Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  And if she gave him a second glance, it was only to verify the fact that Lieutenant Joseph P. Catalanotto was not going to be mistaken for visiting European royalty.

  Not today, anyway.

  And not tomorrow. But, for Wila's sake, for her own ca­reer, and for little Cindy at Saint Mary's, Veronica was going to see to it that two days from now, Joe would be a prince.

  But first things first. And first things definitely included putting her clothes back on, particularly since Lieutenant Catalanotto wasn't attempting to hide the very, very male ap­preciation in his eyes as he looked at her.

  "Why don't you help yourself to something to drink," Ve­ronica said, and Joe's gaze flickered across the suite, toward the elaborate bar that was set up on the other side of the room. "Give me a minute to get dressed," she added. "Then I'll try to explain why you're here."

  He nodded.

  She walked past him, aware that he was still watching right up to the moment she closed the bedroom door behind her.

  The man's accent was atrocious. It screamed New York City—blue-collar New York City. But okay. With a little inge­nuity, with the right scheduling and planning, Joe wouldn't have to utter a single word.

  His posture, though, was an entirely different story. Tedric stood ramrod straight. Lieutenant Catalanotto, on the other hand, slouched continuously. And he walked with a kind of relaxed swagger that was utterly un-princely. How on earth was she going to teach him to stand and sit up straight, let alone walk in that peculiar, stiff, princely gait that Tedric had per­fected?

  Veronica pulled fresh underwear and another pair of panty hose—number three for the day—from her suitcase. Her dark blue suit was near the top of the case, so she pulled it on, then slipped her tired feet into a matching pair of pumps. A little bit of makeup, a quick brush through her almost-dry hair...

  Gloves would cover his hands, she thought, her mind going a mile a minute. Even if that engine grease didn't wash off, it could be hidden by a pair of gloves. Tedric himself often wore a pair of white gloves. No one would think that was odd.

  Joe's hair was an entirely different matter. He wore his hair short, while Tedric's flowed down past his shoulders.

  They could get a wig for Joe. Or hair extensions. Yes, hair extensions would be even better, and easier to keep on. Pro vided Joe would sit still long enough to have them at­tached ...

  This was going to work. This was going to work.

  Taking a deep breath and smoothing down her suit jacket, Veronica opened the door and went back into the living room.

  And stopped short.

  The living room of her hotel suite was positively crowded.

  Senator McKinley, three different Ustanzian ambassadors, an older man wearing a military dress uniform covered with medals, a half-dozen FInCOM security agents, Prince Tedric and his entire entourage all stood frozen and staring at Joe Catalanotto, who had risen to his feet in front of the sofa. The tension in the room could have been cut by a knife.

  The man in uniform was the only one who spoke. "Nice to see that you dressed for the occasion, Joe," he said with a chuckle.

  Joe crossed his arms. "The guys who shanghaied me forgot to bring my wardrobe trunk," he said dryly. Then he smiled. It was a genuine, sincere smile that warmed his face and touched his eyes. "Good to see you, Admiral."

  Joe looked around the room, his gaze landing on Prince Tedric's face. Tedric was staring at him as if he were a rat that had made its way into the hotel room from the street below.

  Joe's smile faded, and was replaced by another scowl. "Well," he said. “I’ll be damned. If it isn't my evil twin."

  Veronica laughed. She couldn't help it. It just came bub­bling out. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, and all but clamped her hand across her mouth. But no one seemed to no­tice—no one but Joe, who glanced over at her in surprise.

  "Don't you know who you're talking to, young man? This is the crown prince of Ustanzia," Senator McKinley said sternly to Joe.

  "Damn straight I know who I'm talking to, Pop," Joe said tightly. "I'm the kind of guy who never forgets a face—partic­ularly when I see it every morning in the mirror. My team of SEALs pulled this bastard's sorry butt out of Baghdad." He turned back to Tedric. "Keeping free and clear of war zones these days, Ted, you lousy bastard?"

  Everyone in the room, with the exception of Joe and the still-grinning admiral, drew in a shocked breath. Veronica was amazed that her ears didn't pop from the sudden drop in air pressure.

  The crown prince's face turned an interesting shade of royal purple. "How dare you?" he gasped.

  Joe seemed to grow at least three feet taller and two feet broader. He took a step or two toward Tedric, and everyone in the room—with the exception of the admiral—drew back.

  "How dare you put yourself into a situation where my men had to risk their lives to pull you back out?" Joe all but snarled. "One of my men spent months in intensive care because of you, dirtwad. I'll tell you right now, you're damned lucky—damned lucky—he didn't die."

  The deadly look in Joe's eyes was enough to make even the bravest man quiver with fear. They were all lucky that Joe's friend hadn't died, Veronica thought with a shiver, or else they'd be witnessing a murder. And unlike the morning's as­sassination attempt, she had no doubt that Joe would succeed.

  "Mon Dieu," Tedric said, hiding the fact that his hands were shaking by slipping into his native French and turning haugh­tily to his aides. "This... this... creature is far more insolent than I remembered. Obviously we cannot risk sending him into public, masquerading as me. He would embarrass my heri­tage, my entire country. Send him back to whatever rock he crawled out from under. There is no other option. Cancel the tour."

  On the other side of the room, one of the senator's assis­tants quickly translated Tedric's French into English, whisper­ing into McKinley's ear.

  With a humph, the prince stalked toward the door, taking with him Senator McKinley's hopes for lower-priced oil and Wila's dreams of economic security for her country.

  But McKinley moved quickly, and cut Prince Tedric off be­fore he reached the door.

  "Your Highness," McKinley said soothingly. "If you're se­rious about obtaining the funding for the oil wells—"

  "He's a monster," Tedric proclaimed loudly in French. McKinley's assistant translated quietly for the senator. "Even Ms. St. John cannot turn such a monster into a prince."

  Across the room, Joe watched as Veronica hurried over to the prince and Senator McKinley and began talking in a lowered voice. Turn a monster into a prince, huh? he thought.

  "You always did know how to liven up a party, son."

  Joe turned to see Admiral Michael "Mac" Forrest smiling at him. He gave the older man a crisp salute.

  The admiral's familiar leathery face crinkled into a smile. "Cut the bulldinky, Catalanotto," he said. "Since when did you start saluting? For criminy's sake, son, shake my hand in­stead."

  The admiral's salt-and-pepper hair had gone another shade whiter, but other than that, the older man looked healthy and fit. Joe knew that Mac Forrest, a former SEAL himself, still spent a solid hour each day in PT—physical training—despite the fact that he needed a cane to walk. Ever since Joe first met him, the Admiral's left leg had been shorter than his right, courtesy of the enemy during the Vietnam War.

  Mac's handclasp was strong and solid. With his other hand, he clapped Joe on the shoulder.

  "It's been nearly a year and you haven't changed the least bit," Admiral Forrest announced after giving Joe a once-over. The older man wrinkled his nose. "Including your clothes. Jumping Jesse, what hole did we drag you out of?"

  "I was on leave," Joe said with a shrug. "I was helping Blue pull in a major tuna and the bait bucket spilled on me. The boys in the Black Hawk didn't give me a chance to stop at my apartment to take a shower and pick up a change of clothes."

  "Yeah." The admiral's blue eyes twinkled. "We were in kind of a hurry to get you out here, in case you didn
't notice."

  "I noticed," Joe said, crossing his arms. "I take it I'm here to do some kind of favor for him." With his chin, Joe gestured across the room toward Prince Tedric, who was still deep in discussion with Senator McKinley and Veronica.

  "Something tells me you're not happy about the idea of do­ing Tedric Cortere any favors," Mac commented.

  "Damn straight," Joe said, adding, "sir. That bastard nearly got Frisco killed. We were extracting from Baghdad with a squad of Iraqi soldiers on our tail. Frisco took a direct hit. The kid nearly bled to death. What's maybe even worse, at least in his eyes, is that his knee was damn near destroyed. Kid's in a wheelchair now, and fighting hard to get out."

  Mac Forrest stood quietly, just letting Joe tell the story.

  "We'd reached the Baghdad extraction point when Prince Charming over there refused to board the chopper. We finally had to throw him inside. It only gave us about a thirty-second delay, but it was enough to put us into the Iraqi soldiers' firing range, and that's when Frisco was hit. Turns out His Royal Pain-in-the-Butt refused to get into the bird because it wasn't luxurious enough. He nearly got us all killed because the inte­rior of an attack helicopter wasn't painted in the colors of the Ustanzian flag."

  Joe looked steadily at the admiral. "So go ahead and repri­mand me, Mac," he added. "But be warned—there's nothing you can say that'll make me do any favors for that creep."

  "I'm not so sure about that, son," Mac said thoughtfully, running his hand across the lower part of his face.

  Joe frowned. "What's going on?"

  "Have you seen the news lately?" Mac asked.

  Joe looked at him for several long moments. "You're kid­ding, right?"

  "Just asking."

  "Mac, I've been in a chopper, a transport jet and a jeep to­night. None of them had in-flight entertainment in the form of the evening news," Joe said. "Hell, I haven't even seen a newspaper in the past eighteen hours."

  "This morning there was an assassination attempt on Ted-ric."

  Aha. Now it suddenly all made sense. Joe nodded. "Gee, sir," he said. "And I already smell like bait. How appropri­ate."

  Mac chuckled. "You always were a smart mouth, Catala­notto."

  "So what's the deal?" Joe asked. "Where am I inserting? Ustanzia? Or, oh joy, are we going back to Baghdad?"

  Inserting. It was a special-forces term for entering—either stealthily or by force—an area of operation.

  The admiral perched on the arm of the sofa. "You've al­ready inserted, son," he said. "Here in D.C. is where we want you—for right now. That is, if I can convince you to volunteer for this mission." Briefly, he outlined the plan to have Joe stand in for the crown prince for the remainder of the American tour—at least until the terrorists made another assassination attempt and were apprehended.

  "Let me get this straight," Joe said, sitting down on the couch. "I play dress-up in Cortere's clothes—which is the equivalent of painting a giant target on my back, right? And I'm doing this so that the United States will have more oil? You've got to do better than that, Mac. And don't start talk­ing about protecting Prince Ted, because I don't give a flying fig whether or not that bastard stays alive long enough to have his royal coffee and doughnut tomorrow morning."

  Mac looked across the room, and Joe followed the older man's gaze. Veronica was nodding at Prince Tedric, her face serious. Red. Her hair was dry, and it was definitely red. Of course. It had to be red.

  "I don't suppose working with Veronica St. John would be an incentive?" Mac said. "I had the opportunity to meet her several weeks ago. She's a real peach of a girl. Rock-solid sense of humor, though you wouldn't necessarily know it to look at her. Pretty, too."

  Joe shook his head. "Not my type," he said flatly.

  "Mrs. Forrest wasn't my type when I first met her," Mac stated.

  Joe stood. "Sorry, Mac. If that's the best you can do, I'm outtahere."

  "Please," Mac said quietly, putting one hand on Joe's arm. "I'm asking for a personal favor here, Lieutenant. Do this one for me." The admiral looked down at the floor, and when he looked back at Joe, his blue eyes were steely. "Remember that car bomb that took out a busload of American sailors in Lon­don three years ago?"

  Silently, Joe nodded. Oh, yeah. He remembered. Mac For­rest's nineteen-year-old son had been one of the kids killed in that deadly blast, set off by a terrorist organization called the Cloud of Death.

  "My sources over at Intelligence have hinted that the assas­sins who are gunning for Prince Tedric are the same terrorists who set off that bomb," the admiral said. His voice trembled slightly. "It's Diosdado and his damned Cloud of Death again. I want them, Lieutenant. With your help, I can get them. Without your help..." He shook his head in despair.

  Joe nodded. "Sir, you've got your volunteer."

  Chapter 4

  It was nearly two-thirty in the morning before Veronica left the planning meeting.

  All of the power players had been there—Senator McKinley, whose million-dollar smile had long since faded; Henri Freder, the Ustanzian Ambassador; Admiral Forrest, the salty-looking military man Veronica had met several weeks ago at an embassy function in Paris; stern-faced Kevin Laughton, the Federal Intelligence Commission agent in charge of security; and Prince Tedric's four chief aides.

  It had been decided that Prince Tedric should be spirited away from the hotel to a safe house where he'd be guarded by FInCOM agents and Ustanzian secret service men. The Amer­ican sailor, Joe Catalanotto, would simply move into Tedric's suite of rooms on the tenth floor, thus arousing no suspicion among the hotel staff and guests—or even among the prince's own lesser servants and assistants, who would not be told of the switch.

  After convincing the prince to give Veronica St. John a chance to work with the sailor, McKinley had gotten the ball rolling. Prince Tedric was gone, much to everyone's relief.

  Veronica and the prince's main staff were working to re­schedule the beginning of the tour. The idea was to organize a schedule that would require Joe to have the least amount of contact with diplomats who might recognize that he was not the real prince. And the FInCOM agents put in their two cents worth, trying to set up times and places for Joe to appear in public that would provide the assassins with an obvious, clear target without putting Joe in more danger than necessary.

  "Where's Catalanotto?" Admiral Forrest kept asking. "He should be here. He should be part of this op's planning team."

  "With all due respect, Admiral," Kevin Laughton, the FInCOM chief, finally said, "it's better to leave the strategiz-ing to the experts." Laughton was a tall man, impeccably dressed, with every strand of his light brown hair perfectly in place. His blue eyes were cool, and he kept his emotions care­fully hidden behind a poker face.

  "In that case, Mr. Laughton," Forrest said tartly, "Catala­notto should definitely be here. And if you paid close atten­tion, sir, you might even learn a thing or two from him."

  "From a navy lieutenantl"

  "Joe Cat is a Navy SEAL, mister," Forrest said.

  There was that word again. SEAL.

  But Laughton didn't look impressed. He looked put-upon. "I should've known this was going too smoothly," he said tiredly. He turned to Forrest. "I'm sure you're familiar with the expression, Admiral: Too many cooks spoil the broth?"

  The admiral fixed the younger man with a decidedly fishlike stare. "This man is going to be your bait," he said. "Can you honestly tell me that if your roles were reversed, you wouldn't want in on the planning stages?"

  "Yes," Laughton replied. "I can."

  "Bulldinky." Forrest stood. He snapped his fingers and one of his aides appeared. "Get Joe Cat down here," he ordered.

  The man fired off a crisp salute. "Yes, sir." He turned sharply and disappeared.

  Laughton was fuming. "You can't pull rank on me. I'm FInCOM-"

  "Trust me, son," Forrest interrupted, sitting down again and rocking back in his chair. "See these do-hickeys on my uni­form? They're not just pretty b
uttons. They mean when I say 'stop,' you stop. And if you need that order clarified, I'd be more than happy to call Bill and have him explain it to you."

  Veronica bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from smiling. By Bill, the admiral was referring to the President. Of the United States. The look on Kevin Laughton's face was not a happy one.

  The admiral's young aide returned and stood patiently at attention just behind Forrest's chair. Forrest tipped his head to look up at him, giving him permission to speak with a nod.

  "Lieutenant Catalanotto is unable to attend this meeting, sir," the aide said. "He's getting a tooth capped, and... something done with his hair, sir. I think."

  "Thank you, son," Forrest said. He stood, pushing his chair back from the conference table. "In that case, I suggest we ad­journ and resume in the morning, when Lieutenant Catala­notto can attend."

  "But-"

  The admiral fixed Laughton with a single look. "Don't make me make that phone call, mister," he said. "I may have phrased it kind of casually, but my suggestion to adjourn was an or­der." He straightened and picked up his cane. "I'm going to give you a little hint, Laughton, a hint that most folks usually learn the first day of basic training. When an officer gives an order, the correct response is, 'Yes, sir. Right away, sir.'"

  He glanced around the table, giving Veronica a quick wink before he headed toward the door.

  She gathered up her papers and briefcase and followed, catching up with him in the corridor.

  "Excuse me, Admiral," she said. "I haven't had time to do any research—I haven't had time to think—and I was hoping you could clue me in. What exactly is a SEAL?"

  Forrest's leathery face crinkled into a smile. "Joe's a SEAL," he said.

  Veronica shook her head. "Sir, that's not what I meant."

  His smile became a grin. "I know," he said. "You want me to tell you that a Navy SEAL is the toughest, smartest, deadli­est warrior in all of the U.S. military. Okay. There you have it. A SEAL is the best of the best, and he's trained to specialize in unconventional warfare." His smile faded, giving his face a stern, craggy cast. "Let me give you an example. Lieutenant Catalanotto took six men and went one hundred miles behind the lines during the first night of Operation Desert Storm in order to rescue Tedric Cortere—who was too stupid to leave Baghdad when he was warned of the coming U.S. attack. Joe Cat and his Alpha Squad—they're part of SEAL Team Ten-went in undetected, among all the bombs that were falling from U.S. planes, and pulled Cortere and three aides out without a single fatality."