In Love and War

by Lovelace, Merline; McKenna, Lindsay; Irvin, Candace

  Pulling on a sleeveless, well-washed Phoenix Raven T-shirt cut off just below her breasts, she cracked the lanai door open to let in the breeze and dropped into bed. She expected sleep to come crashing down the moment she closed her eyes. Instead, the image of Quinn’s clean-shaven face imprinted itself on her eyelids.

  Damn the man, anyway. Why couldn’t he possess even a few scruples? Tess knew the story about the recovered remains was a tear-jerker, sure to appeal to his readers. Still, after spending so many hours with the recovery team, Quinn should have gained a real appreciation for the sanctity of their mission. The bits of bone they’d brought home weren’t just a story. They were all that remained of a living, breathing man, a marine who’d served his country and died in a fiery crash.

  Angry and frustrated and bitterly disappointed in one Pete Quinn, Tess rolled over and thumped her pillow with a fist.

  Damn the man, anyway!

  The insistent buzz of the doorbell dragged her from sleep some hours later.

  Grunting, Tess raised her head and peered bleary-eyed at the sliding glass doors to the lanai. Dew from the ocean breeze misted the glass. Weak, hazy light filtered in through the open crack. It was morning, but just barely.

  Turning her head, Tess squinted at the clock on the nightstand. Oh, God! It wasn’t even 6:00 a.m. With a groan, she dropped her face back into the pillow. Her roommates could deal with whoever was at the front door.

  She heard the flop of bare feet on the parquet floor. Joanna’s cool voice raised in inquiry. The sound of the chain rattling off the slide.

  She listened a moment more. There were no screams. No shouts. Nothing to rouse the cop in her.

  She went back to sleep.

  The next thing she knew, something fat and hard whacked her in the butt.

  Her face came out of the pillow, her body twisted and her feet hit the floor all in one lithe spring. Shoving back her tangled hair, Tess stared in disbelief at the male facing her across the bed.

  “Quinn!”

  “’Morning, Hamilton.”

  Blinking the last vestiges of sleep from her mind, she took in the shoulders stretching the seams of a white knit shirt, the jeans riding low on lean hips, and the rolled newspaper in his right fist.

  Fire came into her eyes. “Did you just smack me with that newspaper?”

  “I did.”

  “Care to tell me why?”

  “It seemed appropriate.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” she warned in a low growl. “Assuming you want to walk out of here with the same basic equipment you walked in with, that is.”

  A speculative gleam came into his eye. He slapped the newspaper against his open palm and issued a soft challenge.

  “You’re not wearing your riot gear, Red. Think you can take me?”

  “I know I can.”

  A muffled sound from the door spun Tess around. Her accusing glance went to Joanna, who paid not the slightest attention to it, then to Lani, goggle-eyed and standing on tiptoe to peer over her roommate’s shoulder.

  “Did you let this jerk in?” Tess demanded.

  “I did,” the blonde replied breezily.

  “Why?”

  “He’s got great buns.”

  Quinn shot her an amused look. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  His amusement deepened. “You sound as though you might be an expert on the subject.”

  “I am. Believe me, I am.”

  “Excuse me.” Ice dripped from Tess’s voice. “Could you two take this conversation into the other room? Some of us would like to get some sleep here.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.” Grinning, Joanna nudged Lani away from the door. “Lani and I will go put on a pot of coffee while you and Pete finish your conversation.”

  Pete. It hadn’t taken Joanna long to get to his first name. Petey couldn’t be far behind. Thoroughly irritated, Tess crossed her arms.

  “Okay, what’s all this about?”

  He took a while to reply. Long enough for his gaze to make a slow trip from her tangled hair to the slice of bare midriff under her cut-off T-shirt to the sensible cotton panties she’d pulled on after her quick shower last night. They were not of the lace thong variety.

  “This is about you,” he said at last. “And me.”

  “There is no you and me.”

  “There was last night.”

  “Last night was fun, Quinn. The first part of it, anyway. What came after our little roll in the sack kind of ruined things for me.”

  “Yeah, I got that impression.”

  He tossed the newspaper down on the rumpled sheets.

  “Lead story, front page, continued on 7A. Read it, Hamilton.”

  She seriously considered picking up the paper and tossing the damned thing over the lanai railing. She was in no mood to see the story about the as-yet-unidentified Corsair pilot splashed across the front page.

  “Read it, Hamilton.”

  “If that’s what it takes to get you out of my bedroom,” she muttered.

  Giving in with something less than graciousness, she plopped down on the bed and unrolled the paper. The picture that leaped out at her had her gritting her teeth.

  It was a profile of her, her automatic weapon to her cheek, pumping out a steady stream of fire. Dirt and sweat streaked her face. Her hair was a mess. The Phoenix Raven insignia stood out in stark relief on her blue beret, but that was the only thing in the picture that looked good.

  She threw Quinn a withering glance. “Couldn’t you have picked out a more flattering shot?”

  “That one told the story I wanted. Read the text that goes with it.”

  Jaw tight, she started the first paragraph. The prose was stark, the descriptions of her team and their mission terse and unnervingly accurate.

  Quinn had done his homework in the short hours after they’d touched down in Hawaii, Tess saw. No doubt he’d pulled most of the information about the Phoenix Ravens off the Internet. However he’d come by the facts and figures, he’d used them to good effect. Those first few paragraphs painted a dramatic picture of the air force’s supercops.

  Pulled into the story despite herself, Tess turned to page 7A. The pictures there were of the recovery team. Dr. Courtland with her blue steel Beretta in hand. The lieutenant rendering honors over a flag-draped casket in the belly of a C-130. The weary orthodontist carrying what was left of his gear to the crew bus after the mission.

  The accompanying text went into detail about the mission, and the organization and operation of the Central Identification Lab. The article included profiles of the staff, statistics on the number of open cases they were still working, and poignant examples of field recoveries they’d conducted.

  What it didn’t include, Tess belatedly realized, was information or speculation about the remains they’d brought back from Namuoto. Quinn hadn’t even mentioned the F-4 Corsair or the victim’s branch of service.

  Chewing on her lower lip, Tess read the last few paragraphs. By the time she’d finished them, the suspicion that she’d made a world-class fool of herself last night had morphed into absolute certainty. She blew out a long breath, closed the newspaper and looked up.

  “I owe you an apology.”

  “Yeah, you do. You also owe me a follow-up.”

  “What?”

  “My editor loved the piece on the Phoenix Ravens. Cops are hot right now. Military cops get double points. He wants a more detailed feature story on the training you go through and the kind of missions you fly. I put in a request last night to have you assigned as my liaison. It came back approved this morning.”

  Tess’s jaw dropped. “Already?”

  “Already. Evidently blowing up a stash of Chinese Tweets gets the brass’s attention. They were only too happy to expedite the request.” His mouth kicked up in a smug grin. “You’re mine, Hamilton, all mine.”

  “For how long?”

  “For the next three weeks.” His grin took
on a wicked tilt. “Maybe longer, if you promise to dump those cotton panties and wear only that little lace number you had on last night.”

  “Well…” Tess tapped a finger to her chin, considering his request. “Okay.”

  She had the sensible cotton briefs off in two or three wiggles. A quick wad and a long toss sent them sailing through the open doors of the lanai.

  “Consider them dumped.”

  Laughter lit up his eyes. “You’re a woman after my own heart.”

  “Funny, until five minutes ago, I didn’t think you had one.”

  Oh, yeah, Quinn thought as he tugged his knit shirt up and over his head. He did. And if he wasn’t real careful, he just might lose it to a green-eyed, gun-toting GI Jane.

  Epilogue

  Three weeks and five months later, Tess stood beside Quinn on a windswept ridge overlooking the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific.

  The cemetery occupied the center of Punchbowl Crater. The crater was formed from an extinct volcano known as Puowaina, Hawaiian for Hill of Sacrifice. Local legend had it that the Punchbowl was the site of many secret burials of Hawaiian royalty. It had also supposedly witnessed the sacrifice of offenders of certain taboos. Now it served as the final resting place for veterans of the Second World War, Korea, Vietnam and the Gulf War.

  Tess couldn’t imagine a more serene site for a national cemetery. The city of Honolulu sparkled like a jewel below, hemmed in on three sides by Oahu’s steep green hills. Beyond the city, the Pacific rolled in on turquoise waves. She needed only to turn a few inches to the right to pick out Pearl Harbor and the glistening white Arizona Memorial. The sight tugged at her heart, as it always did.

  Slipping her arm through Quinn’s, she brought her gaze back to the lush park below. The cemetery was so beautiful in its breath-taking simplicity. Only a round, flat expanse of green dotted with trees, a soaring marble monument, and wide stairs flanked on either side by the ten Courts of Honor—monuments to the thousands of Americans still listed as missing in action.

  After today, there’d be one less name on the list.

  She and Quinn didn’t intrude on the solemn ceremony taking place at the base of the marble steps. This time belonged to the family of the man whose remains had been positively identified, and who was now, at long last, being laid to rest among his fallen comrades. His son was there, mourning for the father he’d known only through faded photographs. His grandchildren and great-grandchildren as well.

  Tess stood silent, her throat tight and her thoughts on her grandfather. Big Mike would have liked Quinn. Tess certainly did, now that she’d come to know him better. In fact, she was pretty sure she was going to marry him. He’d asked her twice, the last time with just a hint of impatience.

  She’d already admitted that she loved him. Several times. Once even out loud. He’d pounced on that like a dog on a steak bone and had started making plans to permanently move her into his bed. Not that they’d occupy it at the same time all that much. His job took him on the road almost as much as Tess’s did. Where they slept didn’t matter, though. No matter where she and Quinn had met these past five months or how long they’d had together before one of them had to jump on a plane again, they were home.

  A little curl of warmth spread through her veins. She squeezed Quinn’s arm. When he glanced down at her, she answered the question in his eyes with a soft whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “Does that mean what I think it does?”

  “If you’re thinking wedding rings and honeymoons, it does.”

  His smile melted her heart. His hand right hand closed over the one she’d tucked in the crook of his left arm. Together, they turned their faces to the wind and their attention to the ceremony unfolding below.

  COMRADES IN ARMS

  Lindsay McKenna

  To the men and women of our armed forces, our National Guard and those in reserve service—thank you for giving us the freedom that we enjoy.

  Dear Reader,

  It is an honor to be asked to create a story for the second military anthology in Silhouette history! Participating with Merline Lovelace and Candace Irvin makes this book special for me because we all served our country. Our services might have been different, but our hearts beat to the same patriotic tune. I’m very proud to be a part of this collection with my “sisters” from the military services.

  Freedom should never be taken for granted. I have traveled the world over—Canada, Europe, Japan, Hong Kong, China, Australia, New Zealand and South America—and I now know what we have in the U.S.A. is something to cherish with our lives. I wish we could invite people of all countries to our own, to live here and experience firsthand the life that freedom bestows upon human beings.

  “Comrades in Arms” is a story about hope. Set in Afghanistan, it shows how kindness and generosity can open up even the most tightly closed doors between very different people. I hope you enjoy it.

  Sincerely,

  Chapter 1

  “Dave,” Morgan Trayhern said, a note of warning in his tone, “I know you don’t want a woman on your Special Forces team going into Afghanistan, but it can’t be helped. No one on your team speaks Pashto, or any of the other dialects of that country.” Running his fingers through his silver-flecked dark hair, Morgan eyed Captain Dave Johnson, who was looking very grim and unhappy as he stood before him in the small office at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, home of the Special Forces.

  “Sir, with all due respect,” Dave said, opening his hand in a plea, “she—”

  “Captain Tara McCain.”

  “Er…yes, sir. Her… Well, this is unprecedented.”

  “So was 9-11,” Morgan growled. He looked at his watch. In another five minutes, he had to leave and go help prep another Special Forces team that would soon be on its way to Afghanistan. It was September 29th, and the U.S. military had geared up to go after al-Qaeda who had been behind the attack on the World Trade Towers in New York City eighteen days ago.

  “Yes, sir, I know….”

  “Captain, you’ll be meeting McCain on the tarmac in exactly thirty minutes. You’ll be flying by Air Force C–141 Lockheed Starlifter to Afghanistan. Once you land, you’ll be taken by CH53 Super Sea Stallion helicopter to a remote mountain village known as Tarin Kowt. There’s a hotbed of Taliban there, along with U.S.-friendly Pashtun Afghan people. Your job is to get the leaders to tell you who is in the Taliban, who is in sympathy with Osama bin Laden, and where they are. You are then to call in air strikes or anything else you think appropriate, to either capture them or kill them. We want prisoners if at all possible. Without an interpreter, you are dead in the water, and we both know it. Now, Captain McCain has worked for Perseus, my secret black ops company, which is linked to the CIA. She’s a marathon runner. She has expertise in all weapons, up to and including the one you carry, the M–4 rifle. If you’re worried about her keeping up, don’t be. And if you’re going to give me a hard time because she’s a woman, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Typically, in all our missions with Perseus, we have a male and a female teamed up to work together. Each gender brings its own unique qualities to the table—strengths that complement one another for the best success of any mission.”

  Dave frowned as he held Trayhern’s blazing blue eyes. When Morgan jabbed a finger in his direction, he almost felt it physically.

  “I have years of studies showing that man-woman teams are a helluva lot more successful than same-gender ones. So get rid of your prejudice and get your team ready to rock. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  Nodding, Morgan grunted, “Good luck, Captain,” and he reached out and shook the army officer’s large, square hand. “Bring everyone home safe and alive. Your families will be waiting for you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dave muttered, releasing his hand. When Trayhern left, Dave scowled heavily and sat on the end of the olive-green metal desk, his arms folded against his chest. What was he going to do? He commanded the most elite of the U.S. Arm
y’s teams—a Special Forces A team. There had never been a woman on any of his missions—ever. He rubbed his wrinkled forehead. Dave understood why Tara McCain was coming along; they needed someone who spoke at least one of the major languages of Afghanistan. Now he wished mightily that he had taken advantage of the language classes the army had offered him two years ago, to learn Arabic. But he’d declined. What a fool he’d been.

  Heaving a sigh, Dave acknowledged that his own actions and reactions toward McCain were going to determine how his ten-man team would respond to her. The urgency to get covert military teams on the ground in Afghanistan was paramount. Tiger 01, his team, had been given a plum assignment, and no one wanted to settle the score with the perpetrators more than his men. Thousands of innocent civilians had died in the attack on the World Trade Towers. Dave closed his fist, wanting to extract his own personal revenge.

  It was 1500. His men were waiting for him at the operations area, near the tarmac where a huge Air Force C–141 was waiting to take the team and their supplies on the long, long journey to Afghanistan.

  Pulling his dark green beret out of the epaulet on his left shoulder, Dave placed it on his head. The door was ajar, and he could hear frantic calls from other teams as they prepared to go to war. Dave slid off the edge of the desk, straightened his desert fatigues, and strode outside. It was time to meet this woman who was like an unspoken curse to his team.

  Tara McCain stood just inside the Ops building, near the glass doors to the tarmac. Outside, a Starlifter was being hurriedly prepared for a number of Special Forces teams. Nervously, she licked her lower lip. Dressed in desert fatigues, her pack and rifle nearby, she waited. Morgan Trayhern had called her two days ago at the Pentagon, where she worked as an intelligence officer for the army. He’d begged her to go on this mission. How could she say no?

  Tara watched the hundreds of men milling around in the terminal, their own packs and rifles resting on the shiny waxed floor. The din they made was low but constant. More than a few eyeballed her and she could see the question in their eyes: what was a woman doing here? Except for some of the air control and meteorology desk people, she was the only woman present. And she was the only woman dressed in combat clothes, so that made her stand out from the office personnel. Because her brown hair was short, those that glanced at her had to look hard to see that she was female. She knew that, at five foot nine inches tall, and weighing in at 140 pounds, she could probably pass for a man. The flak vest she wore over her fatigues effectively hid her breasts and other curves, so that, upon first inspection, she looked more like an eighteen-year-old youth than a twenty-seven-year-old woman.