Crossbones by John L. Campbell Read Free Book Online

relieved, so he ordered a course that would take them northwest into Puget Sound, calling for seven knots.
    Liz stared at the bold, black letters stenciled above the windows, stark against the white bulkhead.
Honor. Respect. Devotion to Duty.
The Coast Guard’s core values. Then she looked out the starboard side, thinking about what she had seen and done in Admiral Whelan’s office, about the DEA helicopter and its loudspeaker, and once again seeing her brother leaning on a smoking machine gun.
    Her entire adult life had been dedicated to her country, her crew, and saving lives. Now, in the course of a morning, Captain Elizabeth Kidd had broken out a federal prisoner, fired upon and killed agents of a sovereign nation, and unlawfully seized an American military vessel: all acts of aggression against her own country.
    The word for that was
traitor
.
    â€œMr. Waite, advance to flank speed and keep us clear of that destroyer to the north,” she ordered. As she looked out at the gray surface beyond the bow of her cutter, she thought about how quickly things and people could change, and wondered at what new changes lay ahead.

FOUR
    January 12—San Francisco Bay
    Father Xavier Church worked the heavy bag, slowly circling on the balls of his feet, throwing punches in combinations. He had already skipped rope until sweat plastered his shirt to his broad back, and twenty minutes on the speed bag had the muscles in his arms and shoulders burning. Soon he would begin running laps around
Nimitz
’s flight deck.
    He worked the bag harder than usual, fists slamming into the leather and dense padding with thumps that could be heard all the way across the gym. He was worried, and feared for the friends who had lifted off from the flight deck in Vladimir’s Black Hawk only yesterday: Angie, Skye, and Carney. He prayed for their safe return from Chico, prayed they would find Angie’s family safe and whole. Yet he couldn’t help but think that their chances would have been better had he gone with them.
    In his middle forties, Xavier’s dark brown face was a graphic example of man’s capacity for violence. A scar split his visage down the center, from hairline to chin, and a trio of pale claw marksgouged one cheek. Behind the damage were dark eyes that were both watchful and weary with responsibility. Taking
Nimitz
from the dead had come at a substantial cost; friends had been lost and children orphaned. Xavier felt the absence of every life.
    His fists hammered the bag, and he blinked away sweat as he struck, still dancing in a circle. He threw a powerful combination to the center and then a roundhouse high on the bag, hits that would have put a heavyweight on the canvas. Xavier winced as the grenade fragment deep in his thigh twitched, but he gritted his teeth and worked through the pain. Doc had managed to remove all of the other pieces of metal, and now only the one remained, too deep to reach without risking nerve and tissue damage. She hoped movement and time would work the piece closer to the surface, where she could get at it with a simple incision. Doc said it would be a painful process, and she had been right.
    A balanced diet from the aircraft carrier’s galley, combined with an exhausting and disciplined workout regimen, had returned the priest to fighting shape, hardening the wide V-shape of his boxer’s physique. He still limped after exercising, or if he overdid the walking when he was out with the hunting parties, searching out the dead in the carrier’s miles of passageways, but it couldn’t be helped. There was always so much to do, and Xavier wouldn’t allow himself to be slowed down.
    He gave the bag a final, powerful hit, then crossed the mat to where a towel was draped over the back of a chair. A pump shotgun leaned there as well. Xavier mopped his head and face, then hung the towel around his neck. He was tightening his shoelaces when a man walked into the