“Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”
Fly's gaze met Sham’s and his blue eyes twinkled.
Shamrock said, “You lead from wherever you are, don’t you, Gallagher?”
Fly shrugged, water dripping from his hair. “It’s not the rank or the seat,” he said. “It’s all about team, Instructor Kavanaugh.”
The new guy, Luther Moses, was a different animal from Murphy. Where Murphy had been rangy and weak, Moses was compact, with a coiled energy that hummed just beneath the surface. He was an Ivy Leaguer from Maine, a Black man with a background in broadcasting, and every time Than looked at him, he felt a thrum of recognition. It was the same feeling he got watching a wrestler on the mat who had the fire but not the form. Potential. Raw, untapped, and vibrating with a need to be shaped. Than felt it in his bones, a pull that was both a challenge and a promise.
They were three days into a new evolution, IBS work in heavy seas. The sky was a bruised, sullen gray, and the Pacific was a churning, malevolent beast. The wind whipped spray into their faces, stinging like needles, and the swell was a slow, relentless mountain range of water that lifted their small boat to the heavens before plunging it into deep, dark troughs. Than was in the front right position, his knuckles white on the gunwale, his eyes constantly scanning the horizon, reading the water, feeling the rhythm of the ocean. He'd misjudged a wave, calling the paddle stroke a second too late, sending a wall of frigid water crashing over the side and into Harris's face. He'd corrected it immediately, his voice sharp and clear over the wind, adjusting the cadence, his body tense with the concentration needed to manage both the sea and the crew.
Santos and Keene were solid, their paddle strokes clean and powerful, their bodies moving with the boat. Rowe was quiet, his focus absolute, a small, steady presence in the chaos. Harris was a furnace, burning through his energy with a powerful, almost desperate aggression. Then there was Moses.
At first, Moses was good. His paddle stroke was strong, his timing nearly perfect. But Than could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes kept darting to the horizon, a flicker of fear that he was trying to mask with determination. The sea was getting worse. The waves were growing, their crests foaming and angry. The instructors, a quarter mile away, finally seemed to realize it. They blew the recall, a long, mournful blast of the whistle that was swallowed by the wind.
"Turn it around! Paddle for the beach!" Than yelled, his voice ripped away by the gale.
They started to turn, the boat wallowing in the trough, vulnerable and exposed.
Than’s chest tightened before his mind caught up. The angle was wrong. The feeling was wrong.
That was when Moses lost his shit.
A wave, bigger than the others, reared up behind them, a wall of dark green water that blotted out the sky. For a split second, the sound dropped away, replaced by the dull rush of blood in Than’s ears.
He felt the shift in the boat, the sudden, panicked hesitation in Moses’s stroke.
“Paddle! Paddle!” Than screamed, forcing air back into his lungs, driving the moment forward, but it was too late.
Moses froze. Not past the wave, at it. Fear moved through the boat like electricity. Harris faltered, and Rowe cursed under his breath. The boat, already off balance, started to broach, turning sideways to the oncoming wave.
"Get your head in the boat, Moses!" Than roared, his voice a raw, desperate thing. He didn't have time for coaching, for gentle encouragement. He had a boat full of men and a mountain of water about to crash down on them. "Paddle!"
But Moses was gone, lost in the panic, his eyes wide with a terror that Than had seen before, but never in one of his own. The wave broke, a thundering cascade of white water that slammed into the side of the boat, lifting it up and flipping it over with a violent finality that stole the breath from Than's lungs.
They were in the water, a tangle of bodies and gear, the cold a shocking, immediate assault. Than fought his way to the surface, gasping, the taste of salt and sand filling his mouth. He saw Moses, a few feet away, flailing, his movements clumsy and ineffective, his panic making him a liability in the water as well as in the boat. Than swam toward him, his anger banked in a way that fueled him. He grabbed the front of Moses's life vest, pulling him close, his face inches from the other man's.
"Look at me," Than snarled, his voice low and deadly, a stark contrast to the raging chaos around them. "You look at me. You breathe. You get your ass to the beach. You don’t quit. You don’t panic. You do your fucking job. Now swim." Into the rushing waves and churning sea, he shouted, “Buddy up! If I don’t see double, I’m going to kick ass and work you to death. Then I will come after you in the Great Beyond and bring you back to life. Now move your asses to the beach.”
He pushed Moses away, Santos, his designated swimbuddy moving in beside him, before Than and Rowe came together. They turned toward the shore, striking out together, their strokes long and powerful, the anger a fuel that burned hotter than the cold. He could feel the rest of the crew behind him, aware of where each of them were. He had to get them there. He had to get them all there. He had to save the man who had almost gotten them all killed.
They made it to the beach, a bedraggled, gasping line of men clawing their way out of the surf. Than was already up, his legs burning, his mind ticking through the names, the faces, the count. He saw Keene, crawling on his hands and knees to Harris, who was face down in the wet sand. He saw Rowe, pushing himself up with a grimace. But Moses and Santos were still out there, two dark shapes struggling in the churning water.
Than didn't hesitate. He plunged back into the frigid chaos, the cold a brutal shock to his already screaming muscles. He fought his way toward them, his strokes powerful and sure. He got to Moses first, a flailing, panicked mass of limbs and gear.
"Moses! Stop! Relax!" Than yelled, his voice ripped away by the wind.
But Moses was lost in a primal terror that had him thrashing wildly, his movements clumsy and dangerous. He grabbed at Than, his hands like claws, his eyes wide with a fear that had completely consumed him. Than fought him off, his anger a cold, hard knot in his gut. He had to get through to him, had to break the panic before it got them both killed.
Santos was a few feet away, his movements weak, his head barely above the water. He was going under. Than had to make a choice. He pushed Moses away, a hard, decisive shove, and struck out toward Santos. He grabbed the front of his life vest, pulling his head above the water.
"Kick, Santos! Kick!" Than yelled, his voice a raw, desperate command.
He started towing him toward the shore, the weight of the other man a heavy drag. He could hear Moses behind him, still thrashing, still panicking. He was a liability, a drowning man who would take them both down if he got too close. Than had to save Santos first.
He got Santos to the beach, pushing him into the sand, before turning back to the sea. Moses was further out now, his struggles weaker, his movements becoming more erratic. He was running out of time. Than fought his way back out, the cold seeping into his bones, his muscles screaming in protest. He reached Moses just as his head went under for the last time.
Than dove, chased him down, grabbed him, finding a well of energy inside him he never knew was there, dragging Moses back to the surface. He came up gasping, his eyes wide with terror, his body limp and unresponsive. Than wrapped an arm around his chest, holding him up, and started to swim. It was a slow, agonizing process. The weight of the other man, the cold, the exhaustion, was all a heavy, crushing burden. Than's strokes were weaker now, his body screaming for him to stop. But he didn't. He couldn't. He had to get him back.
