17. Grizzly
SEVENTEEN
GRIZZLY
The limestone cave swallowed the roar of the mountain, muffling its prehistoric screams into a rhythmic, low-frequency hum that Grizzly could feel in the marrow of his bones.
It was a sanctuary of cold stone and ancient dust, smelling of damp earth and the metallic, sharp tang of their own adrenaline-soaked sweat.
Grizzly turned his attention to his younger brother, who was already knee-deep in his trauma bag.“Wyatt, get some fluids into Falcon,” Grizzly said, his voice a low, tired rumble. “We need to know if he’s going to be a runner or dead weight in four hours.”
Wyatt didn't even look up. He was already spiked into a bag of saline, his movements a blur of clinical efficiency. “I’m a PJ, Benji. I was ‘on it’ while you were still figuring out how to sit down without groaning. Why don’t you worry about the perimeter and let the medical professional handle the medicine? ”
Reef, leaning against a nearby stalagmite, let out a dry, hacking chuckle. “He’s got you there, Grizz. I think the Air Force just pulled rank on your kitchen-table seniority.”
Grizzly grunted, the ghost of a smile pulling at his soot-stained face. “Just get it done, Wyatt.”
“I’m doing it,” Wyatt wheezed, his voice rough from hours of inhaling volcanic dust, then softened as he turned back to Falcon.
He handed around silver emergency blankets, the crinkle of the Mylar sounding like a lightning strike in the silence.
“Drink up, Falcon. I don’t care if it tastes like plastic and ash.
Your blood pressure is the only thing keeping that arm attached right now.
If you don't hydrate, I'm sticking a needle in you, and I promise I won't be gentle about it.”
Falcon managed a grimace that might have been a smile. “You have the bedside manner of a brick, Wyatt. Grizzly told us his brother was a PJ, but he didn’t mention you guys were trained at the same charm school as the IRS.”
Reef leaned forward, his eyes glinting with a mischievous spark in the dim chem-light.
“That’s the Air Force for you, Falcon. They get ten hours of sleep a night and a five-star meal, but the second they jump into a pile of dirt with the Navy, they start acting like they’re the ones doing the heavy lifting. ”
Wyatt didn’t even look up from the bandage he was securing on Falcon’s arm.
“Funny. I seem to remember it was a ‘five-star’ Air Force PJ who just navigated your Atlantic team through six miles of crumbling logging trails and ash-drifts while you lot were busy playing sardines in a cell. If you want a SEAL to fix that shoulder, I can stop right now and we can wait for the Navy to send a rowboat.”
Hurricane let out a rough, hacking laugh. “He’s got the Adams mouth, Grizz. I’ll give him that.”
“Don’t let him hear that,” Grizzly warned from his spot by Thea. “He’s already got an ego the size of a C-17. If you start complimenting him, he’ll start asking for flight pay.”
Picasso, ever the Senior Chief, didn’t turn away from his watch at the cave mouth, but his voice carried a hint of a smirk. “Just make sure that Air Force ‘wizardry’ holds for another mile, Wyatt. If Falcon’s arm falls off on the trek to the pad, I’m putting it on your performance review.”
“Copy that, Sir,” Wyatt replied with a sharp salute, looking at Picasso, his frown relaxing into a sharp, Adams-grin. “I’ll keep the Navy in one piece. Just try not to get any more ash on your uniforms. I know how much you guys love your laundry day.”
The low-level banter acted as a psychological ballast, steadying the team’s nerves as the mountain continued its deep, rhythmic groaning.
Reef settled back against the stone, his posture finally relaxing.
He looked up at the ceiling, the Mexico chill still lingering in his eyes, but his voice was steadier.
“Hey, Doc. Data point for you. What are the odds of a cave-in in a 4.2 tremor?”
Thea, huddled under Ben’s oversized jacket, blinked her eyes open.
She tilted her head, her mind automatically running the variables.
“In this specific formation? The limestone is a high-density sedimentary layer. It’s flexible enough to absorb the shock-wave without shattering.
Probability of a structural collapse is less than three percent. ”
Reef let out a long, slow exhale, his shoulders dropping an inch. “Three percent. I can live with that. I’ve seen what zero percent looks like, and it’s a lot heavier than this.”
Ben watched the exchange, his eyes shifting to Thea.
Her fingers twitched against the cuff of his jacket, a silent, rapid-fire counting that told him her mind was still caught in processing mode.
The banter helped the men find their footing, but for Thea the noise and the proximity of so many people were just more variables to parse.
She was hitting a wall, and doing it quietly.
He leaned down, his voice dropping to a soft, private murmur near her ear. “Thea, I’m going to suggest we all dial it back for a bit. Get the guys to settle so the noise floor drops. How about some zero-percent downtime?”
He felt the small tension ease from her shoulders as she gave a faint nod.
Ben rose slowly, his hand lingering lightly on her shoulder to steady and share the quiet energy between them. He caught Picasso’s eye first, then scanned the team.
“All right, let’s call it for a bit, everyone,” Ben said, his voice steady and warm. “It’s been a long night. Let’s give the mountain and the doc a real quiet stretch so we can all recharge. Shift to watch and keep it low.”
Picasso’s eyes met Grizzly’s briefly, then he paused cleaning of his rifle to give an understanding nod that spoke of trust and agreement.
Reef and Wyatt exchanged a quick glance, their playful banter fading as they melted back into the shadows.
The respect in the air was immediate and absolute.
They didn’t just see a scientist who needed a break; they saw a guide who’d mastered the mountain’s moods and earned their quiet. They saw an equal.
Ben reached down, taking her hand and gently pulling her toward a deeper, darker recess of the cave, a small natural alcove hidden behind a limestone pillar. It was just far enough away to muffle the voices of the team and the soft glow of the chem-lights.
Ben unslung his rucksack, flattening it out against a relatively smooth shelf of rock to create a barrier between her and the freezing stone. He sat down first, his massive frame acting as a physical wall against the world, and guided her into the space beside him.
Ben pulled the Mylar blanket over both of them, his large hands working the crinkling silver edges to seal in their shared heat.
As he tucked the corners around her shoulders, he felt the sharp contrast of her shivering frame against his own.
In the deep, absolute shadows of the alcove, his world narrowed down to two things: the low-frequency thrum of the mountain vibrating through his spine and the small, steady weight of the woman leaning into his side.
The air trapped beneath the Mylar was still and fragile, a strange cocktail of scents that Ben found himself cataloging: the faint, elusive hint of jasmine woven beneath the sharp, biting tang of ash that clung to her skin, mingling with the familiar smell of his own weathered canvas pack.
He shifted slightly, bracing his back against the cold stone to act as a buffer, making himself the only wall she had to worry about for a while.
“Your fingers are still moving,” Ben whispered. His voice was a low vibration that Thea felt in her shoulder more than she heard.
Thea looked down at her hand, which rested against the fabric of his flannel shirt.
Her index and middle fingers were indeed tapping a silent, rapid rhythm.
“Data point,” she whispered, her throat still dry from the ash.
“The sensory log is full, Benji. I’m trying to archive the facility files so I can process the current terrain, but my brain won’t let the clock stop. It’s looping.”
Ben reached over, his large, calloused hand covering hers and gently pressing it flat against his chest. “Follow this rhythm instead. Just one variable. Can you do that?”
Thea closed her eyes, focusing on the steady, powerful thump-thump beneath her palm. It was slower than the mountain’s pulse, and infinitely more comforting. “Pulse: sixty-eight. Strong. Regular. Probability of me spiraling: decreasing.”
They sat in silence for a long moment, the distant murmur of the team’s banter and the crinkle of their blankets providing a low-level white noise that helped muffle the groaning of the rock walls.
“I sold the ranch, Ben,” Thea said suddenly, the words tumbling out before she could calculate the social cost. “The one next door. After the probate cleared on my parents’ estate, I couldn’t keep up with the taxes and the maintenance on a researcher’s salary.
I used the equity to pay off my doctoral loans and Dad’s final medical bills. ”
Ben shifted, pulling her slightly closer to share his heat. “I wondered why the fence line on the west pasture was looking so ragged when I drove in. I didn’t realize it wasn’t yours anymore.”
“I’m debt-free for the first time in my life,” she whispered, a stray tear tracing a path through the gray grit on her cheek.
“But I’m also untethered. The ranger’s cabin was temporary.
Once the FEMA teams arrive to assess the damage at C5, they’ll pull my research permit.
I don’t have a coordinate set for home anymore, Benji. I’m just a variable in transition.”