Page 6 of Boomer
They made it on time. Only because that quiet sniper had stayed. He would never have heard his phone.
Boomer stared out the passenger window as they rolled through the base gates. Still trying to process it.
That fucking tadpole didn’t leave.
Didn’t say a word about it either. Didn’t make it weird.
Boomer wasn’t even sure he’d known who the kidwasbefore last night.
The ready roomwas dimly lit, the kind of fluorescent buzz that meant no sleep and no excuses. Commander Justin Bartholomew stood at the front, flanked by Anna Graham, their CIA liaison in civilian black, arms crossed, face unreadable.
“Joint op with the Brits is on our agenda,” Bartholomew said without preamble.
“You’re going to Syria,” Anna said flatly.
“We playing DEA again?” Breakneck asked.
Anna nodded.
“Better looking with better weapons and more moxie,” Skull said.
Everyone chuckled.
Iceman’s mouth twitched.
“Fentanyl intelligence from last week’s intercept lines up with a network cell embedded in the industrial zone. We’re tagging in because their operational pipeline just crossed into our backyard,” he said. “So, we’re letting our dogs of war off their chains.” Bartholomew looked at each of them. Eyes sharp. Voice steel.
Hazard crossed his arms and glanced at Iceman. “Who’s running this shindig? We always get tangled up when a foreign military is involved.”
Bartholomew fielded it without hesitation. “Unified structure. You operate under me until insertion. Once we’re hot, tactical control reverts to Master Chief Snow. British forces answer to their own command, but mission parameters have already been cross-coordinated. If it goes off-script, Chris has the final say in my book. His team. His call. You focus on your role, let command worry about the hierarchy.”
Hazard nodded with satisfaction. “Works for me.”
Iceman, dry as ever, added, “Don’t worry, Hazard. If the Brits get clever, I’ll remind them who won the war with a rendition of ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy.’” A few chuckles rippled through the room. “If that doesn’t work,” he continued, “we’ll clasp hands, sing ‘Kumbaya,’ and pray they brought decent tea.” The laughter deepened, the tension easing just enough to let the team breathe.
Even Bartholomew smiled, then it faded. “This one’s fast. Surgical. High-risk. Loadouts and staging on the tarmac in ninety minutes. Wheels up before sunrise.”
Anna stepped in. “You’ll liaise with JTF-SBS. I’ll be embedded forward to coordinate intelligence feeds. Rules of engagement are tight. We want capture, not corpses.”
Joint Task Force: Special Boat Service. Boomer had run with them once in Afghanistan, back when he was on a different team. The SBS were Britain’s Tier 1 maritime counterterrorism unit, Royal Navy commandos trained for deniable ops, hostage rescues, and dark-water insertions. Smart, lethal, and fluent in smug superiority. His team had been brought in on a joint raid just outside Kandahar. The Brits were precise, polished, and damn near impossible to read. It got the job done, but the deconfliction was a knife fight. Friendly enough in the briefing tent until it was time to breach. Then it was all clipped accents, quiet judgment, and a barely concealed sense that the Americans were just cowboying their way through.
Cowboying. He’d heard the term used like a slur. As if charging a door with controlled violence and a solid plan was reckless. Funny how the ones who clutched their pearls the hardest never made it to the stack first.
Yeah. This was going to be fun.
She glanced briefly at Boomer, then Breakneck, then back to the team. She knew all about SEALs and their antics. She was married to Oliver “Artful Dodger” Graham.
Bartholomew said, “Pack like you mean business. Expect contact. And do not fuck this up.”
Anna cleared her throat. “This is my last deployment with your guys. Oliver is being patient, but these separations are difficult with him on the West Coast and me here.”
Iceman spoke up. “We’ll miss your expertise, Anna, but we know whoever you choose as your replacement will be top notch. Thanks for everything.”
The guys murmured their thanks as she left the room, wiping at her eyes.
Bartholomew said, “Chris, can I have a word?”
They exited. Skull glanced between Boomer, bleary-eyed and vaguely green, and Breakneck, who looked like he just stepped out of a commercial for clean living.
