Beneath the Trident (3/4)
***
Danny bolts awake, hand automatically reaching for a weapon before he realizes he's not at home. Steve is up and on his feet by the time Danny scrubs his eyes, the noise that woke him louder and persistent.
"Commander McGarrett, sir!"
Steve jerks open the door and Danny's caught between staring at who is on the other side and how the light pours over Steve's defined shoulders and back.
"Lieutenant Mache, report," Steve demands.
"Commander Stanton wants the team ready to move out in five minutes. The Chief's getting everyone together, sir."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Steve says. "We'll be ready in two."
"Yes, sir."
"Wait, what the hell is going on?" Danny squints at the clock; it's only three in the morning. They've only had a few hours' sleep. "Fuck me."
"Come on, Danno, let's get moving."
By the time Danny rolls out of bed, Steve's pulled on his BDUs and thrown on an olive shirt. "Snap, snap, D."
"Snap, snap?" Danny glowers at Steve who is already lacing up his boots. "Oh my god, I hate you and all your SEAL insanity," he growls, hurrying to put on some clothes.
***
He's cranky, exhausted, and chilly. Danny slips on a light jacket that Steve hands him, and okay, the whole anticipating that he'd be cold is freaky and kind of nice. But he'd rather be in bed. What the hell are they doing out here?
Danny moves around, gravel crunching beneath his boots. The team exits their vehicles and forms a line, Steve standing proudly at the end.
Commander Stanton strides up to him, gnawing on his cigar. "Commander McGarrett. I need your team to sweep five miles of road, identifying and disarming the four IEDs hidden along it. I want you to use the modified versions of the Wolverine detection system."
"Yes, sir." Steve folds his hands behind his back. "Have they fixed the modulation issues with the Wolverine system?"
"I don't know, Commander," Stanton says with a smile. "That's why we're testing it tonight."
"Aye, aye, sir." Steve quickly faces his men. "Vega is sitting out tonight to give his ankle rest. Everyone break into four teams, Hunt and Torres, you're with me. Everyone suit up and move out."
***
Danny stares open-mouthed at the odd black model airplane that Torres unpacks from a metal case.
"She's ready to go, sir," Torres says after inspecting it.
Steve pulls out a set of binoculars. "PO Hunt, the map please."
Hunt ambles over, the younger man towering over Steve by several inches, and unrolls a laminated map. "Here you go, sir."
Torres and Hunt, elite sailors snapping to and obeying all of Steve's commands, send a tingle down Danny's spine.
"Ensign, I want you to fly the drone right over here." Steve traces a finger over the line representing the road. "Drop your sensor load from 18A to 18D on the grid."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Intrigued, Danny keeps quiet as Torres pulls a large remote control out of the case. Walking over to stand next to Steve, Danny can't help the smile that escapes when the drone speeds down the dirt road and launches silently into the sky.
Steve lifts his binoculars to watch, his eyes drifting toward the map Hunt holds open for him to study. "Don't overshoot the target, Ensign."
"Yes, sir," Torres answers, guiding the drone. "I'm bringing her back around."
Danny can't see or hear a thing in the darkness, watching kid-like for a sign of the drone. "What's it going to do?"
"Drop hundreds of tiny sensors to the ground," Steve says, observing.
"You serious?"
Steve averts his gaze for a millisecond before adjusting his binoculars. "The drone's loaded with sensors smaller than your fingernail. Inside each one are molecules that react in the presence of trinitrotoluene vapor."
Danny shakes his head; Bill Nye has nothing on Steve. "You mean TNT?"
"Yeah."
"Dropping sensors, sir," Torres reports.
Steve watches, fingers curling tightly around the binoculars. "Good job, Ensign. Right on the mark."
Torres nods, taking the praise in stride.
Steve looks over at Hunt and Torres, eyes landing on Danny last. "Let's move out."
***
Danny does a double take at the weapon in Steve's hands. "What the hell is that?"
Steve brandishes a long rifle fitted with a lens instead of a muzzle and a freakish scope with a large rectangular display screen. "Something that uses infrared."
"Like a laser gun?" Danny asks incredulous. Because leave it to Steve to have a freaking space gun.
"Yeah, something like that," Steve says hiding a smile.
Hunt sits behind the wheel, driving the Humvee at a glacier pace, eyes pin-balling between Steve and the bumpy road. Torres' shoulders brush against Danny's as he squeezes closer up front to watch.
Steve points the rifle out of the passenger side window, steady as a rock, blues and greens swirling in his view screen. "By aiming at the area with infrared light, the sensors feed information to the receivers built into the gun."
Danny presses against Torres as he peers at Steve. "Do the explosives look purple or something?"
"Actually, is it's the absence of fluorescence that warns us of explosives," Steve says, focused completely on scanning the ground with the laser.
Steve's veins must pump with ice water, easily ignoring the energy inside the Humvee.
"That's incredible." Danny's heart thumps wildly. "How come this isn't used more widely?"
"Because it's classified and it's still in the testing stages." Steve nearly leans out the window. "I used one of the first models a few years ago. The sensors gave off too many false positives; I hope they've improved things."
Danny stares at the back of Steve's head in stunned shock. "They sent you out with experimental technology?"
Steve doesn't turn around. "We can't use dogs in coverts operations and we need something when going into certain types of enemy territory."
Danny grips the passenger seat a little harder. "And the bombs we're searching for tonight. Are they real?"
Steve doesn't answer, training his rifle, eyes narrowing at the readings. "I've got a large area of black ten meters on the right. Petty Officer Hunt, stop the vehicle. Everyone file out behind me."
Danny adjusts his body amour, his shirt glued to his back from sweat. He doesn't intend to stay inside the Humvee. "You said the sensors were unreliable?" he asks.
"We're still tweaking them."
"Tweaking?" Danny scoffs in a hitch pitched voice. "Yeah, that sounds safe."
"That's why we have the fly paper," Steve says with assurance.
Danny refrains from asking what the hell that means, eyes glued to the ground, careful of every step.
Hunt carries a giant roll of something out of the Humvee with a scary kind of poise. Kneeling, Steve studies his scope, reviewing a road that looks like every other inch, filled with dirt and rocks.
Steve holds up a hand, everyone freezing mid-step. "I've got almost zero florescence approximately two meters in front of me, spanning…three meters across."
Staring out at the road, Torres juts out his chin, his shoulders bunched in knots. "I've only used fly paper once in training, sir."
"Okay, Ensign, that's fine," Steve says, evenly holding Torres' gaze. "Just walk me through the procedure."
"We should spread out the film about twice the size of the target area and stretch it carefully across the surface," Torres explains, relaxing minutely.
"Affirmative," Steve says voice steady. "I'll lead you through the rest."
Torres, a mere stranger a few days ago, nods, completely trusting in his commanding officer. And Danny watches in pride as Steve works with Torres with total patience.
Studying the tiny screen, Steve scans the ground with the infrared. "Take five steps forward." Torres obeys, Steve guiding him. "Move three steps to your right…now stop. Keep your feet in place. The IED is located less than a meter in front of you. PO Hunt, you and Torres carefully lay the sheet of film over the area."
Torres bends with his knees, Hunt taking the other end, both men slowly spreading the cyan blue sheet in the air and carefully allowing it to float down to the ground. "Fly paper applied, sir," Torres says.
All the hair across Danny's arms stands on end in exhilaration.
"Now we'll wait," Steve says. "Why don't you explain to Mr. Williams how the fly paper works, Ensign?"
"Like the sensors, fly paper can detect TNT in very small concentrations," Torres explains, never taking his eyes off the film. "If there's no explosive vapor present, the film remains blue when exposed to ultraviolet light. If explosive molecules are present, a dark circle identifies the threat."
Danny blinks. That's the longest string of sentences he's ever heard Torres use. "And how long does it take?"
Steve adjusts the controls to his laser. "About six minutes."
"And how do you disarm it?" Danny asks, his heart thudding harder.
"That depends." Steve aims a purple light over the film. "Our Humvee's equipped with radio frequency jamming devices which disrupt the cell phone signals used to trigger IEDs."
"We also have microwave-pulsing devices that fry the electronics of IEDs," Torres adds as a black area slowly appears in the film.
Danny stares in awe at the deadly smudge in the far right corner of the flypaper.
"And if it's a landmine or just a plain old bomb?"
Steve clips his rifle to his neck sling and stands next to Hunt. "Ensign Torres will disarm it."
***
Danny drags his feet out of the Humvee, feeling done-in from too much adrenaline and too little sleep. But he helps unload equipment for half an hour and changes in the locker room with everyone else, his vest stinking of sweat.
"I can't wait for a shower," he grumbles. "Maybe breakfast before crashing."
Steve removes his gun belt. "You might have time for both before the morning drill."
Danny feels like banging his head into the locker. "We're not going back to bed, are we?"
Steve shrugs off his own vest, which, in McGarrett, means no.
Before Danny can bitch, Commander Stanton strolls into the locker room. "Good work tonight," he tells the team and looks over at Steve. "Although, Commander, your squad finished last."
Steve's locks his jaw in place, his face all hard lines to match his body. "I wasn't aware it was a timed assignment, sir."
"What mission isn't?" Stanton says. But Steve stands unflinching, Stanton's expression equally neutral. "Are you ready for our debriefing?"
"Yes, sir." Steve closes his locker and follows Stanton out.
Danny waits until both are gone before muttering, "What an asshole."
Hunt snorts behind him. "You gonna put that in your article?"
"Maybe, I might slip it in after the section about using gadgets from Star Wars to track down fake IEDs."
"Everything about that bomb was real except the detonator," Hunt reminds him.
Torres finishes changing in silence and quietly walks away, disappearing out of the locker room.
Danny looks at Hunt quizzingly, the guy sighing. "Just after Torres got his trident, he was out on maneuvers with his first platoon and they were ambushed. During the resulting firefight, their Humvee hit a roadside bomb, killing three of his teammates."
"Jesus," Danny mutters. "He didn't look fazed at all."
Hunt stands to his full scary height. "He wasn't supposed to be."
And Steve had deftly reinforced that idea tonight as both a leader and a teacher. Never barking orders or giving Torres shit for taking his time. Such compassion and competence is rare and it sends another tingle down Danny's spine.
Hunt slowly loses his serious face, his lips curving. "If you thought the stuff we used tonight was cool, let me show something else."
***
Maybe scrubbing with floors with Hunt earned Danny some brownie points and he follows him out of the locker room and across the hall.
"Stanton's a real hard ass, huh?" he asks casually.
"We work with different base commanders all the time," Hunt says, opening the door into the supply room. "If it's for a mission, they mainly function in a supporting role and make sure we have everything we need for the job. But if we're training, then sometimes they'll have a more hands-on approach. McGarrett's got a real good rep, but he's been in the reserves and Stanton's going to bust his balls a while."
"You guys know each other's reps?"
"It's a small club. McGarrett's is…interesting." Hunt grins devilishly. "I hear he's one of the best, but he has a habit of making up the rules as he goes."
Danny wishes he had a tape recorder so he could play this on repeat in the Camaro.
"Based on what I've seen of him, that doesn't surprise me. What about Johnson's rep? I was originally supposed to shadow him. I mean, I'm just curious about the stuff I won't hear."
"Like what?" Hunt asks, popping a stick of gum.
"I dunno. Did he have a secret love for cooking or was he a hot head sometimes?"
"He loved things that went fast," Hunt says all smiles. "Motorcycles, cars."
"He was a real adrenaline junkie?"
"Dude, seriously? Of course he was. But he liked fly-fishing and he actually listened to classical shit. Bach and Beethoven." Hunt rubs a hand nervously over his shorn orange hair, his voice quieter. He frowns. "He always wanted to go to the London Symphony."
Danny's face falls, knowing how hard these guys have to work to hide their grief. "The secret life of SEALs, huh?"
"You mean like the fact that there's more to us than our ability to obey orders?"
Danny feels like a total prick, but Hunt gives Danny's shoulder a shake. "You really need to loosen up," he snorts.
Hunt points at a stack of equipment lined up in the middle of the room. "We pull out the gear we'll need the night before and do an inspection check in the morning." Making his way around cases of weapons, he picks up a large black container. "This is really cool, dude. You're gonna love it."
Hunt looks like an overgrown little kid, reminding Danny that the big bad SEAL is only twenty-five.
Hunt drags out the large container, entering in a digital code and pulls out - a robot. "This is the Cheetah," he says excitedly.
The Cheetah is the size of a cat with four articulated legs and a metal body made of exposed wires and moving parts.
"It's a pet cyborg?" Danny asks in awe.
"Nah, man," Hunt laughs. "She can search for bombs, climb over objects, and race across the battlefield in the middle of a firefight, sending us live intel."
"Can she transform, too?" Because Danny wonders if he can steal this thing. Grace would love it.
"No, but she can reach twenty-five miles per hour." Hunt grabs a large remote control that requires both hands. "Watch this."
The Cheetah purrs to life, its four legs working in tandem to run past Danny in quick jerky motions, and he can't help busting out into the biggest grin. "That's freaking amazing."
There are several crates in the Cheetah's path and it just jumps over them.
"Holy shit!"
"She's just getting warmed up," Hunt grins ear to ear. "You should see what she can do outside."
"I want one."
Hunt laughs. "Oh, yeah?"
But suddenly Danny's cop instincts kick in, and he looks around, unable to shake the feeling of being watched, spotting Steve sulking by the door.
"PO Hunt, that is not a toy; secure it now," Steve orders.
Abashed, Hunt straightens to full attention. "Aye, aye, sir."
Hunt quickly collects and stores the Cheetah and stops in front of Steve. "I'm sorry, sir."
Steve's voice is kind, but firm. "Do not show off million dollar pieces of equipment unless you have the money to pay for them, Petty Officer."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Hunt says and hastily leaves.
Despite his cool as a cucumber appearance, Danny noticed the stress in Steve's words. "What was that all about, Steven?" he asks, knowing exactly the problem. Steve doesn't handle understated emotions very well.
"What was what?" Steve reflects, striding over and practically glowering over Danny, hands on his hips. "PO Hunt was out of line."
Steve practically simmers next to him, the silver chain of his dog tags emphasizing the flexed muscles in his throat. Danny bites down the urge to grab the damn thing between his fingers and yank Steve closer just to see his reaction.
"Out of line?" Danny mocks. "Is that what you call it?"
"Yeah." Steve steps closer. "That's what I call playing around with classified equipment."
"Playing around?" Danny flings his arms out, pissed. "It was a demonstration, a bonding moment."
"A bonding moment, really?"
"Yeah, bonding," Danny growls back. "Or are you the only one allowed to connect with any member of your team?"
Steve inches closer. "The last I checked, I don't own an exclusive on bonding with others."
This isn't the bathroom, Danny's not trapped by the wall, but he doesn't actually move away. "That's really good, because believe it or not, finding similarities with another person, sharing anecdotes, and relating on a human level aren't your strongest skill sets."
"Really?"
"No, in fact, I can safely say they require improvement." Danny's breathing hard, Steve even harder, and Danny can't take it anymore. "Are you too stubborn to admit that you were jealous?"
Steve's eyes grow large and he nervously looks around the room. "I wasn't jealous."
"If that wasn't jealousy, Steven, what was it?" Danny asks, his boots touching the tips of Steve's. But Steve doesn't answer right away and Danny looks up at Steve's face, wanting to brush his fingers across the unshaved stubble. "You're never at a loss for words, babe."
Steve opens and closes his mouth, swallowing, his whole body visibly shaking from his internal struggle.
Danny reaches over to touch him, but Steve takes two steps back, eyes crestfallen. "I...I can't do this, Danny." He inhales sharply, wiping his hands over his face. "I just...I'm sorry."
"Wait." Danny's heart skips a beat. Fuck. He didn't mean to do this. Not here, not now. "Steve, wait -"
"I've got to go," Steve interrupts him, voice cracking. "I've got the morning drill and Stanton has a rescue op set up for us later today."
"Yeah, okay," Danny says, trying for normal. He doesn't want Steve distracted while doing something dangerous. "Go do your thing. I'll just...I'll see about a hunch I have."
"Okay. Good. Um… I'll see you later," Steve says and hustles out the door.
Danny watches Steve disappear and kicks the crate in front of him three times until his foot hurts. Because, god, what a fucking mess.
***
Danny's restless, functioning only on caffeine and nervous energy. He's glad he's skipped tagging along on the next exercise, not after whatever the hell happened in the supply room. No, he can't think about that now. Taking a break won't hurt his cover and he'll feel more useful following another idea. He needs the distraction and Steve needs to keep his mind focused on whatever crazy thing he's doing.
Lieutenant Porter comes over at and sits across from his table with a large cardboard box.
"Hey," Danny says with a charming smile.
"I must admit, Mr. Williams, your request for these files has me intrigued." Porter pulls back some of the hair that has fallen in front of her face. "Is there any reason why you want to read the military police's files from this month?"
"Because while I was here, I got an idea for a second story about crime on military bases, and before you jump to conclusions," he says, holding up a finger, "it will be a flattering piece on the challenges of policing a community of military personnel."
Porter taps a finger on the end of box. "You'll need to sign another set of forms giving us explicit permission to vet your article since the original documents pertained only to the exposé regarding SEAL Team Five."
"You sound like a JAG lawyer," Danny teases.
"Don't flatter yourself." Porter stands, smoothing out her uniform. "Have fun. Call me if you need anything else."
Pulling out the first file, Danny takes a deep breath. This whole thing is a shot in a dark, but maybe some incident might spark a new lead, or a pattern of criminal activity might emerge. He honestly doesn't know. If Johnson's death wasn't premeditated or connected to his status as a SEAL, then maybe he simply was a victim of a random crime.
"And if you ran into trouble by accident, maybe the clue is in these," Danny says, wishing he'd brought a thermos of coffee.
***
The last thing Danny expects when he walks into the common room is to find the whole team lazing around all the sofas and chairs. It's like déjà vu, except he's not on the receiving end of a dozen scrutinizing eyes. Everyone is in black t-shirts and BDUs as if they'd just completed their mission, stripped off their vests and weapons, and collapsed where they sat. He spots Steve sprawled on a blue love seat, his legs and bare feet hanging over the armrest. In fact, everyone is bare foot.
"Did you guys lose all your socks?"
"Don't ask," Vega mumbles, an icepack wrapped around his ankle.
Whatever they did, Vega's still not a hundred percent and looks like he's paying for it.
There's an empty seat at the end of the orange sofa and Danny looks at it and over at the wall, thinking he might just lean when Torres looks over at him.
"I don't bite, Rolling Stone."
Danny accepts the warm and fuzzy invitation and sits next to Torres who seems content twisting a rope into a series of complicated knots. The TV's on with some movie about a SWAT Team going vigilante on a drug cartel.
"That shot is fucked," one them shouts. "The angle's all wrong."
"Are you just noticing the sheer amount of bullshit in this?" Mache asks, nursing a beer. The big guy still has a stupid bandanna wrapped around his forehead. "Was your job as a cop ever this exciting, McGarrett?"
Danny isn't used to hearing anyone call Steve anything but sir, but he guesses it's because everyone is off duty.
"We had our fair share of adventures," Steve says, vaguely. "We put away a lot of bad people."
Mache nods thoughtfully, shifting his large limbs, his elbow bumping into Torres's shoulder. Torres ignores him, all his focus on the rope between his fingers.
"What the hell are you doing, man?" Mache asks.
"Relaxing," Torres grunts.
All that fidgeting is actually quite annoying, but Danny doesn't say anything as he tries to read Steve's mood from across the room.
"Is that some type of slungshot knot?" Mache asks.
"Kind of," Torres mumbles.
"Dude, nothing beats a double reef."
Torres doesn't look up at Mache. "Not if you add a few twists to the slungshot."
"Is that a challenge, Ensign?"
Torres is a man of few words, glancing up at the lieutenant. "Do you want it be?"
Danny can't believe his ears; don't these guys get tired of competition?
"Got a C note that says you can't get out of mine in less than thirty seconds," Mache challenges.
Before Danny knows it, Torres is tying Mache's hands behind his back, and for crying out loud, are these guys Navy SEALs or five year olds?
Danny tries to stay out of the way while the room fills with more testosterone. Mache gets out in a good time. Then he uses his super-secret knot on Torres and Danny hops up from his seat and wanders toward Steve.
He stands there awkwardly, staring at Steve's feet, at the tendons and arches, gathering the courage to ask if things are good between them.
"Hey, Rolling Stone, do you wanna try?"
Danny wearily turns around. "Nah, I'm good."
"What? Why not?" Mache asks. "You can even pick the knot."
"Two hundred bucks says he can't get out of any of them in less than sixty seconds," someone yells.
"I've got that bet."
"Put me in for that action."
Danny can feel his blood boil as everyone wagers on how long it would take him.
"I bet he can," Steve says. "In fact, you name the knot and I'll tie it."
Mache idly twirls the rope around. "I'll take you up on that. Double reef knot. Sixty seconds."
Steve takes the rope and pauses, looking over at Danny hesitantly. "May I?"
Something inside Danny's stomach flips, because Steve is just nervous as he is after this morning. Danny wets his lips, keeping his tone normal, giving him a reassuring smile. "Sure."
Steve releasing a breath, nodding. Mache pulls out a wooden chair for them and Danny sits down, never taking his eyes off Steve.
"I actually prefer a good old square knot myself," Steve says casually. "Maybe give it an alternate twist."
Steve takes Danny's left hand and gently pulls it behind the chair, rubbing his thumb over the pulse point of Danny's wrist, the motion causing it to beat faster. Then Steve takes Danny's other arm, not yanking it, but carefully bending it around until both of his hands encompass Danny's wrists.
Danny wiggles in the chair, his back and shoulders tensing slightly. But he remains cool, doesn't pay attention to the other eleven people in the room, their eyes watching him. All Danny can feel is Steve's breath on the nape of his neck and his long fingers working the rope around Danny's wrists.
He doesn't like being restrained, and his flight or fight instincts collide with his need to relax, to trust Steve, to use the nervous energy coiling into his gut to free himself.
"There." Steve gives Danny's right wrist a squeeze. "It's tied."
Mache walks over, carefully inspecting the knot, and pats Danny on the shoulder. "Let's see what you got."
Torres flips his wrist, holding a finger in the air. "And go."
It would be easier to focus if Steve wasn't actually standing so close by. The other SEALs don't know that Steve drove Danny nuts once during a stakeout, practicing his stupid knots, the square knot to be precise, and forced Danny to learn it. And it's a challenge trying to pull things by touch, twisting his fingers around the rope. This isn't a square knot at all, but Steve told him how to get out of this one by code …alternate twist, his ass.
"Thirty seconds," Torres calls the time.
"Come on, you can do it!" Steve hollers.
Danny thinks things are good between them because only Steve would root for him over his own SEAL team and secretly give Danny the tools to do it.
"That's it, Rolling Stone!" Hunt whoops, and okay, so two people are rooting for him.
"Fifty seconds," Torres calls out.
Just one more tug, damn goofy thumbs, Danny mocks at himself and there - the biggest knot is loose, it needs just one more adjustment.
The rope falls away from his wrists and Danny jumps up as Torres calls out fifty-nine seconds.
Danny brushes off his sleeves, strutting a little, giving the rest of the team a smile. "Not too bad, huh?"
Steve's standing next to him with a big goofy grin that he quickly schools before holding out his hand. "All right, boys, pay up."
Danny settles back on the sofa, feeling pretty good, and even Vega nods at him from his spot on the other loveseat, his icepack dripping on the floor.
"All right, if Rolling Stone can get out of a chair, obviously we need to make this more challenging," Mache announces.
Steve finishes collecting his winnings and Danny shouts at him, "Don't I get any of that since I'm the one that got trussed up?"
"Maybe I'll buy you a beer tomorrow," Steve says.
"Oh, you'll buy me a beer?" Danny snorts. But he actually lets it drop, because this is good, most of the tension from earlier bleeding away.
Mache's still going on about upping the ante and Torres rolls his eyes and nods at Steve. "Bet the boss can get out of anything."
This ignites a whole discussion on how to do that, Steve standing there with this 'bring it on attitude.' Mache for once doesn't look like a pissed off biker and more like an ugly ox needing to blow off steam.
"I've got it," Mache says. "How about with your hands above your head in less than thirty seconds?"
"Only thirty?" Steve challenges.
Danny stops himself from calling Steve an idiot.
Steve walks over to the perfect spot and raises his arms above his head, glaring at the rafter for being taller. "Hold on," he says, grabbing one of the beams with both hands, stretching his body as far up as he can.
Mache's not tall enough to reach above the beam, so he pulls over the chair, and stands on top of it. He snakes the rope around Steve's wrists, tightening the first loop, binding Steve's hands together, forcing him to stand on his tiptoes.
Suddenly Steve's whole body stiffens, his lips a pale thin line, and he starts pulling on the rope and Danny knows something is wrong immediately.
"Wait, sir, I'm not done yet," Mache says, looping it around a second time and tying another knot.
Steve's feet fight for purchase on the ground, his jaw muscles twitching.
Mache finishes and moves off the chair and motions at Torres to start the clock.
Danny jumps up, forcing himself to stop, to think, and not blow their covers. He's furious, forced to watch helplessly as Steve's feet dangle and scrape the floor. He looks up at Steve to offer encouragement, but Steve doesn't see him, doesn't seem to register anything at all.
"Ten seconds," Torres announces.
Steve's head jerks at the sound and he stares at Torres, at everyone around the room, at Danny, blinking. Steve takes a shuddering breath and slowly exhales. He closes his eyes and when he opens them up, they're dull and blank. And in that moment, the point where Steve goes away, his fingers dig in between the knots.
"You can do it, sir!" Hunt yells.
But Steve's face is lax of emotion and Danny knows he's not there with them.
"Twenty seconds," Torres says.
It feels like a lifetime to Danny, but Steve continues tugging at the ropes, standing completely on his toes. It seems to take forever, Steve's breathing rapid, but even, like it's taking every ounce of self control to work the knots. To get the job done.
The corners of Steve's mouth tic until finally the rope unravels and falls to the floor.
"Twenty-eight seconds," Torres announces.
Mache smiles, slapping Steve on the arm when he walks over. "Awesome job, sir."
Steve nods and hands the rope back to Mache, rolling his shoulders, his face a fragile mask of concentration. "You guys have fun. I'm hitting the rack."
"Okay, who's going to outdo McGarrett?" Mache challenges the team.
Danny doesn't stick around to see if they're going to start hog-tying each other next and quietly slips out of the room.
***
Danny quickly enters their quarters, waiting silently until his eyes adjust to the blackness. Steve's on the side of the bed, his elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands.
Danny's heart aches, his impotence doubled from a few minutes ago. He hesitates, not wanting to fuck things up any further, but Steve is a coiled spring of nerves and muscle and Danny debates navigating the murky boundaries between them.
"Is it okay for me to sit next to you?" he asks.
"We've got a long day tomorrow. We should probably go to bed," Steve says, quietly.
It's not a yes or a no, so Danny sits on the bed across from Steve, the front of their knees barely touching. He waits, letting Steve set the playing field.
Gradually, Steve raises his head but doesn't look Danny in the eyes. "I think we should retrace Johnson's steps in real time tomorrow night."
It's not surprising that Steve doesn't want to talk about what happened, and despite how much it kills Danny, he's not going to force Steve to exorcise his demons when he'd not ready.
"We'll go after your last exercise. Do you have anything scheduled at night?"
"Not at the moment."
"Okay, good." Danny rests his arms on his legs, head bowed, his eyes tracing the outline of Steve's nose, his lips. Danny battles the urge to touch, knowing he doesn't have permission. Breathing deeply, he whispers, "I'm sorry, babe. I was wrong the other day."
Steve tilts his head. "About what?"
Danny tries to settle his ragged voice. "You're not a robot."
Steve's breath hitches, his Adam's apple bobbing in the darkness. And damn it, Danny aches to hold Steve, to -
Danny squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to climb under the covers, flattening himself in bed to keep from doing anything stupid. He hears the rustling of sheets and of Steve settling down, and after few silent moments, there's a faint 'thank you' in the darkness.
***
Danny will murder the guy pounding on their door. Again. For fuck's sake, didn't his head just hit the pillow?
But Steve's talking to someone, Vega maybe, his sleep-mussed voice gravelly. "We'll be there in five."
Danny kicks the sheets to the floor. "What is it with this guy and making sure we don't get more than a few hours sleep?" he growls.
"Stanton won't interfere with the schedule I've created, but that doesn't mean he can't add to it," Steve says, grabbing his clothes. "This isn't routine training. The SBS team arrives in less than a week."
"Yeah, yeah, British SEALs and giant egos," Danny grumbles, his feet hitting the cold floor.
"We'll still retrace Johnson's steps tonight."
Danny's marginally more awake thanks to the chill sinking into his bones and he looks over at Steve, roaming around the room on autopilot, wondering if he slept at all.
"You going to be up for running around later?" Danny asks. The last twenty-four hours have been brutal, but Steve shoots him daggers from across the room. "All right, all right, no need for the SEAL death glare."
Steve ignores him, lacing up his boots. "Did you get anywhere with your hunch yesterday?"
"Other than a few recent on base housing burglaries and a drug bust for amphetamines, nothing that pinged on the radar." Danny grabs his phone and frowns. "Got a couple missed calls from Chin."
"It's four now," Steve says, checking his watch. "We'll call him after the exercise."
Danny finishes buckling his belt, his stomach growling. "I really hate this guy. Doesn't he know that even Rambos need to eat?"
Steve tosses something out of his duffel, Danny catching it against his chest. Staring at the wrapper, he rolls his eyes. "A power bar, really?"
***
Danny doesn't ride with the team; in fact, Steve and the others go in the opposite direction, forcing Danny in the backseat of Commander Stanton's Humvee with the rest of his entourage. It takes half an hour to reach their destination, a large open area with a sprawling compound. Danny stretches his legs, walking around a little, testing his voice recorder.
Stanton at least has the decency to wait until they're outside before lighting a stogie. He stands there while someone hands him a headset, the four marine escorts quickly setting up a table with computers and radio equipment.
Danny slips the recorder into his pants' pocket. "How long do we have to wait until -"
"Look up, Mr. Williams," Stanton says, bringing a set of night-vision binoculars to his eyes.
Danny searches the sky, perplexed, until he notices the faint outline of two helicopters, two very silent helicopters. Goddamn it, they are real.
"Here, sir." A marine comes over, handing Danny a headset.
Danny puts it on. "Thank you."
Stanton adjusts his microphone. "Thumper, this Red Base, Joker One and Joker Two are sixty seconds out. Prepare to light it up."
"Roger that, Red Base."
Danny watches the helos approach low to the horizon, frustration boiling over. "Could anyone please explain to me what's going on?"
"A fast-rope exercise, Mr. Williams," Stanton explains, chewing on his cigar. "At any given moment, a SEAL team must quickly deploy into any area in the world."
Danny thinks back to one of the books he'd read, remembering new clips on TV during Navy Week a few months ago. "Is that where they slide down a rope from really high in the air?"
"Exactly," Stanton says with a nod. "The objective is to quickly sneak into places undetected, but just as often, right into a hotspot."
Both helicopters draw closer.
"Hot spot?" Danny asks.
"Both helos and the special operators are sitting ducks in a situations like this." Stanton lowers his binoculars to look at Danny. "Climbing that wall and entering an enemy compound is less dangerous than the sixty seconds it takes for them to fast-rope thirty meters to the ground."
"Red Base, this is Thumper, we have Jokers One and Two in sight," a voice squawks in Danny's ear.
"Thumper, you have a go when ready," Stanton replies, watching the helos advance.
Two large black helicopters, whisper quiet, hover thirty meters above the ground. One by one, team members zip down lightning fast, hit the ground, and start running toward the looming wall.
Then the ground erupts in explosions, Danny flinching at the noise. "Jesus!"
Thick billows obscure his vision and Danny isn't sure if the team popped smoke for cover, or if it's from all the heavy ordnance. Radio static and explosions bombard his ears, Steve's voice a tiny din rattling off orders. Danny can't distinguish the team from the burst of flames and grey/black plumes.
"Vega, go, go, go!" Steve yells.
Danny squints against clouds of dust and smoldering air, ready to rip Stanton's binoculars when he hears a loud whizzing noise and a crackling explosion.
"Joker One, do you copy?" Mache's voice crackles in Danny's ears. "Commander, do you read?" Danny's head hurts from the sheer volume of noise, his chest tightening. "McGarrett, respond!" Mache demands.
Danny stares out at smoldering ground, pressing the earpiece harder.
"Ensign, do you read me?" Mache shouts, then yells, "Red base, we have two men down. I repeat. We have two men down."
"Thumper, this is Red Base, cease fire, I repeat, ceasefire," Stanton yells over his radio.
"Ceasing fire, Red base."
"Joker Two, this Red Base, report!" Stanton yells, worried.
"We need EMS, stat, Red Base," Mache shouts. "We have two men down, over."
"Roger that, we've ceased firing and will send EMS," Stanton yells, snapping his fingers at the nearest marine.
"We've already deployed EMS, sir," the corporal yells.
Stanton runs towards the Humvee, Danny hot on his heels.
"This isn't a damn photo op," Stanton growls at him.
Danny doesn't have the breath to answer, climbing into the passenger seat, Stanton gunning the engine.
***
Stanton drives like a madman, and in less than a minute, he jerks the Humvee to a stop, and he and Danny hop out in a mad dash to the scene.
"Make a hole," Stanton yells.
Eight or nine SEALs milling around their fallen comrades part like the Red Sea and close ranks behind them.
Torres is on the ground, but sitting up, waving away one of his teammates. "I said I was fine!"
Danny has to stop himself from helping Steve, forced into the concerned bystander's role. He freaking hates this with all his being.
Steve is sprawled on the ground a few feet away, his arms flung above his head like one of Grace's discarded dolls, Mache and Vega kneeling on each side of him.
"Status!" Stanton demands.
"An RPG exploded, knocking Ensign Torres and Commander McGarrett down. Torres was unconscious for a few seconds, but is awake and coherent now. Commander McGarrett has yet to regain consciousness," Mache reports.
Vega pulls open the tabs to Steve's vest, running his hands over Steve's torso. "No penetrating wounds of the chest or abdomen," he says, deft fingers moving toward Steve's limbs. Danny notices the blood on Steve's shirt at the same time as Vega. "I've got shrapnel to the shoulder and arm, applying pressure," he says, ripping open a bandage with his teeth.
"EMS three minutes out," Hunt reports, hovering out of the way.
Mache digs into his rucksack, yanking out an IV kit, quickly rolling up one of Steve's sleeve. Palpating the area, he swiftly inserts a needle. "Running fluids."
Steve's eyes fly open. "What?" he gasps.
Danny sags in relief, keeping quiet during the triage.
"Commander McGarrett, it's Mache, you're going to be fine, sir."
But Steve tries craning his neck and Mache holds Steve's helmet between his massive hands. "Please, sir, you need to lie still."
"Where?" Steve jerks his head up despite Mache's hold.
"You're at Pearl-Hickman, sir."
Steve does a full body twitch, forcing Vega to place a hand on his legs. "Please, sir. You need to keep still."
But Steve kicks out again, trying to move. "What?" he asks confused.
Danny practically jumps out of his skin, but he holds back, biting his lips. Mache continues keeping Steve's head still despite how agitated Steve becomes.
"EMS in one minute out," Hunt shouts.
Steve grabs Mache's bicep in an iron grip, staring at him. "What happened?"
"It was an RPG, sir; you're going to be fine."
Steve digs his fingers in deeper. "My team?"
"They're fine, sir."
Steve wrestles and twists his head free, forcing himself onto one elbow, eyes darting around. "Where are they?"
"We're right here, sir!" Vega says, still crouched beside him. "We're all accounted for."
Mache tries pushing down on Steve's shoulder. "Sir, you need to lie back down."
But wrangling Steve isn't easy and he continues trying to move around.
Vega peers closer. "McGarrett, it's okay. Torres is awake and alert. The team's secure."
Steve's chest rapidly falls and rises in stuttering huffs and Danny forces his way into Steve's line of vision. "Hey," he says, peering closer. "You're going to be good and everyone in the team is fine, trust me." The EMS sirens grow closer and Danny focuses solely on Steve's anxious face. "You hear that? Just lie still."
Steve holds Danny's gaze, slowly recognizing him, and relaxes enough for Mache to ease him into lying back down. Danny releases a shaky breath, well aware that Steve hadn't been searching for his SEAL team.
"Everyone make way for the EMTs," Stanton orders.
Someone touches Danny's shoulder and Hunt nods at him. Standing slowly, Danny moves over to wait with the rest of the SEALs as several corpsmen and EMTs swoop in.
***
Danny doesn't want hang out in the common room; he wants to find out what's going on with Steve, but he can't duck out and hitch a ride to the base hospital without raising suspicion.
"Would you sit down, Rolling Stone? You're making me antsy with all that pacing," one them growls at him.
Danny freezes, cursing himself for not playing it cool, eyes drifting toward the door, Vega walking over with a beer in his hand. "Here, this will calm you down."
"It's six in the morning," Danny says incredulous.
Vega smirks. "We work all hours. Time of day doesn't mean shit."
The beer does sound nice, but Danny doesn't take the offered bottle. "What if you get called out again?"
Vega laughs bitterly, twisting off the cap. "We've been given the rest of the day off."
Danny grimaces; these guys already lost one man and this has to be like acid on an open wound. "Have you heard anything from the hospital?"
"Shrapnel wounds bleed a lot. Looks worse than it was. The LT's with them; he'll call when he knows something."
Mache had been the one to go with his teammates and that still sticks in Danny's craw, because he should be there with Steve. "Do you have any idea what happened?"
Vega takes a pull of his beer. "The ground had remote charges to simulate RPGs. A jarhead might've set off one of them too early, or one of them coulda had too much juice, increasing the blast radius." Vega tilts his head curiously. "You were real worried out there. You and McGarrett must've really bonded."
Danny crosses his arms over his chest. "I've been joined at the hip with McGarrett for days and just saw him get blown up. I'm sorry if I don't share your ability to shut down emotionally."
"We don't shut down. We focus."
"Focus, huh?" Danny says. "Like focusing until you don't feel anything. Say fear for instance."
Vega's face twists into an angry scowl. "We're trained to ignore fear. The moment we let fear take over, we become a liability."
"Fear's a human emotion."
"And we're not human?"
"I didn't mean -"
"Do you think this isn't anything I haven't heard before? Training is one thing, but being out there? Where one wrong move could get you or your teammates killed?" Danny frowns, but he doesn't say a word. "Despite all the training and all the conditioning, sometimes it can still fail you."
Danny opens his mouth to ask a question, but he's caught between prying and giving the guy a chance to unload something he obviously needs to get off his chest.
Vega wipes a hand over his face, exhausted. His age is showing. "You got that recorder?"
"No, I don't," Danny says quietly. "Whatever you say, it'll be off the record."
"There was this time…a few years ago. In some desert, we were surrounded by unknown hostiles. No backup…no…" He swallows. "We'd been there for days. Suddenly, a dozen of these armed shepherds stumbled across us and McGarrett ordered us to lower our weapons."
Vega stares at Danny, angry, ashamed. "I held onto mine. I couldn't just relinquish my rifle and be handed over like a lamb to slaughter. McGarrett ripped it out of my hands."
"Were you taken prisoner?" Danny asks, not sure if he really wants to know the answer.
"No. The guys were nomads; it was a bad case of wrong place, wrong time. They could have sold us to a local warlord or done any other number of unpleasant things. Rival tribes roamed everywhere and they would have shit themselves over a few captured SEALs."
"What happened?"
"McGarrett talked to the leader. Convinced him to let us go and they actually provided us with valuable intel." Vega gazes over Danny's shoulder, lost in too many memories, then gives his a head a shake, looking Danny directly in the eyes. "McGarrett had me up for insubordination. I could have been court-martialed, should have actually, but he didn't seek it out. I was put on forty-five days restriction and lost a month's pay."
"That sounds like a pretty terrifying situation," Danny says in complete honesty, unsure how he'd react.
"I felt it'd been a bad call, because what if they hadn't been so friendly? It was a covert op; we were on own. We had other options."
Danny feels his blood run cold. Fight or retreat. Those were vicious options with possible horrific results.
Vega takes two large swallows of beer. "You know what McGarrett told me after the mission? He said a SEAL must be physically and mentally strong, but know when to act as a diplomat and role model. Show that we're different from the militia and warlords."
"Win over hearts and minds," Danny mutters.
But it's more than that, and this stuff about Steve, these hidden portholes into the man hidden behind cargos pants and t-shirts. It's infuriating that he has to learn about Steve in this way, from someone else, that Steve's so guarded, so unwilling to share the amazing things lurking in his heart.
"It took some soul searching, but I realized it been the right call. We avoided a possible bloodbath that night," Vega says, interrupting Danny's thoughts. "That's what I try to teach my guys. A warrior's most important asset is his brain. We learn to lock things down, but we can't afford to totally shut ourselves off and become nothing but an empty shell. Empty shells can't do this job and still go home to our families."
"And have you ever told McGarrett this?" Because Danny remembers the tension in Steve's shoulders any time Vega's name popped up.
"Tell him what?"
"That you were wrong?"
"He knows."
"Oh, he knows, does he?"
"I don't need to tell him."
"Oh my god. What is with SEALs and the concept of talking?" Danny can't believe his ears. "It's not art, it's called communication. The basis for exchanging thoughts and ideas, because the last time I checked, none of us are psychic."
"You don't need a beer, you need a fifth of whiskey," Vega snorts. "Anyone ever tell you that you're too high-strung?"
Danny stares at Vega, who shakes his head and walks away, leaving him with too many contradictory thoughts and feelings to sort through.
***
Conclusion