Chapter 23 - THE FLIGHT DECK OF THE LEVIATHAN
The C-17 did not land on the carrier; it touched down at an allied forward staging base on the southern tip of Sicily, where Company B was immediately transferred into two heavy CH-53E Super Stallion helicopters. Within forty-five minutes, the helicopters were thumping low over the churning, white-capped waves of the Mediterranean, banking hard as a massive, floating fortress rose out of the mist: the amphibious assault ship USS *Bataan*.
The Super Stallion hit the flight deck with a violent shudder. The crew chief threw open the cabin door, and the roar of the Mediterranean wind hit Elena like a physical wall, thick with sea spray and kerosene exhaust.
Elena led her team onto the non-skid surface of the deck. Waiting for them near the island superstructure was a reception committee she hadn't anticipated: Captain James Halloway, commander of Naval Special Warfare Task Unit Mediterranean, flanked by three towering Navy SEALs in full desert tiger-stripe fatigues.
Halloway stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes scanning Company B as they formed up. His gaze lingered on Elena, travelling from her compact, muscular frame down to the weapon slung across her chest. A smirk flickered at the corner of his mouth—not entirely unlike the arrogance Caleb Rourke had worn on the Carolina range.
"Captain Vance," Halloway shouted over the deafening scream of a taxiing Harrier jet. "Welcome to the real fight. JSOC briefed me that an Army unit was being diverted to support our operation."
"We're not here to support you, Captain Halloway," Elena said, stopping two paces away and meeting his gaze with unblinking grey eyes. "Company B is lead assault. You have the outer security cordon and naval gunfire coordination."
Halloway let out a dry, condescending laugh. "Lead assault? On a hardened annex held by sixty tier-one mercenaries? Vance, with all due respect to your family's medals, you're standard light infantry. And what the hell is that antique hanging from your neck?"
One of the SEALs behind Halloway chuckled, nudging his partner. "Looks like she robbed the Marine Corps museum in Quantico, sir."
Elena didn't blink. She took half a step forward, bringing her face inches from Halloway’s ear so that her voice, though quiet, pierced right through the ambient jet engine shriek.
"That antique has put two hundred confirmed enemy combatants in the earth from Hue City to the DMZ," Elena said, her tone devoid of emotion. "And six hours ago, I put five rounds through the dead center of a four-hundred-meter silhouette using those iron sights while your modern laser-guided carbines were still trying to acquire a battery signal in the rain."
Halloway’s smirk vanished. He glanced at First Sergeant Miller, whose hand was resting casually on his sidearm, and then back at the forty-two operators of Company B, who had formed a wall of silent, menacing discipline behind their captain.
"The operational window opens in ninety minutes," Halloway said, his voice tightening. "The sea conditions are deteriorating. If your company falters in the breach, Vance, I will not hesitate to call in carrier air strikes and level that entire compound—with or without your people inside."
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"You won't have to," Elena said, turning toward the hangar bay hatch. "Just make sure your birds are in position to pick up the survivors. Because we're not leaving a single enemy breathing."
***
