Читать книгу Match Play - Merline Lovelace, Merline Lovelace - Страница 8

Why couldn’t he put the woman out of his head?

Luke shifted restlessly in the mission commander’s seat of his bat-winged B-2. The pilot whose performance he’d been evaluating occupied the left seat, breathing easier now that he’d completed most of his check ride.

Outside the cockpit a star-studded night sky stretched to infinity. Inside, the instrument panel gave off a muted glow shielded by specially screened and darkened windows.

“Thirty-two thousand and holding steady on course niner-three-six,” the other pilot reported.

Luke acknowledged their position and rolled his shoulders to relieve the strain of his seat harness. They’d been in the air for seven hours now, a mere hop compared to their normal missions. Tonight’s training run had taken them out over the Atlantic for an in-flight refueling. They would return to base before dawn, gliding in with the same stealth that made the B-2 invisible to the world’s most sophisticated radars—and to antiwar protestors hoping to obtain photos that would prove beyond any doubt the bomber’s presence in the U.K.

The B-2 crews and support personnel were every bit as determined to remain as stealthy as the two-billion-dollar aircraft they flew. Hence the night-only takeoffs and landings and the fiction that their detachment was part of an exchange program at Leuchars.

So far the ploy had worked. Would it still work if the paparazzi sniffed out the fact that Dayna Duncan’s old flame just happened to be in St. Andrews?

From past experience, Luke knew how the media rooted around for personal tidbits to salt into their coverage of otherwise impersonal sporting events. He and Pud had once provided just the mix of glamour and romance the tabloids loved.

The nickname tugged his mouth into a lopsided grin. Pud, short for the puddles he’d teased her about paddling around in. The teasing had lasted only until she’d taken Luke for his first white-water run.

The experience had been as exhilarating as any he’d every experienced. It had also scared the crap out of him. When they’d gone over Horseshoe Falls, his stomach had dropped right through the bottom of the fiberglass kayak. He could still hear Dayna’s joyous whoop, still see her hair flying under her helmet and wet suit molded to her curves as they…

Well, hell! There she was again. Front and center in his thoughts.

Resigned, Luke checked the instruments and gave up trying to shove the woman out of his head.

She was still there, hovering around the edges of his mind, when he finished his mission debrief. Slinging his flyaway bag over his shoulder, he exited the debriefing area and was headed for the crew room to change out of his flight suit when one of other pilots hailed him.

“The old man wants to see you, Harper.”

Nodding, Luke detoured to the suite of offices tucked in one corner of the massive hangar. He figured the colonel was waiting for an update on the check ride just completed and prepared a rundown in his mind.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Colonel Don Anderson waved him into the office. Big, barrel-chested and as strong as a Brahma bull, Anderson had been part of the initial B-2 cadre. In the decade since, he’d racked up more hours than most pilots did in a lifetime. Customarily gruff and to the point, Anderson jerked his chin at the stranger seated in the chair angled in front of his desk.

“Harper, this is Mike Callahan. He’s with the government. Callahan, Captain Luke Harper.”

The stranger rose and offered his hand. His square-shouldered bearing suggested he’d spent at least one hitch in the military. The embroidered sharpshooter’s patch plainly visible above his visitor’s badge indicated he wasn’t someone to mess with.

“Harper.”

Callahan’s grip stopped well short of bone-crunching but something in the man’s narrow-eyed, assessing look stirred an instinctive and wholly atavistic response in Luke. Without warning, the skin on the back of his neck prickled.

“Callahan’s got all the necessary security clearances,” Anderson said. “I want you to show him our operation. Bring him back here when you’re done.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wondering what this was all about, Luke stashed his flyaway bag with the colonel’s exec and walked Callahan toward the hangar bay.

“I don’t know how much the colonel told you about our detachment—”

“He indicated you’re one of several recently established forward operating locations. Before that, B-2 crews flew combat missions from your home base at Whiteman AFB, Missouri. Must have made for a helluva long haul.”

“It did,” Luke admitted. “It also made for a surreal life. A pilot could roll out of bed, kiss his wife goodbye, fly a thirty- to forty-hour combat mission against heavily defended targets halfway around the world and return home in time to take out the trash the next morning. Even with forward basing, we spend a lot of time in the air.”

Callahan’s glance dropped. “I don’t see a ring. No one to kiss goodbye in the morning?”

“No one special,” Luke replied, ruthlessly suppressing the image that leaped into his head of a laughing, loving Dayna. He’d had his chance with her and blown it. It was just his own tough luck he hadn’t found anyone else in the years since.

“So how long does it take to prepare for one of these marathon missions?” Callahan asked.

“If we’re lucky, we get three or four days advance notice. That gives us time to study the target, plan our ingress and egress routes and adjust our sleep and eating patterns to maximize our alertness in flight.”

“I can see sleep, but eating?”

“The air force shelled out big bucks to dieticians to determine optimal liquid intake and the best ratio of carbs versus protein to sustain long periods of activity.” Luke had to grin. “All those experts finally concluded we’d found an optimal mix in our traditional bomber dogs. Hot dogs doused in chili,” he explained. “We warm them in the cockpit heater.”

Shouldering open a door, he led the way into one of the two cavernous hangars the Brits had turned over to the B-2 detachment. The aircraft Luke had just flown occupied center court, being serviced by the ground crews.

“Our birds remain undercover at all times while on the ground. We want to keep their advanced design and special ‘low-observable’ characteristics away from prying eyes. In flight, they’re damned near invisible. Pretty slick, aren’t they?”

And then some! Mike Callahan had jumped out of plenty of planes during his stint as an army Ranger but he’d never seen anything as lethal as these black boomerangs. They were immense, with a wingspan of at least a hundred-and-fifty feet, yet their flat fuselage and long, sloping cockpits made them appear saucer-thin from the side. The darkened cockpit windows seemed to follow the two men like a predator’s eyes as Harper led the way across a hangar floor painted and buffed to a bright sheen.

“The B-2’s unique bat-wing shape and the special coating used on its skin are designed to deflect radar waves.” Harper slapped a hand against the cowling of one of the four powerful engines. “And these babies are so quiet they wouldn’t wake your grandma from her afternoon nap if we flew over her house at a hundred feet.”

A slight exaggeration, Callahan guessed wryly, although Harper’s description of how the engines dispensed their exhaust across the top of the wings to shield the aircraft from heat-seeking missiles below brought the seriousness of its mission into sharp focus.

As he listened to the pilot explain the details of his unit’s operation, Mike assessed the man behind the uniform. Rogue had stated unequivocally that any feelings she’d once harbored for Harper had died years ago. She was also confident that his presence at RAF Leuchars wouldn’t throw her off her game. Mike trusted her judgment on that. Like him, she’d competed in countless nerve-bending competitions. She knew better than anyone else what would—or wouldn’t—impact her performance.

The question that now had to be answered was whether her presence would impact Harper’s mission if the press IDed him as Dayna’s former lover and came sniffing around the captain. Mike had discussed the situation with his commander when they’d met earlier. The more he saw of the B-2 operation, the more he agreed with the colonel’s decision to take drastic measures to shield the detachment from prying eyes.

From the pride in Harper’s voice as he described his bird and its mission, Mike guessed the pilot was not going to like those measures.

That became instantly apparent when the two men returned to the colonel’s office. Responding to Mike’s subtle nod, Anderson dropped the ax.

“I told you Callahan here works for the government. His sources told him that you once had a romantic relationship with one of the golfers competing in the Women’s International Pro-Am Charity Golf Tournament at St. Andrews.”

Harper was quick. Surprise blanked his face for mere seconds before giving way to wary comprehension.

“That’s right. Dayna Duncan. I didn’t realize our one-time relationship was a matter of government interest.”

Harper leveled a hard stare in Mike’s direction before turning back to the colonel.

“I can see the complications to our detachment’s mission,” he conceded reluctantly. “Someone in the media is bound to recognize me and start snooping around to find out why I’m in the U.K.”

Anderson didn’t waste words. “Then you’ll understand why I’ve arranged to have you reassigned to the 3rd AF Executive Support Unit, with detached duty here at RAF Leuchars, effective immediately.”

“What?”

“You’ll act as liaison with the British VIP support section across base. That way, if asked, you can say with absolute honesty that you’re attached to the RAF unit. You’re still current on the C-21 Learjet, which is one of the aircraft they use to transport VIPs, so it shouldn’t be a difficult transition.”

“To hell with difficult!”

Harper’s disgust at being relegated to the status of a flying cabdriver overcame his ingrained respect for authority and rank.

“I’m scheduled for a run over a heavily defended target in two days and you’re going to pull me to haul VIPs around the capitals of Europe?”

Anderson hadn’t earned his eagles without learning how to use them. Even Mike felt the ice when the colonel leaned forward.

“I’m well aware of the schedule, Captain, and yes, I’m pulling you.”

Harper clamped his mouth shut over further protests but a muscle ticked in the side of his jaw.

“Since you’ve just come off a mission, I want you to take twenty-four hours to decompress. Report to the Brits’ Executive Support Section tomorrow morning. They’ll have a desk waiting for you.”

An expression of acute pain crossed the pilot’s face. “A desk,” he muttered under his breath.

Anderson wasn’t much happier about losing one of his best pilots, but he tried to soften the blow.

“Sorry we have to go this route, Luke. You know the security of our unit has to come first.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s all.”

Dismissed, the pilot speared Hawk with an angry look and departed.

“Damn,” Anderson muttered when Harper had cleared the room. “I hate to lose him, even temporarily. He’s one of our best.” His glance was almost as disgusted as Harper’s. “I want him back as soon as you complete your mission. Make sure everyone in your chain of command understands that.”

“Will do.”

Hawk contacted Dayna as soon as he was clear of the base. Although dawn was just beginning to break, he knew she’d be up and preparing for her practice round. Succinctly, he briefed her on Luke Harper’s change in status.

“It didn’t sit well with him.”

“Tough.”

Hawk hesitated. His loyalty lay with Rogue and the other OMEGA operatives, first, last and always. Yet Luke Harper had impressed him with both his expertise and his obvious dedication to his mission.

“Harper knows this area and the base, Rogue. Might be some way we could exploit that knowledge.”

The suggestion was met with thunderous silence.

“Just something to think about. I’ll brief Lightning on my visit. You go give ’em hell on the links.”

Some miles ahead, Luke steered through the outskirts of town, still simmering.

The United States was at war with an army of fanatical terrorists, for God’s sake! U.S. troops took hits daily in hot spots around the world. Every crew dog worth his or her salt wanted to help bring the war to a swift and decisive end. Thanks to his long-ago romance with Dayna Duncan, Luke’s contribution to the effort would now involve ferrying military and civilian bigwigs around Europe. What a waste of his years of training and experience!

But the security of his unit came first. It would always come first. Acceptance of that unequivocal fact took the edge from Luke’s anger and disgust as turned onto the street leading to his rented flat.

The sight of the TV vans crowding the entrance to his apartment building sent his stomach into a ninety-degree pitch. How had they nosed him out so quickly?

He got the answer when he parked and exited his car amid a swarm of reporters and one of them shoved an early-morning paper in his face.

“Is this you, Captain Harper?”

He could hardly deny the evidence two inches from his nose. There he was, right on the front page, with his arm wrapped around Dayna’s waist and his mouth covering hers. While Luke studied the photo, the questions exploded all around him.

“What’s the story with you and Dayna Duncan?”

“Are you two picking up where you left off?”

“How long have you been stationed in Scotland?”

“Did Dayna sign up for this tournament so you two could reconnect?”

“Will you be in the gallery to watch her practice round?”

Luke thought fast. The damage was done. If he brushed aside their questions, these bloodhounds would dig until they came up with a story. The only solution he could see at this point was to brazen it out and give them enough juicy copy to satisfy even their voracious appetites.

With a dart of savage satisfaction, he set the stage. “Sure, I’ll be there to see her play.”

“She tees off at nine,” another reporter warned after a quick check of his watch.

The perfect exit line, Luke thought as he inserted his key in the door lock. “Guess we’d all better hustle.”

It took Dayna three tries before she finally escaped the media frenzy spawned by the photo in the morning paper. Even then reporters trailed her and her partner, Eleanor Tolbert, out of the clubhouse with cameras rolling.

The wind knifed off the bay, making Dayna glad she’d opted for weatherproof microfiber pants and jacket in eye-popping red. The stiff breeze covered the apology she murmured to Eleanor.

“Sorry ’bout all that hoopla.”

“It doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you,” the longtime LPGA star said with a smile. “Hel-lo. What’s this?”

This, Dayna discovered, was Wu Kim Li busily signing autographs for her hordes of fans.

The North Korean and her partner had drawn a later time slot and weren’t scheduled to tee off for another half hour. If the teen had any regard for links etiquette, she would have delayed her arrival on the course or waited in the clubhouse until called to the tee box. Naturally, such minor considerations as common courtesy and fair play couldn’t be expected to keep her from the fawning adoration of her fans.

Wu glanced up as Dayna and Eleanor emerged, trailed by the string of reporters. Abruptly, she shoved the autograph book into the hands of a fan and strolled over to shake hands with her competitors. That was the excuse she gave for getting her face in front of the cameras, anyway.

“I wish you good practice round.”

“Thanks,” Eleanor returned. “Same to you.”

Wu nodded and turned to Dayna. “I see picture of you with boyfriend.”

“Ex-boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, no difference.” Oozing false sympathy, the teen clucked her tongue. “Both bad for concentration.”

Yeah, right! Nothing like a little psychological warfare designed to throw your opponent off her game.

“You think?”

“I know. I have many boyfriends.”

Sternly, Dayna reminded herself that she was there to cozy up to the girl, not spar with her.

“Maybe we should get together later and compare notes,” she suggested.

Wu’s shrug couldn’t have conveyed less interest. Without another word, she strolled back to her fans. Eleanor was too seasoned a pro to comment on the exchange, but the look she sent her partner as they walked to the tee box spoke volumes.

All of which Dayna could have put out of her head if she hadn’t skimmed a glance around the gallery and spotted Luke Harper.

She could hardly miss him. The man had as many cameras aimed in his direction as Dayna did in hers. All too aware that they’d captured her in midgawk, she responded to Luke’s two-fingered salute with a smile that came up just short of friendly.

Dammit! What was he doing here?

Hawk had indicated Harper wasn’t happy about his abrupt change in status. Did Luke think Dayna had engineered the move? Was he planning to exact some form of revenge by following her around the course?

If so, he—and Wu Kim Li—had another think coming. Dayna had been forced to shut Luke Harper out of her head once before to win gold. She could—She would do the same today.

All she had to do was wait her turn. Step into the box. Tee up. Decide on her line of flight. Address the ball.

Focus.

The noisy crowd quieted. The TV cameras faded. The world diminished to a square patch of green-brown grass and a round white sphere.

Focus.

Her driver rose in a fluid backswing and exploded downward. With a loud crack, the ball flew across a fairway humped with rolling burns and cut a corner of thick brown gorse. It landed dead center less than a hundred yards from the green to a chorus of whoops and shouts.

Dayna couldn’t help herself. With a spear of fierce satisfaction, she angled her head until her glance locked with Luke’s.

Take that, Harper!