Page 85 of Savage Reckoning

“You were never struck off. You could get work.”

I let out a mirthless chuckle. “I doubt it. If I did somehow manage to get a job, I’d be lucky if they let me do the occasional blood test. I’m a trauma specialist, a skilled physician. I’m needed here.”

He stands, stares out of the window at the stormy horizon beyond. “I guess I knew that. Had to ask, though.” He turns to regard me. “You know I can’t stay.”

Maybe I do, but I’m not ready to accept that version of reality yet. “Why not? I could speak to Ethan…”

“I already did.”

“Let me try. Maybe I could—”

“It wouldn’t work, sweetheart.”

“Why? Because you won’t leave the army? I know what your work means to you, just as mine is everything to me.”

He shakes his head. “I’m good at what I do, but I’m not a career soldier. I’d dump the military like a shot if it meant I could have you. But I’d be an outsider here. They needed me before, when Ethan was unconscious and his brother in hospital. There was shit to be done, I was useful. I still am, for now. But he’s back. They all are. Ethan Savage doesn’t need another lieutenant, and I’m not sure I could do that anyway. I work best on my own.”

“But I need you,” I whisper. “I love you.”

He takes my jaw between both his hands and grazes my lips with his. “I love you, too. And, I’ll be back. Often. We’ll find a way to make this work.”

I close my eyes, but that doesn’t prevent the tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Yes,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. “Yes, we’ll somehow make this work. We have to because I can’t lose you a second time.”

CHAPTER 18

Gabriel

Reinforcements are rolling in, as promised. Jed O’Neill has sent over a hundred men. Some are stationed at Caernbro Ghyll, the rest will be deployed in boats to guard our waters. A further three dozen have arrived from Moldova, courtesy of Marius Bival. Our arsenal of heavy weaponry has increased, too. Ethan Savage has forged strong alliances, and all are turning out in force to assist him when he needs it. I wonder if Sokolov has the first idea what he’s actually up against.

Ethan has Sokolov under surveillance, naturally. We know he has a couple of hundred men to call on, but most are still in Belarus or Russia and showing no sign of being mobilised. His soldiers in the UK number perhaps half of that, which makes me wonder if he truly appreciates what’s involved in launching at attack from the sea. Belarus and Russia are more or less land-locked; he has no experience of this.

Sokolov has commissioned a fleet of helicopters, so it’s safe to assume he means to come in from the air. Accordingly, we have Archer’s missile launcher, backed up by hand-held grenade launchers that can take out a target at a few hundred metres. The plan is to eradicate the incoming enemy while they’re still in the air and prevent them ever setting foot on Caraksay soil. They may try to land from boats, too, in which case they’ll be blasted to smithereens by my explosives which have been set at every conceivable disembarkation spot. My role in the defence of Caraksay is to monitor activity at sea and respond accordingly. No one is to actually get boots on the island, and anyone who does get this far is to be shot on sight. No prisoners, no negotiating.

That’s my sort of war.

I’m stationed in a turret on the roof of the castle. It’s the highest spot on the entire island. I have a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the terrain below and the entire coastline. Casey has electronic surveillance in place, so we’ll know of their approach well before anyone comes into view, but I’ll have the first eyes on our enemy.

The radio strapped to my waist crackles. I hit the ‘receive’ button.

“Eight helicopters, repeat, eight helicopters approaching from the east. Distance twenty-seven kilometres, speed one hundred and seventy knots.”

I do a quick calculation. That’s around a hundred and ninety miles per hour, so the choppers will be in sight within under two minutes. Even though I’m alone up here, the air of anticipation around me is palpable.

“Any sign of landing craft?” I spit into the radio.

“Negative,” comes the reply from Casey.

I’m not complacent. It’s possible to drop divers from choppers, though the waters around Caraksay are among the most perilous anywhere in the world. A more likely approach will be to attack from the air, which means they have to actually reach Caraksay to be effective. Courtesy of Jed, we have firepower aboard dozens of vessels in the North Sea, ready to intercept before they get anywhere close.

“Two down. Repeat, two down.”

I acknowledge the message, grinning at the prospect of a couple of enemy helicopters already sinking beneath the choppy waters. Idiots. Six to go.

By the time they come into view, there are just four left. I hear them before I see them, the distant hum rising above the constant buffeting of wind and waves. As I scan the horizon, I see another explode in the air, then spiral into the sea.

The damage is being done mainly by Irish marksmen provided by Jed, backed up by an impressive bit of Russian kit, courtesy of Marius. The portable air defence system he shipped over to us is a guided surface-to-air missile capable of destroying aircraft. We have it set up on a launch about twenty miles to the east of the island.

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