Wealthy and ambitious and smart.
Julia tapped a pencil on her desk. “So what’s your angle? What kind of stories do you think you can produce that the Times regulars aren’t already filing? They’re covering the political and economic fronts in almost as much depth as the military situation.”
“I want to see the war through the eyes of the men who are still fighting it. I want to understand the pressure of fighting a war no one believes in any more.”
“Why? That kind of human interest story isn’t going to sell to a hard-line news group like the Times.”
“I’ll sell it. I just have to find the right story. Or make it," he added with a crooked grin that didn't fool her for a moment.
Julia drummed the tip of the pencil on her desk, thinking hard. Although he probably didn’t realize it, Lassiter couldn’t have timed his arrival on scene any better. He was in a position to record the closing chapter of the war, at least from the American combatant’s perspective. Intelligence analysts were still predicting a spring offensive by the North as an attempt to secure territory and strengthen their bargaining position at the peace talks. The battle, when it came, could well be the last major operation involving U.S. forces.
Maybe Lassiter could sell his stories, using that angle. If he did, and if she helped him, Julia would at least have the satisfaction of knowing she had a small part in the final chronicle.
“So what do you say, Lieutenant? Will you help me get where I want to go?”
She tossed the pencil aside. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll introduce you to one of our pilots who flies night interdiction missions. If you can convince him and his hootch mates that you can do justice to their story, maybe I can work you clearance to fly with them. After that, we’ll handle it on a case-by-case basis.”
“Fair enough.”
“Let me make a quick phone call.”
It didn’t occur to Julia to match Lassiter up with anyone else but Gabe Hunter. They were two of a kind. Each utterly confident of his own abilities. Each willing to take dangerous risks in his profession.
Nor did it occur to her that the presence of a reporter and a photographer wouldn’t be enough to protect her from Gabe...or from herself.
She hung up the phone a few moments later and grabbed her purse. “Let’s go.”
For the next three hours, Dean Lassiter and Remo D’Agustino experienced first-hand the living and working conditions of the AC-119 aircrews. Julia experienced the full force of Gabriel Hunter’s powerful personality.
Always before, she’d seen him in something other than his natural element. Behind the wheel of a Jeep the day she’d arrived in Vietnam. With his arm looped around Claire’s shoulders as they perched side by side on the rickety picnic table. In a dizzying Hawaiian shirt. And once, while Christmas carols filled the air and heat rushed through her veins.
Today, she caught her first real glimpse of the skilled, confident aviator behind his cocky exterior. He wore his green flight suit and checkered scarf in preparation for his flight that evening. It fit his muscular body like a second skin. His tawny mustache didn’t come anywhere close to regulation trim, nor did the hair that curled on the back of his neck, but he was every inch a combat pilot.
Julia stayed in the background, out of the line of sight, while Gabe and his hootch mate Gator described their missions in as much detail as they could without divulging classified information. Arms raised, hands in formation, they banked and angled their heavy gunships around in a tight circle. Throughout the maneuver, they kept the target pinned in the center of the circle with deadly fire from their side-mounted cannon. While Lassiter scribbled notes and D’Agustini clicked off shots of the fliers, they described trucks killed. Base areas destroyed. Roads secured. Terrain denied. Friendly troops supported. Enemy troops neutralized.
Finally, Gabe glanced at his watch. “We’re doing our pre-planning for tonight’s mission in about an hour. I think I can get you cleared if you want to ride along. You guys up for a little sky time?”
Lassiter answered for them both immediately. “We’re up for it.”
Julia scrambled to her feet, protesting. “Wait a minute. I’ve got to work them a set of aeronautical orders through PAO channels first.”
“You’d better work fast,” Gabe challenged. “We’re wheels up and guns hot at sundown. Gator, you think you can round up a couple of flight suits and some gear for our friends here?”
The lanky Floridian gave a thumbs up. “Sure, I’ll fix them up.”
Julia waited until the pilot had escorted the two men out of the room before rounding on Gabe.
“I want this orientation flight to happen, Hunter, but I don’t want to lose my job over it. If I can’t get them clearance for tonight, don’t push it, okay? They can fly tomorrow, or the day after.”
“You can do it, Endicott.”
“They just got their credentials this morning,” she muttered, bending down for her purse. “It may not be as easy as...”
She straightened, and her breath cut off like a faucet. Gabe had crowded close to her. Too close. She could see the golden chest hairs glistening above the neck of his white T-shirt. Feel the energy that emanated from his body, encased in its green flight suit. Her mouth twisted.
“What is this, Hunter? An encore? Are you going to shove me up against the wall again, like you did Christmas Eve?”
“Are you going to pretend you don’t want me to, like you did Christmas Eve?”
“Go to hell.”
“I probably will, sweet thing. Want to go there with me?”
His breath washed her cheek, tickled her ear. Julia refused to back away from him, knowing damn well that he’d only follow if she did.
“We need to get something clear between us once and for all,” she said evenly. “I don’t want to go hell with you. Or anywhere else. What I want is for you to keep your distance. You might not value Claire’s love, but I do.”
One sun-bleached brow lifted. “Her love? Have you and Claire got something going that she hasn’t told me about? Something besides girl talk?”
Julia’s mouth twisted.
Chuckling, Hunter brushed a careless knuckled down her cheek. “Hey, it’s okay by me. I wouldn’t mind a little three-handed poker.”
She knocked his hand away. “You pig.”
“You should see your face, Endicott.” His rich, hearty laughter sent her temper soaring. “Relax, babe. I know damn well you’re not into group gropes with members of either sex. You’re too much woman to share yourself with anyone...except me.”
“Get this straight,” she ground out through clenched teeth. “I’m too much woman for you, period. Now back off.”
She saw at once she’d made a mistake. The glint in his eyes took on a sharp, lancing edge.
“You’re wrong there, Julia. I can handle you. I’m probably the only one around these parts who can. You think you’re all prissy prim and straight-lined, like your old man, but you’re hot. Hot and headstrong and all female under that uniform you wear like a shield.”
He stepped closer. Julia had to retreat. Retreat, or feel his chest brush the tips of her breasts. To her disgust and fury, her nipples tightened in anticipation of the contact.
“Why don’t you take the uniform off, Julia? We’ve got time. Take it off, and we’ll pick up where we left off Christmas Eve.”
“Get out of my way.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t touch her.
“I’ll lock the door. Gator will keep your reporter friends busy. But you’ll have to ask me this time. I’m not playing the heavy-handed bad guy again. Ask me nice, Julia, real nice, and I’ll give you what we both know you want.”
Her hand lashed out. The crack of her palm connecting with Hunter’s cheek sounded like a pistol shot in the small room. Needles of fire raced through Julia’s wrist and up her arm as she shoved past him. Shaking with fury, she headed for the door.
It didn’t help to find Gator standing right outside, a
helmet dangling from one hand. His glance flicked from her to Gabe, and a sly, smug, disgustingly male expression settled over his features.
Chapter Eight
Washington, DC
Julia’s lids scraped like sandpaper against her dry eyes. With an effort, she dragged herself from the past and discovered that a dull gray dawn had seeped around the edges of the drapes of her living room. In the corner, the Christmas tree that had seemed so shadowy and insubstantial a few hours ago now had shape and vibrant color.
God, was it just last weekend she’d put that tree up? Just three days since she’d made a party of the tree trimming and invited a convivial group of friends to hang ornaments and sip hot, spiced wine. Now it seemed as though that impromptu party had happened in another life.
It had, she realized. She wasn’t the same person who’d laughed and hung tinsel and chatted excitedly about the trip to London she’d promised herself as a Christmas/New Year’s present. Nor was she the same officer who’d answered the vice chief’s summons, smugly contemplating a future that included a possible promotion to brigadier general.
Her future now hung by a fine thread. Instead of looking forward to a holiday season crowded with parties, she was fighting for her life. It was time she faced that fact, dammit. Time she kicked her self-protective instincts into overdrive.
Willing energy back into a body that wanted to curl up in a fetal position and refuse to move, she slid her feet off the Korean trunk that served as her coffee table. She was halfway upright before she realized that both of her legs had gone to sleep below the knees. Her ankles wobbled, and she landed awkwardly on the sofa once more, hands outflung on either side.
“Yeowrllll!”
She jumped half out of her skin as a bundle of tiger-striped fur exploded under her hand. The cat went straight up in the air, then came down with back arched and claws extended. Julia snatched her arm back just in time. Baleful yellow eyes glared at her from the far end of the sofa.
“Sorry!"
The crooked tail slashed left, right.
“It was an accident, okay?”
The beast sprang off the sofa and stalked away.
“Look, if you don’t like it here, you can always leave.”
Unaccountably, the silly confrontation with her ungrateful boarder ignited Julia’s small spark of energy. Flipping on the lights to dispel the lingering shadows in the living room and stairwell, she went upstairs to shower and change.
Two hours later, she reported to the colonel who would nominally serve as her boss during the period of the investigation.
Jerry Richards, chief of the Issues Group, had to feel as uncomfortable with the situation as Julia did, but he was too much a professional to show it. She didn’t know how much he’d been told, and didn’t really care. The mere fact that she had to report to him at all ate at her pride like battery acid.
He indicated that she should use the desk of a major who was away on Christmas leave until other arrangements could be made. Julia’s jaw locked. Overnight, she’d gone from serving as Deputy Director of Public Affairs to borrowing someone else’s desk.
None of the other four officers working in the cramped two-room suite appeared to have any clue to the reason for her unexpected appearance. It wouldn’t take long for the word to spread, though. The halls of the Pentagon circulated rumors with greater speed and far more efficiency than they circulated air. By the time she walked back into the office after her meeting with Special Agent Marsh, their faces would hold the same closed, careful expression as Jerry Richards’ now did.
Julia deposited her coat and hat at her borrowed desk, then told Richards that she had an appointment to keep. Head high, she walked the short distance to the E-ring conference room.
The two OSI agents were already in place. They stood, not quite at attention, not quite at ease, and waited for her to walk around the conference table and take her seat. Julia wasn’t ready to put herself in the hot seat yet, however. Placing her briefcase on the table, she laid out the rules of engagement she’d formulated during the drive in to the Pentagon.
“As you must have observed, I was stunned and probably a bit incoherent yesterday. I’m still in shock, but not quite as incoherent. Nor am I as willing to put myself at risk. Before we proceed any further, I want to understand exactly where we are in the judicial process.”
Special Agent Marsh nodded, as though he approved of her stand.
Of course he’d approve, Julia thought cynically. He wouldn’t want to jeopardize the case against her by keeping her in ignorance of her rights or the status of the investigation. Behind those shuttered gray eyes and carefully controlled exterior beat the heart of a cop who wanted to take down a killer.
“We’re still collecting statements and evidence into the circumstances surrounding Captain Hunter’s death,” he informed her.
“Has an Article 32 investigating officer been appointed?”
“Not yet. The Staff Judge Advocate General wants to review your statement along with the other evidence before he makes a recommendation to your commander.” Marsh didn’t pull any punches. “In this instance, an Article 32 may not be necessary.”
Julia’s stomach tightened. “I see.”
Obviously, he thought the evidence he’d collected would obviate the need for an investigation under Article 32 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice.
Comparable to a civilian grand jury, the Article 32 was considered a discovery or fact-finding process. Military commanders could use it as a means to gather and review evidence. Or, if the evidence presented by the trained investigators was so overwhelming, the commander could skip the added inquiry altogether and proceed directly to a trial by court martial.
Trial by court martial.
The words caught at Julia’s throat. As a training wing commander, she’d preferred charges against personnel for infractions ranging from assault to drug dealing. She’d also served as a member of several courts martial. Never, ever, had she dreamed that she herself might one day stand accused before a panel of her peers.
She wasn’t facing a court martial yet, she reminded herself. No charges had been preferred, despite Marsh’s insinuation that they might be imminent. She still had time to see what cards he held and contact a defense lawyer, if necessary.
“I want to read the autopsy report and the ballistics report you referred to yesterday,” she told the investigator tightly.
“I’ve had copies made for you.”
He’d anticipated her request. He was good. Too good. Julia had better remember that. She pulled out one of the straight chairs and sat. While Marsh extracted the reports she’d requested from a thick manila folder, Special Agent Lyles positioned her tape recorder in the center of the table.
At the sight of the recorder, a rush of hot rancor raced through Julia. That innocuous instrument offended her. She resented the need for it. Resented being forced to report to this windowless conference room this morning. She even resented Special Agent Marsh’s neat, smooth-shaven appearance.
As he had yesterday during their initial interview, he wore a civilian suit. Today it was a navy worsted with a discreet pin stripe. Not expensive, but it displayed his lean, muscled frame to advantage, she conceded. With his short, well-ordered mahogany hair and keen gray eyes, he looked sharp and clear-headed and in control. Obviously, he hadn’t stayed awake all night, as she had. He’d done his best to destroy her yesterday, then gone home to sleep the sleep of the un-accused.
“I’ve also made copies of the photographs of the evidence collected by the recovery team,” he informed her. “You’ll want to review them, too.”
He placed several color photos encased in plastic protectors on top of the requested reports and slid the small stack across the table.
Hiding her internal trepidation at what she might see, Julia picked up the first 8x10. It was a blow-up of the front and back of a silver St. Christopher medal. The thin silver chain attached to the medal had broken a few in
ches from its clasp. The skin at the back of her neck crawled as she remembered the exact moment the chain had broken.
Hastily she set the photo aside and picked up the second. It showed a Smith & Wesson 357 magnum blue-steel revolver with a rosewood grip. She didn’t need to read the engraving on the nameplate just below the cylinder. She knew what it said.
To Iron Man Endicott
From the Air Commandos
at Hurlburt Field, ‘66
Despite her best efforts, Julia’s hand shook. The weapon had been a parting gift to her father from the cadre of special operations instructors he’d commanded before his assignment to Vietnam. Eight months later, it had been recovered from the crash site and returned to her mother with the rest of Paul Endicott’s personal effects. Her heart aching, Julia laid the print on top of the first.
“Is that the weapon you obtained special permission to carry to Vietnam with you?” Marsh asked.
“It...” She wet her dry lips. “It looks like the one I carried.”
“You told me yesterday that the weapon was stolen from your room at the women’s quarters. For the record, would you state the circumstances of that theft, please?"
Julia pulled almost forgotten details from her memory. “I often spent my days off helping the Red Cross workers at orphanage off-base. I never took the weapon for fear one of the children might get hold of it.”
If she closed her eyes, she could see again the small, lost army of dark-eyed children at the Ta Bi Tha orphanage. They had experienced more tragedy and violence in their young lives than Julia would ever know, and she hadn’t wanted to add to it. To avoid any chance that an inquisitive child might delve into her purse and pull out the loaded weapon, she’d left the Smith & Wesson in her room.
“I’d spent the day at Ta Bi Tha and didn’t notice my weapon was missing until the next morning, when I got ready for work.”
Duty and Dishonor Page 9