Читать книгу Protecting His Own - Lindsay McKenna - Страница 10

February 2: 1500

Captain Roc Gunnison scowled, opening and closing his right hand as he sat in his executive officer’s cubicle at the Recon company barracks. Morgan Trayhern had just left and Roc still had a bitter taste in his mouth from his meeting with the venerable ex-marine and head of Perseus. Glaring at the bulkheads, which were covered with photos chronicling his four years at Annapolis, his rise through the ranks of the Marine Corps and the awards he’d received for innovation within the reconnaissance arm of it, he quirked his lips.

Before he had time to ponder the situation, Sergeant Buck Simmons entered and came to attention. The twenty-six-year-old redhead was a hell of a noncom and Roc was glad to have him as a member of his five-men Recon unit.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?”

“Yes. At ease, Buck. We’ve got a mission.” Roc saw surprise followed by an almost feral gleam of pleasure in Buck’s eyes.

“Really, sir?”

Smiling grimly, Roc said, “I know you’ve been antsy, Buck, and wanting to take a ride outta this place.”

“Yes, sir, I would!”

“Well, you’re getting your wish, but I don’t know…” He stopped short. As an officer, Roc couldn’t let on to the politics of the situation. The enlisted people under his wing couldn’t know that he was seething with anger over being stuck with Dr. Andrews on this mission. “Anyway,” Roc growled, lifting his head, “get the team prepared to saddle up at 0530. We’re taking a Sea Stallion into area 5.”

“Are we going after Diablo?” Buck leaned forward, his lips curling back to reveal his teeth, like a wolf anticipating jumping a quarry.

“Kind of…” Roc muttered. But not really. He wanted to say, We’re playing baby-sitter to that pain-in-the-arse doctor we had a run-in with six months ago, but he didn’t. “We’re going to be protecting a group of medical people coming in to canvass the area and set up three medevac stations. The epidemic is breaking out all across the basin, as you probably know. We’re going in to make sure the Diablos don’t get to the medevacs before the people can get help.”

Frowning, his thin red brows bunching, Buck rubbed his chin. “Are we going to be baby-sitters, sir?” The words came out with a distinct distaste.

Roc’s grin was twisted. “Now, Sergeant…we do what we’re ordered to do. This is an important logistical step in getting the people of the L.A. basin the help they need. We’ll be playing a key role in makin’ it happen.” Roc saw Buck’s green eyes narrow.

“Well, sir, maybe after baby-sittin’ duties, we can kind of nose around for Diablo on our off-hours?”

Roc’s grin widened. “All things bein’ equal, Sergeant, yeah, we might be able to do that if circumstances dictate. But for now, get the team squared away today and ready to push off at 0530—at pad Bravo at the airport tomorrow.”

Coming to attention, Buck said, “Yes, sir!” He did an about-face and quickly left the cramped office.

Moving to the map of the quake zone, showing the entire southern Los Angeles area divided up into quadrants by Logistics, Roc studied area 5. But his mind wandered back to that redheaded witch of a woman doctor he was going to have to tangle with—again.

“What the hell kind of karma do I have?” he muttered out loud, turning back to his desk.

“Sir?”

Turning with surprise, Roc saw Lance Corporal Ted Barstow, also young and also part of his team, standing expectantly in the doorway. “Yes, Barstow?”

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “Er…Sergeant Simmons sent me up to ask if you want demolitions loaded with our equipment. He said this was a milk run, not a real mission. We’re babysitting?”

Wryly, Roc smiled to himself. He leaned against the edge of his green metal desk. “We’re protecting. And yes, load everything. We’re going in as a Recon team prepared for any and all possibilities.” He saw Barstow’s triangular face light up with enthusiasm. Barstow was their demo expert, the guy who set the claymore mines and anything else he could get his hands on to blow up the enemy. Barstow was like a mad scientist, always fiddling with chemicals to see what would happen. A couple of times he’d had his hair and eyebrows singed, playing around with volatile concoctions. What Barstow should do was go to college and take classes, but the Oregon native didn’t take to schooling. He had grown up in the Cascade Mountains, was an outdoors kid who hunted for food for his family’s table. After barely getting his high school diploma, he’d joined the Marine Corps and had found his niche in the Recon marines.

“That’s great, Cap’n! I’ll get on it, sir!” Barstow turned and trotted down the hall, his boots thunking on the wooden floor and creating a loud echo in the nearly empty barracks.

Roc smiled again, his spirits momentarily lifted by Barstow’s visit. The kid was sharp, and eager. Everyone on his team was like that, and so was he. Gathering up the papers on his desk, he put them in his out basket. It was time to get moving. Roc was glad to be heading into the field at last. He’d been feeling restless and antsy as this earthquake mission got off the ground. All around him, Camp Reed hummed with activity. It was the hub of a great web that stretched in every direction, bringing in supplies to save lives.

Major Carson, his commanding officer, had needed Roc here at the base to help coordinate the Recon teams that were already out in the quake zone. Roc had been in charge of planning and logistics for the teams. Now it was his turn to go out in the field, which was what he lived for. Working in an office wasn’t his idea of fun. It was a special hell.

Stepping into the hall, he headed to his locker, where he kept his M-16 rifle, pack, flak jacket and helmet. He would oversee the preparations for tomorrow morning’s liftoff. All their gear would be brought to a central location to be loaded on a Humvee for transport today. And, he wanted to acquaint himself with the airport facility so there would be no screwups. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was nearly time for them to take the Humvee over to the airport. Buck would make sure their team was at the pickup point, Roc was sure. That’s how eager they all were to cut loose from this place and do what they did best: field operative work.

As he pulled the flak vest over his desert utilities and pressed it shut, Roc felt his heart squeeze in anticipation of the coming confrontation. Dr. Andrews was no weak sister. She was formidable, as he’d found out when Private First Class Louis West, a nineteen-year-old on his team, had injured his leg during an exercise. Roc had never run into such a strong, bullheaded woman. And she hadn’t budged from her position. He’d lost that first battle with her, and his ego still smarted.

“I won’t lose this time,” he growled, settling his helmet on his head. Allowing the straps to hang free, he adjusted the goggles perched atop the camouflage-colored headgear, then reached for his pack. If Andrews thought she was going to tell him what to do in the field, she had another think coming.

The truth was, Roc would much rather send his team out on a scouting and reconnaissance mission, to try and locate the Diablos. There wasn’t a marine on the base who hadn’t heard how the gang had ruthlessly murdered two pilots weeks earlier. In his heart, Roc longed to go after them. No one killed marines and got away with it. No way. Even though his wasn’t designated a hunter-killer team, Roc dreamed of finding the survivalist gang and settling the score once and for all.

As he hoisted his sixty-pound pack onto his shoulders, settling it in place on his rangy frame, a thrill shot through him. Fieldwork. It was something he loved. He’d trade indoor time for outdoor any day of the week. Despite the fact that he’d have to put up with sourpuss Andrews, the day was looking brighter already.

February 3: 0600

Sam gathered her team on the landing pad next to where the Sea Stallion sat ready to go. The two marine pilots were already in the cockpit, going through pre-flight procedures before the blades started to turn. The airport was a noisy cacophony of screams, shrieks and whistles from fixed-wing aircraft, the thump, thump, thumps of rotorcraft. It was 0600. They were slated to take off in fifteen minutes.

“Jonesy, have we got all the supplies on board?” she called to her corpsman, Jones Baker, a twenty-two-year-old African-American.

“Yes, ma’am, we’re good to go!” Jonesy flipped her a thumbs-up.

Sam smiled, noting the excitement and eagerness in Jonesy’s brown eyes. He was one of her best corpsmen, and had worked with her in E.R. for two years. Nothing rattled the Harlem, New York native. Nothing. He’d grown up on the city streets and knew how to survive anything. When things got hot, heavy and intense in E.R., Sam could always count on this young man to keep a cool head and calm presence.

Though a gangly six foot tall, Jones had the hands of a concert pianist. Sam had talked to him early about taking premed classes at a nearby college, and had told him she felt he’d make a great doctor. Jonesy had taken her belief in him to heart. He was now in his second year, a straight-A student. When he wasn’t working in his navy functions, she’d always find him with a book open, studying relentlessly. Often he came to her with questions, and they’d discuss medical points and symptoms. The world needed more people like Jonesy—self-motivated, smart, and hungry to better themselves. Sam was glad he was along on this mission.

“I’ve got all the IVs boxed up, Dr. Andrews,” Lieutenant Lin Shan announced, approaching the open cargo door of the helicopter, near where Sam stood.

“Great, Lin. Think we’ve got enough?” She looked down at the surgical nurse, her right-hand woman in the operating room. Lin was Chinese-American, her parents having escaped from their own country under political duress. Born in San Francisco, the twenty-seven-year-old nurse was five foot two inches tall, thin as a reed and beautiful. Today, her dark, almond-shaped eyes shone with excitement. Like the rest of Sam’s team, Lin was dressed in dark blue slacks, a pale blue, long-sleeved shirt, a flak vest, mandatory protection for the upper body, and wearing a dark blue navy baseball cap with Camp Reed Hospital, USN, embroidered in gold across the front.

“We’ve got three hundred IVs,” Lin said with a grin. “As many as the loadmaster would let me load on board. I tried to get more, but that would make us exceed the weight limit. The head guy told me if I wanted more, some of us would have to stay behind. I didn’t think you’d like that.”

Sam nodded. “Not on this trip, at least,” she said with a laugh. “Good job, Lin. Go ahead and board. I’ll be in shortly.”

Holding her clipboard in her hands, Sam looked around for her other cohorts. Corpswave Ernestine Larrazolo, whose parents came from Nicaragua, hurried around the chopper, an expectant look on her face. “You got all the dressings, antibiotics on board, Ernie?” Sam asked.

“Yes, ma’am, all that they’d let me stow away on this bird.”

Sam smiled. “I hear you, Ernie.” A corpswave first class, Ernie was priceless, in her opinion. She spoke Spanish, which was a big help, and she was quick and efficient in emergencies. Sam knew that Ernie didn’t want to leave her husband, Jose, and their two young children, but she understood the importance of this mission. Five foot three inches tall, with a stocky build, Ernie was not only strong physically, but had a big warm heart, as well. Sam had picked her for several reasons. Ernie had come out of the barrio of Los Angeles and knew the area and its people. Sam suspected that, on this mission, they’d run into many Hispanics who were in the States illegally. She wanted Ernie there as an interpreter as well as a nurturing mother figure. No one was a better mama in the E.R. than Ernie. She was able to put her chunky arms around a crying child, or settle her dark brown hands on a man in pain, and soothe child or adult with her touch and soft voice.

“Climb on board,” Sam said as she checked off the supplies that Ernie had been responsible for getting on the helo.

“You betcha.” Ernie eagerly clambered up the lip of the chopper, with a helping hand from Jonesy, and into the cargo bay.

Sam smiled to herself as she signed off the supply sheet and handed it to the marine loadmaster, Sergeant Dunway. “Thanks,” she told him. It was cold, so she slipped her dark blue wool gloves back onto her chilly fingers. Cold was not something Sam liked. The morning was frosty, near freezing, she guessed, for she could see the white vapor coming out of her mouth as she spoke.

“Thanks, ma’am,” Dunway said, tucking the order into the breast pocket of his desert-colored jacket. “This bird is loaded to the gum stumps.” He turned and looked at an approaching Humvee. “And if I don’t miss my guess, here’s the rest of the weight load—the Recon team.”

Heart pounding briefly, Sam stood at the opening and watched the heavy vehicle approach at high speed. As it drew up to within thirty feet of the Sea Stallion, she could see Captain Roc Gunnison in the passenger seat—the last man on earth she ever wanted to work with. Lips tightening, Sam tried to gird herself as she stared at her through the window of the Humvee. There was no welcome in those hard eyes.

Trying to appear nonchalant, which was tough for Sam, since she usually wore her emotions on her face, she watched as the door to the Hummer opened. Out stepped her nemesis, and her heart thumped again. Only not from dread. What was it, then? Stymied, Sam took a deep breath, studying his hard, unyielding profile as he turned and allowed his team to climb out.

Roc Gunnison was thirty-two years old, a seasoned marine vet. Highly decorated, he had seen action, she understood, not only in Somalia, but in Kosovo. Lanky and broad shouldered, he appeared strong, capable and athletic in his desert cammos. There was something confident and sure about his every movement. His black hair was close cropped and barely visible beneath the helmet on his head. Those eagle-like blue eyes, the color of the Montana sky she’d been born under, always got to her. Once, as a teenager, she’d rescued a bald eagle that had been shot by a hunter, its wing broken, and had carried it back home to her father, who was a veterinarian. Sam had never forgotten the hours she’d spent watching that eagle recuperate in the huge, airy cage outside her father’s office. More than anything, she’d loved the way the eagle looked, the alertness in its eyes, which never missed a thing. Roc Gunnison had that same alert quality.

As he swung his head in her direction, Sam’s heart thundered briefly. Their eyes met and locked. Frozen beneath his assessing gaze, Sam felt naked and vulnerable. Under any other circumstance, she’d find him handsome, with his square face and craggy, good looks made rugged by many hours out in the elements. Sam never liked pretty boys; instead, she was fascinated by faces of experience and character. Unfortunately, Gunnison’s face fit that profile. She found herself staring almost hungrily at him now. Remembering how revealing her face could be when she was entangled in an emotional situation, she did her best to keep her expression deadpan as his gazed raked over her.

Maybe the chaos she felt inside was simply a result of the times. The events. The pressure of the crisis situation she had been living and working in, she thought, as he stared belligerently across the vehicle at her. She saw his mouth thin, the corners turning down as his black, thick brows drew into a V of obvious displeasure. A part of her knew that Gunnison had already formed an opinion about her, and he wasn’t happy with her presence on this mission. Why couldn’t he be more compassionate? More understanding? What had happened in the E.R. six months ago should be over and done with. Somehow, Sam had hoped for a less nasty reception from the captain. Obviously, he wasn’t one to let bygones be bygones. A part of her wanted to cry at that discovery.

Roc couldn’t tear his gaze from Dr. Andrews. She stood near the helicopter in her U.S. Navy regulation clothing, her desert-colored flak jacket hiding the upper part of her five-foot-seven-inch frame. She was large boned, and despite the mannish clothing she had to wear, he could see she was curvy. He glared at her, trying to let her know silently that he wasn’t going to brook any arguments on this mission. Eighty percent of all communication was on a nonverbal level, Roc knew. He hoped that by nailing her with a lethal, I’m-not-going-to-take-any-crap-from-you look, she’d get the message, loud and clear.

The early morning breeze lifted some strands of her red hair, which gleamed with threads of gold. Her thick, shoulder-length locks, framed her oval face, the color emphasizing her large green eyes, which glittered with intelligence. Roc didn’t fool himself; this wasn’t just any woman. She was sharp and articulate, and could be lethal with that cutting mouth of hers. And speaking of mouths…He groaned inwardly. Why did Andrews have to have such a soft, full mouth? Now, as he stared at her across the distance, he saw her lips part slightly. That was his undoing, dammit. He didn’t want to like her, but he couldn’t help but admire her clean, fine-boned features. She looked like a Grecian statue he’d seen in Athens as a kid on a vacation with his well-to-do parents. And with that blanket of copper freckles dotting her high cheekbones and nose, she looked more like a teenager than a medical doctor.

He scowled even more deeply. Andrews was not fashion-model pretty, but she had an arresting and interesting face, Roc had to admit. He saw the gentleness in her mouth, the bear-trap intelligence in those huge green eyes that gave away her every feeling. And that red hair was a warning to anyone not to cross her, because she was a warrior at heart.

Snorting, Roc ordered his men into the helicopter. After thanking the driver for bringing them to the landing pad, he shut the door of the Humvee. Girding himself emotionally, he hefted his pack in his left hand, the M-16 in his right, and stepped around the vehicle. The hum of the Sea Stallion’s engine began. In a few minutes, the rotors would begin to turn. As he walked toward the helo, Roc saw Andrews still standing there, her gloved hands crossed in front of her body. He felt her tension, saw it in those huge green eyes.

As he approached, she looked up, defiance clearly written on her face.

“Nice to meet you again, Lieutenant,” he drawled, as he proceeded to toss his pack into the cargo bay of the helo.

“Liar.”

Stunned, Roc paused and turned to take a second look at her. “Excuse me?”

Sam met and held his surprised gaze. “You’re a liar, Captain Gunnison. Don’t try and sweet-talk me, because it won’t work. I call a spade a spade.”

So much for her soft mouth and eyes. Lips tightening, he stared at her. “Okay, Lieutenant, have it your way. I was just trying to be social.”

“Yeah, right. I saw the look you gave me. It said it all. Fine. I know where I stand with you on this mission.” Sam could get away with being honest because everyone else was in the chopper, unable to hear them. She was glad to see she’d caught Gunnison off guard. She had to keep her wits about her so he wouldn’t box her in. She was just as much in charge of this mission as he was, and she wasn’t about to allow the Recon to intimidate her, as she knew he’d been trying to do with that frosty look he’d given her earlier.

Facing the chopper, Roc hefted his pack up into the hands of his sergeant. Then he turned and, his hands on his hips, glared down at her. “We need to talk. But not here. And not now. Once we get to area 5, you and I are going to have a chat, out of earshot of everyone.”

Giving him a cutting smile, Sam said, “Fine with me, Captain. But you might as well know now that you’re the last man on earth I’d ever want to have with me on a mission.”

With that lob of a grenade, Sam brushed past him and leaped up into the cargo bay of the helicopter. She found her nylon seat against the bulkhead and sat down. Looking up, she watched as Gunnison, frowning now, climbed lithely into the hold and sat on the opposite side with his men. The loadmaster slid the door shut and it locked.

Sam couldn’t steady her fluttering heart. She felt like she’d been in combat, adrenaline was pumping so hard through her veins. If Gunnison thought she was a weakling and he could run over her or intimidate her with just a look, he was badly mistaken. Judging from the frustration she saw on his face as he strapped in, Sam knew he’d gotten her message, loud and clear. She smiled to herself. This was her mission. People needed her and her team’s help. Gunnison was going to play second fiddle—or else.