Page 3 of A SEAL's Protection
My hand clasps the pounamu around my neck, and I rub it absently, feeling the weight of the generations of the men who wore it before me.
The memory of my father handing it over to me on a visit back to New Zealand slips into my mind. His hand shook as he put it around my neck and said the words in a language I never learned. I joked that he still had many good years to wear it, but he must have known something I didn’t.
It was the last time I saw him alive.
I squeeze the pounamu tight. Maybe it’s time to go back to New Zealand.
In the stillness of the night, my mind turns over the possibilities.
Stay in North Carolina with my ex-SEAL buddies and help my old commander Joel finish the veterans center, or return to my father’s people and help Keely run the farm.
Since I was booted out of Teams, I can’t shake the nagging suspicion that my best days are behind me and there are a lot of dull years stretching ahead of me.
I rub my eyes and focus on the silent campsite below me.
No point in thinking about the past. I’m here on a mission—to keep one woman safe for three weeks, or however long she lasts in the wilderness.
It’s not the same as hunting bad guys, but as I sit in my bivy sack with my rifle by my side and the night closing in around me, there’s no place I’d rather be.
I’m trained to doze anywhere and to come awake at any change in my environment. I slip into the light sleep of a man who’s done this a hundred times, body resting, mind alert.
The vibration of my wrist has me awake instantly. I stay still for a few moments, letting my ears search the night for any change in sound. My eyes adjust to the dark, and in the moonlight I make out the tent below me, unmoving in the darkness.
With slow, deliberate movements, I raise my rifle. Through the scope, I scan the camp area. The tent rustles in the light breeze, but there’s no other movement.
The sensor information on the watch tells me it’s sensor one, the entry point from the main trail. I set the sensitivity to avoid the smallest of animals, so whatever tripped it was heavier than forty-five pounds. A small animal—a possum or a deer. Too small to be a bear, and it’s not cub season.
I slip on my night-vision goggles and do another scan of the camp area. There’s nothing visible. Whatever tripped the sensor isn’t down there.
There’s a rustling in the undergrowth, and I strain my ears to listen. Something moves through the scrub, quick, light movement. Probably the same animal searching for food. It backs out of the scrub, and I strain my ears to the sound of it moving away, uncertain if I’m hearing four feet or two.
If it’s another hiker, they’re not sticking around, and if it’s an animal, they’ve moved off elsewhere.
But I don’t operate on uncertainties.
Taking care not to make a sound, I slip out from under my shelter. Keeping low and hidden, I circle the perimeter, stopping every few feet to look and listen.
I keep to the shadows, not wanting to expose myself by encroaching on the campsite. Nothing stirs but the wind rustling in the trees.
I step over my own sensors, wanting to keep the records clean. All is quiet when I make it back to my position.
I settle into my bivy bag and keep my eyes and ears on the camp. The last embers of the campfire have long burned down, and all is still and silent.
I keep vigilant, knowing I won’t sleep anymore tonight. The camp is still, but my gut churns with a subtle warning. Animals wander, but people stalk.
This mission just got a whole lot more interesting.
2
ALLEGRA
Morning light filters through the trees as I stretch in front of my tent. I spent an uneasy night, my mind attuned to every creak of the trees or snuffle of curious animals. Bears seldom come this far down the mountain, but I slept with my bear spray in easy reach just in case.
My route follows the main mountain streams rather than aiming for peaks, as most tourists do on this trail. I’ll be cutting across several hiking trails to stay close to water sources before climbing into the peaks where ice clings to the mountain all year round.
The fire died out in the night, and I rub my hands together to keep the cold out. I’ve got a lot of ground to cover today, so instead of relighting the fire, I use my gas stove to brew my coffee.
Good coffee beans and a camping French press are my one luxury for the trip. I got the best brand at the camping store. The sales assistant assured me this compact silver camping press would brew the best coffee I can expect while on the trail.
