Page 41 of Love for Thea

As the teams began to move, Picasso’s satellite comms unit emitted a sharp, high-priority tone. He snapped it up instantly.

“Waverly here. Commander, you’re on speaker with the full Atlantic and Pacific elements, plus Ranch Lead,” Picasso said.

“Copy that, Senior Chief,” Bennett’s voice came through, sounding clear, authoritative, and stripped of its earlier tension. “All stations, listen up. FEMA convoys are four hours out. The National Park Service has declared a Level 5 emergency for the Yellowstone interior. However, I have three hundred and forty-two tourists still unaccounted for in the backcountry, and the local SAR teams are overwhelmed.”

There was a brief pause, the sound of a leader making a final decision.

“You and your teams are officially transitioned to Operation: Neighborly Shield. You are the only assets in the region with the thermal tech and the mountain-tracking expertise to locate those people before the air turns toxic. Picasso, Wolf, you have seventy-two hours of joint-op authority. Keep the Adams Ranch as your Forward Operating Base. Complete the recovery, and I’m granting both teams seven days of administrative leave on-site. I suggest you use it to find some air that isn’t full of ash. Get some sleep before you start. Bennett out.”

The weight of the new mission and the promise of a week’s peace settled over the men. They were no longer hunting a man; they were hunting for lives.

Grizzly lingered at the foot of the porch steps, the worn wood creaking softly under his weight. The Pacific team was being gently guided toward the art barn, a flutter of movement and muted voices drifting behind him. His eyes locked onto Thea, who stood on the railing above, a silent sentinel bathed in fading light with her gaze unwavering as it met his.

“Seventy-two hours,” Ben said, his voice dropping into that low, private rumble.

Thea nodded, her fingers finally finding her pulse point, but this time the rhythm was steady. “Data point: Three hundred and forty-two lives. That’s a lot of variables, Benji.”

Ben took the first step up the stairs, ash falling from his boots with every movement. “Then it’s a good thing I have the best Navigator in the state.”

When he reached her, his hand hovered inches from her face, hesitant to touch her with the soot still thick on his skin. For a moment, his eyes searched hers, tentative and uncertain, before he leaned forward and brushed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

Thea did not pull away. Instead, she reached up, her cool palms framing his face and smearing the gray ash across her own skin as she pulled him downward. The closeness caught them both in a quiet pause, a shared moment where unspoken feelings flickered between them.

“Welcome home, Benji,” she whispered.

“I’m not home yet,” Ben replied, his forehead resting against hers. “But we’re getting there.”

TWENTY-FOUR

GRIZZLY

Ten minutes before the joint teams were scheduled to assemble in the den, Mace and Thea stood huddled over a side-monitor in the corner of the office. Their voices were low and sharp with a conspiratorial edge that Ben hadn’t seen since they were kids.

“Okay,” Mace whispered, his eyes dancing with the spark of the trouble-making twin he’d been at ten years old. “If we call it a ‘mudslide,’ they’ll just nod. But if you call it a ‘localized lahar caused by non-Newtonian fluid behavior,’ they’ll have to stop and look at me for the answer. It establishes the chain of command, Thea. The Scientist and the Translator. We have to show these West Coast boys that the ‘flyover states’ have all the brains.”

Thea adjusted her glasses, a small, mischievous smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Data point: The probability of the Pacific team being intimidated by high-level geophysics is approximately eighty-four percent. I’ve already highlighted the section on ‘hydrophilic particulate bonding’ for the ground-glass bit. It sounds much more lethal than ‘thick dust.’”

“Perfect,” Mace grinned, checking the doorway as the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots approached. “Ready for the double-act?”

Thea took a deep, steadying breath, her posture straightening into the authority she had earned in the Stone Ribs. “Ready. Data point: Let’s give them something to think about besides their laundry.”

The first morning of Operation: Neighborly Shield didn’t begin with a sunrise. Instead, the sky lightened into a bruised, leaden gray as the sun struggled to pierce the stratospheric layer of ash. Inside the den, the atmosphere was a thick mix of military precision and the invigorating scent of Marjorie’s strongest coffee.

The fourteen men of the joint response element were gathered around the large oak table. Eleven of them wore the gold Trident of the SEAL teams on their chests: the salt-pitted Atlantic operators and the fresh Pacific reinforcements. Wyatt stood among them, his Air Force jump-wings a flash of silver, while Mace and Logan leaned over the maps with the quiet intensity of the Intelligence community.

Thea stood at the head of the table. She looked small compared to the wall of Tier 1 muscle, but when she spoke, her voice had the clinical sharpness of a scalpel.

“Data point: The atmospheric particulate levels are currently exceeding 1500 parts per million of silica-glass fragments,” Thea said, her fingers tracing a toxic-cloud overlay on the screen with a clinical flourish. “Prolonged exposure will initiate immediate interstitial lung disease via mechanical abrasion of the alveoli. Furthermore, the ash is highly hydrophilic, which means it will bond to any moisture in your throat and create a cement-like slurry.”

Cookie, from the Pacific Team, looked at Wolf with a bewildered expression, his mouth slightly open as he tried to parse the terminology.

Mace stepped up beside her, his hand resting on the back of her chair as he adopted a face utterly devoid of all expression. It was a blank, professional wall, the kind of look Ben knew he only used when he was either in a high-stakes briefing or trying to keep from laughing in church. He didn’t look at the screen; he looked at the men, his eyes as cold as the Pacific they’d just flown over.

“Translation: The air is basically ground glass. Wear your masks or your lungs are going to look like shredded meat. If you breathe too much of this stuff, you’ll literally choke on mud. Don’t be idiots.”

Abe gave a slow, impressed nod. “Copy that. Ground glass. Keep the respirators sealed.”

Thea continued, pointing to the new river path. “Data point: The Shoshone tributary is exhibiting non-Newtonian behavior due to the high ash-to-water ratio. The shear-stress threshold of the banks is at a critical failure point. You are looking at a high probability of localized lahars.”