Turned out Gabe was good at jockeying that joystick. Good at locking onto even the fastest-moving targets. Good at launching his laser-guided missiles from precisely the right angle and altitude to destroy those top priority targets.
It was the secondary casualties that churned his insides. He could see them through the unblinking eyes of high-powered spy satellites. The bystanders hurled fifty or a hundred yards from the impact site. The wounded leaving trails of blood in the dirt as they crawled and begged for help. The parents keening soundlessly as they cradled children who’d run to or been hidden near the target.
Collateral damage. That was the catchall phrase for noncombatants caught in the cross fire. Gabe had never taken a shred of pride in his body count, never wanted to know the numbers. Even now he couldn’t relax until he heard Suze expel a relieved breath.
“No casualties? Thank God for that. I’m on my way.” She tossed aside the rumpled sheet and almost tripped over his discarded jeans on her way to her closet. “ETA twenty minutes.”
She tossed the phone on the dresser and yanked open a drawer. With one leg in a pair of no-nonsense briefs, she offered a quick explanation. “Sorry, Gabe. There’s been an accident. I have to get to the base.”
“Aircraft?”
“Pipeline break.” She dragged on a sports bra followed by the regulation brown T-shirt. “Evidently we’ve got the mother of all fuel spills.”
Gabe knew that meant getting a hazmat team on-scene ASAP. Spilled aviation fuel was not just a fire and explosion danger, but also a potential environmental disaster. The FEMA Emergency Management course he’d attended after being elected mayor had offered some excellent tips on exactly this kind of crisis.
Tucking the sheet around his waist, he waited while Suze yanked on her desert-colored BDU pants and shirt, then plopped down on the side of the bed to pull on her socks and boots.
“I went to the FEMA Disaster Response course in Baton Rouge last month. They’re recommending a new sorbent for fuel spills that...”
“Sorry, Gabe, I don’t have time.”
She stood up, grabbed her phone and a leather trifold he knew contained her ID, her driver’s license, a credit card and some cash.
“I’ll call you when I can.”
He was still sitting in bed with the sheet bunched around his waist when the front door slammed behind her.
Chapter Three
The spill was even worse than Suzanne had feared.
As the designated training base for the F-35 Joint Strike Fighter, Luke AFB had awarded a multi-million-dollar contract to a civilian construction firm to modify the aviation fuel bulk storage tanks, feed lines and manifold system. The intent was to improve the new fighter’s refueling turnaround and thus increase the number of sorties that could be flown during a training cycle. Suzanne had participated in the multi-organization review and final approval of the contractor’s construction plan. She’d also assigned one of her troops to monitor the construction on a daily basis.
The project had gone smoothly to date. Or so they’d thought. When she arrived at the coordination point, the quick briefing she got from Hank Butler, the Base Fire Chief, in his role as acting on-scene commander, told another story. An experienced civilian with more than thirty years of firefighting and disaster response under his belt, Butler had shared valuable tips with Swish and her team during their training exercises. He’d also worked with her on several smaller spills.
“You’re gonna have your hands full with this one, Captain.”
According to the chief, the contractor had breached an underground fuel line. That was bad enough. What made it worse was that the breach hadn’t been detected until a ground-water monitoring well more than half a mile from the storage facility recorded significant levels of contamination. Her mind clicking a hundred miles an hour, Swish took both mental and physical notes as the chief ran through the actions taken so far.
All personnel evacuated from the fuel tank farm. Check. All feeder lines shut down. Check. All refueling and flying activity within a designated radius halted. Check. Fire and explosive potential from leaked fumes being monitored. Check.
Relieved that the most immediate danger to both people and facilities had been addressed, Swish geared up for the long, tough job ahead. Although Logistics procured and stored the fuel, the loggies shared responsibility for containing and cleaning up spills with the civil engineers. In close coordination with the EPA, of course. And the Arizona Department of Environmental Quality. And the Staff Judge Advocate. And a half-dozen other agencies and concerned parties.
Right now her most pressing priorities were to first locate the breach in the underground line, then block further flow into the groundwater. Thankfully, every member of her Spill Response Team had trained for just such emergencies. Several had experience with similar incidents. One, thank God, had been part of the Luke AFB team that identified hazardous waste sites resulting from disposal methods that were approved back in the ’50s and ’60s but didn’t meet modern EPA standards.
Mike Gentry was a bioenvironmental engineer and key member of her Spill Response Team. Almost as senior as the fire chief, Mike had been talking retirement. Swish could only murmur a fervent prayer of thanks that he’d held off—although this mess might well convince him to put in his papers sooner rather than later.
“Okay, Mike, with the feeder line shut down, we can use reports from monitoring wells along the line to help pinpoint the leak, right?”
“Right. I’ve already requested immediate status reports from wells eleven and twelve, Captain.”
* * *
Using hard data from the monitoring wells and on-site samples, they pinpointed the probable point of the leak. Swish’s heart twisted when she drove out to the site and surveyed the greasy oil slick on the long, narrow lake. The scorching May heat didn’t help the situation. With the afternoon temperature nudging close to a hundred degrees, toxic fumes danced with heat waves to form shimmering, iridescent clouds above the water’s surface. Breathing heavily through her respirator, Swish knew a single spark could set the whole damned lake on fire.
Sweat poured down her temples and stung her eyes, making each breath she sucked in through the respirator a Herculean chore, but she didn’t remove the mask until the booms were in place, the skimmer operating.
* * *
It was midafternoon when Swish grabbed a few minutes to scarf down the sandwiches and chips that Food Service personnel delivered to her and the rest of the team. Close to seven in the evening, she finally took a long enough break to call Gabe. Stepping away from the dig area, she thumbed her contacts listing. His cell phone number was still there. Even after all this time apart, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to delete it. She had no idea if it was still good but tried it anyway.
“Hey, Suze,” he answered after a few rings. “Got everything under control?”
“More or less.” Puzzled, she cocked her head. “I’m hearing a funny buzz. Where are you?”
“Cruising along in Ole Blue.”
A figure waved to her. Holding up her index finger, she pantomimed “Be right with you” to the EPA rep who’d been sweating alongside her and her team all afternoon.
“Cruising where?” she asked, her gaze on the excavation in progress.
“Home.”
The succinct reply jerked Swish back to the conversation. “Home, like in Oklahoma?”
“Roger that.”
She tried not to feel hurt. But she did, dammit. She did. “Nice of you to take off without bothering to say goodbye.”
“I left a note.”
Now she wasn’t just hurt. She was pissed. “Oh. Well. That’s okay, then. A note makes you rolling out of my bed and hitting the road without a word just fine and dandy.”
“Christ, Suze!” A matching anger rolled back at her. “What the hell did you expect me to do? Sit around for two or three days, twiddling my thumbs until you remembered you left a husband in that bed?”
> “Ex-husband.”
“Yeah,” he snapped, “and that’s pretty much the reason why.”
She couldn’t believe he was ripping at her for doing her job! Okay, she should’ve called sooner. But she was damned if she’d apologize or, worse, grovel. She’d done both often enough in the past.
“Drive safe,” she snapped back.
He didn’t bother to reply. She was left with a dead phone in her hand and another ache in her chest.
* * *
The note was right there, propped against a coffee mug, when she finally got back to her condo a little past two in the morning.
Maybe we’ll pull up at the same intersection again sometime.
That was it. No It was great seeing you again. No Call me. Not so much as a hint that they’d reconnected in the most elemental, mutually satisfying way. And it was mutual, Swish thought as she crushed the note in an angry fist. He’d wanted her. As much as she’d wanted him.
Still wanted him.
The realization was as unwelcome as it was irritating. They’d tried the happily-ever-after once. It hadn’t worked then. It wouldn’t work now. Nothing had changed.
* * *
The next few weeks kept Swish up to her eyeballs with work. As busy as she was, though, she couldn’t seem to regain her usual energy and equilibrium.
The spill containment and recovery efforts proceeded on track. Reps from the EPA and the Arizona Department of Environmental Quality fully endorsed her team’s efforts. The booms contained the oil slick on the lake and the skimmers removed the surface contaminants, while the soil vapor extraction system scooped up and vacuumed the contaminated subsoil.
Yet she’d flash on the memory of those few hours in Gabe’s arms at the craziest moments. In the middle of a boring staff meeting. Or in her office, while staring sightlessly at some report. More than once she got all mopey, even teary-eyed.
She had to remind herself that she’d lived through separations and a final bust-up before. She’d live through this one, too.
* * *
An unexpected visit from Dingo in early June raised her spirits. He was passing through Phoenix on his way to Tuscon. Some kind of business meeting, she gathered, although Dingo tended to be as vague about his life after the military as he’d been while wearing a uniform. They agreed to meet at one of her favorite Mexican restaurants just a few miles from Luke’s main gate.
A call from the Staff Judge Advocate working the spill claims delayed Swish, so she got to the restaurant fifteen minutes late. She waved off the hostess with the explanation that she was meeting someone, took a half-dozen steps into the popular eatery and stopped dead.
Good grief! Was that Dingo in a charcoal-gray worsted suit and red power tie? The military cop whose lethal security forces had protected Swish and her team five or six years back, when they’d been ferried into a highly classified location to lay down a runway for the air assault to follow? He’d been Captain Andrews, then. Captain Blake Andrews. His face smeared with camo paint, his weapon at the ready, he’d looked as tough and scary as they came.
He still looked tough. And, yes, a little scary, but so damned handsome. Swish could certainly understand why Chelsea Howard had latched onto him. She was no slouch herself in the looks department. The two of them, Swish mused, made a striking couple.
Returning his wave, she wove her way through the tables. Her sand-colored BDUs caught more than a few glances. They also generated a good number of smiling nods. Americans in general—and the folks in the various communities surrounding Luke AFB, in particular—took pride in their military, which only added to the pride Swish herself took in the uniform she wore. And that led to the question she posed to Dingo when he commented on the ripple her appearance had stirred.
“Do you miss it?” she asked curiously.
“The uniform? Or knowing you’re a small part of something big and really important?”
“Either. Both.”
“Sometimes. But there are other ways to serve the public.”
He didn’t mention Gabe. Or the fact that his buddy was now mayor of Small Town, America. He didn’t have to. But she was half relieved, half disappointed when he aimed the conversation toward another mutual acquaintance.
“I stopped by to see Cowboy and Alex last week.”
Swish accepted the menu the waiter handed her and waved off anything but water. As much as she would’ve loved an icy margarita, she didn’t drink while on duty. “I haven’t talked to either of them since the Bash. How’re they doing?”
“Good. Alex’s stomach is in the overripe watermelon range now.” He paused, gave her an assessing stare. “Cowboy said he’d talked to Gabe.”
And there it was.
“Supposedly,” Dingo said, “Gabe’s deep-sixed his half-formed plan to get married again.”
Her reaction was instant and visceral. A brief flicker of sadness for her ex. A surge of guilty relief. And stupid, irrational, completely selfish joy. She wallowed its incandescent glow for several moments before guilt pushed front and center again.
“Did Cowboy say why he called it off?”
“No.”
Dingo knew, though. Or guessed. She saw the speculation in the look he leveled at her. To deflect it, she waited until the server took their order, then turned the tables.
“What about you and your oh-so-delectable Vegas showgirl? Last I heard, you and Ms. Chelsea were heading right for hot and heavy.”
“We’re there. Or we were.”
The slow tide of red that darkened his cheeks surprised Swish. In all the years she’d known Blake Andrews, she’d never seen him flustered or fidgety. Until now. He shifted in his seat. Crossed his knee. Uncrossed it again. Returned her gaze with a scowl.
“That woman has me wrapped six ways to Sunday. Every time I think I’ve got a handle on her, she goes off in a totally different direction. Like the last time I flew into Vegas to see her.”
His tone vectored toward petulant. Fascinated, Swish watched his facial expressions follow the same downward trajectory.
“I bought a ticket for the show at the Wynn. Paid top dollar for a VIP seat, right up front. I was going to surprise her with dinner and...well...whatever afterward.”
“From the sound of it, I’m guessing ‘whatever’ didn’t happen.”
“The show didn’t happen! Or Chelsea’s part in it, anyway. Took me three calls and a face-to-face with the production supervisor before I found out she damned near drowned in her last appearance. He fired her. So what does she do?” he demanded fiercely.
“I can’t even begin to imagine.”
Swish couldn’t. She really couldn’t. She’d met the flamboyant, long-legged dancer for the first time at this year’s Badger Bash, a mere three weeks ago.
Three weeks since she’d driven home in the early dawn. Three weeks since she’d spotted Ole Blue across a deserted intersection. Three weeks since she’d come to the bitter realization that she still loved her husband. Ex-husband, dammit. Ex!
“She goes to work at Treasure Island, that’s what happened!”
“I hear they have a great magic show,” she commented, scrambling to catch up.
“They do, except Chelsea’s not in it. She’s one of the outdoor pirates who swarm the English warship. She swings across the lagoon on a damned rope. Every hour on the hour.”
“Not a great gig for a dancer,” Swish agreed weakly.
“Ya think?” He leaned forward, his gray eyes shooting ice chips. “The fool woman can’t swim.”
“So why do they keep hiring her for these aquatic gigs?”
“She’s got friends. Lots of friends.”
“Well...”
“Well nothing. She’s an idiot, as I tried to point out last time we were together.”
“Uh-oh.”
Last, Swish bet, being the operative word. Dingo confirmed that with a frustrated slap of his menu on the colorful tile table.
“Uh-oh is right. She axed me, just like
Gabe axed his almost-fiancée.”
And me, Swish wanted to add. He axed me, too. She couldn’t put all the blame for their last split on him. Still...
“Enough about Chelsea and me,” Dingo said, recovering his customary cool. “What’s going on with you?”
“Not much, aside from a massive fuel spill, an around-the-clock recovery effort and feeling totally wiped most of the time.”
“Wiped? Captain Superwoman? What happened to the inexhaustible energy that made the rest of us groan and beg for relief while you were just getting wound up?”
“Guess I just don’t wind as tight as I used to.”
He sat back, studying her with the beginning of a frown. “You look a little wiped, too. Still gorgeous, of course, but tired. Maybe you should see a doc.”
“Nah.” She forced a smile. “It’s just the spill. It had me going day and night there for a while. I’ll be fine now that we’ve got a handle on it.”
* * *
Except she couldn’t seem to reclaim her usual levels of energy and enthusiasm. Even Mike Gentry commented on it when he and Swish drove out to check on the removal of the last of the booms the following week. May had melted into a June that was as hot as only Arizona could bake it. The lake surface was diamond-bright, the fumes that had formerly hovered above it gone, thank God.
“Breathing through a respirator would’ve been torture in this heat,” she remarked, leaning a hip against Mike’s vehicle.
“It’s pretty well torture anytime.” The bio-environmental engineer slanted her a quick look. “You okay, Captain? You look tired.”
“You’re the second person who’s told me that.” She made a face and tucked a loose strand of hair back into the bun at the nape of her neck. “I’d better start taking vitamins or gulping down some Power Red.”
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