Читать книгу Shadows And Light - Lindsay McKenna - Страница 5

Chapter One

Captain Craig Taggart was damned if his team was going to be discovered. They were the Blue Team, the good guys—the Americans—in this war game. And somewhere, hidden in among the golden brown, loaflike hills of Camp Reed, were the bad guys, the Red Team.

Recon training was brutal, and Craig knew that these mock war games honed his men’s skills, giving them a taste of combat. Right now they lay in a rocky ravine that was peppered with cactus. Brush hid them as they waited and watched. The enemy was near; Craig could sense their presence.

The stifling heat of the huge marine base’s desert setting rose up in waves as sweat trickled off his body. His face was darkened with smudges of brown, green and black to prevent his white skin from alerting enemy eyes. Flattened against the hard ground, Craig narrowed his eyes, his breath catching deep inside him.

His recon team had been out for three days, successfully meeting the challenges of their assignment. They were due to be picked up in the next half hour by a marine helicopter and flown back to the area where the scores for the war game would be totaled. Craig knew he and his men were winning. All they had to do now was wait for the helo and remain undetected.

He squinted speculatively. Several of the enemy were making their way down an old path in a ravine on the next hill, and they were headed straight toward the rocky depression where Craig and his men lay. Craig dared not move his head. But he had full confidence that the other four men wouldn’t move a muscle, either. Craig knew they would wait for him to fire the first shot. Recons weren’t in the business of ambush and attack. No, they were like silent ghosts moving in enemy territory, collecting data and information for their Intelligence unit. Because they carried little in the way of ammunition and had no way of being picked up if they were discovered, recons were the last to want to engage the enemy in a firefight.

Well, it looked like there might be a firefight this time. Craig’s mind raced as he watched the ten members of the enemy team—all wearing fatigues similar to those of the Blue Team except the black arm bands to denote their enemy status and the M-16’s slung over their shoulders—walk toward them, still oblivious to their presence. He couldn’t be sure if the enemy squad would move on, make camp nearby—or discover his recons. His nostrils flared as the sluggish air brought the distinct smell of human sweat with it. At least the wind was in their favor. It was entirely possible that the enemy’s point man, a young marine no more than nineteen, would smell the Blue Team’s own sweaty bodies if conditions were reversed.

What should he do? Craig glanced down at his watch, attached to his wrist with a black plastic band to avoid telltale reflection in the bright sunlight. Fifteen more minutes and the helo would arrive. His first concern—his only concern—was for his men. They were good men, and he wouldn’t let them needlessly “die” in this mock battle. Grimly, Craig pressed his lips together, filled with the desire to see his men safely out of this unexpected, last-minute situation.

The enemy party was still picking its way along with no obvious goal. What were they looking for? A new campsite? Craig’s mind ticked off the possibilities. It was a lightly armed group—perhaps a squad sent ahead of a larger, more deadly company. They were only some three hundred yards away now, and within moments, Craig would have to make life-and-death decisions. What if they were an advance party? How far behind was the company that could easily destroy his team with their overwhelming fire superiority?

Blinking away the sweat running into his eyes, the stinging moisture momentarily blurring his vision, Craig slowly released the breath he’d been holding. His M-16 lay ready under his hands. The enemy squad hesitated, looking upward into the taller bushes, and then pointed to the surrounding foliage. That was it! They were laying trip wires for land mines!

Andy Hayes, Craig’s radioman, lay directly to his right, his blond hair coated with mud so as not to attract attention. His twenty-year-old face was drawn with tension; his blue eyes squinted against the sweat. Craig indicated with a hand signal for Andy to warn the helo via radio that the enemy was present. Whenever a marine helicopter came in to pick up a recon team, another helicopter came along as gunfire support, and forewarned was forearmed. Andy dipped his head once and fingered the button on the radio he held protectively against his body. The young man was going to be married in mere days, Craig remembered suddenly. Well, the honeymoon would be a well-earned rest.

Craig quickly sized up the general area. The helicopter was supposed to hover a few feet above the crest of the hill just a hundred yards away. But the brush covering the hill—some of it twenty feet high—would require precision flying of the most dangerous kind to navigate, Craig realized. Thank God, Major Bruce Campbell, one of the best helicopter pilots at the base, had this mission; there was no one better in a tricky flying situation. The Blue Team’s escape route to the helo lay directly above them. It would be a hundred-yard sprint up and over the top of the hill to reach the extraction point.

When the enemy squad heard the approaching aircraft, of course, they’d become alert. And once Craig gave the order to move, there was every possibility the enemy would spot them and a firefight would break out. They were outnumbered two to one, but Craig was used to even worse odds for their five-man recon team. If he could avoid a confrontation, he wanted to do it at all costs.

Tasting the salt leaking into the corners of his mouth, Craig slowly turned his head to his left, where the remaining three team members lay spaced a good hundred feet apart. Sergeant Larry Shelton, a redheaded marine from the hills of Tennessee, was flattened against the earth, practically invisible. Craig couldn’t see Barker and Miles at all. When he gave the command, however, the other men would be contacted with a hand signal. Recons rarely spoke; everything was done with an advanced hand-signal alphabet.

The enemy squad was completely engrossed in placing wire across an old path and planting the mine. For a moment, Craig relaxed. The second hand on his watch was moving swiftly. In ten minutes, the helo would be over the landing zone to extract his team. Within five minutes, the enemy would hear the heavy whapping of the blades of the approaching aircraft. It was too much to hope they would turn back after planting the mine. As a practice, recons never followed paths made by the enemy—deadly offerings filled with punji sticks hidden beneath foliage and trip wires that could blow off a man’s leg or arm.

As Craig lay waiting, Susan Evans’s face suddenly loomed before him. He blinked, shocked by her appearance, and just as quickly, her image faded. Susan. Bittersweet memories welled up through Craig, catching him completely off guard. Where had she come from?

Craig wrestled with the unexpected memory. His heart was pounding in his chest, and as her serious, lovely face lingered in his mind, his throat constricted. Tears! With a muffled sound, he crushed his face against his hands. What the hell was going on? Her face shimmered once more behind his tightly shut eyelids. How could he ever forget her dark brown hair, which took on a reddish cast in the sunlight? Or her somber blue eyes, so innocent and wide as she looked up at him?

Opening his mouth with a silent cry, Craig felt a far worse pain than any injury he’d yet sustained in his work as a recon. He’d thought Susan was completely behind him. In the past. Lifting his head, he forced himself to concentrate on their dangerous predicament. Still, he couldn’t dislodge the sudden memory of Susan’s square features, classic nose, parted lips—and her searching eyes, which tore at his soul. He’d been such a fool. Why hadn’t he had more gumption? Been quicker to ask her out than his best friend, Steve, who had ended up marrying her?

The grief, the loneliness, cut through Craig like a knife. He lay on the hard ground, overwhelmed by his loss—because he’d never stopped loving Ensign Susan Evans. She had been his one-and-only sweetheart, and for the last four years, Craig had carried her memory in his heart. Suddenly he wondered if his time was up. Susan’s face had never appeared to him before in a situation like this. Was he going to die? Was the vision a premonition? Bitterness coated his mouth as he keyed his hearing between the sky, barely visible above them, and the banter of the enemy down the valley.

In the four years since he’d seen her, Craig admitted to himself, swallowing hard, he’d never forgotten Susan. They had met when he was a fourth-year cadet at Annapolis, when he had decided to become a marine officer instead of a navy officer. Steve Placer, his roommate and best friend, had fallen on some ice at the academy that winter, and Craig had helped him limp over to the hospital dispensary on the Annapolis grounds. Susan had been working as a nurse there and had helped the doctor wrap Steve’s badly sprained ankle.

Craig released a shaky breath as he forced himself to pay attention to the enemy. Still, his heart swung around to the past—to that first time he’d met Susan. She’d been shy around them, and Craig had been struck by her serious nature, her care and commitment to nursing. There was a vulnerability about Susan that beckoned to Craig. Although she had been thoroughly professional as Steve sat on the gurney and she wrapped his ankle in an Ace bandage, Craig had seen her cheeks flame red with the awareness that the two young men were studying her like starving wolves.

Steve, the extrovert, had managed to tease a small smile out of her, and Craig recalled sharply that as the corners of her wanton mouth had hesitantly curved upward, he’d felt a sheet of heat tunnel through him, one that had left him speechless in its wake. So Craig had stood stupidly by as Steve boldly hunted Susan, stalked her with his practiced charm and expertly maneuvered her into agreeing to go out with him at a later date when he didn’t have to be on crutches.

With a violent shake of his head, Craig tried to clear away the welling memories. He lay there feeling his heart throbbing in his chest—more than a symbolic reminder of the past that walked with him into the present. Angry at himself because he was an introvert, shy rather than bold like Steve, Craig had not pursued Susan. Instead, he’d become her friend and confidant. Once he’d plucked a springtime daffodil from one of the flower gardens at the academy—a decided risk in itself—and given it to her. The night before, she’d experienced the death of a plebe who had gotten into an accident, and he’d wanted to cheer her up somehow.

The sadness in Susan’s face had lifted, Craig remembered, and her face had glowed with joy as he’d given her the flower. He’d never forget how her slender fingers had wrapped around the stem. When she closed her eyes and raised the yellow daffodil to inhale its heady fragrance, Craig had breathed with her.

What the hell was happening? Craig angrily smashed the remnants of memories and ruthlessly suppressed his aching feelings of loss. He’d lost touch with her after the fateful night that she hadn’t met him at the restaurant for dinner. Susan had stood him up without explanation. The next morning Craig had shipped out for his first assignment after graduating from the academy, shattered. Through the grapevine shortly afterward, he’d heard that Steve had married Susan, and Craig’s anger over his inability to keep the woman of his dreams because he was too cautious ate away at him.

But it had been better to walk out of their lives—to never contact them again—because Craig had known he couldn’t control his wild emotions toward Susan. He’d never forget her one innocent kiss, her shyness, which matched his own. He’d never forget the incredible butterfly lightness of her fingertips as she’d touched his shaven cheek after he’d kissed her with all the fire and love he possessed in the depths of his soul.

It’s over, he told himself furiously. Over and done. Stop thinking of her! Was he going mad? Why would Susan’s face and those excruciating memories from four years ago suddenly pop up to haunt him now? Craig was breathing hard, opening his mouth so that the sound couldn’t be detected. Andy gave him a quizzical look, but he ignored the question in the young ma[chrine’s eyes. Pressing his brow against his hands, Craig closed his eyes momentarily. He was going to die; he was sure of it now. Craig had heard other marines tell him that just before a severe injury—a life-threatening situation—they had seen their lives run in review before their eyes.

A haunting ache filled him as he lifted his head. He gave the hand signal for his unit to move out, and they did so, without ever gaining the attention of the enemy squad below. They made it across the crest of the hill and waited tensely. Craig’s doglike hearing caught the first whap, whap, whap of helicopter blades, and his hands tightened around his rifle in anticipation. With a sharp signal, he put his men on alert. There was nothing they could do now except wait. But even if the enemy heard the engine, they could never get to them in time. Right now, his team was safe. Still, Craig couldn’t shake a cold shiver of unadulterated fear. What was going on?

As he slowly got to his knees, the foliage undisturbed, he bitterly accepted that he was going to die. It was an intense feeling, so overwhelming that he didn’t question it, although it seemed illogical. And it seemed the only explanation for Susan Evans’s sweet, haunting face to be hovering before him. That was the only thing Craig regretted: not marrying Susan, not being aggressive enough—as Steve had been—to step in between them. Steve had chased Susan because she was the quarry, had focused on getting her into his arms, his bed and making love to her. With his strict Idaho farm heritage, Craig had been brought up differently. He would never dream of chasing a woman just to bed her. No, love had to be the motive, not the thrill of the chase.

As Craig slowly eased upward, using the foliage as a barrier between himself and the unsuspecting enemy, he continued to regret not having told Susan that he loved her, wanted to marry her, wanted her to carry his children. She had been mesmerized by Steve’s purposeful attack, swept off her feet by his tactics to win her. And Craig had stood by, unable to compete with Steve’s razzle-dazzle approach.

Well, Craig thought as the single-rotor helicopter headed rapidly toward him, it was too late. Looking back on that last year at Annapolis, he knew he could have switched tactics—been far more aggressive and turned into a hunter—but that wasn’t his way. His parents had taught him that honesty, truth and real feelings were what really counted. Well, he’d followed that guidance with Susan, winning her trust as a friend. But she’d been caught up in Steve’s well-planned magic, and it had been too late. Too late….

* * *

“Susan, isn’t this great?” Dr. Karen David stood just outside the emergency-room entrance to the Camp Reed Naval Hospital. A pleased smile came to her triangular-shaped face.

Susan Evans smiled over at her surgeon friend. “I think I’d rather be back in the air-conditioned comfort of the Oak Knoll Hospital, Karen. How you could trade San Francisco’s beauty for this desert is beyond me.”

Karen mustered a winsome smile. “Look around you.” She waved her arm in the air. “There’s more action here. I was getting bored at Oak Knoll. That was regular surgery. I’m a trained trauma surgeon and I wanted to be busy doing that. Reed’s a major training base, and unfortunately, there are a lot more accidents and trauma situations here as a result.” She gave Susan a mischievous look. “Besides, we’re good at what we do. Why, these fine marines are going to be saved by the best trauma pair they’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“Specifically,” Susan said with a laugh, “you. You’re the surgeon.”

Karen gave her a happy look. “Yes, but you’re my right-hand surgical nurse, Susan. Without you, I’d fumble a lot.”

That was probably true, Susan conceded as she stood outside the swinging door that led into the trauma unit adjacent to the emergency-room area. They were both trauma trained, and Susan conceded that they hadn’t really had reason to put their badly needed skills to work—until now. Karen was a brilliant surgeon who got caught up in the intensity of saving a person’s life. Susan was calm, cool and collected in comparison, slapping each instrument firmly into Karen’s gloved hand to make sure that rhythm between doctor and surgical nurse never got interrupted. One wrong motion could mean a life lost. Yes, they were a good team, and that was the main reason Susan had followed Karen out into the field.

Smoothing her nurse’s uniform, Susan looked down at her sensible white shoes. The summer heat here was scorching compared to San Francisco’s temperate weather, and she wished she’d put her collar-length hair up on her head. The back of her neck felt sweaty.

She watched Karen’s face become wreathed in smiles and followed her friend out toward the helicopter-landing area. The asphalt was painted with a huge white circle around a red cross, where the medevacs would unload injured marines whisked out of the surrounding training areas for immediate care. She turned on her heel to study the swinging doors of the ER area and hesitated. Was this what she really wanted? Frowning, Susan turned away and followed Karen as she eagerly explored her new world.

Karen always wanted to be in the middle of the action, Susan knew. And although she didn’t feel the same—out of loyalty and after a lot of nagging from Karen—she’d ended up coming along. Susan didn’t get high on the intense emergency-room atmosphere that Karen loved. Her friend often referred to herself as a “trauma junky,” addicted to the challenge of the life-and-death scenarios. Susan, on the other hand, was too sensitive to the pain the injured were feeling, the cries, the nauseating smells. Shoving her hands in the pockets of her skirt, she shook her head. Surgery performed under the bright lights of a stainless-steel operating room that reeked of antiseptic was far different from the crazy mayhem they’d soon be caught up in.

“This is wonderful!” Karen said as she stood in the center of the landing apron’s red cross.

The unrelenting Southern California sun bore down on them out of the light blue sky. With a slight smile, Susan murmured, “You do like to be in the thick of things.”

With a chuckle, Karen patted her shoulder. “Come on! This place will grow on you. Just look at it as a fantastic challenge.” Karen held up her long, thin hands with their competent, large-knuckled fingers. “These hands will get to save more lives by me being out here, Susan. Isn’t that worth coming for? They need trauma-ready surgeons like me in the field.”

“You’re right,” Susan admitted, smiling in spite of herself. She applauded Karen’s confidence. She wished more women would glory in their own unique assets as Karen did. She stared at her friend’s hands. No one was better or faster in an operating room. With another small smile, she said, “Come on, `Doc,’ let’s go check out the heart of this place, and then ICU.”

With a laugh, Karen allowed her hands to drop back to her sides. She touched her blond, pixie-style hair. “Am I crazy?”

“No,” Susan said, matching her longer stride to Karen’s short, eager one, “just excited about the possibilities. We will save more lives by being here,” she conceded.

Karen’s smile slipped, and she became more serious. “Look,” she whispered, “you did the right thing by coming here. It will take your mind off the past—off the loss of Steve.”

Pain pulled at Susan, and her step slowed as they drew up to the double swinging doors of ER. Karen had been her best friend at Oak Knoll Naval Hospital. She had been with her when Steve had died. If not for Karen’s care, she’d have gone crazy. Here at the marine base she would be reminded daily that life was fragile and good—and saving lives was something worth burying her heart and soul in.

“Yes,” she admitted in a low tone, “it’s probably a good thing we’re both here.”

Karen gave her an understanding look and rested her arm around Susan’s shoulders for a moment. “Come on, let’s check out our new turf. We’re going on duty in an hour, and we need to be ready. Those choppers are sure to come in sooner or later.”

With a forced laugh, Susan agreed and followed her surgeon friend through the modern trauma unit, filled with gurneys and a myriad of equipment used to save lives. Outside the unit was Recovery, a twenty-bed area where marines who were coming out of anesthesia would stay until they were fully conscious. Although Susan was a surgery nurse and most of her time would be spent in the trauma unit, she would also pull duty in ICU and Recovery, as well as other wards.

The ward area was divided between enlisted and officer areas. Susan would stand duty in both wards. Each unit held twenty beds, and navy corpsmen—enlisted men and women—would be assigned to help the medical staff take care of their healing charges. As Susan walked with Karen through the various wards, her heart was moved. Many of the beds held marines and navy personnel, staying here to recover from serious injuries before being sent back into the field.

Their faces were so young, so innocent, Susan thought, as she and Karen moved quietly down the aisles of each ward. Some of them sat up in their beds, playing cards to pass the time and keep boredom at bay. Others were swathed in white bandages, asleep or under a pain medication’s domain. It was the look of some in their eyes that haunted Susan. Some held terror—unspeakable knowledge that they couldn’t give words to. Other eyes, though, held curiosity, even friendly interest, accompanied by a shy smile.

Trying to prepare herself emotionally for what lay ahead on her first day of duty, Susan headed back to ER with Karen. They were opposites, Susan had realized years ago. Karen was a hard charger who grabbed hold of life, held onto it and moved with a vitality few could match. Susan, on the other hand, was more silent, introverted—moving like a shadow through life. She had learned early to be seen and not heard—to help, work, be responsible and never complain or try to throw off the burdens given to her.

Their tour completed, Susan and Karen retired to the female hospital personnel’s quarters to change into fresh white uniforms, settle their clothes in assigned lockers and have a cup of coffee before their first duty. Susan was the first through the doors of ER when a black navy corpsman ran toward them, out of breath.

“Hey!” the corpsman called. “A training helo with ten marines just crashed fifteen miles from here! We got dead and injured on their way in. Two medevacs are bringing ’em right now! Get ready!”

Susan knew that only two doctors and four nurses were assigned to the ER unit. She gasped as the corpsman’s message sank in and quickly moved to a small side room where she grabbed two green surgical gowns, handing one to Karen. They pulled them on, and Susan searched until she found the rubber gloves. Karen and the other doctor were scrubbing at the nearby sink. Susan’s heart started pounding in dread as she heard the heavy whapping sounds of a helicopter landing outside the trauma-unit door. Its windy wake buffeted the doors leading to the landing pad, and she could make out screams and shouts mingling with the roar of the helicopter’s engine.

Karen ran over to her, her hands held up, and Susan quickly slipped on the gloves. Just as the last one snapped into place, Susan heard the doors burst open. Jerking around, she saw corpsmen pushing five gurneys into the ER. Her mouth fell open as she surveyed the marines lying on them, their clothes torn and bloody, their arms hanging lifelessly.

Choking, Susan watched in a daze as Karen and the other doctors quickly began to ascertain the extent of the five men’s injuries.

“We got another load of five comin’ in!” a navy corpsman shouted.

Before Susan could run across the aisle to wash her hands, Dr. Benjamin Finlay, the head surgeon, caught her by the arm. “Evans, come here.” Rapidly, Finlay ordered her to give the young, blond marine an IV and prep him for surgery. With shaking hands, Susan tried to ignore the extensive injuries to the unconscious boy. The area became frantic as another helicopter off-loaded five more wounded personnel. Everywhere Susan looked, the small area was jammed with gurneys, with doctors and nurses running frantically from one patient to another, ascertaining medical statuses.

Susan tried not to allow her stricken emotions to get the better of her. Efficiently, she fitted the marine with an IV and quickly cut back his clothes to expose a gaping chest wound. Finlay came back, barking orders to several corpsmen to get the marine into surgery.

“This is your first day,” Finlay said, gripping her by the arm. He pointed toward three gurneys in the corner. “Take those three cases. They’re the least hurt.”

“Y-yes, sir.” Numbly, Susan moved toward the gurneys. One marine, a redheaded youth in his early twenties, was holding his bleeding hand. The second marine was also struggling to sit up. He had a mild scalp wound, Susan surmised as she walked over to them. Scalp wounds always bled heavily, but were rarely fatal.

“Ma’am,” the red-haired marine begged, “take care of our skipper. He’s really hurt. Please, take care of him first.”

Susan hesitated. Both young marines, their faces grim, their eyes wide with shock, pointed to the gurney behind her, which evidently bore their commanding officer. Opening her mouth, Susan started to say something. Ordinarily, she’d be the one deciding which patient was worst. But the pleading looks in their faces stifled her chastising words.

Turning on her heel, she finished pulling on the surgical gloves. As she looked down at the marine lying on the gurney, she gave a small cry of surprise and her heart slammed into her throat, her eyes widening enormously. The officer lying on the gurney, his gray eyes narrowed with pain, his hand clutching at his bloody thigh, was Craig Taggart.

“Oh, my God,” Susan whispered, frozen in place.