Sly tried to focus on writing his report. He’d learned things about a night run in moderate seas that other craftmasters would find useful, but he couldn’t seem to form the words in his head. Just starting writing your observations and it will come together.
And stop thinking about the woman.
He had down a decent description of the problem he was trying to solve, best average angle of attack when you couldn’t see each individual wave.
Someone was headed up the control room ladder. It wasn’t the clatter of Dave or Tom. And Nika only rarely came up to his unofficial office.
It was—
Damn! She took his breath away every time. Like a gut punch, Gail Miller was standing at the head of the ladder and looking at him.
“Hi, Chief,” her voice was soft, barely carrying to him across the small space.
“Hi, Chief,” he managed back despite the throttlehold someone had around his throat.
“You got a minute?”
He managed a nod and waved her to a chair. Three days since the aircraft carrier. Three days since he’d seen her up on deck, talked to her, talked about her cooking. Longest goddamn days of his life. How in hell had he gotten so far gone on this woman so fast? All that crap about “the right one” that he’d always scoffed at. Is this what it felt like? As if his guts had been trapped on a storm-tossed sea?
She sat in Dave’s seat and spun it a quarter-turn to face him, propping her feet on Tom’s chair.
He also turned his chair to face her.
It was stupid, but he let himself drink her in. Those long legs wrapped in tan slacks. The t-shirt and sports bra only emphasizing a glorious figure he’d barely begun to know. And those dark eyes that watched him so quietly, the only calm in his own personal storm.
“You said if I needed someone to talk to…”
He managed a nod.
She covered her face with her hands for a moment and then scrubbed at her cheeks before dropping them into her lap.
“I’ve just been informed that I’m a total mess, and I’m afraid that they’re right.”
A stupid line came to mind, Sly tried to repress it, but he wasn’t having much luck doing that today. “If this is you as a mess, I don’t know if I can handle you when you’re all put together.”
Her smile acknowledged the compliment rather than laughing in his face.
He felt his own grin was a little sheepish, but it was true. The woman simply knocked him out every time. Or at least his brain and his libido which was a more than sufficient damage path.
“I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you, but I had some things to figure out. However, I’m no closer to any answers for doing that.”
He’d thought he was the one avoiding her. Was it good or bad that she was doing the same?
“I really like you, Sly.”
Like? When your woman said like, the news was very bad. Awful.
“And the way we feel together…”
Here it comes. She was about to kill him with her words.
She ran a hand back through her hair, “…the word fantastic definitely comes to mind.”
Totally… “What?” Had he heard right? Relief threatened to swamp him. “But I thought you and—” he bit his tongue. Too late. Gail Miller had turned him into a bumbling fool; not something he was used to.
“Matheo? No. We do have a past, but he is also one of the closest friends I have. We’ve known each other since I was three and he was a glorious boy of twelve. And yes, he was just as overwhelmingly handsome then to.”
“Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?”
“Sly, you have nothing to worry about in that department. I think that’s one of my problems. That one night we had here…” She looked over at the observer’s chair sitting empty beside them and blushed.
Sly could feel the heat rising to his own cheeks, but did his best to beat it back. He didn’t want to remember her there every time he looked at the seat—he wanted to have her there. Wanted to drive her up over some shuddering peak and know that he was the only man who had ever taken her so far, so high.
“I’ll just say that you’re an amazing lover and I don’t know what to do with that either.”
He had a few ideas, but he didn’t think it would be a wise move to suggest them at the moment.
Her smile said that he was completely transparent to her…as always. He shrugged an acknowledgement.
“But that’s not what I need to talk about or why I’ve been avoiding you.”
“Okay,” he was impressed that his voice still worked. He set his clipboard on the command console to show that she had all of his attention; which she always did—while he was driving the LCAC, while he was eating, and while he was trying to sleep and not succeeding very well.
“While on the George H.W. Bush Matheo gave me a job offer, to be his sous chef.”
After the relief of a moment before, the jolt that she could be leaving slammed into him and robbed him of any ability to respond. Thankfully she didn’t appear to notice and continued.
“It’s the premier mess of the entire Navy,” she began idly toggling the lights on the tiny Christmas tree on and off.
Each time it went on, he was reminded of the soft light and shadow it had cast over her naked body as she took and gave in his arms that one morning.
“Sous chef on the newest and biggest aircraft carrier on the planet. Instead of serving six hundred, I’d be cooking for six thousand. He’s a masterful chef. He trained me. I’d stand to learn so much more from him.”
“He wants you for more than just cooking,” Sly ground it out.
“He does,” she acknowledged as if it was the most normal thing on the planet, “but that’s not why he offered. I don’t want to get into his and my past, but it’s a past that doesn’t necessarily mean there’s a future. If I decided to go and only be his assistant, then he’d accept that.”
Sly tried to swallow that one down. He’d been so handsome. So boisterously French. And he had hugged Gail like…well, like they had a past, present, and future.
He closed his eyes and could see the scene perfectly.
Breakfast service had wound down by the time he’d come looking for her. Lunch prep was starting up on the heels of the cleaning crew—no break between services on the carrier. The tall chef had wound his arms around Gail cradling her against him, his face buried in her dark red hair.
Gail had been in his arms. Her own arms around his waist…rather than his neck like a lover. Her head on his shoulder…but facing away. Not buried into his neck, but turned out like a friend’s.
Was she naïve enough to think that if she went aboard the carrier they wouldn’t become lovers once again? No. One thing Sly had learned about Chief Miller was that, despite his initial assessment, she saw the world very clearly.
So, if she said this wasn’t about her relationship with the chef, he would have to believe her no matter how difficult that was to do. He looked at her once more as the Christmas lights blinked out.
“If you’re going to leave any relationship with the chef out of the question, then you must do the same with me. That’s why you’ve been avoiding me.”
“No. The reason I’ve been avoiding you is that if I decide to go, I don’t want to hurt you more than I already will.” She turned the tree lights back on and finally let go of the switch and pulled her hands back into her lap to clench them together.
“So, all of the unkind thoughts I’ve had about you and the Frenchie,” he said it with the best smile he could dredge up to make it a tease, “were actually you being a kind and decent woman? I have to warn you, Chief. It just makes me like you even more.”
“Darn it!” her own smile made it easier. “Not part of my plan.”
He felt as if he could breathe for the first time since she’d ascended his ladder. It hadn’t been a one-night stand. Or not a normal one-night stand. They’d had one night, before the transfer offer had threatened to change her future, and
so she’d backed off rather than risking them getting in deeper.
“And you came to me for help?”
She nodded tightly.
What courage had that taken to do? Trusting that he’d understand rather than just being pissed about chef Matheo.
But she did trust him. On top of that, she made him feel as if he was a better man for it. She’d taken it as a given that he’d be decent enough to be of help despite his own involvement.
“And it was either you or the scariest group of women I’ve ever met.”
He burst out laughing. There was no question who she was talking about. The women of the 5D were charming, beautiful, fantastically skilled at their jobs—and scary as all hell.
“Okay. Then let’s start at the top. Sous chef on an aircraft carrier versus Chief Steward on an aging LHA.”
# # #
Gail was torn between a desire to laugh, cry, or throw herself at Chief Stowell and damn the consequences.
The laughter was the joy that maybe she wasn’t in this alone. And the weeping was the relief for the same reason. The throwing herself at the Chief she only resisted because there was still too much unresolved. That, and she could see his crew moving about the hovercraft and occasionally casting glances up in their direction.
Sly was such a good man it was almost unbelievable. She’d come to him out of desperation, not really expecting him to find his way through the bizarre maze that was her life.
But he did.
She told him about the Admiral Ney Award and her desire to create the best mess in Navy.
He asked about what she thought she’d learn not only from Matheo but also from cooking on such a large scale. For comparison, she did her best to guess what she’d learn from running her own mess—granted a smaller one than the LHA posting had led her to anticipate.
That juxtaposition was a hard one and they chased it around as the sun rose and filled the Well Deck with daylight.
As they spoke, Gail could also feel herself relaxing, amazed at how comfortable she was around Sly. Leaning back in opposite seats, she’d finally stretched her legs out with her heels propped on Tom’s middle seat. Sly had matched her position, their ankles and feet making a comfortable tangle as they spoke.
Enough of a tangle that they couldn’t extricate themselves quickly when the D-boy Colonel, Michael Gibson, appeared at the head of the ladder. She hadn’t heard him coming, neither had Sly. One moment he wasn’t there, the next he was.
Gail felt the blood rush to her face, though they hadn’t been doing anything more than talking and playing a little footsie. Then she felt the blood drain back out when she saw how he was dressed.
He wore full battle gear: helmet, vest with its pockets filled with spare magazines, handgun holstered over his abdomen with another at his side, and a rifle over his shoulder.
He didn’t even spare a glance at their feet.
“How fast can we be underway, Chief Stowell?”
Gail glanced out the windows to see Rangers scrambling up the front ramp and onto the LCAC, struggling to shoulder their gear while on the move.
“Fast as I find my crew.”
“Here!” “Yo!” Dave and Tom popped up the ladder and started pulling out their vests and helmets.
“Do you have extra gear for Chief Miller?”
“I do.”
“Observer’s seat,” was all he said to her then he was gone.
Tom dropped an armored vest over her head and helped her reset the Velcro side straps for her much smaller frame. Dave handed her a helmet as she moved out of his seat.
“What the—”
“We’ll find out. Hear that?” He tipped his head to the side as he turned for his controls.
The Peleliu’s engines, which had been running at little over an idle, nearly inaudible beneath the background noise of the steel ship. Now they were winding up. Way up. In moments the sound had increased until she could feel it transmitted through the frame of the hovercraft.
“They’re already cavitating the propellers. That’s hard on them. Whatever it is, they’re in a major hurry.”
The ship shuddered and leaned as it turned hard, still accelerating as it went.
Gail buckled into her seat and tried to remember to keep breathing.
The helmet was a poor fit, but adjusting the straps made it acceptable. She plugged in the cable that connected her to the communications system in time to hear...
“—Barstowe. Rangers aboard. Good to go.”
“Preflight good, ready for ‘go’ command,” Dave spoke up.
“This is Peleliu,” came a voice she didn’t recognize. “LCAC cleared for immediate launch.”
“Fire her up, Dave,” Sly was settling himself into place. “Raise the gate.”
The LCAC engines whined to life.
Gail’s pulse rate climbed and she couldn’t stop it. She wasn’t trained for this.
Welcome to the Navy, honey. Never do the expected.
“You good to go, Chief Miller?”
Just hearing Sly’s voice was a huge relief. She tried to speak, she really did, but her voice just wasn’t working. So, she leaned forward and patted Sly twice on the shoulder in acknowledgement. Feeling him there—feeling the reality of his strong shoulder so close, and learning to appreciate that inner strength more and more—knocked the panic back enough to finally gasp out, “Good to go.”
At Sly’s “Do it!” Dave inflated the skirts.
There was no burst of spray like the first time. Gail glanced over at Nika on the opposite side of the craft. Her head was clearly visible behind the thick glass with no windshield wipers needed.
Over her shoulder she spotted a problem, “Ship’s rear gate is still closed, Chief.”
“Goddamn it!” he keyed the mike. “Peleliu, get that damned gate out of my way before I get there.”
He had the hovercraft up and sliding backward even as the gate lowered. It was a close thing, but they got it level before the hovercraft arrived. Sly fed the power and the LCAC rushed out into the morning.
Except it wasn’t sunny. The sky was overcast and the waves were rough. Still only a meter or so high, but there was chop and they looked wind-torn.
Once out the rear gate, he jogged sideways, then rammed ahead over the Peleliu’s rising wake.
“Where are we going?”
“Don’t know yet,” Sly responded. “But the Peleliu has settled on this course. Good enough for me. Dave, give me everything the engines have. I’m guessing we’re in a bit of a hurry.”
Gail was watching the Peleliu disappear astern which was the only reason she spotted the D-boy returning silently to the cabin.
“Heads-up!” she warned the crew.
He actually grinned at her, a brief flash that acknowledged he was trouble, then it was gone.
“Hey, Michael,” Sly didn’t turn but instead remained intent on nursing his craft forward. “What’s cooking?”
“Isn’t that your analogy?” he said to her softly before raising his voice. “We have an airliner on a Johannesburg-London flight declaring an emergency. Major systems failure, they’re trying to get her down.”
“Oh crap!” Sly cursed. “I can’t just park in the mid-Atlantic and pick folks up. That’s not what I’m built for.”
“They’re not coming down in the water. They think they can make Port Bouet Airport.”
“Then why are we rushing to their aid?” Gail asked.
The D-boy turned to look at her as Sly answered, his voice grim.
“Because Port Bouet Airport is in the city of Abidjan, Ivory Coast.”
Oh great. As if one trip into a battle zone wasn’t enough.
# # #
“How bad?” Sly asked and slid the throttles up to the edge of overload.
“Civil unrest in the city has increased since we evacuated the American Embassy. The embassy has been burned. All flights have long since been suspended there, but the local militias will certainly congregate rapidl
y upon the plane’s arrival.”
In answer to his next question, the first of the SOAR helicopters shot by low overhead. Two more were close behind it.
“Chief Stowell?” Dave’s voice was a whisper over the intercom. “We got a problem.”
“Tell me.”
“We’ve got a full load of fuel. It’ll get us there, but it won’t get us back. The Peleliu is too far out. Especially not at the rate we’re burning it.”
Clearly that’s why the Peleliu had turned and was racing for the coast. The LCAC was going to die halfway back to safety and it was going to be a challenge to see how many they could keep alive until the ship reached them. There was a storm incoming. Not a big one, no problem for the ship. But it was going to wreak havoc on an LCAC abruptly afloat in the middle of it.
“Chief?” Gail. Her voice sounded steady. Good girl. Proving herself yet again.
“What do you see?” He scanned the horizon because she always saw things so fast it was almost alarming.
“Well, nothing yet. But we are going to an airport, right?”
“Right. So?”
“Your engines are essentially jet engines aren’t they.”
Sly sighed, “Not a whole lot of people can make me feel slow and stupid, Chief Miller.” But she sure did. He should have thought of that himself.
“Glad to help,” the laugh was back in her voice. A good sign.
“I don’t get it,” Dave was still studying his readouts. “We’re still going to run out of fuel.”
“Careful, Dave,” Sly warned him good-naturedly. “Or you’ll be the one I send out to steal a fuel truck of Jet A fuel in the middle of a riot.”
# # #
Michael looked at her for a moment, offered a nod.
Gail considered. It was less as if he was acknowledging her insight, and more as if he was confirming his own thinking about something.
“I was right about you.”
Then he was gone.
He was—
And then she remembered where she’d seen Colonel Michael Gibson of Delta Force before, though she’d had no idea that’s who he was. It had been years ago on the Reuben James where she’d been laughing at a grumpy ship’s captain wearing cranberry sauce down his dress whites.
Christmas at Steel Beach Page 10