Final Option (Oregon Files 14)

As he treaded water waiting to be picked up, Perry wondered how he was going to spin this disaster to his supervisor at the CIA.

2

OFF THE COAST OF BRAZIL

Michael Bradley sat on a bench seat in the Kansas City’s mess hall while the boat’s corpsman, Jeremy Noland, looked at his ears. The smell of bacon from the crew’s breakfast still hung in the air. Like many Los Angeles–class submarines, the KC had no onboard physician nor a dedicated infirmary, but Noland could handle anything short of major surgery. Bradley drummed his fingers on the table’s blue padding as he waited for a diagnosis.

The Navy SEAL had endured pain and loss of hearing in both his ears for a few days, but had avoided seeing Noland because he knew that might take him out of the upcoming naval maneuvers with Brazil. But when he’d woken up this morning, he couldn’t understand anything his CO was saying, and he was sent to get checked out despite his protests.

“What’s the bad news?” Bradley asked. His own voice sounded like he was speaking into a pillow.

Noland, a thin guy with wispy blond hair, stepped back and frowned. His mouth moved, but all Bradley heard were muffled vowels, like those spoken by the unintelligible teacher on TV’s Peanuts.

“I didn’t get any of that.”

Noland took

a pad and pen from his pocket and jotted something down. When he was finished, he held it toward Bradley.

I think you have acute bilateral otitis media. Massive infection. Filling the middle ear with fluid. Should have come to me earlier.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bradley said, annoyed with himself even more than with Noland. “What do we do about it now?”

More writing.

Antibiotic shot, then oral antibiotics. Lots of fluids. Bunk rest.

Bradley’s heart sank.

“How long?”

Three days. Depends on how long it takes for your hearing to normalize.

“Three days! Maneuvers start tomorrow. I’ve got to prep for an op.”

Sorry, bud. Your eardrums are under massive pressure and could rupture. Then you might be out for weeks.

Bradley slammed his fist on the table. He was supposed to be piloting the SEAL Delivery Vehicle for the first time. He was even going to get to fire one of its two torpedoes. The SDV was stowed in the dry deck shelter mounted on top of the Kansas City’s hull.

He was there the day that the bus-sized shelter had been delivered by a C-17 cargo plane to be installed on top of the KC. The middle section was attached to a hatch aft of the conning tower. That hatch gave access to the shelter’s air lock, also called a transfer trunk. On its bow side was a decompression chamber for treating Special Forces operators returning from missions in deep water. On the stern side of the lock was a protective water-filled hangar holding the sixteen-foot-long SDV—really, a miniature submarine that wasn’t pressurized. The Mark 9 was the newest version, and Bradley had been training for a month how to use it in an operational setting. Now his mission was down the drain because of an illness for a six-year-old.

“Fine,” he growled. “Give me the antibiotics.”

Noland handed him a second pad and pen.

You’ll need guys to write on that if you want to understand anything. Then Noland pointed to the door and mimed like he was thumbing the plunger of a syringe.

Bradley nodded, and Noland left him to stew about having to tell his CO he’d be out of commission for the op.

A minute later, Bradley saw two men race by in the corridor outside the mess. He couldn’t tell if they were just goofing off or if there was an emergency. If the crew had been sent to action stations, he would at least have heard an alarm even if he couldn’t understand what was being said over the loudspeaker.

He decided it was nothing to worry about until a third man dashed past. For the instant that Bradley could see him, it looked like the sailor had blood on his clothes.

Bradley was about to go out to see what was happening when Noland came back into the mess.

“What’s going on with the boat?” Bradley asked. “I just saw three guys run by. I’d swear one of them was bleeding.”

Noland just stood there with glazed eyes. He seemed to look right through Bradley. A hypodermic was dangling loosely from his hand.