“Doc can take care of himself.”
“Usually that’s true. Not this time. Besides, he needs somebody to watch his back.”
“But, Dad—”
“Enough, Dean!” Ryan’s voice was as unyielding as an iron bar. When Dean heard that tone used, he knew enough to back off.
“One of Trader’s rules was to never split your forces. ‘If you’ve only got half your men, you’ve only got half your power,’ he’d say. Course, the older I’m getting, the less inclined I am to always agree with everything Trader told me. We’ve already lost two people to this Poseidon. Jak was like a son to me in many ways, and Krysty was my soul mate.” Ryan took a hand and mussed Dean’s hair. “I’ll be damned if I’ll risk losing another loved one to that bastard.”
“Jak was my friend, too,” Dean said. “And I loved Krysty.”
Ryan softened. “I know, son. Believe me, I understand. But I’m not asking you to stay here as a father. I’m telling you to stay as a leader. You don’t want to be treated like a kid? Fine. Then act like a man and do what I tell you.”
“Not fair,” Dean said.
“Life seldom is.”
Ryan stepped away and paused at the doorway of the tent.
“How long before you’re back?” Dean asked.
“Not sure. No way of knowing. Half day there in the wag, according to Carter. Half day back if the wag’s still running after we get inside the base. I’d say we’ll be back here in a couple of days, unless something goes bad wrong.” Ryan shrugged. “If the plan goes south on us, then I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“Two days, Dad. Two days, then I’m coming after you—even if I have to carry Doc on my shoulders.”
Ryan nodded. “Should be long enough. Two days, then.”
Dean was shocked into silence. He’d never imagined his father would agree to letting him come out in search of the advance party, even with a wait of forty-eight hours.
The one-eyed man held up a hand, gave a little wave to his son and walked out of the tent.
Before Dean could also exit, Ryan stepped back inside.
“Dean?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“If you do end up carrying Doc around, remember that he’s heavier than he looks.” The attempt at humor was strained, but Dean still appreciated the effort.
“I won’t forget.”
What Dean didn’t know was Ryan would have done exactly the same thing himself at Dean’s age. He also knew the boy wouldn’t be able to wait any longer than two days, which was fine.
In two days’ time, Admiral Poseidon would be a dead man, and his so-called empire would be a ruin, even if Ryan had to die himself in the process.
Chapter Eighteen
“What?” Doc said in his most testy tone of voice. Looking every inch the academic he once had been, he peered down his long nose at the interruption.
“Been gone for two hours now,” Dean replied flatly. The boy was standing at the entrance flap of the tent, his head cocked at an angle, one hand on his hip and the other holding open the flap. For a brief moment, Doc had thought Ryan himself had already returned from his journey to the lair of Poseidon. Dean had the same sharp, narrow face. The same deep-set dark eyes. The same curly black hair.
The same confidence some would see as insolence.
“I’m well aware of the passage of time,” Doc replied, closing the crumbling paperback book he’d been reading.
“What’s the book?” Dean asked.
“A collection of poetry by T. S. Eliot. The title of the collection is The Waste Land and Other Poems.”
“Sounds like Deathlands,” Dean observed.
“Yes, well, this is apt reading in our surroundings,” Doc agreed.
“Where’d you get it?”
“They have a small library here. Mostly tripe. Blood-and-thunder adventure novels about men with action verbs for names and pink-and-lavender tinged bodice rippers of true historical romance,” Doc said. “I noticed the bindings of the trashier books were the most worn, while this handsome gray-and-black thin little gem is still somewhat in one piece. Yes, a few worthy tomes were in the strongbox, and I couldn’t resist reacquainting myself with Mr. Eliot’s wonderfully written wisdom.”