But I'm already behind schedule, and the weather forecast shows another storm system moving in by Wednesday. If I don't collect this data today, I'm looking at potentially two weeks before I can get back out here. Two weeks of falling further behind on a research timeline that's already tight.
The base commander has made it clear that my continued contract depends on demonstrable progress. Budget justification requires results, and results require data. Good data, collected systematically and analyzed rigorously.
I return to the helm and advance the throttle slightly, listening to the engine response. The irregular rhythm is barely audible now, and everything else sounds normal. Maybe it was just temporary. Maybe debris worked its way through the system and I'm worrying about nothing.
The coastline is receding behind me now, and I'm approaching the boundary where the Chesapeake Bay's relatively calm waters transition to the Atlantic's deeper swells. This is my favorite part of the survey route, where the two bodies of water meet and create complex current patterns that affect everything from sediment transport to marine organism distribution.
This is where the ocean shows its true nature. Powerful, dynamic, and utterly honest about what it is.
The engine shudders, and this time it's not subtle. A definite grinding accompanied by vibration that I can feel through the deck and up through my legs.
I pull the throttle back immediately, heart hammering as I scan the instrument panel. Oil pressure is normal. Temperature is normal. But something is definitely wrong.
I should turn back. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to turn this boat around and head for the dock right now.
But the tide is rising, and I'm already behind schedule, and the base commander needs this data for the quarterly briefing that determines whether my contract gets renewed for another year.
I advance the throttle carefully, just enough to maintain headway. The engine responds, grinding and all, pushing me toward the sampling coordinates.
My first sampling station is less than a mile ahead now. I could make it there, collect the data quickly, and head straight back. Thirty minutes, tops. Then I'll report the engine issue and let maintenance figure it out.
Thirty minutes. I can manage thirty minutes.
I maintain course toward the sampling coordinates, one hand on the throttle and the other hovering near the radio. The vibration thrums through the deck like a second pulse, wrong and getting wronger with every revolution of the propeller. My gut says turn back. My contract says keep going.
I grip the wheel tighter and hold my course, even as the grinding beneath my feet grows louder. The ocean doesn't lie about what it is—powerful, indifferent, and utterly honest. That sound is just as honest. Something is very wrong with this engine. The question is whether it's bad luck or bad intentions. Whether mechanical failure or sabotage. Whether three thousand miles was far enough, or whether he found me after all.
2
HOLDEN
I've been watching her for months. Today, I'm going to save her life.
The realization hits me with absolute clarity as I finish my cool down stretch on the beach, salt spray misting my face while dawn breaks over the Atlantic. Dr. Fallon McKay is a hundred yards down the shoreline, packing up her field equipment and heading toward the small dock where her research boat waits. Her usual routine, four or five mornings a week. Efficient movements, that focused intensity that says she's got work to do and no interest in distractions.
I've been one of those distractions for exactly seven minutes this morning. Long enough to make sure she wasn't in danger out here alone. Short enough to respect the clear boundaries she maintains with everyone on base.
Fine by me. I'm not looking for complications, and Dr. McKay radiates complexity. Gorgeous, brilliant, and about as approachable as a sea urchin. The kind of woman who'd require time, attention, and emotional bandwidth I'd rather spend on my team.
Except I can't stop watching her.
She reaches the dock and steps onto her boat with the easy confidence of someone who grew up on the water. The seventeen-foot center console rocks gently under her weight as she stows her gear. Even from this distance, I can see the familiar pattern. Field kit secured, pre-departure checks, methodical preparation that speaks to solid training.
I should head back to base. Morning briefing is in forty-five minutes, and I need to shower and review the training schedule for the week. SEAL Team Seven has joint exercises with MARSOC starting Monday, which means coordinating with Thatcher Kane and his Marines. Always an adventure.
Instead, I pull my phone from the armband where I keep it during runs and check the time. Zero-six-fifteen. Fallon will motor out to her survey grid, collect water samples and bathymetric data, and return before the mid-morning maritime traffic picks up. Standard procedure. Nothing to worry about.
So why does my gut say otherwise?
Movement catches my attention as a familiar figure jogs down the beach toward my position. Griff Holland runs like he defuses bombs, all controlled energy and absolute focus until he decides to let loose. Right now, he's grinning, which means he's about to give me hell.
"Morning, sunshine." Griff slows to a stop beside me, barely breathing hard despite the five-mile run. The man's a machine. "Enjoy your daily surveillance of the pretty scientist?"
I give him a look that would make lesser men reconsider their life choices. Griff just grins wider. We've been friends since BUD/S training. He's earned the right to be an irritating pain in my neck.
"Surveillance implies covert observation," I say. "I run the beach every morning. She conducts her surveys in the usual location. It's called a schedule, not stalking."
"Uh-huh." Griff stretches his quads, still smirking. "And the fact that you time your runs to coincide with her surveys is pure coincidence."
