Sign, SEAL, Deliver

by Rogenna Brewer

  “One o’clock. There’s a MiG-28

  headed straight for us.”

  The news didn’t worry Zach. Since the Gulf War, Iraqi and American fighters did everything they could to avoid confrontation.

  “He’s not supposed to be in the no-fly zone. Let’s chase him home,” he ordered, putting his jet into a quick U-turn that would bring him in low on the bogey.

  “Copy. Got you covered, Tomcat Leader.” Michelle then followed his lead.

  The MiG pilot had enough maneuvers to keep them on the edge of their seats as they raced through the skies at speeds that exceeded the sound barrier. Something wasn’t right. Zach felt it in his gut.

  If this was all for laughs, the MiG pilot would have bugged out by now. This guy was playing cat and mouse as if he wanted to get caught. Which could mean only one thing—he was the cheese. So they’d better keep their eyes open….

  “Two more bogeys closing in, Zach.”

  The dogfighting was fast and furious after that, with three MiGs and two Tomcats vying for supremacy.

  “He’s got a lock.” Michelle put her Tomcat into a barrel roll, launching chaff to confuse any heat-seeking missiles. “I can’t shake him.”

  Then it happened. The MiG fired, scoring a direct hit. The tail of Michelle’s Tomcat burst into flames. Her plane spiraled toward the ground.

  Sign, SEAL, Deliver

  Rogenna Brewer

  Dear Reader,

  My father was an Air Force veteran, and after he left the service he obtained a private pilot’s license. He and my mother honeymooned in Niagara Falls and he caught a 7.25-pound walleye there. The fish was mounted and stuffed and in my possession until it simply disintegrated years later. That’s pretty much all I know about my father, because he died in an auto accident at the age of twenty-six—six months before I was born.

  My mother’s parents were very much a part of my life as I was growing up. And most of the stories I know about my father were told to me by my grandma. One such tale was how she’d run outside the house on Bank Street in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, waving a dishcloth, every time she heard a plane overhead—just in case it was my dad. Grandma once told me her only regret was that she’d never flown with my father.

  Grandma died of cancer when I was a young mother with two sons, and I mourned her daily. About a year after she died, during a rare afternoon nap, I found myself in a state of twilight sleep with tears spilling from my eyes. I heard Grandma’s voice as clearly as if she were in the room. “Don’t cry, Genna, I’m flying with your dad now.”

  My tears dried that day because I had not one but two guardian angels. I have a lot of fond memories of my grandma. I have only memorabilia from my dad: the flag that draped his coffin, his name—given to me by my mother when I was born—the ring he gave my mother on their wedding day, and his pilot’s wings, which inspired me when I started to write this book.

  Though I never knew him, I have felt my father’s absence every day. I hope you enjoy the story I wrote for him and my grandmother.

  Sincerely,

  Rogenna Brewer

  P.S. I’d love to hear from you. Write to me at Rogenna@aol.com

  For the people missing from my life:

  My father, Roger William Bean

  1934–1960

  My grandmother, Grace Agnas Reschke Amend

  1910–1987

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  0445 Tuesday

  USS ENTERPRISE CVN65,

  Persian Gulf

  IN THIS PART of the ship a man alone risked a brush with nature, but Lieutenant Zach Prince didn’t mind the tight squeeze through a passageway full of female personnel. Or the swat one junior officer delivered to his behind.

  “Hey, hotshot, what’s your hurry?”

  Zach cocked a grin and carried on. “You ladies have been at sea too long.” One hundred and sixteen days too long to be exact. Whatever the reason, at twenty-nine he rather liked the celebrity that came with being a Top Gun, the top one percent of naval aviators.

  Tart language and feminine laughter followed his progress past cramped quarters shared by six female ensigns, a “six chick” in ship slang. The term smacked of sexism, but wasn’t crude, compared to the idiom used for six male ensigns.

  Zach sidestepped another whack. After all, he didn’t want the produce bruised before it left the market. Patting the upper left pocket of his flight suit, the one closest to his heart, he started to whistle. And if it sounded a little like “Here comes the bride,” well, that was probably because he was a man with a mission.

  It had taken him the entire cruise, four months of having his advances shot down by a certain admiral’s daughter, to finally figure it out. Women didn’t want words that amounted to empty promises. Or even romance. They wanted commitment.

  So even though he could feel a trickle of sweat running down the back of his neck toward the yellow streak that served as his spine, he was going to take the plunge and ask Michelle to marry him.

  Reaching her stateroom, Zach delivered a preemptive knock and at the same time swung the hatch inward on its hinges. Stepping over the lip, he caught Michelle’s roommate, Skeeter, in the middle of tugging on a T-shirt.

  “Sorry,” he said in apology.

  “Don’t you ever knock?”

  “I knocked.” He turned up the wattage on his smile, showing off even white teeth that had never needed braces. He’d learned to use that smile to his advantage at a very early age and managed to coax one out of her, as well, albeit a skeptical smirk.

  “After the fact doesn’t count, Prince.”

  Shrugging into her flight suit, she did a quick zip-up. The leather wings stitched to her uniform identified her as S. Daniels. He’d be damned if he could remember what the “S” really stood for; everyone just called her Skeeter. The navigator was Michelle’s RIO, radar-intercept officer.

  “Where’s Her Royal Highness?”

  Skeeter nodded toward the adjoining bathroom, and he rewarded the petite brunette with a quick kiss. She let out an exaggerated huff of annoyance.

  “You know you love me, Skeeter.”

  “Keep dreaming, jet jock.” She slammed her wardrobe shut and headed for the hatch, where she paused for effect. “If you get caught, it’s not just your ass in a sling. It’s hers, too.”

  After the RIO left, Zach stared long and hard at the closed portal. Deep down he knew Skeeter spoke the truth. But he chose to dismiss the warning. As far as he was concerned, his objective outweighed the risk. Rules were made to be broken. Or at the very least bent.

  Besides which, Skeeter tended to be a bit over-protective when it came to her driver. Although the last person who needed someone looking out for her was Lieutenant Michelle Dann.

  He heard the shower running even before he opened the door to the compact head. “Man on deck.” He announced his presence, sweeping aside the white utility shower curtain.

  Startled brown eyes that set off lovely rounded features met his. Everything about Michelle was rounded…and soft…

  “Zach Prince! Don’t you ever knock?”…except her demeanor.

  He winced. He hated it when she said his name as if it were a curse. “I already had this conversation with your roommate.”

  “Then maybe you should listen. For a change.”

  His wandering gaze traversed the slope of her dripping backside. Almost.

  “Give me that.”
She snatched the shower curtain from him and used it for cover.

  He’d long since etched every nuance of her body into his heart. “All you need, sweetheart, is that JP-5 you’re wearing.” JP-5—jet fuel—mingled with wash water on board. Sailors and aviators alike never really got rid of the smell during a cruise. They just got used to it.

  On Michelle it was like the finest French perfume to his fighter pilot’s soul. He breathed in its addictive scent.

  “Get out.” She tossed her head, whipping wet hair across the swell of her breasts.

  Zach ignored the seriousness in her tone and reached out to finger a burnished-brunette strand. Just touching her ignited his desire…or looking at her…or thinking of her. “Is there room in there for two?” He knew from experience the stall barely held one. But he liked to imagine the possibilities.

  “You know you’re not supposed to be here, Zach. I could have you put on report.”

  “So why don’t you?” he dared, knowing an empty threat when he heard one.

  She heaved a frustrated sigh, finally admitting it to herself. “You’re going to get us both in trouble. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Only if we get caught.”

  “My point exactly. It’s only a matter of time. The Navy’s cracking down on fraternization. You read the new policy, or knowing you maybe you haven’t. But if you think I’m going to throw away my career just to be another hash mark on the helmet of some hotshot jet jock, you’re sadly mistaken, mister.”

  Zach didn’t deny the statement. Like many other fliers, he had kills stenciled on his helmet and painted on his plane. He had four, one for every enemy fighter he’d shot down. Five would make him an ace.

  Some guys put stickers on their helmets to mark their conquests with women. Hash marks on Zach’s helmet represented every time she’d shot him down, figuratively, not literally.

  So far he’d suffered seventeen hits to his ego.

  But this time would be different.

  She was softening. He stared at her mouth as the tip of her tongue darted out to wet her full lips.

  “You’re not even listening to me, are you.” Her brown eyes blazed from behind spiked lashes. “I absolutely hate that about you.”

  “I love it when you’re riled.” He’d listen when she said something he wanted to hear. He leaned in, felt the contours of her body through the vinyl and pressed closer. “Besides, I earned the bragging rights to every one of those hash marks.”

  She shoved her hand in his face. “Zach, your arrogance is astounding.”

  “I know,” he said with a grin.

  Maybe she hadn’t meant it as a compliment, but he equated arrogance with self-confidence, and that wasn’t exactly a fault in his estimation. “You know you love me.” He crowded her by leaning a forearm above his head and against the bulkhead connected to the stall.

  She drew the shower curtain tighter, but stood her ground. “Ha!”

  “Admit it.”

  “Not on your life.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “What about yours? I’m desperate enough to take a deathbed confession.”

  She snorted, obviously trying to hold back her laughter. There was nothing delicate about the deep throaty sound.

  But he liked it.

  “A woman’s entitled to her secrets. And I’m definitely taking this one to the grave.” Her tone teased him.

  Zach relished the torment.

  He pressed his advantage while he still had one. “Why not save us both the heartache, sweetheart? Admit it,” he murmured, looking deep into her eyes where he could see what she wouldn’t confess. She loved him. “We’ve known each other forever. There are no secrets between us.”

  Her smile cooled. Her eyes frosted over.

  Zach felt a blast of freezer burn.

  The Ice Princess was back.

  He’d said the wrong thing. Their history went back to the womb. And he had pictures of their pregnant mothers standing side by side to prove it. Their lives were so intertwined he didn’t even know where to begin to separate them. Through the years he’d learned to read her like a book. But lately she’d become a mystery, a woman of secrets.

  And he’d began to wonder if he really knew her at all.

  Lack of persistence was not one of his shortcomings, however. “One of these days you’ll realize you can’t live without me.”

  He’d wear her down eventually. Like the minute he popped the question.

  He hoped.

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  Why did she have to play so damn hard to get?

  Zach leaned in again. “When you figure it out,” he whispered close to her ear, “just say where and when and I’ll be there with wings on.” He backed off, running a hand through his precision military cut and making it stand on end.

  All the while her eyes never strayed from his. Their liquid depths held a yearning that equaled his own.

  He’d ask. And she’d answer yes.

  Feeling reassured, Zach turned to leave, but stopped short with a snap of his fingers. “Almost forgot. We have a preflight briefing in half an hour.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so?”

  He made a big show of looking her up and down as if he could see right through the shower curtain. “I had other things on my mind.”

  It didn’t pay a guy to be honest. A bar of soap shot past his ear. It would have hit him square in the jaw if he hadn’t ducked when he saw it coming. With a hearty chuckle, Zach closed the door behind him. He’d have to put in for an increase in hazardous-duty pay once they were married.

  And a new assignment.

  According to current Navy policy, Michelle couldn’t be both his wife and his wingman.

  MICHELLE TURNED the cold water all the way up, though it didn’t make much difference. There was no such thing as a hot shower with a crew of more than five thousand on board. Still, she wasn’t as indifferent to Zach Prince as she pretended. And she needed the cold spray to counter his effect on her libido.

  Wouldn’t he have been shocked to realize just how much she’d wanted to forget the rules for once? How much she’d wanted to drag him into that tiny shower stall, strip him down to bare rippling muscles, run her hands through jet-black hair and lose herself in sky-blue eyes for two minutes of hot, unbridled sex?

  Two minutes, hell. If she had her way, he wouldn’t be walking until next Sunday.

  She heaved a frustrated sigh. The only reason he professed to want her at all was that he couldn’t have her. As soon as the challenge was gone, he would be, too.

  He’d done it to others.

  And he’d done it to her…

  Zach was a dreamer with an innate inability to commit.

  Michelle shut off the water with more force than necessary. She’d been waiting forever for him to grow up, mature into the man she wanted him to be—a one-woman man. Not in this lifetime.

  At least not during her reproductive years. She felt the familiar stab of regret as she thought wistfully of all she’d given up just to advance this far in her chosen profession.

  Reaching for the Navy-issue towel stenciled with her name, Michelle rubbed her skin vigorously. She’d already wasted a dozen or so years thinking herself in love with Zach Prince. It wasn’t as if she’d give up flying for him or any man. And then there was the possibility of advancement to lieutenant commander; the shortlist would be out in a few months. With any luck and a lot of hard work her name would be on it.

  Love. Who needed it?

  Oh, but how easily Zach Prince threw that word around.

  I love it when you’re riled.

  You know you love me. He used that line with every female on board.

  Yet he never said those three little words that mattered most.

  I love you.

  Did he love her? Really?

  How could he when he didn’t know the true meaning of the word? Tucking the towel in place, she moved to the mirror above the sink. She swiped at the lingering c
ondensation, then confronted her blurred image.

  Did she love him?

  Even though there wasn’t room in her life for anything that wouldn’t fit into her already cramped quarters, her heart wanted more. But her head insisted a man wouldn’t be worth the complications. So why bother?

  Zach, on the other hand, liked the idea of being in love. He liked the whirlwind emotions of falling in love. So he fell hard. And often. But he wasn’t the kind of guy to be in it for the long haul. He’d get bored and restless…

  …and when things got really tough, he wouldn’t be there at all.

  If she was smart she wouldn’t waste another day on him. Or so she kept telling herself over and over. She had her career to think of, a future all carved out that didn’t, couldn’t, include a hotshot pilot like Zach Prince.

  Besides…

  With her flight physical coming up next month, if she didn’t start watching her weight now, she’d be over the maximum for her five-foot-six-inch frame and be given the “NAMI whammy” by the Navel Aerospace and Operational Medical Institute. The slightest imperfections, such as headaches, bad dental work or a few extra pounds, and a pilot would be grounded.

  She took great care of her health. She ate right. Exercised. And still carried around an extra ten pounds despite her best efforts. Cover-girl beauty might not be important in the greater scheme of things, but she still realized she didn’t have a face that would launch a thousand ships.

  Finger-combing her hair, she held it back from her face and gazed at her reflection with a critical eye. “Look at you. Your hair is dirt brown. Your nose is just…there.” Not to mention the freckles that made her look about twelve. She attempted a seductive pout, vamping her way out of puberty straight to old maid. “And you look like you’ve been sucking on a lemon.”

  Why would Mr. Tall, Dark and Top Gun want you? If she knew the answer to that, maybe she’d believe in his sincerity.