow as he relayed the message to his Teammates to wait near the reef.

  They acknowledged him and moved off as ordered. They were quick, careful not to generate any extra current. Losing someone in the darkness was a significant and real danger.

  One man stayed by Leaper’s side: his swim buddy on this mission and the second-in-charge, Jollen Bell. As he came alongside Leaper, the two men retraced their steps from the origin point of their escape.

  That’s when they saw him. Hissop was suspended sideways, as if he were dangling on wires. Darkness framed his body, and the light on his mask flickered briefly and then went out.

  Leaper was in motion before he could think.

  Blood and guts surrounded Hissop’s midsection, and his arms were open and welcoming. A long cut sliced down his suit where the submarine screws had cut him. The blades were so sharp, they’d sliced through the bones.

  Something rushed Leaper from the side, and he didn’t need to figure out what it was. He knew instinctually that it was a shark. A glance showed her to be a Great White female, at least twenty-five feet long. Leaper threw a punch at her nose. It landed, but she wasn’t deterred coming back with a quick turn. That was unusual. A shark’s chemosensory abilities were incredibly keen and sensitive.

  Grabbing his Ka-Bar, Leaper prepared for the next pass. This time, he dug his knife into the closest target, the Great White’s eye, slicing until the creature fell away. It wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon.

  Leaper’s jaw tightened as he secured his knife. He turned back to his Teammates: Bell and Hissop. One man guarded and the other fought. Nothing would take Hissop from his Team. They would all fight to the death to return Hissop home.

  Bell passed Hissop’s body to Leaper and began his swim to the waiting group.

  As Leaper pulled H
issop into his arms, he couldn’t stop himself from searching the man’s face, wishing against all logic for signs of life.

  Nothing. As the current picked up, it drove the body forward and Hissop’s face came closer until it was inches from his. Those normally attentive brown eyes bulged, and his mouth was open as if he had been screaming, an expression of horror frozen on his face. This man had felt pain and terror, and it had been horribly brutal.

  Leaper swallowed a knot of pain. He hated the idea that his brother had been so alone.

  Reaching for Hissop’s mask, Leaper stopped himself, knowing instinctively there was only death there, but he could still wish for a different outcome. He was human after all, and the one who would bear witness to this tragedy.

  The death scarred his spirit and his mind in ways that would never heal. How many bodies had he held, whose lives had departed too soon? Taken ruthlessly, and so completely out of his control. He couldn’t process it all now. But his brain still spun with one big question: How had Hissop gotten nailed? Surely someone would have seen him get hurt and helped.

  Closing Hissop’s suit as best he could, Leaper cradled the man against him. Rigging his belt into Hissop’s so he could move a bit faster, he swam forward. He knew it would be a long, painful ascent for the entire Team. He just needed to keep everyone focused. More mistakes happened when heads were full of grief.

  With determination, he headed for his Team. They were waiting for him.

  Leaper nodded at Bell. He pointed to his gauge and then to the surface.

  Bell nodded his head in agreement. Signals were passed through the men until they were moving slowly upward.

  The death of a Teammate was the worst grounds for scrapping a mission. And they had to be on the surface to use the fucking radio.

  It was one of the longest swims of Leaper’s life. Emotionally, he wanted to rocket upward and take the Team with him, but given their depth, ascending too quickly would allow nitrogen bubbles to gather in their bloodstreams. It would essentially poison them, painfully damaging and possibly killing them all on top of it.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Leaper saw unusual gestures from one of his Teammates. Arms and legs flailed, and the person’s head jerked up and down.

  He saw one of the guys moving erratically; avoiding the bends was a serious priority. He assessed Special Operator Koal Richter and decided that Richter’s telltale panicked movements were manageable with guidance. He gestured at Jollen to partner with the eager beaver, watching as his second-in-command swam up to Richter and jerked the newbie to attention. The other man responded with instant obedience. They communicated with hand signals and then the two men slowly continued their ascent, side by side.

  Leaper looked back down at the man tied to him. If only his actions could change the equation and he could breathe life into Hissop.

  He bit back his frustration and pain at not being able to prevent this tragedy; it made him angry beyond words. He shouted into his mask, knowing that it would stay here in the dark waters. They were bringing up the rear, and he watched as his Teammates broke the surface of the water.

  He reined in his emotions as he pulled his mask off and breathed in the salty night air. The tang of copper hit his nostrils, and Leaper pulled Hissop tighter against him.

  The night sky was full of stars, one of them shooting toward the horizon. Was nature mocking him, or was that Hissop saying his final farewell?

  Christ, help.

  Leaper watched Jollen contact the submarine for pickup.

  Pain nearly shattered Leaper’s heart as he thought of Hissop’s young wife. What would he say to her? They trusted him—all the wives, kids, and families did—to bring their men home alive.

  Tears streamed down Leaper’s face, mingling with the salt water. A thousand tears could never ease this pain. Death was and always would be merciless in his world. If only he could prevent it, or give his life for theirs, but fate was cruel that way. He always survived.

  * * *

  Time was an odd form of measurement. Go through hell, and the days were torturous and the nights were blobs of inky “painmares.” Exist in a heavenly or blissful moment, and time rocketed by faster than you could hold on to it. In between those extremes, hours stretched on like an endless TSA line.

  The Op was long over, and Leaper was back on duty rotation—yet the loss of his Teammate was still fresh in his mind. No one from that night saw the devastation, and the death had been ruled accidental. It didn’t change the heartbreak of it.

  The boat rocked from side to side as the water lapped at the sides. Stationary, stagnant, this felt a bit like his life right now. Leaper was a half mile off the coast of the Amphibious Base in Coronado, California. Sitting here and doing nothing might just lull him into boredom.

  This was Leaper’s first week back after a month of psych evaluations. Talking about the last, horrific operation was not something he wanted to do. Leaper did his best to play the part of a good sailor and give the docs what they needed, but let’s get real—no one got out of battle or training unscathed. It left an indefinable mark. Few operators shared the nitty-gritty, because what happens in the Teams stays in the Teams.

  “Let’s get you back out there,” Admiral George had said. “We need you leading a deployment. It’s just six months. Not a lot going on. You’ll manage the operations from the base. Just keep everyone in line and the Teams rotating through running smoothly.”

  “No offense, Admiral, but I’m barely functioning. Find someone else,” Leaper had replied. With that, he’d walked away from the outraged man, only to be tracked down by his Commanding Officer and told that he was going to be helping out in a different capacity for now.

  Regardless of how little Leaper had shared, the Navy couldn’t afford to bounce him, even if several shrinks noted that Leaper’s mind had locked down the pain and he wasn’t “necessarily fit.” Too bad. That didn’t stop Command from keeping Leaper in the game. According to the docs, Leaper was still functioning on the basic levels, but until he was ready to face the intense tragedy of Hissop’s death, there was nothing they could do to assist the situation. So they stuck him on the sidelines. His current rotation was as an instructor, to teach, lead, assess, evaluate, test, and assist.

  Assist. Hell, ass was the correct word. Leaper felt better in the field. On land, he fucking floundered like a fish out of water. Besides, most of those doctors were useless. So what! He wasn’t ready to face Hissop’s death, and that was life. Maybe when he was seventy-five and drinking a beer with his cronies, he’d deal with it. Until then, they could fuck off. Leaper didn’t mind the fact that he was running on a single gear setting, and that mode was slow roll. His internal engine would crank up if it was needed.

  A substitute instructor for Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL (BUD/S), and for Special Warfare Combatant-Craft (SWCC), if need be—that was their answer. He’d performed this role at least a dozen times over the past twenty years. The training tended to overlap in certain areas, especially in terms of tactical intensity, gun and knife skills, and proficiency of boat maneuver skill sets. He was meant to focus on one specialty, but it wouldn’t happen that way. Once you signed on as instructor, you ended up working in pretty much every area.

  A ton of everything at once, and he’d do it right or not at all. That was his manner in most things—100 percent or nothing.

  Leaper decided to roll with it. This duty assignment as an instructor would have to be okay for the present. Hell, he could yell at and cajole the recruits with the best of them, though it was hard to see these sailors as anything but wet-behind-the-ears kids. If he had his druthers, he’d wrap each of them in cotton padding and put them on a shelf to keep them away from the action. That wasn’t an option, and certainly not what any of these sailors wanted. They were begging for opportunities to get in the fight and were working their tails off to prove that they had what
it takes to survive and succeed for themselves and their Teammates. Leaper knew he needed to step up and prepare them for the worst, despite the pain of loss in his heart. He’d start with the basics, where he could, and coach them along further with what he’d learned from his two decades in the Teams.

  The boat underneath him rocked abruptly. The current shifted, pulling the boat in a new direction as the waves grew more aggressive. They beat heavily against the sides of the boat, spraying the occupants with each thump. Leaper looked at the men in the boat with him and took control. He knew exactly where he wanted to go.

  The boat slid into gear, and soon Leaper was driving it at top speed. This was one of four Reinforced Inflatable Boats, or RIBs, carrying BUD/S trainees on another phase of their training, along with four instructors. Leaper Lefton was pretty sure the BUD/S boys never imagined he would be a substitute instructor and the one leading the aquatic charge, but at the end of the day, they’d be grateful for the skills he’d teach them. Christ, he hoped it saved lives.

  Murmuring voices sounded briefly behind him. Leaper looked over his shoulder and saw the other boats slowing and then stopping. He circled around and then stopped some distance away from the others.

  “Listen up,” Leaper said, studying the trainees. He wasn’t one of those men who taught untried techniques or theories. Rather, he used his own experiences to speak about what worked and why. Being an operator with more Ops and tours under his belt than most active-duty sailors, he was pretty blunt, and his sense of humor was definitely dry, an acquired taste. His swim buddy, Declan, used to tease that if someone needed real-life input or someone to call bullshit on a situation, Leaper was the man for the job. From funnyman to leader, his honesty was legendary. There was a lot of brass who most certainly wished Leaper had had more tact training, but it was hard to criticize a man with that much sea cred. “I’m going to give you a few useful hints. You can ignore them or you can take them to heart. Your choice, but I’ll only share them once.”