Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea Pursuit

Pursuit

By Ellen H.

Chapter 1

Lee Crane flung himself sideways as he heard the sound of a twig snapping behind him. He ended up with his back against a large tree, his weapon clutched to his chest. He listened for another sign of his pursuers, but heard nothing. A bead of perspiration worked its way out of his hair and down the side of his face. He wiped it away with a shrug of his black clad shoulder. He was grateful now for the coldness of the woods, as he hadn't been earlier when this whole thing had begun. He was also grateful for the fading light.

He was the last of his team. The others had fallen one by one. The last, it seemed, had been hours ago, though it couldn't have been that long. He released his weapon with one hand long enough to look at his watch. He had just over an hour until extraction, and he had to survive until then. It was his luck that he had been the one to carry what his pursuers were looking for, or maybe his teammates' bad luck, as they had given their all to cover his back. It was their sacrifice that had gotten him here, as much as his own skill.

His short respite against the tree had allowed him to regain his breath, and he was ready to move out again. If he could just reach the safety of the extraction point, then he could rest. He had to have been crazy to accept this mission. It was pride more than duty that had him here, rising to the challenge. They hadn't thought he could do it, or rather that he would do it. Guess he'd shown them. He should have known that it wouldn't be easy.

So now here he was, in the cold, twilit woods, with at least three men on his tail, and a short time in which to get where he needed to be. His life seemed to be in a rut. He smiled to himself. With a swift look around both sides of the tree he started forward again. He knew that his pursuers knew where he had to go, and he knew that they knew he knew. There was a thought that hurt. He smiled again. He stilled as he heard some movement to his left, knowing that his black gear would leave him almost invisible against the foliage as long as he didn't move and draw attention to himself. It was the movement that got you killed. He had learned that early in his career. Sometimes staying still was nerve wracking, but it was better than being dead.

He kept his head down. Watching the direction from which the noise had sound from under his lashes, knowing that the white of his skin and eyes showing through the holes in the black ski mask would be more easily visible in the near darkness. Finally he saw a form moving stealthily through the woods, scanning for him. As the man looked the other direction, he raised his weapon slowly and brought it to bear. This wasn't his weapon of choice, he preferred avoidance to confrontation, but they would give him no such consideration. Since they were calling the tune he would dance to it.

He fired two shot, mindful of his ammunition, and saw his target stagger back, then look down at his chest as if in disbelief as he stumbled over a small log. He fell onto his back, and lay there unmoving. Crane moved swiftly away, not bothering to check if his shots had been fatal. He knew where he had placed the rounds, and didn't need a post mortem of his technique. Two more pursuers left he thought, and then he was home free.

He swiftly covered ground, moving quietly as he had been taught, and had halved the distance to his goal when he heard footsteps approaching once again. He dove under a convenient bush, rolling to a stop under the heavy limbs. He had a limited range of vision, but if he could avoid a confrontation, he would be just as happy. Revenge for his teammates would be found in the successful completion of the mission, not in reckless, and needless deaths, either the enemies' or his own. He listened for the sounds again, scanning what he could see of the direction from which they came. He frowned as he realized what he was hearing and seeing from his low vantage point. It made no sense.

One of his remaining pursuers was walking down the well-worn path that Crane had been so assiduously avoiding. His weapon was hung from its sling around one shoulder, and the man seemed to be simply causally strolling through the twilit woods. It was a ludicrous picture that almost made Crane laugh out loud. Did they really think he was dumb enough to fall for the sacrificial goat routine? He had no doubt that if he were to attempt to attack this man; his partner would be waiting to take a shot. There was no way for Crane to locate the second man from where he was, so he would have to let them pass and then move forward, he could not afford to wait long though, time was short. It would be dark soon, and with the fall of night his time ran out.

The first man passed his hiding place and walked on down the path. He wondered if they knew where their compatriot had met his end? It would give them a better idea of where he had to be, and they would turn around and be on his six in no time. He doubted if they would try this particular tactic again, even if one were willing to volunteer again. It couldn't be a comfortable position, waiting for someone to take a shot at you. Even knowing that your death would be avenged would not make the sacrifice easy. Of course there was the possibility that the whole thing could be a set up in another sense of the word. Perhaps they only wanted him to THINK that the other man was following along.

They might assume he would become overconfident that he his pursuers were behind him, and thus walk into an ambush. Unlike previous missions, his enemy this time knew him and how he thought, and where he had to go. It was not a comfortable feeling. Of course, he could be over thinking the whole thing. He had always depended on his instinct to bring him home. He would not second-guess it now.

He waited until the sound of the first man faded into the ambient sounds of the forest, and listened closely. He could not hear anyone else. It made him think that perhaps he hadn't been too paranoid after all. Somewhere between here and his goal the other man waited, and he was sure that the man that had gone down the path would soon be moving back, catching him between the two. He considered for a moment, laying there in the shadow of the bush, feeling the cold of the ground seeping into his body. He was no longer overheated at least, and he had caught his breath. He slowly started to smile. Maybe he would take them up on their offer.

Five minutes later he had backtracked himself to a point where he had crossed the path. He knew he was ahead of the other man, though not by how much. He didn't know how much winding the path did on its way between the two points. He quickly found the place that had come to his mind. A huge tree, probably hundreds of years old had fallen across the path. There were signs that who or whatever used this path on a regular basis had begun making a new path around the end of the tree where the roots had pulled up. There was a deep depression where the root ball had been; forcing the path to circumvent the hole, and it was there that Crane planned his ambush. The branches on the upper side of the tree pointed skyward and some on the side curved out and around providing the perfect hiding place as the victim came around the end of the tree.

He would not have normally taken the offensive in such a way during a mission. But then this mission was not the norm. Not only did he want to get the item he carried back to the extraction point, he found himself wanting revenge-no, justice- for his team, cut down so quickly and without mercy. They had been inexperienced. It was their first time on a mission, and Crane had protested their inclusion. In fact it had been their inexperience that had made him agree to go. He could not have rested easily knowing that they had gone alone, and had been lost for nothing.

He slipped in to the elbow of the branch, resting his weapon on it, aimed at the point where the person would appear. He had just gotten settled when he heard footsteps approaching. This would be his victim. He was startled to hear a voice speaking in low tones, and worried for a moment that he had miscalculated. It would be difficult, if not impossible to take out both men without becoming a target himself. His position did not allow for a quick escape. He confidence returned however when he heard the reply. It was tinny and distorted, as if coming from a walkie-talkie. The two were conferring, and it appeared that Crane had guess correctly about the trap. The other man was no doubt reporting that he had not seen Crane.

The man was just signing off as he rounded the turn, and was concentrating on returning his radio to its pouch. Crane fired two rounds, and was satisfied to see the figure stagger back. The man crumpled to the ground, and lay unmoving. Crane cautiously made his way out of his hiding place and approached. The man was laying face down. Crane hooked a toe under his ribs and kicked him over, dodging to the side as he saw the man's weapon coming to bear as he flipped over. He dropped to one knee and heard the round strike the roots of the tree behind him. He brought his own weapon around and caught the man coming up, directly in the middle of the chest. The man went down instantly.

Crane breathed out in a huff. His adrenaline had surged, and now started to fade, leaving him feeling slightly let down. Only one pursuer now stood between himself and his goal, and he had a very good idea of where that man would be. Between the forest and the extraction point was a swath of open ground, covered at this time of the year with nearly waist high grasses. Once he reached the edge of the forest he would be forced to crawl the last two to three hundred yards, and waiting in that grass would be the 'snake'.

He needed a plan, some way of reaching the goal without having to pass the remaining man. He looked thoughtfully down at the man he had shot. After a second he reached down and took the walkie-talkie out of the pouch. He studied it for a moment. Yes, he could make it work. With a last glance at the body he headed back down the path toward his goal. No need to avoid it now. No need to go cross-country now, only the one man remained, and Crane knew exactly where he was.

Ten minutes later he was on the edge of the forest, and the darkness was rapidly approaching. He could see his goal, but was separated from it by a good two hundred yards of open ground. He felt an urge to just start running and take his chances, but if his remaining pursuer was who he thought it would be, then he would have little chance of making it. He didn't plan to make it this far and lose it all at the end. He couldn't do that to his teammates. He had agreed to work with them and he owed them the effort, even if they hadn't listened to him before.

He had listened as they planned, reluctant to push himself forward when he was new to the mix, but hearing what they meant to do he had been forced to speak up. He had pointed out what he felt to be weak spots in the plan, suggesting alternatives, but they had not been swayed. Instead they had gone ahead with their plan, and their inexperience had rapidly become obvious. They had lost two of their team almost immediately, and another two had been sacrificed at the target. Crane had finally deviated from the plan as he saw that if he did not the whole thing would have been over there. The two remaining team members had seen the wisdom of following along, and the three had made it over halfway back before the two had fallen victim to the more experienced opposition, though between the three they had taken out four of their pursuers. The two had shown great aptitude, and Crane wished at least one of them was here now. It would have made this much easier.

In the rapidly waning light he took out the radio he had taken from the other man. He then took out his own radio, and matched the frequencies. Both units were made for use over a short distance, and would work out fine for his purpose. He took a length of monofilament line out of his pocket. He had learned not long after his first mission that it could come in handy to have something of the kind, and had made a point to include it every time. It was weightless, colorless, and had a breaking strength that rivaled a much thicker line. He had almost a hundred yards, and it would have to be enough. That last hundred yards was going to have to be done on speed and luck. He had no doubts about his speed; it was the matter of his luck that was up in the air. He just needed to make sure he was outside the optimum range for the weapon that his lone opponent carried, and given the marksmanship of that opponent, he needed all the head start he could get.

He put one radio in the crook of a tree after turning it up as high as it would go, and tied one end of the monofilament to a small stick. He ran the line through the crook of a bush and back into the woods on a clear path about fifty yards in. As he pulled the filament the stick would move through the leaves, making a fair amount of noise. He moved back to the edge of the forest. He unslung his weapon and slipped it under a bush. He would have little use for it. It would be weight that would slow him down, and this would be his one chance. If he didn't make it, the weapon would do him no good in any event. It would be too late.

Unreeling the monofilament as he went he started crawling into the grass. He amused himself for a moment thinking about what the result would be if the other man just happened to be snaking along in a similar fashion and they crossed paths. That would put paid to the whole thing. Luckily that didn't happen before he reached the end of his small reel of filament. He rose up slightly and got his bearings. He was just over a hundred yards from his goal. He sank back down and started reeling in the line, moving it in jerks, then pausing. He also got out his radio and started making a low moaning sound. He knew that it would be amplified back at the other radio. Now the question was would it draw the other man in? Crane was counting on curiosity to outweigh caution.

As he drew the string toward him he rose up slightly and looked toward the area where HE would have been if he were in the position of the other man. He could see no movement. He continued pulling, punctuating the movement with the occasional moan. He was starting to worry several moments later as he knew that his line was about to run out. If that happened he would be forced to simply run for it, and hope he could make it before he took a fatal shot. He might make it wounded, but if he didn't try...

Just as he felt the line snag on what he assumed was the tree when he saw movement against the darkening sky. The man was moving! He gave one last moan into the radio, and then put it down on the ground along with the reel of monofilament. He wouldn't need them. He rose up unto a couch, his eyes not leaving the moving figure. He pulled in as much air as he could, and released it. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out the focus of all this, the prize that had been worth the sacrifice of the rest of his team. He gripped it tightly, renewing his sense of purpose. He saw that the figure was almost to the tree where the radio was wedged. He had all the room he was going to get. He pushed off as the track coach had taught him so long ago. He had always had a good start. He heard a yell behind him, but did not pause. He was accelerating now, his feet pounding into the uneven ground.

He had run cross-country in high school, preferring the solitude of running the distances when the competitors spread out over the course. His coach had been happy enough to leave him to it, as his stamina and consistency had won trophy after trophy. After he had gone to the Academy that had changed. The coach there, a former gunnery sergeant by the unlikely name of Josiah Flower, had not been satisfied to let him choose his distance. He had instead put him through a series of strenuous tests, and had decided that he would compete in not only the distance runs but also the hundred-yard dash. Protests to the contrary, Crane had found himself training for the short run, and over the course of the season had become one of the schools top runners. It was a skill that served him well the next year when the football coach had requested his participation as a wide receiver. With Chip's urging he had joined the team, and had made first string for the next three years.

He had not had much opportunity to put his long distance skills to the test recently, but he had certainly been putting the sprinting skills to good use over the years with ONI. It seemed he was always just that one step ahead of his pursuers, and he always gave a quick grateful thought to ex-gunnery sergeant Flowers, for giving him the training.

He had reached his stride now, his eyes set firmly on his goal as the coach had taught him. "There is _nothing_ but the finish line," the coach had always said, "See yourself there." He vaguely heard what sounded like an angry bumblebee zip past his right ear. It seemed that his pursuer was not prepared to give up. He pushed for more speed, adding an uneven zigzag pattern to his run. It would take longer than the straight line. But should throw off the man's aim.

His goal was just before him, at the bottom of the small hill. Just as he hit the edge of the down slope he felt something hit him high on his left shoulder. There was just enough force, and he was in just the right off balance position that the blow sent him stumbling forward, and his momentum did not allow him to catch his balance before he was over the edge and tumbling forward. He heard a yell behind him, and what almost seemed an echo from ahead, before his world became a jumble of tumbling grass, darkened sky, and the occasional rock. He tried to stop himself, but gravity had too good of a hold and his own momentum had become his enemy. On his second to the last flip he caught sight of the rock wall that had marked his goal and tried to stop his forward progress, but to no avail. He flipped one more time and then he slammed into the wall almost headfirst. Darkness fell completely, and he sank into it with the knowledge that at least he had reached his goal.

Chapter 2-

He wasn't sure how long he had floated in that comfortable darkness before it started to fade. He first heard voices, some he recognized; some he didn't. There was movement, and then stillness. Even in the comforting darkness he found that he was interested in what the voices were saying, but wished he could remember why he was here.

Then like a record coming up to speed, one of voices seemed to make sense, a voice that was way too familiar for comfort, suddenly started to make sense, "…doing what? Doesn't he get shot at enough in real life? He has to play at it now?" That was Jamieson, and he didn't sound happy about something.

Crane found himself momentarily wondering who was injured, feeling sorry for the man, but then he felt a familiar, gentle, hand brushing his hair back from his forehead, and a sharp pain arced through the darkness and seemed to slice into his head. He fought to control the moan of pain that welled up in his throat, but could not. He tried to move his head away from the pain, but it followed him, and he groaned again, not sure if it was loud enough to be heard or not. The gentle hands pressed something against the pain, and he could hear a soft voice speaking to him, though once again he could not understand the words.

The darkness seemed to be lightening now, and he tried to command his eyes to open. Failing miserably, he concentrated on trying to keep the contents of his stomach where they were supposed to be. Unfortunately it seemed that thinking about it caused the problem to increase, and he found himself losing that battle as well. He felt himself being turned on his side as the contents of his stomach emptied, leaving him retching painfully. The movement made his head ache even more then before and he suddenly became aware of what appeared to be hundreds of other parts of his body that also hurt, especially his left wrist. The same gentle hands wiped his face and rolled him back to his supine position, resuming the pressure on the painful area that seemed to take up his whole head now. As a diversion Crane made another attempt to get his eyes open. He finally won the struggle and found himself being studied at close range by a concerned Jamieson. He could now see that he was in the Institute medical facility in a private room. He recognized the décor immediately.

With a smile, the doctor leaned over him, checking his eyes. He put a hand on Crane's shoulder as he moved on the bed. "Just lay still." He ordered. "You took a good crack to your head and your left wrist is broken. Do you remember what happened?" He asked casually. Crane was not fooled. He knew that the doctor was attempting to tell if he had any memory loss.

"I had an attack of clumsy at the top of a small hill with a hard wall at the bottom of it." He said succinctly. He saw a humorous light appear in the concerned eyes.

Jamieson grinned. "Leave it to you to turn a game into a trip to the sickbay."

"Wasn't like I was planning it, Jaime." He said plaintively. He moved again, but Jamieson held him down again

" Stay put. I couldn't find any evidence of any spinal involvement. As usual it seems that your hard head took the brunt of the collision. You have a concussion, but the CAT scan didn't show any other damage. Your wrist was a simple break and we've already casted it."

Crane lifted his head slightly to look at his left wrist, propped on a pillow at his side. He frowned. "How long have I been here?" he asked.

Jamison smiled again. "I've had you in my clutches for the last three hours. Chip called an ambulance and had you brought here." The smile faded. "We were starting to be concerned that we had missed something on the scan." He added.

"Sorry." Crane said.

"You better be sorry." Came a voice from the doorway. Crane turned his head slowly to find Chip Morton standing there, dressed all in black, and with traces of camouflage paint on his face. The XO moved closer to the bed, his eyes scanning Crane, some of the concern fading as he saw that Crane was awake and seemed alert.

"This is the last time I ask you to play substitute in my paintball league. Next time they can play short handed." He quipped, coming to stand at Crane's bedside, and putting a hand on his good arm.

"No sport in that." Crane replied with a smile. He had to put his head back down on the pillow as it began to swim. He closed his eyes for a moment, and felt Chip's hand tighten on his arm.

"You okay, Lee? Jamie, is he all right?" Morton asked, the concern coming back in his voice. Jamieson started to answer when Crane opened his eyes again. He waved away the concern he could see in both men's eyes.

"I'm okay. Just a little…woozy, I guess, and tired." He looked at Jamieson. "When can I get out of here, Jamie?" He kept a straight face as the doctor rolled his eyes.

Jamieson looked pointedly at the clock over the door. "And we have a new record." He announced sarcastically. Chip smiled at him, and Crane looked at him through his lashes. The doctor threw up his hands. "As I said you have a concussion. You WILL be staying overnight, but if there are no problems you can go home in the morning, but you'll need to have someone there for at least another 24 hours."

"I'll take care of it Jamie." Morton assured him. The doctor shot him a look that could have been interpreted several ways, and taking the chart from the end of the bed, went out into the hall toward the nurse's station. The two men watched him go then Morton turned to look at Crane.

"Sorry about this Lee. I didn't think the day would end up here. I figured we'd finish the game and go have a couple of beers with the guys. You uh…know it was me that shot you, there at the end."

"Figured. That last tactic had you written all over it. It wasn't your fault, though. I tripped. It could have happened any time, in this case it just happened at the top of a hill. If anyone or thing is to blame it's me…and gravity." Crane quipped. He closed his eyes again for a moment, and heard Morton pulling a chair over to the side of the bed. He had a sudden thought. He turned his head slowly to face Chip and opened his eyes again. A slow grin spread across his face.

"So, did we win?" he asked.

Morton frowned, though Crane could tell it was faked. "That's not what's important now." He said seriously. "What's important is that you are going to be okay."

Crane's smile got bigger. "We DID win; didn't we?" he said delightedly. "What do we get?"

Morton kept up the frown for another minute then shook his head with a sigh. "This sudden greed and need for recognition, where does that come from? Maybe I better have Jaime take another look at you." At Crane's scowl he laughed. "Dinner. The losers buy dinner, even if you won by pure chance. My next to last shot hit your shoulder, and wasn't fatal so since you rolled down to the wall and still had the pennant, you _technically_ won. My next shot would have got you right between the shoulder blades, and that would have been it."

"Sore loser." Crane muttered, the smile not fading.

Morton scowled at him then he cast a look at the door. "Dinner's set for tomorrow night. If you're a good boy, and if you feel like it tomorrow night, I'll take you. The rest of your team wants to say thanks."

Crane smiled at him and settled back against the pillow, satisfied. He had won it for the team. That was all that mattered. He drifted off to sleep with the same small smile, secure in the knowledge that he had done his best, that whatever he broke Jaime would fix, and that his best friend would watch over him through the night.

The End


End file.

Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea, Adventure