Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  "If I can, I'll try to drop them into friendly territory," Hawken said, referring to Lucky and Greene, "then come back to help."

  "Please do. It's hard to do our Mod Squad imitation with­out you." Harvard turned to P.J. "You ready?"

  She nodded.

  He nodded, too. "Well, that makes one of us."

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  "Hurry," he said, "before I change my mind."

  Chapter 14

  "What now?" PJ. asked as she and Harvard backed away from John Sherman's private headquarters.

  "Now we find a place to lay low until nightfall," he said tersely, stopping to secure his binoculars in the pocket of his combat vest. "We'll take turns getting some sleep."

  He hadn't said anything that wasn't terse since they'd split up from Hawken, five hours earlier.

  PJ. knew Harvard was questioning his decision to let her help him. He was angry at himself, angry at her, angry at the entire situation.

  They were going up against some seriously bad odds here. It was entirely possible that one or both of them could be dead before this time tomorrow.

  PJ. didn't want to die. And she didn't want to plan around the possibility of her death. But she was damned if she was going to spend what could well be the last hours of her life with someone who was terse.

  She gazed at Harvard. "I'm not sure how you're going to get any sleep with that great huge bug up your ass."

  He finally, finally smiled for the first time in hours, but it was rueful and fleeting. "Yeah," he said. "I'm not sure, ei­ther." He looked away, unable to hold her gaze. "Look, P.J., I've got to tell you, I feel as if I'm hurtling down a mountain, totally out of control. Your being here scares the hell out of me, and I don't like it. Not one bit."

  P.J. knew it hadn't been easy for him to tell her that. "Daryl, you know, I'm scared, too."

  He glanced at her. "It's not too late for you to—"

  "Don't say it," she warned him, narrowing her eyes. "Don't even think it. I'm scared, but I'm going to do what I need to do. The same way you are. You need my help getting into that place, and you know it."

  They'd spent most of the past five hours lying in the un­derbrush, watching the comings and goings of the ragtag sol­diers around John Sherman's private fortress.

  And it was a fortress. It was a renovated warehouse sur­rounded by a clearing that was in constant danger of being devoured by the lushness of the jungle. Harvard had told PJ.—tersely—that the building dated from before the Viet­nam War. It had been constructed by the French to store weapons and ammunition. Sherman had updated it, strength­ening the concrete block structure and adding what appeared to be an extremely state-of-the-art security system.

  Harvard and PJ. had studied the system, had watched the pattern of the guards and had kept track of the trucks full of soldiers coining and going. They'd examined the building from all angles and sides. Harvard had paid particular atten­tion to the air duct near the roofline on the west side of the building, staring at it for close to thirty minutes through his compact binoculars.

  "If I had two more SEALs—just two more—I wouldn't need to get in through the damn air duct," Harvard told her. "I'd use a grenade launcher and I'd blow a hole through the side of the building. With two more men, I could get Joe out that way."

  "With two more men—and an arsenal of weapons," PJ. reminded him. "You haven't got a grenade launcher. You've got a rifle that fires paint balls."

  "I can get the weapons we'd need," he told her, and she believed him. She wasn't sure how he'd do it—and she wasn't sure she wanted to know how. But the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice left little doubt in her mind that if he said he could get weapons, he could get weapons. "In fact, I'm planning to confiscate some equipment as soon as it's dark. No way am I letting you go in there armed only with this toy gun." He turned away, reacting to the words he'd just spoken. "I may not let you go in there, anyway."

  "Yes, you will," she said quietly.

  He glanced at her again. "Maybe by nightfall Bob and Wes will break free."

  PJ. didn't say anything. Harvard knew as well as she did that at last report, Wes had been close to certain the trapped SEALs wouldn't be able to move anytime soon. And he knew, too, that it was no good waiting for Crash to reappear.

  They'd both listened over their radio headsets three hours earlier as Crash brought Lucky and Greene to safety. Anti-American sentiment in the city was high, and he'd had to bring the wounded men all the way down to the docks. Once there, he was trapped. The soldiers who were assisting in the American evacuation of the island were adamant about Crash returning to the Irvin with the other members of the CSF team.

  Sure, Crash had tried to talk his way out of it. He'd tried to convince the soldiers to let him slip into the mountains, but they were young and frightened and extremely intent upon following their orders. Short of using excessive force, Crash had had no choice. At last report, he was with Blue McCoy on the USS Irvin.

  And Harvard and PJ. were on their own.

  There were no other SEALs to help Harvard rescue Joe Cat. There was only PJ.

  She followed Harvard from Sherman's headquarters, trying to move even half as silently as he did through the jungle.

  He seemed to know where he was going. But if there was an actual trail he was following, PJ. couldn't see it He slowed as they came to a clearing, turning to look at her. "We're going to need to be extra careful crossing this field," he told her. "I want you to make absolutely sure that when you walk, you step in my footprints, do you under­stand?"

  PJ. nodded.

  Then she shook her head. No, she didn't really understand. Why?

  But Harvard had already started into the clearing, and she followed, doing as he'd instructed, stepping in the indenta­tions he made in the tall grass.

  Was it because of snakes? Or was there something else— something even creepier, with even bigger teeth—hiding there? She shivered.

  "If you really want me to do this, you've got to shorten your stride," PJ. told him. "Although it's probably not nec­essary because I can see—"

  "Step only where I step," he barked at her.

  "Whoa! Chill! I can pretty much see there're no snakes, so unless there's another reason we're playing follow the leader—"

  "Snakes? Are you kidding? Jesus, P.J.! I thought you knew! We're walking through a field—a mine field."

  PJ. froze. "Excuse me?"

  "A minefield," Harvard said again, enunciating to make sure she understood. "P.J., this is a minefield. On the other side, across that stream, in those trees over there, there's a hut. It's kind of run-down because most folk know better than to stroll through this neighborhood to get there. Hawken told me about it—told me it was the safest place on this part of the island. He told me a way through this field, too—that's what we're doing right now."

  Her eyes were huge as she stared at him, as she stared at the field that completely surrounded them. "We're taking a stroll through a mine field."

  "I'm sorry. I thought you were listening when Crash told me about it." He tried to smile, tried to be reassuring. "It's no big deal—if you step exactly where I step. The good news is that once we get across we're not going to.have to worry about locals running into us. Crash told me people around here avoid this entire area."

  "On account of the minefield."

  "That's right" Harvard went forward, careful to step pre­cisely where Hawken had told him to.

  "Has it occurred to you that this is insane? Who put these mines here? Why would they put mines here?"

  "The French put the mines in more than thirty years ago." Harvard glanced back to see that she was following him care­fully. "They did it because at the time there was a war going on."

  "Shouldn't this field be cleared out—or at least fenced off? There wasn't even a sign warning people about the mines! What if children came up here and wandered into this field?"

  "This was one of the projects the Marine FED
team was working on," Harvard told her. "But there's probably a dozen fields like this all over the island. And hundreds more—maybe even thousands—all over Southeast Asia. It's a serious problem. People are killed or maimed all the time— casualties of a war that supposedly ended decades ago."

  "How do you know where to step?" P.J. asked. "You are being careful aren't you?"

  "I'm being very careful." His shirt was drenched with sweat. "Crash drew me a map of the field in the dirt He told me the route to take."

  "A map in the dirt," she repeated. "So, you're going on memory and a map drawn in the dirt."

  "That's right"

  She made a muffled, faintly choking sound—a cross be­tween a laugh and a sob.

  Harvard glanced at her again. Her face was drawn, her mouth tight, her eyes slightly glazed.

  They were almost there. Almost to the edge of the field. Once they were in the stream, they'd be in the clear. He had to keep her distracted for a little bit longer.

  "You okay?" he asked. "You're not going to faint on me or anything, are you?"

  Her eyes flashed at that, instantly bringing life to her face.

  "No, I'm not going to faint. You know, you wouldn't have asked that if I were a man." "Probably not."

  "Probably—God, you admit it?"

  Harvard stepped into the water, reaching back and lifting her into his arms.

  "Put me down!"

  He carried her across the shallow streambed and set her down on the other side. "All clear."

  She stared at him, then she stared across the stream at the minefield. Then she rolled her eyes, because she knew exactly what he had done.

  "The real truth is, I've seen plenty of big, strong guys faint," he informed her. "Gender doesn't seem to play a big part in whether someone's going to freeze up and stop breathing in a tense situation."

  "I don't freeze up," she told him.

  "Yeah, I'm learning that. You did good."

  P.J. sat in the dirt. "We're going to have to do that again tonight, aren't we? Walk back through there? Only—God! This time we'll be in the dark."

  "Don't think about that now. We've got to get some rest."

  She smiled ruefully at him. "Yeah, I'm about ready for a nap. My pulse rate has finally dropped down to a near cata­tonic two hundred beats per minute."

  Harvard couldn't help but laugh as he held out his hand to help her up. Damn, he was proud of her. This day had been wretchedly grueling—both physically and emotionally. Yet she was still able to make jokes. "You can take the first watch if you want."

  "You're kidding. You trust me to stand watch?"

  He looked at their hands. She hadn't pulled hers free from his, and he held onto it, linking their fingers together. "I trust you to do everything," he admitted. "My problem's not with you—it's with me. I trust you to pull off your Wonder Woman act without a hitch. I trust you to go into the building through that air duct, and I trust you to find Cat. I trust you to make all the right choices and all the right moves. But I've been in this business long enough to know that sometimes that's not enough. Sometimes you do everything right and you still get killed." He swore softly. "But you know, I even trust you to die with dignity, if it comes down to that."

  He was silent, but she seemed to know he had more to say. She waited, watching him. "I just don't trust myself to be able to handle losing you. Not when I've just begun to find you. See, because I'm..." His voice was suddenly husky, and he cleared his throat. "Somehow I've managed to fall in love with you. And if you die.. .a part of me is going to die, too."

  There it was. There he was. Up on the table, all prepped and ready for a little open heart surgery.

  He hadn't meant to tell her. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have breathed a word. Under normal circum­stances, he wouldn't have admitted it to himself, let alone to her.

  But the circumstances were far from normal.

  Harvard held his breath, waiting to see what she would say.

  There were so many ways she could respond. She could turn away. She could pretend to misunderstand. She might make light of his words—make believe he was joking.

  Instead, she softly touched his face. As he watched, tears flooded her beautiful eyes, and for the first time since he'd met her, she didn't try to fight them.

  "Now you know," she whispered, smiling so sweetly, so sadly, "why I couldn't go back with the others. Now you know why I wanted so badly to stay."

  Harvard's heart was in his throat. He'd heard the expres­sion before, but he'd never experienced it—not like this. He'd never known these feelings—not with Rachel, not ever.

  It was twice the miracle, because although she hadn't told him she loved him, she'd made it more than clear that she felt something for him, too.

  He bent to kiss her, and she rose onto her toes to meet him halfway. Her lips were soft and so sweet, he felt himself sway. He could taste the salt of her tears. Her tears. Tough, stoic P.J. was letting him see her cry.

  He kissed her again, harder this time. But when he pulled her closer, the gear in his combat vest bumped into the gear in hers, and their two weapons clunked clumsily together. It served as a reminder that this was hardly the time and place for this.

  Except there was nowhere else for them to go. And Har­vard was well aware that this time they had, these next few hours, could well be the only time they'd ever have.

  Unless they turned around and headed down the mountain. Then they'd have the entire rest of their lives, stretching on and on, endlessly into the future. He would have a limitless number of days and nights filled with this woman's beautiful smiles and passionate kisses.

  He could see their love affair continue to grow. He could see him on his knees, asking her to be his wife. Hell, with enough time to get used to the idea, she might even say yes. He could see babies with PJ.'s eyes and his wicked grin. He could see them all living, happily ever after, in a little house with a garden that overlooked the ocean.

  Harvard nearly picked her up and carried her across that stream, through that minefield and toward the safety of the USS Irvin.

  But he couldn't do it. He couldn't have that guaranteed happily ever after.

  Because in order to have it, he'd have to leave Joe Cata­lanotto behind.

  And no matter how much Harvard wanted the chance of a future with this woman, he simply couldn't leave his captain for dead.

  Everything he was thinking and feeling must have been written on his face, because P.J. touched his cheek as she gazed into his eyes.

  "Maybe we don't have forever," she said quietly. "Maybe neither one of us will live to see the sunrise. So, okay. We'll just have to jam the entire rest of our lives into the next six hours." She stood on her toes and kissed him. "Let's go find that hut of Crash's," she whispered. "Don't let me die with­out making love to you."

  Harvard gazed at her, uncertain of what to say and how to say it. Yes. That was the first thing he wanted to say. He wanted to make love to her. As far as last requests went, he couldn't think of a single thing he'd want more. But her as­sumption was that they were going to die.

  He might die tonight, but she wasn't going to. He had very little in his power and under his control, but he could control that. And he'd made up his mind. When he left tonight, he wasn't going to take her with him.

  And she wouldn't follow him.

  He'd made certain of that by bringing her here, to this cabin alongside this minefield. She'd be safe, and he'd radio Crash and Blue and make sure they knew precisely where she was. And after he got Joe out—if he got Joe out—he'd come back for her. If not, Blue would send a chopper to pick her up in a day or so, after the trouble began to die down.

  She misread his silence. "I promise you," she told him, wiping the last of her tears from her eyes. "I'll have no re­grets tomorrow."

  "But what if we live?" Harvard asked. "What if I pull this off and get Joe out and we're both still alive come to­morrow morning?"

  "Yeah, right, I'm reall
y going to regret that"

  "That's not what I meant, and you know it, smart ass."

  "No regrets," she said again. "I promise." She tugged at his hand. "Come on, Daryl. The clock's running."

  Harvard's heart was in his throat because he knew P.J. truly believed neither of them would survive this mission. She thought she had six hours left, but she was ready and willing to share those six hours—the entire rest of her life—with him.

  He remembered what she'd told him, her most private, most secret childhood fantasy. When she was a little girl, she'd dreamed that someday she'd find her perfect man, and he'd love her enough to marry her before taking her to bed.

  "Marry me." Harvard's words surprised himself nearly as much as they did her.

  P.J. stared at him. "Excuse me?"

  Still, in some crazy way, it made sense. He warmed quickly to the idea. "Just for tonight. Just in case I—we—don't make it. You told me you'd always hoped that your first lover would be your husband. So marry me. Right here. Right now."

  "That was just a silly fantasy," she protested.

  "There's no such thing as a silly fantasy. If I'm going to be your lover, let me be your husband first."

  "But—"

  "You can't argue that you don't have the time to support that kind of commitment, to make a marriage work. There's not much that can go sour in six hours."

  "But it won't be legal."

  She liked the idea. He could see it in her eyes. But the realistic side of her was embarrassed to admit it.

  "Don't be so pragmatic," Harvard argued. "What is mar­riage, really, besides a promise? A vow given from one per­son to another. It'll be as legal as we want it to be."

  PJ. was laughing in disbelief. "But—"

  Harvard took her hand more firmly in his. "I, Daryl Becker, do solemnly..." She was still laughing. "Well, maybe not solemnly, but anyway, I swear to take you, PJ.—" He broke off. "You know, I don't even know what PJ. stands for."

  "That's probably because I've never told you."

  "So tell me."

  PJ. closed her eyes. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

  "Uh-oh. Yeah. Absolutely."