The Littlest Witness

Caleb had worn a Ghillie then, a camouflage suit of burlap and Cordura. Each man in the unit had personalized his Ghillie, covering it with mud, dirt and whatever else he could find to mask not only his appearance but also his scent.

Nothing gave away a man’s presence more than the smell of deodorant or soap or aftershave. Once, Caleb had lain in the midst of a group of guerilla rebels, and not a one of them had seen him until he’d risen from the jungle floor, a green-and-brown figure ordering them to drop their weapons and raise their hands.

Tommy had given out after the first mile, and Caleb was now carrying him. He turned back to where Shelley was trailing farther and farther behind.

He frowned. “You’re limping.” It came out as an accusation. Why hadn’t she said anything?

“Yeah. So what?” With a few more steps, she caught up to him and Tommy and leaned heavily against the trunk of a tree.

He dipped his head toward her foot. “What happened?”

“I twisted my ankle.”

“When I threw you into the woods?” Why hadn’t he realized she’d been hurt?

She took a breath, tiny lines of pain bracketing her mouth. “Maybe.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“And accomplish what? We can’t stop. You can’t carry me. So we keep going.” She made a face. “Besides, complaining is for wimps.”

“You’re no wimp.” Why did everything he said sound like an accusation? “You’re going to fall on your face in another minute.”

“Give me some credit, Judd,” she snapped. “I’m not some Southern miss who’s going to swoon in your arms because I have an owie.”

He let out a hiss of exasperation. “I never said you were.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep up.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Did you stop whatever you were doing in Delta because one of your team had a boo-boo?”

“Of course not, but—”

“Then give me the same respect and let me take care of myself.”

“Have it your way.”

Caleb turned his back to her and resumed walking. If he slowed the pace a bit, well, he was carrying an extra sixty-five pounds, wasn’t he, conveniently ignoring the fact that he’d carried much heavier weights for much longer times. It had nothing to do with Shelley’s injury. Nothing at all.

Within another hour, it became obvious that they weren’t going to make it out of the woods anytime soon.

Shelley’s pace had slowed to a near crawl. Though she hadn’t said anything, and he figured she’d die before she’d complain, the labored breaths she took told their own story.

He assessed the circumstances as he would any op, his brain already starting to break down the situation. Consider the options. Weigh the pros and cons. All in under thirty seconds. Deltas were trained to act quickly and decisively. A delay of even a minute could cost lives.