Takedown

Standing on top of a pressure plate, even a few minutes could seem like a lifetime. Harvath had not heard anything from Hastings and he was beginning to wonder if maybe she had lost her nerve and was lying beneath the platform completely paralyzed with fear. Not that he could blame her. After having a bomb go off in her face, he couldn’t even begin to image what it was like tackling one again, much less a device almost identical to the one that took her eye and scarred her appearance for life.

When Hastings did reappear, it wasn’t beneath the open floor panel just to his right. She rolled out from beneath the platform and stood a wary distance away. She seemed stunned. Her expression was hard to read. Was it anger? Fear? Suddenly Harvath wondered if maybe it was regret.

“What’s going on?” he asked, but Hastings didn’t answer.

As she turned away from him, she ran out of the room muttering, “There are only two rules. Rule number two, see rule number one.”

Immediately, Harvath was transported back to the conversation he’d had with Samuel Hardy, PhD: Each person reacts to the stresses of war in different ways.

But what if things get ugly?

There’s no way to predict. You won’t know until something happens.

At which point it could be too late.

Hardy had nodded and said, Many symptoms exhibited by soldiers outside the realm of combat have more to do with adjusting to the real world than anything else. Put them back into the stresses of combat, and nine out of ten times their symptoms disappear.

And that tenth time? Harvath had specifically asked him. How do you deal with that?

You can’t. Only that soldier can. It comes down to facing his or her personal demons, and that’s a battle that requires more courage than anything you might ever face on the other end of a gun.

Or on the other end of an IED, thought Harvath as Hastings disappeared out the door, and he realized that she had just left him alone…to die.

Seventy

Harvath had begun gauging the weight of objects within an arm’s reach, wondering if he could fool the pressure plate into making it think he was still standing on top of it. He knew it was useless. But he also knew that this was not how he wanted to die. His mind flashed to the descriptions of Bob Herrington’s wounded men and he remembered his friend saying that sometimes being wounded in combat was worse than dying. Harvath had seen men shredded by land mines and different explosive devices, and at this moment he found it hard to envision living the rest of his life without the use of his arms or legs. To a certain degree, he’d rather the bomb kill him than maim him.

By the same token, Harvath had been trained to recognize this counterproductive, defeatist self-talk, and he slammed an iron door down on the inner conversation. The only thoughts he could afford to entertain were how to get out of the situation and do so without being killed or injured.

Wiggling the thin metal cubicle-style partition next to him, Harvath was seriously considering using it as poor-man’s body armor, when he heard a voice at the other end of the room.

“I told you not to move.”

He looked up to see Tracy Hastings marching right toward him. She was armed with a small toolbox and a look of pissed-off determination.

“What?” she said seeing the look on his face. “Did you think I wasn’t coming back?”

“The thought had occurred to me. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t.”

“What? And miss an evening of dinner, dancing, and sparkling conversation?”

“I don’t know about sparkling conversation.”

“Neither do I, but it doesn’t matter. I never leave a soldier behind. Especially another anchor clanker.”

“Hooyah,” replied Harvath with as much confidence as he could muster as Tracy disappeared back beneath the platform.

Once she was situated, she said, “Those fuckers are pretty clever. You were right. It is too simple, but I couldn’t see it.”

“Couldn’t see what?”

“This is exactly how they got me in Iraq. I can see that now. Two of the most important rules we learned in handling IEDs were never to assume there was only one device and rule number two-”

“See rule number one,” said Harvath, finishing her sentence for her. Finally the curtain had lifted from his mind, but he had to give Hastings the credit for it.

“No matter how positive you are that there isn’t another device, you always, always, always assume the presence of at least one more. I blew that in Iraq, and I almost blew it here. If I’d touched the one you’re standing on right now, we’d both have been wall covering. The magic lies in the second device.”

“Which you’ve found?”

“Yeah, I found it. Goddamn, these guys are good.”

“How good?” asked Harvath, the tentativeness evident in his voice.

“Not as good as me. You and I are going dancing. And trust me, the conversation is going to be sparkling. Now, be a good boy and zip it so I can do my job.”

“You sure that thing’s not going to detonate?”