It was a habit Charlie and Vince had fallen into over the years, after Sheryl had died. Vince would disappear for a while so that Joan and Charlie would have a chance to talk privately. She didn’t think for one moment that she could take the place of Joan’s mother, but still, she hoped that being available to listen made things a little easier for her granddaughter.
These days it was tougher than ever to be a young woman.
“He’s just a friend,” Joan told her.
“Have you told him that? I may be old, but I still know smitten when I see it.”
Joan shook her head as she smiled into her coffee. “Gramma, he’s a twenty-five-year-old man. He wants to sleep with me. But he wants to sleep with me because he wants to sleep with everyone. That’s what twenty-five-year-old men do.”
“Yes, and I’ve heard that most young men have found that the quickest and easiest way into a woman’s bed is to get up at the crack of dawn and spend five hours—or was it six?—at the home of her mentally ill brother. Oh, but wait. That’s neither quick nor easy nor particularly fun—especially compared to picking up a woman in a bar.”
“Gramma—”
“Some men aren’t jerks, Joanie, even if they are only twenty-five years old. You know this man far better than I do, I’ll grant you that, but if first impressions count for anything—”
“They don’t. My first impression of him was—”
Charlie plowed right over her. “When he shook my hand, he looked me straight in the eye, and I thought, He’s the one Joan’s been waiting for. I know that sounds silly—”
“It does,” Joan said. “He just has really pretty eyes. Pretty everything. Maybe you’re the one who’s smitten.”
“You whisked him out of there so quickly, I was sure you were intentionally hiding him from us. Even Gramps noticed.”
Joan put down her coffee cup. “I was,” she said. “I was trying to avoid this very conversation.” She sighed. “Look, Mike is a really nice guy, all right? Really nice. Stupidly nice, in fact. I really like him. I do. But I can’t think about him in terms of any kind of a real relationship.”
“Why not?”
Joan rolled her eyes. “Do you have three hours? The list of reasons would take that long to work through.”
“Abbreviate.”
She sighed again.
“Come on. Humor your old gramma.”
Joan laughed. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s what Vince tells me. Tell.”
Another big sigh, then, “First of all, he lives in California. The last time I checked, the federal government had no plans to move the nation’s capital from Washington, D.C., to the West Coast. And if that’s not enough, he’s a Navy SEAL—who needs that aggravation? You should know what that’s like more than most people. And, oh, didn’t I mention that he’s twenty-five years old? He’s a baby. Even if I completely lost my mind and wanted to start a relationship with a man who lives three thousand miles away from me and risks his life regularly as part of his job, I can’t get past the age difference. Everyone will look at us. Wherever we go. They’ll wonder why he’s with me.”
Her cell phone rang before Charlie had a chance at rebuttal.
Which was probably for the best. There was no point arguing over a truth that Joan wasn’t ready to hear.
What Charlie did say when Joan closed her cell phone was, “Gramps is quite a few years younger than me. Did you know that?”
Joan shook her head. “Three years isn’t—”
“Seven isn’t either.”
She just laughed as she gathered up her handbag. “I have to get back. Apparently there’s some kind of problem with Brooke—what a surprise. I’m needed back at the hotel. I swear, I’m really starting to dislike that woman, even though she is my President’s offspring. Don’t get up.” She gave Charlie a kiss. “Tell Gramps I’m sorry I had to miss our card game. After this thing with Brooke is over, probably by next Thursday, I’ll be around more often.” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, I meant to ask you. Dick Evans told me you were invited to next year’s anniversary ceremony at Pearl Harbor, that they’d asked you to speak on behalf of the families of the men who were lost.”
“I’m not sure yet if we’re going,” Charlie said. “That’s more than a year from now.”
“A free trip to Hawaii?” Joan laughed. “I think you’re going.”
“We’ll see.” She hadn’t even mentioned it yet to Vince. She didn’t know how he’d react. Of course, he’d never say a word in complaint, but she’d suspected he’d been bothered by that interview she did last week for the History Channel. He was still pretty subdued, still oddly quiet at times, and it had been days.
And she wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject. Are you still jealous of my dead first husband? It was so absurd, it seemed impossible, after nearly sixty years of a good marriage. And yet…
“Dick also asked me to ask you if you’d come to this thing in Coronado next week—the SEAL demonstration—as a guest of President Bryant’s. Sit on the riser with the other VIPs…?”
“She’d love to.”
Charlie turned to see Vince standing in the open sliding door.
“The invitation is for you, too, Gramps,” Joan said.
“Then we’d love to.” Vince smiled at Charlie. “Even though we didn’t vote for the guy. Just tell us where and when and we’ll be there.”
“You’ll get an official invite, probably tomorrow, but Dick wanted to be able to give the news agencies something on the local angle. So don’t be surprised if you get a call from the San Diego Union-Tribune.”
“Oh, goody,” Vince said. “Reporters. Let’s see what they get wrong this time.”
“Easy there, you,” Joan said, and gave him a kiss. “Reporters are our friends. I’ve got to run. Bye, Gramma.”
And then she was gone.
Vince shook his head. “At least we got her to sit still for a few hours.”
“She’s not dating that Navy lieutenant,” Charlie told him. “They’re just friends.”
Vince laughed at that—a sharp burst of merriment. “Yeah? The way we were just friends, I bet, huh? Did you see her looking at him?”
“Did you see him looking at her?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did,” Vince said. “I give ’em till the end of the week, tops.”
FIFTEEN
COMMANDER PAOLETTI, LIEUTENANT Jacquette, and Senior Chief Wolchonok, the mighty trinity of SEAL Team Sixteen, were deep in discussion.
Or rather, Tom Paoletti—looking pretty grim considering that their exercises in the cave had gone as well as they possibly could have—was talking, and Jazz and the senior were nodding in solemn agreement.
As Sam watched, Paoletti turned and briefly made eye contact with Mark Jenkins, who immediately approached the three, clipboard in hand. Hah. So that’s how Jenk did it. Sam had always thought the freckle-faced petty officer had some kind of Radar O’Reilly–type telepathic abilities, but apparently he just kept his eyes open and stayed alert, ready to leap into action.
Sam watched Jenk nod and take notes as both officers and the senior chief gave him instructions.
No doubt about it. There was going to be a detour. They weren’t going straight back to the base. Which was fine with him. The later he got home tonight, the better.
“What’s up?”
He turned to find both Muldoon and Cosmo beside him, also watching the team’s senior officers.
“I don’t know,” Sam admitted.
But then here came Jenk, trotting briskly toward them.
“Target practice,” he announced.
“Now?” Muldoon asked. “Here?”
“The CO wants us to do some shooting from on board the helos,” Jenk answered on his way past. “So, yes, now, but not quite here. We’re going home via Caliente.”
Caliente was the team’s nickname—courtesy of an incident involving the usually taciturn Jay Lopez, some extremely hot shell casings, and a lot
of shouting—for the CO’s favorite firing range out in the desert, north and west of San Diego.
“Thought Black Lagoon was covert,” Cosmo commented, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.
“It is,” Sam said. Sure, they’d practiced close quarters combat in the cave, but firing weapons on an operation like Black Lagoon was always considered a last resort. Where they were going—and their insertion point hadn’t been revealed but Sam had a strong sense that it wasn’t going to be in Afghanistan, so it really had to be hush-hush—no one was going to do any shooting from any of the extraction helos whatsoever.
Besides, the helos that carried the SEALs away from an op were always armed with shooters—and good ones—of their own.
Mike Muldoon had a funny look on his face.
Sam nudged him. “What?”
But Muldoon just shook his head. “Nothing.”
“We’re gonna insert via two helos at the dog and pony show for President Bryant,” Cosmo reported. “Call came in this morning. Date’s set in stone. They don’t want the Leap Frogs, they want us. We’ll be fast-roping in from two Seahawks.”
Sam looked sharply at Muldoon. “Is that true?”
Muldoon nodded. “Yes, sir.” He didn’t look happy as he watched Paoletti, who was still deep in a very serious discussion with the senior chief.
“Fuck,” Sam said under his breath. Was it possible that Tom Paoletti thought there was going to be serious trouble during the President’s visit to Coronado?
If so, that was one fucking serious discussion Paoletti and his senior chief were having, indeed. A little piece of paper called the Constitution made it very clear that the U.S. military could not take up arms against the civilian population. Repelling a terrorist attack on U.S. soil would be the job of the FBI and the Secret Service.
Of course, if the FBI invited the SEALs to join in, that would be a different matter altogether.
Never one to take a sense of foreboding lightly, Commander Paoletti no doubt was making sure his team was going to be ready for anything.
Feeling positively light-headed, Joan dropped the morning edition of USA Today onto the table and speed-dialed first Myra’s and then Dick’s phone numbers.
Both of her immediate superiors’ phones were busy, so she called Meredith, back in D.C.
Who was in her office and answering her phone, because although it was early here, it was, thank God, three hours later there.
“There’s a picture,” Joan said, “of two Navy SEALs in combat. On the front page of USA Today. Have you seen it?”
“Hoo-yah,” Meredith said. “Isn’t that what SEALs say? Talk about a pair of hunks and a half. You know, if I weren’t afraid of giving Mrs. Alison a heart attack, I’d scan it and make wallpaper for my—”
“No.” Joan cut her off. “There is nothing even remotely worth joking about here. This is very serious, Mere. I need to know—ASAP—where the hell this picture came from and who the hell authorized its release to a freaking national newspaper!”
“Whoa,” Meredith said. “Joan. Relax. This is the most positive story connected to Brooke Bryant that’s ever been printed. Ever. Apparently she’s dating a real hero. That’s great stuff. Even though the picture’s not ours, we’ve been getting high fives all around for a job well done.”
“It’s not a job well done,” Joan told her. “It’s a major pooch screwing! Muldoon is active duty special operations—counterterrorist! It’s bad enough that his name was released to the press—I never authorized that! He was supposed to be ‘an unnamed U.S. Navy lieutenant’ in the press release—but to have his picture in the paper for everyone in al-Qaeda to see? Do we want someone to target this man? This is bullshit! It shouldn’t have happened, and I can tell you right now, there’s going to be one freaking bad spin on this story if this hero becomes a dead hero. Now, are you going to help me find out who released this photo so we can cut them off at the knees?”
Meredith had gotten real sober real fast. “I’ll get right on it.”
Joan hung up the phone, dialing Myra again as she unfolded the paper and flattened it out.
Busy. Still busy.
It was definitely Mike Muldoon in this photograph. He was lit as if by a nearby explosion. He was dressed in black, wearing something that had to be one of those combat vests he’d described to her during her tour of the base. One arm was wrapped around the neck of another man who was dressed just as he was—Joan wasn’t sure, but she thought it might be the chief whose nickname was WildCard. The blurb beneath the photo didn’t identify anyone but Muldoon, thank God for small favors.
As angry as she was at its existence, it was an incredible picture—a fabulous action shot.
Muldoon held a weapon in his other arm, and he was gesturing with it to someone outside of the picture’s frame as the two men ran down a rocky trail.
It was the expression on his face that made the picture so powerful. His mouth was open, as if he were shouting orders, and his eyes held a fierce intensity. He was determination personified.
Boy, was it possible she’d never really gotten to know Mike Muldoon at all? Back when they were first introduced, she never would have believed the man in this photo and the handsome young officer with the polite smile and stiff stance were one and the same.
And that was what kept her from having a total coronary about this. The Muldoon in this picture looked pretty different from the Muldoon who walked around the Navy base, who gave tours and had lunch in town and kept his white uniform sparkling clean.
Someone looking for the man in the photo would be challenged to find him.
However, it would probably be wise for Muldoon to stay someplace besides his apartment for a while. Like until the entire al-Qaeda network was wiped out.
Oh, God, he was going to be so pissed.
Joan looked at the photo again. This was not a picture taken during a mere training exercise, that she knew for sure.
Her phone rang. It was Meredith, sounding out of breath.
“Photographer’s name is Camile Lapin,” she reported without taking the time for a greeting. “She’s French; she’s with an extreme right-wing weekly newsmagazine based out of Paris. Our sources verify that she was in Afghanistan several times over the past year. Let’s see, name of her paper translates roughly to The Truth, yada, yada…Oh! She just did an interview with CNN in which she alleges that this picture was taken in Afghanistan late last year. She says Lieutenant Muldoon—he’s the one with the—”
“I know quite well which one he is.”
“Well, she says he was in charge of some kind of secret military operation helping destroy one of the major al-Qaeda hideouts in the eastern part of the country. She says he risked his life to save her from, quote, certain death, end quote, and that this picture was taken—and I’m sorry, but I find this really hard to believe, because if you look at that picture, those guys are really hauling ass—after the lieutenant broke his knee?”
“Kneecap,” Joan corrected her. That was why Mike was leaning on WildCard. Holy God, he was running down the side of a mountain, in a full, major stride, with a freaking broken kneecap.
She sat down because her own knees suddenly couldn’t hold her up.
“Does she have any other pictures?” Joan asked.
“She says no, that this was the only one that came out. Apparently it was a dark night, and it’s not easy to get your camera shots lined up with the rockets’ red glare and bombs bursting in air.”
“Cut the jokes, Mere. This is still not funny,” Joan warned her. “How did this happen? Wasn’t her camera and film confiscated after she was brought to safety?”
“Yes. But this one roll…” Meredith paused delicately. “How do I put this? Or rather, how do I tell you where she alleges she put it?”
Oh, God. “That’s going to be fun—explaining that to Muldoon. Do we know why she held the photo until now? I mean, what kept her from going public as soon as she returned to Paris?”
�
�She says The Truth ran the photo on their front page the day after she left Afghanistan. But both the photo and her story weren’t picked up by the Associated Press. Probably because The Truth had recently been discovered printing a whole series of photos from 1991 taken during Operation Desert Storm, that the paper claimed were from the current conflict.” Meredith laughed. “It’s the classic Boy Who Cried Wolf syndrome. Serves ’em right. Although the fact that the photo was first printed last year makes me think Lapin’s telling the truth about it being the only one. If she had other pictures, they would have been plastered all over The Truth, too.”
“Yeah,” Joan said. “Okay.”
“So what now?” Meredith asked.
Good question.
“We’re going to have to get Muldoon a room at the hotel,” Joan decided. “And Secret Service protection if he wants it.”
“You really think he’ll need his own room?” Meredith asked. “I mean, if he really is Brooke Bryant’s newest hottie…”
“Get him a room,” Joan repeated, and hung up.
She dug through her handbag for her bottle of pain reliever as she dialed Muldoon’s cell phone number.
This was not going to be fun.
She held her breath, but he didn’t pick up.
All that non-fun was going to have to wait. Muldoon’s voice mail went on, brief and to the point. “Leave a message, I’ll call you back.”
“Mike, it’s Joan.” Good start, but there was no way she was going to be able to leave him a message about this total fiasco. “Call me as soon as you get this message, all right? It’s very important that we talk.”
She flipped her phone closed. And picked up the newspaper to look at that photo again.
He was going to be really angry about this. Who wouldn’t be?
But a man who could run with a broken kneecap…Now, there was someone who had access to all kinds of self-control and normally untapped resources. There was no way that a man like that would stay angry at her forever.
Was there?
“Whoa,” Cosmo said.
There was more emotion packed into that one little word than Muldoon had ever heard the petty officer utter in all of the years they’d both been with Team Sixteen.
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