Crash turned on his microphone and pulled it to his mouth. "Captain Catalanotto's alive," he told Blue and the others on the ship without ceremony. "His injuries are extensive, though. From what I could see, he was hit at least twice, once in the leg and once in the upper chest or shoulder—I'm not certain which. There was a lot of blood. I wasn't close enough to see clearly. He was unable to walk—he was on a stretcher, and he was being transported north, via truck. My bet is he has been taken to Sherman's headquarters, about five kilometres up the mountain."
There was silence from the Irvin, and P.J. knew they'd temporarily turned off the radio. She could imagine Blue's heated discussion with the top brass and diplomats who cared more about the U.S.'s wobbly relationship with this little country than they did about a SEAL captain's life.
Harvard gestured to Crash to turn off his microphone.
"Tell me about Sherman's HQ," he demanded.
"It's a relatively modern structure," Hawken told him. "A former warehouse that was converted into a high-level security compound. I've been inside several times—but only because I was invited and let in through the front door. There are only a few places the captain could be inside the building. There're several hospital rooms—one in the northeast corner, ground floor, another more toward the front of the east side of the building." He met Harvard's eyes sombrely. "They may well have denied him medical care and put him in one of the holding cells in the sub-basement."
"So how do I get in?" Harvard asked.
"Not easily," Crash told him. "John Sherman's a former Green Beret. He built this place to keep unwanted visitors out. There are no windows and only two doors—both heavily guarded. The only possibility might be access through an air duct system that vents on the west side of the building, up by the roof. I tried accessing the building that way, back about six years ago, and the ducts got really narrow about ten feet in. I was afraid I'd get stuck, so I pulled back. I don't know if getting inside that way is an option for you, Senior Chief. You've got forty or fifty pounds on me. Of course, it was six years ago. Sherman may have replaced the system since then."
"I bet I would fit."
Both men looked at P.J. as if they'd forgotten she was there.
"No," Harvard said. "Uh-uh. You're going back to the ship with Lucky and Greene."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Why? I'm not wounded."
"That's right. And you're going to stay not wounded. There are real bullets in those weapons, P.J."
"I've faced real bullets before," she told him. "I've been a field agent for three years, Daryl. Come on. You know this."
"Crash needs you to help get Lucky and Greene to the ship."
She kept her voice calm. "Crash doesn't need me—you need me."
Harvard's face was taut with tension. "The only thing I need right now is to go into Sherman's headquarters and bring out my captain."
P.J. turned to face Crash. "Will I fit through the air ducts?"
He was silent, considering, measuring her with his odd blue eyes. "Yes," he finally said. "You will."
She turned to Harvard. "You need me."
"Maybe. But more than I need your help, I need to know you're safe." He turned away, silently telling her that this conversation was over.
But P.J. wouldn't let herself be dismissed. "Daryl, you don't have a lot of choices here. I know I can—"
"No," he said tightly. "I choose no. You're going back to the ship—"
P.J. felt sick to her stomach. All those things he'd said to his sister, to his family, to her—they weren't really true. He didn't really believe she was his equal. He didn't really think she could hold her own. "I see." Her voice wobbled with anger and disappointment. "Excuse me. My fault. Obviously, I've mistaken you for someone else—someone stronger. Someone smarter. Someone who actually walks their talk—"
Harvard imploded. His voice got softer, but it shook with intensity. "Damn it, I can't change the way I feel!" He reached for her, pulling her close, enveloping her tightly in his arms, uncaring of Lucky and Greene's curious eyes. "You matter too much to me, P.J.," he whispered hoarsely. "I'm sorry, baby, I know you think I'm letting you down." He pulled away to look into her eyes, to touch her face. "I care too much."
P.J. could feel tears flooding her eyes. Oh, God, she couldn't cry. She never cried. She refused to cry. She fiercely blinked her tears back. This wasn't just about Harvard's inability to see her as an equal. This was more important than that. This was about his survival.
"I care, too," she told him, praying she could make him understand. "And if you try to do this alone, you're going to die."
"Yeah," he said roughly. "That's a possibility."
"No. It's more than a possibility. It's a certainty. Without me, you don't stand a chance of getting into that building undetected."
He was gazing at her as if he were memorizing her face for all eternity. "You don't know what a SEAL can do when he puts his mind to it."
"You've got to let me help you."
Blue's voice came on over their headsets. He sounded strangled. "There is no change in orders. Repeat, no change. Senior Chief, unless you are pinned down like Bob and Wes, and are unable to move, you must return to the ship. Do you copy what I'm saying?"
Harvard flipped on his microphone. "I read you loud and clear, Lieutenant." He turned it off again, still holding P.J.'s gaze. "You're going with Crash." He touched her cheek one last time before he pulled away from her. "It's time for you to get out of here."
"No," she said, her voice surprisingly calm. "I'm sorry, but I'm staying."
Harvard seemed to expand about six inches, and his eyes grew arctic cold. "This is not a matter of what you want or what you think is best I'm giving you a direct order. If you disobey—"
P.J. laughed in his face. "You're a fine one to talk about disobeying direct orders. Look, if you can't handle this, maybe you should be the one who returns to the ship with Lucky and Greene. Maybe Crash is man enough to let me help him get Joe out of there."
"Yeah," Harvard said harshly. "Maybe that's my problem. Maybe I'm not man enough to want to watch you die."
His words washed her anger from her, and she took a deep breath. "I'll make a deal with you. I won't die if you don't"
He wouldn't look at her. "You know it doesn't work that way."
"Then we'll both do the best we can. We're two of a kind, remember? Your words." She moved toward him, touched his arm. "Please," she said softly. "I'm begging you to let me help. Trust me enough, respect me enough..."
The look on his face was terrible, and she knew this was the most difficult decision he'd ever made in his life.
P.J. spoke low and fast, aware he was listening, knowing that she would flat out defy him if she had to, but wanting him to choose for her to stay.
"Trust me," she said again. "Trust yourself. You've stood up for me and supported me more times than I can count. You told me you would choose me to be on your team anytime. Well, it's time, brother. It's time for you to put your money where your mouth is. Choose me now. Choose me for something that truly matters." She took his hands, holding onto him tightly, trying to squeeze her words, her truth, into him. "I know it's dangerous—we both know that. But I've done dangerous before. It's part of my job to take risks. Look at me. You know me-maybe better than anyone in the entire world. You know my strengths—and my limitations. I may not be a SEAL, but I'm the best FlnCOM agent there is, and I know—and you know—that I can fit through that air duct."
P.J. played her trump card mercilessly, praying it would be enough to make Harvard change his mind. "Joe Cat is my friend, too," she told him. "As far as I can see, I'm his only hope. Without me, you've got no way in. Take me with you, and maybe—maybe—together we can save his life."
Harvard was silent for several long moments. And then he pulled his lip mike close to his mouth and switched it on as he held P.J.'s gaze. "This is Senior Chief Becker. Lieutenant Hawken is proceeding down the mountain with Lieutenant O'Donlon and
Agent Greene, as ordered. Unfortunately, Agent Richards and I have been pinned down and are unable to move. We'll report in with our status throughout the day, but at this moment, it looks as if we'll be unable to advance toward the Irvin until well after nightfall."
"I copy that, Senior Chief," Blue's voice said. "Be careful. Stay alive."
"Yeah." Harvard turned off his microphone, still holding P.J.'s gaze. "Why do I feel as if I've just lost my last toehold on my sanity?" He shouldered his weapon, turning his gaze toward Crash.
"If I can, I'll try to drop them into friendly territory," Hawken said, referring to Lucky and Greene, "then come back to help."
"Please do. It's hard to do our Mod Squad imitation without you." Harvard turned to P.J. "You ready?"
She nodded.
He nodded, too. "Well, that makes one of us."
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Hurry," he said, "before I change my mind."
Chapter 14
"What now?" P.J. asked as she and Harvard backed away from John Sherman's private headquarters.
"Now we find a place to lay low until nightfall," he said tersely, stopping to secure his binoculars in the pocket of his combat vest. "We'll take turns getting some sleep."
He hadn't said anything that wasn't terse since they'd split up from Hawken, five hours earlier.
P.J. knew Harvard was questioning his decision to let her help him. He was angry at himself, angry at her, angry at the entire situation.
They were going up against some seriously bad odds here. It was entirely possible that one or both of them could be dead before this time tomorrow.
P.J. didn't want to die. And she didn't want to plan around the possibility of her death. But she was damned if she was going to spend what could well be the last hours of her life with someone who was terse.
She gazed at Harvard. "I'm not sure how you're going to get any sleep with that great huge bug up your ass."
He finally, finally smiled for the first time in hours, but it was rueful and fleeting. "Yeah," he said. "I'm not sure, either." He looked away, unable to hold her gaze. "Look, P.J., I've got to tell you, I feel as if I'm hurtling down a mountain, totally out of control. Your being here scares the hell out of me, and I don't like it. Not one bit."
P.J. knew it hadn't been easy for him to tell her that. "Daryl, you know, I'm scared, too."
He glanced at her. "It's not too late for you to—"
"Don't say it," she warned him, narrowing her eyes. "Don't even think it. I'm scared, but I'm going to do what I need to do. The same way you are. You need my help getting into that place, and you know it."
They'd spent most of the past five hours lying in the underbrush, watching the comings and goings of the ragtag soldiers around John Sherman's private fortress.
And it was a fortress. It was a renovated warehouse surrounded by a clearing that was in constant danger of being devoured by the lushness of the jungle. Harvard had told P.J.—tersely—that the building dated from before the Vietnam War. It had been constructed by the French to store weapons and ammunition. Sherman had updated it, strengthening the concrete block structure and adding what appeared to be an extremely state-of-the-art security system.
Harvard and P.J. had studied the system, had watched the pattern of the guards and had kept track of the trucks full of soldiers coining and going. They'd examined the building from all angles and sides. Harvard had paid particular attention to the air duct near the roofline on the west side of the building, staring at it for close to thirty minutes through his compact binoculars.
"If I had two more SEALs—just two more—I wouldn't need to get in through the damn air duct," Harvard told her. "I'd use a grenade launcher and I'd blow a hole through the side of the building. With two more men, I could get Joe out that way."
"With two more men—and an arsenal of weapons," P.J. reminded him. "You haven't got a grenade launcher. You've got a rifle that fires paint balls."
"I can get the weapons we'd need," he told her, and she believed him. She wasn't sure how he'd do it—and she wasn't sure she wanted to know how. But the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice left little doubt in her mind that if he said he could get weapons, he could get weapons. "In fact, I'm planning to confiscate some equipment as soon as it's dark. No way am I letting you go in there armed only with this toy gun." He turned away, reacting to the words he'd just spoken. "I may not let you go in there, anyway."
"Yes, you will," she said quietly.
He glanced at her again. "Maybe by nightfall Bob and Wes will break free."
P.J. didn't say anything. Harvard knew as well as she did that at last report, Wes had been close to certain the trapped SEALs wouldn't be able to move anytime soon. And he knew, too, that it was no good waiting for Crash to reappear.
They'd both listened over their radio headsets three hours earlier as Crash brought Lucky and Greene to safety. Anti-American sentiment in the city was high, and he'd had to bring the wounded men all the way down to the docks. Once there, he was trapped. The soldiers who were assisting in the American evacuation of the island were adamant about Crash returning to the Irvin with the other members of the CSF team.
Sure, Crash had tried to talk his way out of it. He'd tried to convince the soldiers to let him slip into the mountains, but they were young and frightened and extremely intent upon following their orders. Short of using excessive force, Crash had had no choice. At last report, he was with Blue McCoy on the USS Irvin.
And Harvard and P.J. were on their own.
There were no other SEALs to help Harvard rescue Joe Cat. There was only P.J.
She followed Harvard from Sherman's headquarters, trying to move even half as silently as he did through the jungle.
He seemed to know where he was going. But if there was an actual trail he was following, P.J. couldn't see it
He slowed as they came to a clearing, turning to look at her. "We're going to need to be extra careful crossing this field," he told her. "I want you to make absolutely sure that when you walk, you step in my footprints, do you understand?"
P.J. nodded.
Then she shook her head. No, she didn't really understand. Why?
But Harvard had already started into the clearing, and she followed, doing as he'd instructed, stepping in the indentations he made in the tall grass.
Was it because of snakes? Or was there something else—something even creepier, with even bigger teeth—hiding there? She shivered.
"If you really want me to do this, you've got to shorten your stride," P.J. told him. "Although it's probably not necessary because I can see—"
"Step only where I step," he barked at her.
"Whoa! Chill! I can pretty much see there're no snakes, so unless there's another reason we're playing follow the leader—"
"Snakes? Are you kidding? Jesus, P.J.! I thought you knew! We're walking through a field—a mine field."
P.J. froze. "Excuse me?"
"A minefield," Harvard said again, enunciating to make sure she understood. "P.J., this is a minefield. On the other side, across that stream, in those trees over there, there's a hut. It's kind of run-down because most folk know better than to stroll through this neighbourhood to get there. Hawken told me about it—told me it was the safest place on this part of the island. He told me a way through this field, too—that's what we're doing right now."
Her eyes were huge as she stared at him, as she stared at the field that completely surrounded them. "We're taking a stroll through a mine field."
"I'm sorry. I thought you were listening when Crash told me about it." He tried to smile, tried to be reassuring. "It's no big deal—if you step exactly where I step. The good news is that once we get across we're not going to have to worry about locals running into us. Crash told me people around here avoid this entire area."
"On account of the minefield."
"That's right" Harvard went forward, careful to step precisely where Hawken had told him to.
> "Has it occurred to you that this is insane? Who put these mines here? Why would they put mines here?"
"The French put the mines in more than thirty years ago." Harvard glanced back to see that she was following him carefully. "They did it because at the time there was a war going on."
"Shouldn't this field be cleared out—or at least fenced off? There wasn't even a sign warning people about the mines! What if children came up here and wandered into this field?"
"This was one of the projects the Marine FED team was working on," Harvard told her. "But there's probably a dozen fields like this all over the island. And hundreds more—maybe even thousands—all over Southeast Asia. It's a serious problem. People are killed or maimed all the time—casualties of a war that supposedly ended decades ago."
"How do you know where to step?" P.J. asked. "You are being careful aren't you?"
"I'm being very careful." His shirt was drenched with sweat. "Crash drew me a map of the field in the dirt. He told me the route to take."
"A map in the dirt," she repeated. "So, you're going on memory and a map drawn in the dirt."
"That's right"
She made a muffled, faintly choking sound—a cross between a laugh and a sob.
Harvard glanced at her again. Her face was drawn, her mouth tight, her eyes slightly glazed.
They were almost there. Almost to the edge of the field. Once they were in the stream, they'd be in the clear. He had to keep her distracted for a little bit longer.
"You okay?" he asked. "You're not going to faint on me or anything, are you?"
Her eyes flashed at that, instantly bringing life to her face.
"No, I'm not going to faint. You know, you wouldn't have asked that if I were a man."
"Probably not."
"Probably—God, you admit it?"
Harvard stepped into the water, reaching back and lifting her into his arms.
"Put me down!"
He carried her across the shallow streambed and set her down on the other side. "All clear."
She stared at him, then she stared across the stream at the minefield. Then she rolled her eyes, because she knew exactly what he had done.
Harvard's Education Page 19