by Sandra Hill
I feel like bawling. Could the timing be any worse?
“How about me?” Ian asked, giving her a bit of breathing time.
“Aren’t you happy in SEALs?” the admiral inquired. They both ate as they talked. Alison did, too, like an automaton.
“Yeah. But this new program sounds exciting. It would be good to be back in the field again.”
His father nodded, considering. “Maybe you should go to officers’ candidate school first.”
Ian crossed his eyes at her when their father turned to signal the waiter for a second martini. She knew about this standing argument between Ian and their father over his becoming an officer.
“So, who is this person Max who keeps calling you?” the admiral asked out of the blue.
Alison choked on her fish and had to take a drink of water to wash it down.
“The FBI guys listening to your answering machine say this guy Max called you twelve times yesterday.”
Ian just smirked.
“He’s a friend,” she said. Who happens to have time-traveled here. Ha, ha, ha.
“Only a friend?” her father asked. The old bird saw way too much.
“For now,” she said, feeling her face heat with a telling blush. And, by the way, he’s the father of your grandchild.
“You know I’m going to want to know more,” her father said with mock sternness.
That’s what I’m afraid of.
“Leave her alone, Dad.” Ian, bless him, came to her rescue. “I’ve already pushed her far enough on her personal life. There are some things she’s gotta do herself.”
Sometimes Ian could be a pain in the tush, but sometimes she just loved him to pieces.
The admiral raised his eyebrows at Ian’s standing up to him, but fortunately, he didn’t insist that she tell him more about Max. Not yet. But he would eventually, that she knew.
Heck, what could she say? There’s this guy I may or may not be in love with. He thinks he’s an eleventh-century Norseman come to visit here for a short time; then he’ll be off on his longship to go a-Viking or something. And if or when he goes, he’ll have left something precious behind.
Me.
And a baby.
“Anyone want dessert?” she asked. “I’m dying for some double fudge mousse cheesecake.”
Falling in love with falling …
Ragnor knew with his cherry jump that this was a sport he could love.
He was fifth on the stick out the door. Everyone was visibly scared, even those who’d done this before. But the minute the jump master called his number and Ragnor stepped to the exit, all fear left him in a rush of exhilaration. He had one hand on each side of the doorway, legs slightly bent, one foot slightly behind the other. When he jumped up and out, he executed a perfect jump, arms hard at his sides as he’d been taught, hands gripping the reserve chute, chin tucked into his chest. As his main chute billowed out above him, Ragnor grinned and let out a fierce Viking battle cry of victory.
Pretty Boy had been wrong. It wasn’t better than sex, but it was a close second.
Ragnor would have done all five of his required jumps that day if they’d allowed him to. He suspected his fellow SEAL trainees felt the same way. There was a bit of the adventurer in them all.
After the Jump School graduation ceremony at the end of the week at which they received their silver wing brooches, Sergeant Major Williamson surprised Ragnor by coming up to him and shaking his hand. “Good job, sailor,” he said.
Ragnor was too stunned to speak, despite being inordinately pleased.
But the thing that pleased him most was that he was on his way back to Coronado.
And Alison.
She’s got mail …
Ian was back in his own home as part of a combined FBI and Navy Intel plan to draw out the perps, but Alison was not so lucky.
Ian’s and Alison’s homes had been wired for sound and video. Snipers were now located surreptitiously around the two neighborhoods, but it was hoped no blood would be shed on either side; the military always said that in the most successful op no shots were fired. Ian himself wore body armor under his regular clothing, just in case, but only after he completed his regular duties at the SEAL Command Center at Coronado and returned to his home in San Diego.
Admiral MacLean had gone back to D.C., reluctantly. His presence could cause suspicion and extra caution on the part of those stalking the family. The last thing they wanted at this point was a cautious tango. Cautious tangos hid out in their hidey-holes, impossible to detect.
Meanwhile, Alison bristled at being out of the loop. Forced to continue living on base, she raged at anyone who would listen. The only promise she’d obtained was that she’d be bait, along with Ian, if they didn’t capture anyone this week.
Even while Alison stormed and railed, she had mixed feelings about the whole mess:
1) Here was an opportunity for her to finally engage in an active op involving possible terrorists. At the same time, she thought, placing a hand over her flat stomach, she had another life to consider now.
2) She wasn’t even sure if she wanted this baby. Well, actually, she was sure. There’d never really been any question about that.
3) Worried sick over the fanatics who had targeted her and her family, she floundered between rage and fear. She’d like to be the one to engage the cowardly weasels, to put a bullet between their beady eyes. But then, she was deathly afraid that she or Ian or her father would suffer the same fate as David. She knew too well that good didn’t always win out in the end.
4) She was mad at Max for getting her pregnant. Oh, the logical part of her brain argued that she was equally to blame. After all, she’d allowed him to lift her skirt. But who said pregnant women are logical?
5) The thing that confused her most was herself, and her constantly shifting emotions. Did she love Max … almost a perfect stranger? Did he love her? Did it matter in the scheme of things? She was a take-charge woman. She wanted to control her own destiny. But how?
Destiny? Now, why did that word come to mind? Max always said that she was his destiny. Was it possible?
So many confusing thoughts! And so few answers!
Alison solved her dilemma the way pregnant women have since the beginning of time. First, she bawled for five minutes. Then she went to pee for the hundredth time that day. Then she ate everything in sight.
A tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered, Why do you worry about things beyond your control? What will be will be.
Was it Max sending her a telepathic message?
Yeah, right!
Or God?
Hmmmm.
Either way, Alison felt oddly better. Besides, Max would be back tomorrow. Time enough then to resolve things … or get even more stirred up.
It was still early, too soon to go to bed, so she decided to get caught up on some paperwork related to her patients. When she was done, she went online to check her e-mail. To her surprise, the queue showed something from a
Quickly opening the e-mail, she read:
Dear Doctor MacLean (or should I call you Lieutenant MacLean?):
Sorry it has taken me so long to reply. I’ve been home at Blue Dragon on a term break. With all my brothers and sisters, chaos reigns there, so I haven’t had a chance to log on to a computer till now.
Yes, I can send you a copy of my thesis as an attached file, as long as you understand that even theses are copyrighted material. Frankly, I consider it a compliment that anyone would be interested. It is such a specialized area of interest.
You mentioned knowing someone with the name Magnusson. Could that possibly be my brother Torolf you refer to? I ask only because your signature line indicates U.S. Navy, and he is a Navy SEAL trainee. By the way, if it is Torolf, tell him our father is upset that he hasn’t called in ages. (Just like a man, right?)
But it’s probably not Torolf,
because he would know my name, of course, and be aware of the research I’ve been doing for years.
In any case, let me know what you think of my material. And, if there are any other questions, feel free to ask.
Kirsten Magnusson
Doctoral candidate in medieval studies, UCLA
At first, Alison was stunned.
She reread the letter. What stood out was the fact that Max had brothers and sisters, despite his having said they were all dead, except for someone named Madrene back in Norway. The third time through, she homed in on the Blue Dragon connection. She hadn’t mentioned Kirsten Magnusson to Max the day she’d sent the e-mail, so Kirsten’s comment about that didn’t apply. Still, why would he have gone to the trouble of doing research at the library if he already knew all this stuff?
Very troubling!
Another quick read and she noticed something else. Kirsten had an AOL address, just as she did. On the remote possibility that Kirsten might be online right now, Alison sent an Instant Message:
Hey, Kirsten! Thanks for the attached file. Haven’t had a chance to read it yet. Yes, I know someone named Magnusson—Max. He’s off at jump school right now in Georgia. I have so many questions. Any chance we could get together sometime?
Dr. Alison MacLean, Lt. (jg) U.S. Navy
Within minutes, she got a response:
Questions? I don’t know. What would Torolf … I mean Max … say about that? I wouldn’t want to do anything behind his back.
Kirsten Magnusson
To which she replied:
Not to worry. I would do nothing to hurt Max. In fact, I believe meeting with you might help him. He’s had some problems since the accident. It’s up to you, though.
Dr. Alison MacLean, Lt. (jg) U.S. Navy
She had barely hit “Send” before there was a response:
What accident? Oh, my God! What happened?
Kirsten Magnusson.
Alison couldn’t believe that Max hadn’t told his family about the accident and his concussion. On second thought, maybe he wouldn’t. Some of these Navy SEALs are so macho, they would consider a concussion a sign of weakness. It really isn’t that surprising that Max wouldn’t have told his family, now that I think about it. Besides, I don’t know what his relationship was to his family before the accident.
She put her fingers on the keyboard again and typed:
Listen. We really do need to meet. I don’t feel comfortable discussing Max in this way. And as a physician, there are some things I can’t disclose anyway. So, what do you say to our meeting Friday, the 20th, at 3 p.m.? I can come to your office if that’s okay.
Dr. Alison MacLean, Lt. (jg) U.S. Navy
Kirsten agreed, although Alison could tell that she would have liked to ask more questions. They both said good-bye, then signed off.
Could my life get any more stressful than this? Do I really need to be involved with a man who has so many issues?
On the other hand, how can I not do everything to help him? Maybe meeting Kirsten will unravel some of the mystery surrounding Max.
So it was a hopeful Alison who crawled into bed that night … hopeful because Max was coming back tomorrow, hopeful that she would be meeting a person next week who might shed some light on the mysteries surrounding him, hopeful that the dark cloud that had been hanging over her head would suddenly burst forth with sunshine.
What a dreamer!
Chapter Eighteen
Her boyfriend’s back and they’re gonna be sorry …
The chieftain waved peremptorily to Ragnor the minute he stepped onto the airplane steps. Ragnor was pretty sure Ian wasn’t there to welcome him home with open arms.
“Wow!” Flash muttered. “Max gets his very own Welcome Wagon.”
To which Cody added, “Do you think he’ll give him a big ol’ kiss?”
“Just so it doesn’t involve tongue,” was Cage’s contribution.
“Sarcasm ill suits you knaves,” Ragnor observed with a laugh, adding his own conclusion: “He probably wants to give me another silver brooch, like my wings, for being such a good SEAL whilst away from the base … or just for being away.”
“The only time the master chief would relish giving you any kind of decoration is if he could pin it on your ass,” Pretty Boy said. “Or another objectionable body part.”
“There is naught objectionable about that part of my body.” Still, he pretended to shiver and cross his legs at the prospect of any sharp object going there.
They all had a good laugh then at his expense, which they stopped abruptly when they got to the bottom of the airplane steps.
“Stay away from my sister, birdbrain,” the chieftain said to him right off, pulling him over to the side of the tarmac.
“You say birdbrain as if ’tis an endearment.” Ragnor smiled cheerily at the chieftain.
“Do I have to assign you to Gig Squad the minute you get back?”
So the chieftain is singing the same old song. Blather, blather, blather. “Where is Alison?”
“She is none of your concern.”
Wouldst like to take a wager on that? “She is very much my concern. Either you tell me where she is and why she does not answer her tell-a-fone, or I will get the answers myself.”
“Is that a threat, shit-for-brains?”
Ragnor inhaled and exhaled sharply for patience. Word insults need not pierce him. Finally he said, “Believe you me, a Viking with a purpose is a formidable foe. I do not make idle threats. And I do not want you for my enemy. In truth, you and I are on the same side of the shield when it comes to protecting Alison and having her best interests at heart.”
The chieftain’s eyes went wide at his words. “Un-be-freakin’-liev-able!” he muttered.
I think he’s starting to like me. “Besides, once you meet my sister Madrene, you will be sticking to me like burrs on a bull’s arse.”
“I am not interested in you. I am not interested in your sister. I am not interested in anything that comes out of your stupid mouth.”
“Not even if Madrene is a combination Julia Roberts and Charlize Theron?”
“You said she was a combination Faith Hill and Pamela Anderson. Make up your mind.”
Ragnor just grinned. Obviously, the chieftain had been paying more attention than he’d pretended.
Then, taking Ragnor’s forearm and following his teammates toward a nearby building, the chieftain disclosed, “A lot has been happening with the tango who’s been stalking Alison … and me, too. She’s moved into the bachelor officers’ quarters on base. An armed guard follows her everywhere. Me, too. She’s so stressed out, she’s eating chocolate by the bucketfuls. Now, will you leave her alone till all this is resolved?”
Alarm rippled over Ragnor. “Is she safe? Was she hurt in any way?”
The chieftain shook his head. “The attacks have been just verbal. So far. But this is no everyday weirdo making idle threats. This is bigtime serious. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
“So you’ll stay away?”
“Why would I stay away? I am no threat to her. I want to help.”
The chieftain groaned with frustration and probably would have pulled at his hair if he had some of any length. “You’ve got to give the FBI and Navy Intel room to work. Don’t distract them with your presence. And, frankly, if I were you, I wouldn’t want to call attention to myself in any way … if you get my drift.”
Ragnor got the chieftain’s drift. That didn’t mean he would follow those ridiculous orders. Nothing would keep him away from Alison now that he was back in town.
Apparently the chieftain suspected his intentions, because he immediately ordered Ragnor and his classmates to the sleeping barracks, where they were to stow their gear and report to the Grinder within the hour. To make sure that Ragnor didn’t stray, he told the other seven members of his team, “If Magnusson leaves your sight for even one minute before reporting back for duty, all of you are going to be doing push-ups for the
next twenty-four hours. Is that clear?”
They all, Ragnor included, stood at attention, then saluted the chieftain as he stomped away.
“Asshole!” Sly said, to which the rest of them concurred with simultaneous grunts.
Once they returned to duty, the instructors immediately launched into a discourse on what would be the final phase of their training for the next three weeks: SCUBA, which meant diving … all kinds of underwater diving. The whole purpose was to teach them ways to get from one point to another underwater without being detected. It meant they had to learn to exhale in one steady stream for a minute and a half, which turned out to be harder than anyone had anticipated. It meant they had to learn to swim with underwater breathing devices. It meant they had to understand the medical aspects of this type of dangerous work, which Ragnor hoped would be taught by Alison. It meant they had to know which fish were friendlies and which were not; sharks and barracudas being in the latter category, both of which he had encountered in his previous life. It meant they had to become true frogmen, as comfortable in the ocean depths as they were in a jungle environment. Webfoot warriors!
All of them were so exhausted by the time they got back to their sleeping barracks that night that they wished they were back in Georgia jumping out of airplanes.
The men took quick hot showers and fell onto their pallets, asleep practically before they hit the mattresses.
Ragnor had other plans, but they would have to wait till the morrow. Even if he had had the energy, a guard standing at the doorway ensured he wouldn’t be using that energy for anything but sleep.
But he dreamed. Sweet, sweet dreams.
Running with the wolves … rather, SEALs … uh, same thing …
Alison finished her morning rounds and decided to go run with the SEALs.
She was a little upset that Max hadn’t come to see her yesterday, even though she knew it wasn’t his fault. Ian, her father, the FBI, and Navy security had practically built a glass wall around her to keep the tangos from getting to her. If she wanted to see Max, or talk with him, she would have to take the initiative … and even then, it would take a little creative planning. That would be risky—calling attention to herself and Max and a possible relationship between them, which was a U.S. Navy no-no. So maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.