Chapter 2 - THE VOICE THAT SHOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN HEARD
“Range Seven was only the first strike.”
The injured sailor’s warning had barely left his mouth when Riley Sutton grabbed Marcus Callaway’s arm.
“Get everyone away from the ambulance entrance. Now.”
Marcus stared at her.
Seven years ago, he would have followed that voice into gunfire without asking a single question.
But seven years ago, he had also trusted people who were now buried beneath American flags.
“What’s coming?” he demanded.
“I don't know yet.”
“Riley—”
“Dutch, please. We can argue about Syria after these people are safe.”
Hearing his old nickname nearly stopped his heart.
Then the sailor on the stretcher began choking.
Blood darkened the collar of his uniform. His fingers tightened around Riley’s wrist as though she were the only thing keeping him in the world.
“Don't let them move me,” he whispered.
Dr. Whitmore Sinclair pushed between them.
“Who is this man?”
“Petty Officer Eli Navarro,” the medic answered. “Communications specialist. He was pulled from the Range Seven bunker.”
Sinclair glanced at the sailor’s chart.
“He needs surgery. Take him upstairs.”
“No,” Navarro rasped.
Riley leaned closer.
“Eli, listen to me. You're in a hospital. We need to stop the bleeding.”
Navarro shook his head weakly.
“They sent the wrong ambulance.”
Marcus looked toward the emergency entrance.
Two ambulances stood outside. One belonged to the installation's regular emergency service.
The other was white, unmarked except for a temporary military transport placard.
Two men in medical jackets were approaching the doors.
Something about them bothered Marcus immediately.
They weren't looking at patients.
They were looking at exits.
“Agent assistance!” Marcus shouted toward the security desk.
One of the men turned.
His hand moved beneath his jacket.
Marcus hit him before he could draw whatever he was reaching for.
The second man bolted toward the parking lot.
Security officers rushed forward. A chair overturned. A woman screamed.
Within seconds, the first man was pinned against the floor.
Inside his jacket, security found a military-style credential and a folded transport authorization.
The authorization ordered Eli Navarro transferred immediately to an outside medical facility.
It had been issued eleven minutes before his ambulance arrived.
And it carried Dr. Sinclair’s name.
Sinclair went pale.
“I never signed that.”
Marcus picked up the document.
“Then somebody is using your authority.”
Riley stood over Navarro, applying pressure to his wound.
“Someone knew he was coming,” she said.
Marcus looked at the unconscious transport officer.
“And they didn't want him talking.”
Twenty minutes later, the emergency department was under armed lockdown.
The other casualties were stabilized. Two sailors had been taken into surgery. Another was receiving blood.
Navarro remained in Bay Three.
Riley refused to leave him.
Sinclair stood at the foot of the bed, furious.
“You put my entire department at risk,” he told Marcus.
“Your department was already at risk.”
“You have no authority to interfere with medical operations.”
“Neither did the two men who tried to remove your patient.”
Sinclair opened his mouth, then stopped.
A woman wearing a dark blazer entered the bay.
“Special Agent Janelle Ortiz. Naval Criminal Investigative Service.”
She showed her credentials.
“I understand we have an unauthorized transport attempt and a witness connected to the Range Seven explosion.”
Marcus nodded toward Navarro.
“He says the explosion wasn't an accident.”
Ortiz studied Riley.
“And apparently he recognized you.”
Riley didn't answer.
Ortiz continued quietly.
“I've been reviewing a classified incident that occurred in northern Syria seven years ago. Your name appears in a sealed personnel file.”
Sinclair looked between them.
“What incident?”
“The destruction of a coalition medical station during Operation Night Lantern,” Ortiz replied.
Marcus felt his jaw tighten.
“You're investigating Night Lantern?”
“For the past six weeks.”
“Why?”
“Because someone reopened the casualty records. Three days later, the officer who requested the review disappeared from duty. This morning, the communications archive at Range Seven exploded.”
Riley slowly lowered her eyes.
Marcus noticed the way her hands trembled.
Not while treating Navarro.
Only now, when someone mentioned the old investigation.
“What did you find?” he asked Ortiz.
“Evidence that the original report was incomplete.”
Marcus gave a bitter laugh.
“Incomplete? Three of my men died inside that tent. Command told their families an enemy mortar hit it.”
Ortiz held his gaze.
“And what if the mortar report was wrong?”
Silence settled over the trauma bay.
Riley looked toward the door.
“Marcus, don't.”
It was the first time she had used his first name.
“Don't what?”
“Don't make yourself a target until we know who we're dealing with.”
He stepped closer.
“Seven years, Riley. Seven years of funerals, nightmares, and wondering why you disappeared.”
Her eyes filled, but her voice remained steady.
“I didn't disappear because I wanted to.”
“Then why?”
“Because someone told me the next person who asked questions would be buried beside your men.”
Marcus stared at her.
“Who?”
Riley looked at Sinclair.
The doctor suddenly became very interested in Navarro's monitor.
Marcus noticed.
So did Ortiz.
Before anyone could speak, Navarro opened his eyes.
“Watch,” he whispered.
Riley bent over him.
“What watch?”
“Black pouch. My pocket.”
Marcus retrieved a small waterproof pouch from the sailor's torn uniform.
Inside was an old military wristwatch.
Its glass was cracked. The hands had stopped at 2:17.
Marcus knew that watch.
He had given it to Nathan Reed, one of his closest friends, before their final deployment.
Reed had worn it every day.
“I thought this burned with him,” Marcus whispered.
Navarro struggled to breathe.
“Found it in the archive. Somebody hid it with the original evidence.”
Ortiz carefully examined the watch.
Something had been sewn into the inside of its worn nylon strap.
A tiny recording device.
Riley's expression changed.
“Eli, where did you get this?”
“Range Seven. They were going to destroy it.”
“Who?”
He coughed violently.
Sinclair checked his monitor.
“He needs to rest.”
Navarro refused to release Riley's sleeve.
“They heard it,” he whispered. “That's why they came.”
Then his eyes closed.
Ortiz took the recording device into a secured consultation room.
Marcus and Riley followed.
Sinclair insisted on accompanying them.
Ortiz connected the damaged recorder to an isolated playback unit.
Static filled the room.
Then a familiar voice spoke.
“Havoc Three, confirm medical station status.”
Riley pressed a hand over her mouth.
Marcus recognized the voice immediately.
Commander Daniel Weller.
At the time, Weller had controlled the entire operation from a coalition command center.
He was now a retired rear admiral who frequently appeared on television discussing military readiness.
Riley's younger voice answered through the static.
“Medical tent occupied. Multiple civilian casualties. Request immediate evacuation.”
Another burst of interference.
Gunfire.
A man shouting for ammunition.
Marcus closed his eyes.
He remembered that night.
Remembered Nathan Reed yelling that the wounded couldn't walk.
Remembered the terrifying silence when the radio transmission ended.
Then the recording changed.
A male voice spoke with absolute clarity.
“The medical tent is clear. Proceed with the burn.”
Marcus opened his eyes.
It was his voice.
Not merely similar.
His exact voice.
The same slight rasp. The same clipped military delivery.
Ortiz paused the recording.
“Lieutenant Callaway, did you authorize the destruction of that medical station?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Three of my men were inside.”
Riley stared at the playback unit.
Her face had gone completely white.
Marcus turned toward her.
“Riley, I didn't say that.”
She didn't respond.
“Look at me.”
Finally, she raised her eyes.
There was something in them he hadn't seen before.
Not fear.
Something far worse.
Recognition.
“I heard that order seven years ago,” she whispered.
Marcus felt the air leave his lungs.
“What?”
“After the first explosion, I heard your voice over the emergency frequency.”
“That's impossible.”
Riley's eyes filled with tears.
“I begged command to send help. I told them Nathan and the others were still alive.”
She swallowed.
“And then I heard you tell them the tent was empty.”
Marcus shook his head.
“I would never have done that.”
For several seconds, Riley said nothing.
Then she reached into her uniform pocket and removed a folded, yellowed photograph.
Three smiling Navy SEALs stood beside a small medical tent.
Nathan Reed.
Adam Blake.
Jonah Price.
Behind them, a younger Riley held the hand of a little Syrian girl.
A blue kite floated above them.
Riley turned the photograph over.
Written on the back were five words.
Dutch, please bring them home.
“I wrote that the morning they died,” she said.
Marcus stared at the familiar handwriting.
Then Riley looked him straight in the eyes.
“For seven years, I believed you gave the order that killed your own men.”
May you like
And from the doorway, Dr. Sinclair quietly said something that made everyone turn.
“That's because someone wanted you to believe it.”
