Night Is Mine

by M. L. Buchman

  The briefing team had been in the dark as well. They had focused solely on her public role, a chef that the First Lady had used her influence to pull from the military because she’d been “cute” on CNN. The First Lady was notoriously whimsical, having her own lipstick-red limousine for example, and the story actually fit.

  Captain Emily Beale now worked as a personal chef for the First Lady. No more, no less.

  And it sucked. But, when you were all the way down, it took most of the fight out of you. Made it easy to roll with each punch to her ego.

  Name. Birth date. Fingerprints. Her military ID meant nothing here.

  The summer rain raised the ante to actual rainfall, beating down on the tin roof. The trailer both felt and sounded like a pressure cooker.

  Last place of service. Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Let them probe all they wanted; they’d hit a dead end at a P.O. box at SOAR’s main office in Michael C. Grimm Hall. SOAR never disclosed where its teams had scattered across the face of the globe. More than a few times, she’d answered a personal forwarded phone call while stationed in hell and gone, and talked as if she were looking out at the bluegrass fields. Out of habit, SOAR pilots always knew the weather and time of day at Fort Campbell for just such an occasion. As 5th battalion, she also tracked Tacoma, Washington. Easy; when in doubt, cool and raining.

  The sky darkened. A real D.C.-style thunderstorm rolling through. She’d forgotten what they sounded like when they pounded in.

  Current commander?

  President Peter Matthews, Commander-in-Chief, U.S. Military Forces. Chew on that one, boys.

  Were they pushing her just for the fun of it? She probably had higher security clearance than all four guys in the trailer. Combined. Was more trusted by her country than they were. They might guard the country’s leader, she guarded the country’s security and, since becoming SOAR qualified, many of her darkest secrets.

  Then they tried to confiscate her chef’s knives. The rolled, worn-soft leather bag was the only item she’d retained from her duffel. She’d spent most of a month’s salary on this set, and she wasn’t giving them over to any two-bit security guard. Okay. This was the White House. She wasn’t giving them over to any four-bit security guard.

  Emily bucked her way up the chain of command until she faced Agent Frank Adams, rank unknown. He didn’t have the height or breadth of Major Henderson, but he had the same case of bad attitude. One that might put even the major in his place, truth be known. Though that might simply be the due to the soaking he’d received crossing over from the White House in the midst of a cloudburst.

  Well, she’d learned a thing or two inside the zone herself. She planted her feet at parade rest, her dress blues perfect—well, as perfect as they ever were on her. The military really didn’t know much about clothes on a female form, especially tall and thin. Her silver captain’s bars polished and vertical on her collar points. Her black beret square on her head, insignia flash to the fore. Nonregulation hair bound back in a neat ponytail. The two-week-old, winged “Night Stalker” tattoo at the base of her spine well hidden, but she felt stronger for it being there beneath her hands clasped behind her back.

  Mark had shown that she’d earned it, too, by how upset he’d been at losing her. Whatever snafu mangle she’d landed in, she had qualified to fly with SOAR’s Black Adders and had finally belonged. However briefly. If she’d hit the pinnacle of her career at twenty-nine, then she had. But she’d always have the marker of that achievement, that strength, rooted right at the base of her spine.

  “I can’t cook without my knives. I’m supposed to be here to cook for the First Lady. If you must know, I’d rather be on the line with my crew, ramming my Black Hawk down some asshole terrorist’s throat, but since the Commander-in-Chief chose to give that the shaft, I’m here to cook. Now, you either let me and my knives out of this nuthatch of a single-wide, or I can about-face my butt out of here and you can explain my absence to the First Lady yourself.”

  She bit her tongue hard. Keeping it in check had never been one of her strengths, but she’d be damned if she’d apologize. It had cost her rank more than once, which was fine by her. Too much rank, and they didn’t let you fly any more.

  He looked pissed. Really pissed. And this wasn’t an Air-Force-base security grunt; this was the U.S. Secret Service, the baddest asses in the whole world. Even more extreme than Special Forces, some argued, because they functioned right out in the open, no cover of night, no battle gear. Even the D-boys respected them. And Delta Force operators didn’t give respect to anyone who ranked less than several levels above incredibly amazing. Michael’s handshake and muted “Thanks!” after she dragged him off the cliff ranked as perhaps the highest compliment of her entire career. Right up there with Henderson’s, “Nice flight.”

  In the blacksuit world, this guy might be the toughest of them all. Mr. Agent Frank Adams, Rank Unknown, looked it, with his rough features and big hands clenching and unclenching into surprisingly massive fists.

  So okay, she’d apologize a little.

  “Sir.”

  But that was all he was going to get.

  Chapter 13

  First Lady Katherine Matthews’s private kitchen on the third floor of the White House combined a chef’s dream with a thorough undercoating of disaster. Emily couldn’t stop turning around to see everything.

  The decorator’s motif shone in lush cherry wood and mirror-polished brass. A ring of the finest nonstick pans, cast-iron pots, and copper saucers dangled from iron hooks above a dark cherry-and-maple striped cutting block big enough to seat a party of eight comfortably. A pro-level gas range to die for, plus a griddle, an indoor grill, and a pair of wok burners. The very best kitchen machines lined a long slab of marble for baking. A windowed door led out to a sunny porch on the back side of the third floor of the residence.

  Emily swung the door open, far heavier than she expected. It took a moment to figure out why. Inch-thick glass, a rude reminder that bullets, or bomb-laden model airplanes, just might come traveling this way. There was a nice place for an arrangement of herb planters. She’d get a few starts, though she had no intention of being here long enough to harvest. Better to buy plants already in full leaf.

  In the cabinets, she unearthed gorgeous china in a frilly, feminine pattern of fragile delicacy, but with the bold colors suitable to a person of power. Cool and smooth to the touch, a perfect glaze over the tracery.

  The pattern clearly stated part the First Lady and part President Peter Matthews. But there was no chance she’d start thinking about him.

  Further exploration revealed place settings to provide quiet service for two or an unannounced crowd of two dozen. That told her one thing about her duties; be flexible, Emily. Very flexible. She froze with her hand still on the burnished-brass cabinet handle. Too flexible.

  She stood in the White House.

  In a kitchen.

  To cook!

  This world was so far from the Black Hawk cockpit she’d exited under nine hours earlier that she had to lean against the counter as a vertigo-like wave threatened to take her out at the knees.

  Deep breaths. Just this morning, Mark had tossed her half-naked out of bed and dumped her in a helicopter. Dragged her to the carrier, kissed her, and not watched her go. She’d flown eight hours across nine time zones, landing in D.C. an hour earlier than she’d left the Arabian Sea. Mark had held her, kissed her nine hours ago. The change was too much. Too fast. She couldn’t get her bearings. Total sleep since waking for the cave mission twenty-four hours ago; about two hours. No wonder her head was spinning. Well she’d learned how to work through far worse during the monthlong Green Platoon and the half-year Airborne training. Far worse.

  Deep breaths and focus on the battle at hand. Focus on the first step. She was alive and not bleeding out. Second step. Assess. Right. Assess the kitchen. She straightened up, ignoring the spin that had felt like vertigo but she now knew to be merely lack of sleep.

 
; Assess. Check supplies cupboard by cupboard. The stainless-steel fridge and freezer combo was huge. They were fully stocked, and not a single item of the produce looked over two days old. Five chefs could work this kitchen, if needed, but its design reflected a more intimate setting: late-night meals shared by the First Couple while perched on stools together at one end of the carrier-sized chopping-block island.

  It wasn’t hard to picture dashing Peter Matthews and his dynamic CoverGirl model-worthy wife sharing this kitchen wearing very little… Sooo not a good image. Peter Matthews in blue boxers made her body feel things it certainly shouldn’t be feeling about her Commander-in-Chief. About her married Commander-in-Chief. Feelings she hadn’t had for him since she’d graduated high school.

  She’d successfully avoided him for the last nine years, since her graduation from West Point and his induction into the Senate, and yet she could remember him like it was yesterday. Tall and slender. A black mop of hair that was always slipping over his right eye. The merry twinkle in those whiskey-dark eyes. The combo had made her swoon since she’d turned six and he’d been twice her age.

  For a while, she’d been able to leave him behind. That was before he became the President of the United States and her commander-in-chief. Now she couldn’t turn around without finding him talking earnestly about world hunger on CNN or his photo on some commanding officer’s wall.

  The kitchen, Emily. The kitchen.

  On the disaster side, not a single decent sauté pan. The knives were run of the mill. The spice rack lacked any personality whatsoever. Iceberg lettuce and Big Boy tomatoes in the vegetable crisper. Not a single sauce or condiment, other than a lonely bottle of bottom-shelf ketchup and a squeeze-bottle of yellow mustard. The kitchen had all the trappings, but clearly whoever kept it stocked had never cooked in their natural-born lives.

  If she was going to be marooned here, she’d be damned if she’d serve crap.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and recited the Night Stalkers’ motto under her breath, “NSDQ. NSDQ. Night Stalkers Don’t Quit. Night Stalkers Don’t Quit.”

  It had gotten Durant through ten days captivity in Mogadishu. Even before SOAR, it had gotten her out of the Thai jungle. It would get her through this as well. She forced her eyes open, stood at attention, and took a deep breath. With a salute directed at the earth-brown, enameled sink, for lack of a better audience, she searched out a pad and pen.

  She was deep into her list of decent ingredients when one of the three doors slammed open and she leapt straight up off the bar stool. She landed in a crouched, fighting stance with her ten-inch Henckels chef’s knife, the first thing to hand, cocked back and ready to throw. Her other hand part way to the boot knife she’d insisted on recovering, much to Agent Adams’s displeasure.

  The two agents in dark suits and narrow ties had their hands inside their jacket lapels before she froze. No question where these guys kept their weapons.

  First Lady Katherine Matthews breezed into the kitchen as if everyone sat primly together drinking tea and discussing when the Washington Redskins would finally get prettier uniforms.

  Emily and the two agents relaxed in stages. The First Lady paid no attention, but neither did she reach to shake Emily’s hand until the knife rested once again in the pocket of her partially unrolled leather knife case.

  “I’m so glad that you decided to accept my little invitation.”

  The little invitation that had flipped Emily’s life into inverted flight, a very unhappy place in a rotorcraft.

  “I know I placed unfair pressure upon you, but having another woman by me, especially one so clearly proficient with her hands.” She nodded to the agents who finally relaxed into a watchful mode closely related to parade rest, except their hands were folded in front within easy reach of their weapons. The I-look-powerful-but-relaxed stance designed to intimidate any and all who came near.

  And, like Agent Adams, these were big guys. Special Forces operators and their pilots were supposed to blend in. Being five foot six might keep you out of the New York state police, but it made you a perfect fit for Spec Ops. Provided you spoke a couple languages, could run a half marathon with a full pack, and could learn explosives, medicine, or bridge building. Better yet, all three. Even Major Mark Henderson—the toughest and one of the biggest guys in the SOAR Company, other than Big John—was just six feet. She’d yet to meet a Secret Service agent under six feet.

  “It gives one a feeling of safety. Thank you so much for coming.”

  It was hard not to feel warmed by the greeting. The First Lady, other than being even more statuesque and redheaded than Emily recalled, had a very pleasant smile. The forest-green silk blouse was open far lower than Emily would wear it, but she didn’t have such a startling cleavage to show off. All the teenage wishing in the world hadn’t helped on that issue.

  Emily had always found Katherine to be a little creepy; too perky to be real. Or too slick to be trusted. Or… bottom line, Emily had never liked her. But how much of that was because she didn’t want to like the woman married to Peter Matthews? The wife of her childhood friend deserved the benefit of the doubt. She shouldn’t despise a woman she’d only met briefly at a few formal occasions. Well, not despise her too much.

  “My pleasure, ma’am.” Her gut instinct included a salute, but she stood in civilian country now. Besides, the First Lady still held her hand. Odd, it didn’t feel awkward. In SOAR, the main contact between people other than hand-to-hand combat practice consisted of a friendly slap on the back for a job well done or someone holding the wound in your leg closed so that you didn’t bleed out before landing the chopper.

  “We’ll have such fun together. Anything you need, anything at all, give it to Daniel.” She waved a negligent flick of fingers over her shoulder without turning to look. On cue, a man about Emily’s age appeared at the door.

  “He’s my body man,” Katherine said with a throaty, flirtatious voice. “Feel free to borrow him. He can be your body man, too. I’m not possessive.”

  Emily gave him the once-over. And then looked again. He was worth it. The man wasn’t handsome; he was gorgeous. Not the strength and power of Major Henderson, but very nice to look at. A surfer-built blond. Broad-shouldered and slim-hipped. He wore a short-sleeved dress shirt in jewel-tone blue and a Yale tie. No ring on his finger. Nice fingers. Slender, but not effete. Where she’d expected lily-white office hands, he had the muscles of someone who worked hard, or at least worked out hard. Not Army level of course, not even in the ballpark with Mark Henderson, but not Washington-lawyer level either.

  And for all the fitness that Daniel embodied, his bright blue eyes showed no fool and his expression a long-lived patience with the First Lady’s introduction. Daniel must have more than a few marbles in place to be personal assistant to one of the most powerful women in the world.

  Emily nodded curtly to show that she’d not taken him for granted as a blond boy toy. Hesitation as he considered, then he nodded his thanks. Guy-speak. Essential military training. Almost never needed words once you learned it.

  Katherine clearly never had, as she was continuing to fill the room with words. Emily figured she’d best start paying attention.

  “The President and I rarely eat together. He has such a hectic schedule, you know. And I need someone who can take care of my needs. They won’t be burdensome. Just myself and a few trusted advisers.”

  Daniel’s quick roll of his eyes spoke volumes. “On call twenty-four seven for the merest whim.” He didn’t need to say it aloud.

  As Katherine moved about the kitchen, it was clear she’d entered a foreign world. She pinged a manicured fingernail lightly against bright copper pans and brushed fingers across the cutting block that dominated the room. It was as if she’d never been here before.

  Had never needed to make her own hot cocoa. Everything always done by magic elves about which she knew nothing and cared less. For her, an omelet and a lobster thermidor required equal amounts of effo
rt and planning; she asked and they appeared.

  “Daniel will give you warning about any major events on my schedule, though I reserve the right to call you on a moment’s notice for a quick snack. Especially if I’m feeling terribly decadent.” Could the woman even dish her own ice cream?

  By the time Katherine was done speaking, both Secret Service agents were back at parade rest, Daniel had his tie straightened, and Emily had been graciously guided back to her bar stool. Katherine stood closer than new acquaintances would. Close as good friends might choose.

  This was a skill Emily didn’t have, though her mother had tried so hard to give it to her. The First Hostess made it look so easy, she must have learned it in the womb.

  “And you fly too, don’t you?”

  “Helicopters, ma’am. Not airplanes. At least not often. I’m certified on fixed-wing F/A-18 and Harrier, transport only, but I fly helicopters.” And babble like an idiot. “Black Hawks mostly. I’ve about a thousand hours in the Apaches and Cobras as well.” Like that meant something to the First Lady.

  “Isn’t that marvelous?”

  Yup. Didn’t mean a damn thing to Mrs. Matthews. Just shoot me now.

  “Well, as President Matthews and I are often traveling separately, it’s such a relief that I can rely on you for both food and transportation. I feel so much better. No cooking today. Get that list you’re making to Daniel as soon as possible. Tomorrow, Daniel,” the First Lady addressed him for the first time, “I want her to be able to make me a shrimp quiche, egg whites only, tomato juice, and an English muffin sporting a skim of fresh blackberry jam without having to leave this room or call the main kitchen.

  “You…” Katherine turned and aimed a finger at Emily suddenly enough for her to step back and sit abruptly on the stool close behind her. “Don’t worry. You’ll be perfect.”