by A. J. Quinn
Tate shook her head and stared at Evan. “You’re going to take me flying in your biplane.” A statement, not a question.
“Trust me, you’ll love it.”
“Why is that?”
“Because there’s nothing like the thrill of open cockpit and wind-in-the-wires flying. Instead of high and fast, it’s low and slow, like flying in slow motion. But it’s absolutely magical and you’ll believe you’ve gone back in time to the golden days of aviation, when flying was an adventure.”
“My God, you’re a romantic.”
Evan simply smiled.
Chapter Five
As March prepared to roll into April, Tate was presented with an opportunity to go to Afghanistan to interview a Taliban commander—a man who had fought the Soviets in the eighties and was now a key leader in an increasingly virulent insurgency.
Under normal circumstances, she would have seized the opportunity with both hands. But her still-evolving relationship with Evan had made her increasingly aware of how precious life was and how fragile it could be. She could no longer prevent the unbidden thoughts that had her envisioning a possible future with Evan in it, and much to her chagrin, she found herself questioning if the assignment was worth the risk.
She remembered early days in her career, fearlessly flying to Iraq in pursuit of a story, being embedded for a brief time. Driven by the great sense of responsibility that came with being there, covering the war. Being on the front line in the desert somewhere west of Basra, under attack from artillery and rockets.
The experience had at times been exhilarating, other times simply terrifying. But the aftermath had also left her sensitive to the impact her risk taking had on those closest to her. Her parents who had said little at the time, but eventually confessed how much they had worried each and every day she was in Iraq. And the girlfriend who had ended their relationship shortly after Tate’s return, saying she couldn’t handle the stress of worrying whether or not Tate would make it home alive.
It hadn’t been enough to stop her from returning to Iraq, which she had done three times. But the nature of conflict was different in Afghanistan, and the threat to both soldiers and the reporters who rode in their armored vehicles or patrolled with them had expanded.
There were still RPGs and bullets, but there were also suicide bombers and IEDs—the deadly improvised explosive devices that destroyed limbs and lives indiscriminately.
Was a story worth taking the chance of not coming home? Was it worth rolling the dice with roadside bombs?
As she weighed the pros and cons of taking the assignment, she wondered if her hesitation might not also be because she was starting to feel she had seen and done enough. Maybe it was time to let someone else take up the challenge along with the responsibility.
She desperately wished she could talk to Evan and get her thoughts on the matter. But Evan was currently out of reach somewhere in the northern Arabian Sea, most likely flying strike missions over Afghanistan. She viewed Evan’s unavailability as simply par for the course, part of the package that came with becoming involved with an active-duty pilot.
But a hell of a package she was, Tate mused wryly. All nearly six feet of hot, lean, gorgeous woman. That she also came with intelligence, humor, style, and class seemed like an excess of riches, but Tate wasn’t complaining.
It was the intelligence she missed the most right now. As a naval officer with several sea tours behind her, she was certain Evan would have been able to offer an insightful and unique perspective. But it just wasn’t meant to be.
Finally, after several sleepless nights and numerous abortive attempts at decision making, she sought Jillian out for a serious heart-to-heart conversation. Jillian, as usual, was candid and to-the-point.
“You’re never going to entirely eliminate the risk, Tate. You know that as well as I do. All you can do is manage it down to what you believe is an acceptable level and hope for the best. So take a second here and think things through.”
They were both silent for a long moment, and in the silence Tate estimated that the hours she would spend as a potential target were few, calculated that the risk was slim, and concluded the story she was pursuing was worth reporting.
“Now ask yourself this,” Jillian said quietly. “If you don’t go, will you look back and regret it?”
Tate knew then she’d found her answer. She still felt uneasy, but as she explained, “I have to go. In part because I’m the one they’re willing to talk to. But mostly because if reporters aren’t brave enough to go into a war zone, then truth truly does become the first casualty.”
She was rewarded with a beaming smile. “I never doubted your decision. Your courage is one of the reasons I care about you, and because I do, I need you to promise you’ll keep your head down and try not to take too many risks.”
“I won’t. I promise to be alert and aware at all times.”
“You’d better be.” Jillian’s expression softened. “Now what do I tell the hot and sexy Commander Kane if she happens to come by and you’re not around?”
“Just tell her where I am,” Tate responded with her customary honesty. “She’ll understand.”
*
Evan would understand all of this better than most, she thought again after she’d been in Afghanistan for almost two weeks.
She’d been covering the recent increase in attacks against government forces and NATO-led troops when one assault left more than twenty dead. Among those killed was a BBC reporter Tate knew and whose work she respected immensely—a harsh reminder of the risks faced by those committed to telling the story.
Feeling deeply conflicted and off balance, Tate barely had time to react, let alone grieve, when she was taken on a confusing odyssey through switchback dirt roads to an unidentified location where she could conduct her interview. She had expected no less, as the insurgents wanted to ensure she’d be unable to reveal their location to the US military. It was just a case of bad timing.
After two days in a hardscrabble village, the job she had come to do was complete. The interview finished, she was left standing alone in the baking heat, sweltering under body armor and a Kevlar helmet. Waiting to meet up with a military convoy that would provide her ride back to Kandahar.
It couldn’t happen soon enough. She was exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Her head ached, the twin Nikons around her neck had become unbearably heavy, and all she wanted was to get to the airport, catch the first flight back to Bahrain, and fall into Evan’s arms.
Or at least that was the way it was supposed to work. In reality, she had no idea where Evan was at the moment or if she was anywhere near Bahrain. The thought further disheartened her. Made her question her judgment yet again in attempting to have some kind of relationship with Evan. Was she drawn to Evan because she was unavailable? God, she hoped not.
The convoy picked her up just after dawn. In spite of the early hour, the temperature was easily in triple digits. But as she gazed at the marines she was travelling with—a mix of seasoned vets and young soldiers led by a twenty-five-year-old lieutenant—they seemed surprisingly informal and relaxed in spite of having encountered heavy fighting earlier in the month.
Their friendly banter helped pass the time, and several willingly shared their stories. One young corporal eyed her speculatively before offering to be her personal escort for the duration of her stay in Kandahar. Amid ribald comments and laughter, Tate gently turned him down, not bothering to point out that at barely nineteen he was almost fifteen years younger than she was. He took her rejection good-naturedly, smiled, and seemed about to say something.
And then the world exploded.
Tate thought it was a dream when she first opened her eyes. She blinked, disoriented, as the thick black smoke billowed and swirled all around her, stinging everything it touched.
Blinking hurt. Breathing hurt. Jesus, everything hurt. Her head was pounding, keeping pace with the wild staccato of her heartbeat, and she could feel wa
rm blood running down her face and into her mouth.
But even as she forced down the panic, she was too busy fighting all the things fear was doing to her to do more than swipe at it.
She heard a voice, then a second. Drifting through the smoke and haze. Talking softly. She tried to block them out, but then a shadow took shape as it crouched beside her. A medic, his fingers on her wrist as he checked her pulse. His hands were gentle, but firm enough to hold on when she tried to push him away.
“Keep still,” he ordered.
“I’m fine.” Her voice was rough, her throat dry, but she managed to get the words out between quick gulps of air.
“Why don’t you let me be the judge? Since you’re the only civilian in sight, I’m guessing you’re the reporter, but I can’t remember your name.”
“McKenna…Tate McKenna. It’s April tenth and Queen Latifah’s the president.”
“Cool—glad you remember. I’m Carter.” The medic grinned as he undid her flak jacket. “So, McKenna, I need to check you out before you move anything.”
“What—no date first?”
“You can buy me dinner later. Do you think you can move the fingers on this hand for me? Can you squeeze my hand?”
The thought was agonizing, but she flexed her fingers, faintly alarmed at how much effort was required for such a simple task. She grimaced as the pain radiating up her arm intensified.
“You’re doing good.”
Easy for you to say, she thought but didn’t say anything because all she really wanted to do was scream.
“Now your left hand. Can you move your fingers?”
She did her best, wiggling her fingers in spite of the pain she was in. Her best turned out to be good enough because Carter the medic didn’t ask her to do anything else. Grateful, Tate closed her eyes, as he bound her right arm with gauze and tape, and felt the wind as it picked up.
She tried to distract herself from whatever the medic was doing by looking over his shoulder. Almost immediately, her eyes fell on a young marine lying in the sand several feet away, his chest covered in blood.
It took a moment before she realized she was looking at the corporal who’d been flirting with her earlier. Boomer. That was what the others had called him. Nineteen year old Boomer from somewhere, South Carolina.
“I think he needs your help more than I do.”
Carter glanced over his shoulder then shook his head.
Tate looked away and dug for composure. More than ten years of reporting hadn’t inured her, nor had it made accepting death any easier. Emotions warred through her and the tears came unbidden.
Shuddering once, she blanked everything out of her mind but the moment. She was singed, she was bleeding, and she was bruised. But she was alive.
While Carter cleaned a wound on her leg, she fought past the nausea and disorientation and began to take stock of her surroundings. She was sitting on the ground, leaning against a piece of the armored vehicle she had been riding in minutes—or possibly hours—earlier.
Someone moaned. It might have been her, but as she glanced around, she quickly realized it could be any one of the half dozen similarly dazed and bloodied people sitting in the midst of sand and twisted wreckage.
As the reality of her situation hit her, and in spite of the heat, she started to shiver. Shock’s setting in, she mused. And then she jolted as she felt the prick of a needle in her arm. Damn, I hate needles. Looking up, she met Carter’s gaze. “What was that?”
“Painkiller. Kind of like morphine except it’s a non-opiate so it won’t slow your breathing.” He continued checking her as he spoke. “I know you’ve got to be hurting. But you took a bit of a blow to your head, so I don’t want to give you too much of anything until we know what we’re dealing with. I just want you comfortable enough to travel, okay?”
Tate nodded.
“How are you feeling?”
“I know I’ve felt worse, but I can’t remember when.”
“Any double vision?”
“No.”
“How’s the headache?”
“Bad enough.” She started to shift, then thought better of it, cursing under her breath as the aching in her head intensified. “Oh shit, everything hurts. What the hell happened?”
“The vehicle you were in hit an IED.” Carter shook his head as he efficiently went about the business of patching her up. “Could be Taliban, could be something left over from the Soviets. Damned near impossible to tell.”
“The experts say Afghanistan is one of the world’s most heavily mined countries,” Tate mused absently. “They estimate there could be anywhere from five to ten million landmines buried here.”
Carter whistled softly. “You don’t say. Well, all I can tell you is we have one less mine now. The first three trucks in the convoy ran over the same spot before the vehicle you were in hit it.”
“My lucky day.”
“It is. You’re still alive.”
Tate understood but couldn’t help thinking about a nineteen-year-old boy who would never know twenty. Anything else she might have said was lost by a sudden burst of gunfire, followed by the thunderous blasts of falling mortar rounds. It was somewhere in the distance, but still much too close for comfort. The sound spooked her, but the medic seemed not to notice.
“How close? How long before they get here?”
“You don’t need to worry. The lieutenant has called for air support and the medevac choppers will be here in a few minutes to take you to Kandahar.”
“Air support?”
Carter nodded. “Navy fighters routinely perform high-level sweeps in this area. They’ll be here before you know it, and they’ll take care of whoever’s out there.”
Minutes later, four jets roared overhead, weapons firing. Initially, Tate could hear the insurgents returning fire, but seconds after that, the ground fire ceased.
“A sight for sore eyes,” Carter said. “Awesome, aren’t they?”
Yes they were, Tate silently agreed and would have said something, but the edge of her vision was starting to blur and she could see the darkness closing in. She turned her head, trying to find relief from the headache, then closed her eyes, too tired and battered to do more.
But there was still something she needed to know. “Those fighters…where did they come from?”
“The Nimitz.”
Tate thought about that, and even as she felt herself fading, she wondered if by chance Evan had been one of the pilots flying above her. The possibility made her feel better even before she heard the welcome sound of the approaching medevac helicopters. That was good, she thought.
And then her world faded to black.
Chapter Six
Kandahar, Afghanistan
Evan tried not to think about what she might find as she quickly made her way to the main entrance of the hospital. But it was impossible to shut everything out, and her heart hammered painfully at the realization Tate was hurt and receiving treatment somewhere inside the trauma center.
For the past six weeks, flight operations on the Nimitz had been running nearly round the clock, and for eighteen hours a day, she’d been constantly on the go. Most days, it meant attending flight briefings and flying sorties over Afghanistan twice daily.
That, in turn, meant keeping a watchful eye on her team, especially the nuggets, while still maintaining constant focus on waypoints, radio frequencies, fuel plans, locations of refueling tankers, emergency divert fields…and, oh yeah, trying to avoid task saturation.
She normally thrived under pressure. But the schedule was as intense as it was brutal, and she had taken to declaring it a good day if she and her team made it back to their respective racks at the end of each day.
It was why, for eighteen hours a day, she’d been too busy to think about Tate.
But for the remaining six hours at the end of each day, even as she tried to sleep, Tate was all she thought about. She wanted to see her. Be with her.
She had an upcomin
g thirty-day leave and she’d originally made plans to spend the time with Alex. But that was months ago. Before Tate. Now she wanted to spend her leave with Tate.
She could, of course, do both, simply by asking Tate to join her in Chamonix.
Alex would love it. He’d been clamoring to meet Tate ever since Evan had let slip she’d met someone. She could already see Tate and her brother becoming fast friends. And being able to spend her leave with Tate would go a long way to making her final sea tour more bearable.
But there was a challenge.
In his last e-mail, her father had let her know he would see her in France and was looking forward to spending a few days with both his children. Under normal circumstances that would be great. She missed her father. Except there was a better-than-even chance he would bring Althea with him in another attempt to reconcile mother and daughter.
Her father wouldn’t understand her reluctance wasn’t about reconciling with her mother. And she didn’t know how to explain. It was a simple matter to introduce Tate to Alex. But the situation grew infinitely more complex when it came to introducing Tate to her parents. Especially when Althea already knew her—as a reporter.
She’d been weighing her options before this last sortie. Wondering if she should simply let Tate decide if she was up to it. If she was even interested.
When the call came in to provide air support to a convoy in trouble, fuel levels were running low and she’d already been scanning the horizon looking for the tanker. So once the ground situation had been resolved, the decision to divert to Kandahar Airbase rather than tank and return to the Nimitz was an easy one.
It was after she’d landed, while talking to the base maintenance chief, that she discovered a reporter had been injured in the convoy she’d been called to support. There was a heart-stopping instant before she could ask, “Did you happen to catch a name?”
*
Unable to accept assurances Tate hadn’t been badly injured, Evan made her way to the base hospital and left Deacon to look after arranging an overnight billet for them. Just before she entered the building, she caught sight of her reflection in a window and groaned softly. There were visible signs of fatigue carved into her face, her hair was damp with sweat and badly in need of a cut, her flight suit was sun faded, and her boots were coated with salt from weeks of being at sea.