An Officer and a Gentleman

by Rachel Lee

  When she’d worked her way along a third of the fence, she paused to tug up her parka sleeve and look at the luminous dial of her watch. She’d been moving for thirty-five minutes now. Surely a patrol should have come along?

  Annoyed, she tugged down her sleeve, and it was then that she heard the sound. At once she crouched and grew perfectly still. It couldn’t be Nick. Even if he’d moved faster than she had, which she doubted, he would still be too far away for her to hear his stealthy sounds. Well, if anyone was along the fence somewhere, they would be silhouetted against the lamps that lighted the area of the field where the alert planes waited.

  Keeping low, she began to move at an angle to the fence, farther out into the empty fields. Where the devil was the patrol? When she felt she’d moved far enough from the fence, she again crept parallel to it, watching for a shadow against the lights. It was probably just some kind of animal, she told herself, but she didn’t believe it. By now just about anything in the state had gone into hibernation.

  Inside her parka she was perspiring, but her nose was beginning to grow numb from the biting cold, in spite of the black ski mask she wore so she wouldn’t have to obstruct her vision with the snorkel hood of her parka. Pausing, she rubbed her nose vigorously and felt it tingle, then burn. Not frozen yet, she thought with satisfaction, and crept forward again.

  She heard the sound again. Freezing into immobility, she held her breath and listened intently. Again. A quiet, stealthy sound, like a man’s footstep. It was still too soon for Nick, she thought. Filled with tension, she very slowly and carefully released the snap on her holster, folding the flap in behind the belt.

  The lights from the airstrip kept trying to draw her attention, but she forced herself to focus on the fence, following its crosshatched length from left to right.

  And then she saw it, the crouched shadow of a man against the fence. Rising, she put her hand on her pistol butt.

  “Halt! Who goes there?”

  The crouched figure spun about into a marksman’s stance, and simultaneous with a loud crack, Andrea felt a hammer blow to her left shoulder. Without a thought, she yanked her pistol from its holster and fired at the fleeing shadow. She hit it. She saw it stumble just before darkness claimed her.

  Alisdair MacLendon couldn’t sleep. He’d reached the conclusion that it was wiser to keep clear of Andrea, more for her sake than his. He was perfectly aware that his attentions could destroy her career, and he had no wish to do that to her. None of these wise, mature, intelligent thoughts could prevent him from thinking about the way she’d felt in his arms, however.

  In fact, he thought irritably, he felt as if he were on fire. He hadn’t felt like this since he’d been fool enough to get the hots for Maureen and marry her. Then he’d had the excuse of youth. What was his excuse now? Andrea was twelve years his junior, for crying out loud. She was much too young, much too inexperienced, much too set on her career for his taste. Oh, he liked her and had a great deal of respect for her, but if he got involved with anyone at this late stage of his life, he wanted all those things he’d never had: home, hearth, and a couple of kids. Andrea most definitely wasn’t in the market for that kind of thing. Yep, it was better for everyone if they kept things impersonal from here on out.

  He was standing before his bedroom window in his skivvies, grateful that it was 2:00 a.m. Saturday and not a weekday when the phone rang. He reached for it with something akin to relief. Anything was better than a cold shower.

  “MacLendon,” he said into the receiver, already reaching for his pants.

  A woman’s professionally calm voice responded. “Colonel MacLendon, this is Sergeant Danton of the Security Force. I’m calling to inform you that Captain Burke was shot this evening and is presently undergoing surgery. Shall I patch you through to Sergeant Nickerson?”

  “Yes!”

  The line went temporarily silent as he was placed on hold, giving Dare an opportunity to envision the worst. His career in the field had taught him what a bullet could do to human flesh, and he needed little imagination to heighten his anxiety. Eyes closed, mouth drawn in a thin line, he stood beside his bed, phone in one hand and pants in the other as he waited for the patch to be effected. This wasn’t the first time in his life that time had slowed to a crawl, but it was one of the worst. Surgery. Damn it, she was in surgery, and that could only mean the worst. A fist squeezed his heart.

  “Colonel MacLendon,” said the expressionless voice of Sergeant Danton, “you’re patched through to Sergeant Nickerson.”

  “Nickerson here, sir.” Nick’s voice sounded tinny, and wind could be heard whistling in the background.

  “What the hell happened?” Dare demanded. “How bad is Burke?”

  “Well, sir, I can’t rightly say how the Captain is. She was wounded in the left shoulder. Entry wound and no exit wound, so I reckon it was a small calibre firearm that shot her. I was still a good half mile down the perimeter from her when it happened, but it sounded like a .22 report.”

  MacLendon, who was intimately acquainted with the effects of an M-16, none of which could be termed minor, let his head fall back and released his pent-up breath as the size of the disaster scaled down a little. At least Andrea was still in one piece. “What about the perpetrator?”

  “We’re still looking.” Nickerson went on to explain that when he reached Andrea he’d been unable, by the illumination of his flashlight, to see any sign of the assailant or to determine in which direction he’d fled. Given no sign to guide him in a pursuit, Nick had decided to await the backup he’d radioed for as soon as he heard gunfire. “We still haven’t found anything, sir, but we’re setting up floodlights right now. If there’s anything to find, we’ll find it.”

  Dare approved Nickerson’s actions and disconnected. A call to the hospital revealed only that Andrea had gone into surgery a half hour before and the operation was expected to take several hours. For lack of any more useful activity, Dare decided to go over to Security and keep his fingers on the pulse of matters. No way was he going to sleep until he knew Andrea was all right.

  It was nearly dawn when MacLendon had everything pieced together. Nickerson and Andrea had gone out to pull one of their inspections and had separated. Forty minutes later, Nickerson had heard the report of a .22, followed rapidly by the report of Andrea’s .38. He’d found Andrea out cold about twenty feet from the perimeter fence, a bullet in her shoulder. Investigation of the area with floodlamps showed that Andrea had grazed her target. A trail of relatively infrequent drops of blood led toward the highway, indicating that the intruder had fled by auto.

  As for the patrol that should have passed through the area, they’d been held up at the other end of the airfield by evidence of an attempted break-in, clearly a diversion. Nickerson had advised area police and hospitals to be on the lookout for anyone with a bullet wound. Beyond that, there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do.

  Rubbing his eyes, MacLendon glanced at the clock on Andrea’s desk. Five-thirty. Too late to go home, and too early to start the day. The gallon of coffee he’d drunk while questioning the parties involved in tonight’s fiasco had left a hole as big as the Grand Canyon in his gut.

  Suddenly he stood and reached for his parka. He would go over to the hospital and check in on Andrea. If rank had any privileges, he was going to use them to look in on her. Damn it, he couldn’t stand another minute of wondering.

  Snow was falling lightly, and the sun was nowhere near rising yet. The wind had lightened, though, and it felt odd to step out into the bitter cold and not feel the wind claw at him. That wouldn’t last. This little bit of snow would probably be whipping up a ruckus before the day was over.

  Andrea was out of surgery but still in recovery when he arrived. The charge nurse hesitated only momentarily before leading him down the hall. Just as he thought, colonels who were commanding officers got what they wanted.

  “She’s recovering very nicely, Colonel,” the nurse said. “Don’t be afra
id to wake her. It helps her shake off the anesthetic faster.”

  He was left alone with her, and for a long time he simply stared down at her, relief warring with worry. How fragile she looked, he realized suddenly. She was always so calmly confident and competent that he’d never really noticed just how small and delicate she was. The smooth shoulders, one bandaged heavily, which peeked above the sheet looked small and defenseless. She was so pale that her smattering of freckles stood out like beacons on her face. In the worst way he suddenly wanted to gather her close and assure himself that she would be all right.

  “Andrea?” He contented himself with clasping her cool, soft hand.

  Her head stirred restlessly, and she licked her lips.

  “Andrea?”

  Her hazy green eyes opened a little. She mumbled something.

  “I can’t hear you, Andrea.” With his thumb he stroked the back of her hand.

  Suddenly her eyes opened wide, and she reached full consciousness. “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t give a damn.” He only gave a damn that she wasn’t.

  “I do.”

  “He got away, so the bastard is probably okay. You’re going to get a commendation for this.”

  “I don’t want a commendation for shooting a man.”

  “Andrea, you’re a cop and a soldier. You were doing your job. You had to defend yourself.”

  “Then maybe I don’t want to be a cop or a soldier.” Her eyelids were drooping again. “Dare…” Her voice trailed away.

  His grip on her hand tightened at the sound of his name, and the urge to hold her close became nearly overwhelming. So, he found himself thinking, when her guard was down she thought of him as Dare, not as her CO, not as Colonel MacLendon. Only awareness of her injury made him keep his distance. “Andrea, do you want me to notify somebody?”

  “If you notify anybody in my family, I’ll never speak to you again.” Sudden tears sparkled on her lashes. “It hurts,” she mumbled, and then sank back into the sleep induced by the dregs of anesthesia.

  Disturbed, MacLendon straightened. Shooting somebody was never an easy thing to live with, even when it was done in self-defense. Andrea would probably remember that instant, relive it right down to the way the trigger had felt when she squeezed it, for a long, long time. Sighing, he went looking for a doctor to give him all the details.

  It was the hospital commander, an old friend, who finally gave him the information he wanted. Andrea would recover without permanent damage except for a scar. She would probably get out of the hospital on Thursday, but full function wouldn’t be restored to her arm for six to eight weeks.

  But she would regain full function. Incredibly relieved, MacLendon stepped out into the halfhearted light of the North Dakota dawn and realized that just as it was too late to go to bed, it was too late to have all those wise and mature thoughts that had kept him awake in the first place. He cared what happened to Andrea Burke. He cared a lot more than was wise.

  Andrea returned to work Friday morning. She didn’t have a single uniform blouse big enough to button over the arm that was strapped to her side, so she wore her academy sweats as a temporary measure. When she walked into headquarters, the two cops at the front desk sprang to their feet and saluted. It surprised her, but she managed a wan smile. All the way down the long corridor, similar things happened. Enlisted men saluted; noncoms snapped to attention. In spite of herself, she was touched.

  And then she opened her office door and stepped into a flower garden. Flowers everywhere. She started to sniffle.

  “The men took up a collection for flowers,” Nickerson said quietly behind her. She turned slowly, and he saw her reddened eyes and heard her sniffle. “Skipper, are you crying?”

  “No.” She gave a watery chuckle and then unleashed a huge sneeze. “I’m allergic to flowers!” She started to laugh, and after a moment Nickerson joined her.

  A crowd of grinning faces had gathered at the door. Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she said, “Gee, thanks, guys. They’re beautiful. But next time, send a picture, huh?”

  A chorus of laughs answered her as she gave vent to another sneeze.

  “I hate to do it,” Andrea said. “They really are beautiful. But—” She sneezed again. “Get rid of ’em, Nick. Take ’em to the pediatrics ward or something.”

  Nickerson grinned from ear to ear. “Yes, ma’am.”

  While the flowers were being removed from her office by grinning cops and Andrea was unleashing one chain of sneezes after another, MacLendon arrived.

  “How the devil did I know you’d show up this morning, Burke?” he groused as he sidestepped a huge bouquet of pink azaleas, covering his concern with irritation. “Didn’t the doctor tell you to take it easy? What’s with the flowers?”

  Andrea loosed another sneeze and pawed around her lower desk drawer for the box of tissues she was sure she’d stashed there during a cold last winter. Finding it, she scrubbed her itching nose until it shone red.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, and sneezed again. “It’s great to see you, too.”

  “She’s allergic to the flowers, Colonel,” Nickerson said as he carried a double armload out.

  “Oh. It looks like you guys must have bought out every florist in the state.”

  “Had ’em shipped in special,” Nick said as he disappeared around the corner.

  MacLendon returned his attention to Andrea, who was hiding behind a wad of tissues.

  She was pale, he noted. Too pale. And a fine sheen of perspiration covered her face. With a quick glance, he saw that her right hand was trembling. Damn it, she was trying to do too much too fast.

  “My office is polluted,” she muttered in an undertone into the tissues. “It’ll be months before all the pollen is out of here.”

  MacLendon looked down at her and saw that in spite of her grousing mumble, there was a smile on her lips. She was neither as tough nor as gruff as she pretended. Feeling faintly amused by her predicament, he crossed to the coffee maker she kept on the file cabinet and started a pot brewing. At last the final flower was gone and the door closed, leaving them alone.

  “You shouldn’t be out of bed yet, Andrea.” He sat in the armchair facing her desk and crossed his legs. Guessing she wouldn’t want his overt concern, he masked it behind what he hoped was a professional interest.

  She merely looked at him without arguing, an indication of just how weak she was feeling. Her smile was tight, her green eyes empty.

  “You may be right, sir. But my own company is driving me crazy.” She sneezed again, then sniffled. “Damn!”

  “The man you shot got away, Andrea. Considering what a .38 slug can do at that range, you must have just grazed him.”

  “They told me.” Her eyes were dark, unreadable.

  “And you’re going to get a commendation whether you want it or not.”

  “Yes, sir.” She sounded hollow, uncaring.

  MacLendon suddenly longed to seize her, shake her, force the tears out of her and then soothe away her pain. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the arms of his chair. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t bridge the gulf that had to remain between them for her sake. He’d known this woman was going to be a handful. He just hadn’t guessed what kind.

  “Andrea, you can’t come to work in a sweat suit.” It was a dumb remark, but all he could think of to say.

  “No, sir. Monday I’ll be in uniform. One of the nurses at the BOQ offered to help me dress until I can do it myself.” Please, she thought. Please don’t order me to take sick leave. Don’t lock me away all alone with the memory of the way the revolver kicked in my hand. Don’t leave me with the way I sighted him with perfect calm and deliberation. The way I never even hesitated.

  His icy blue eyes were watching her, assessing, measuring. She really did feel as if he could see through to the barrenness of her soul, and she wondered what he thought of her, really thought of her.

  “Captain,” he said quietly, “you
’re not the first cop to shoot a man in the line of duty, nor will you be the last.”

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s not easy to live with. I know. But we do learn to.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Moreover, you didn’t kill anyone, so at least you don’t have that on your conscience.”

  “But I do,” she said grimly. “I aimed to kill.”

  “That’s what you’re supposed to do, damn it!” He jumped up in frustration. “The man had just tried to kill you! If he’d had something bigger than that peashooter, we’d be burying you in little bloody pieces. You had no choice.”

  “No, sir. And that disturbs me as much as what I did.”

  “I see.” He rubbed his chin and studied her. There was no argument for that. Deeply troubled, he asked, “Will you resign?”

  Her chin came up, a welcome spark of her old self. MacLendon was so glad to see it that he could have done a jig.

  “No, sir,” she said coolly. “I’m not a quitter. I’ll get over this, or around it or under it, somehow.”

  “I’m sure you will, Captain.” Thank God, he thought. Thank God.

  “Well,” he said when he had his relief under control, “I’ll let you come back to duty on one condition.”

  “Yes?”

  “That you take off and go home when you get tired. And that you don’t take that damn radio with you. Give Lieutenant Dolan a chance to discover the joys of command responsibility.”

  She cocked her head. “That sounds more like two conditions.”

  “So it’s two. Do you agree?”

  Andrea smiled faintly, glad to know her recent escapade hadn’t raised her to a level of holiness that prevented MacLendon from showing his irritation with her. Good grief, a couple of times he’d even looked at her as if she were fragile.

  “I agree, sir.”

  “Now, promise me you’ll take off when you get tired.”

  “I just agreed—”

  “Agreeing and promising to obey are two different things. I want your word on it, Captain.”