“Tonight we must sleep,” she’d complain.
“Uh-huh,” Barstowe would agree, join her in the narrow bunk, and in a heartbeat the resolve was gone and soon the night as well. Sometimes they talked, but never anything deep or that lasted long. Childhood, school, service, missions.
It was so unreal that she could almost pretend that none of it had really happened. Maybe everything since the air hockey game had just been some sort of a lack-of-sleep-induced hallucination.
She’d believed that right after the air hockey match. She had figured that they’d sate their initial blast of lust and be done. Nika never kept lovers for long. Her early relationships were often measured in hours. Not that the guys didn’t want to come back. But if Nika knew there was no future with them—which was often painfully obvious—she saw no point in a rematch.
Instead—unless it really was just a massive hallucination—the last two weeks had only been the beginning with Clint. That first night, without a word spoken, Clint had swept her away on a fantasy that had lasted until the last hour before the alarm clock. She’d woken alone, which was decent of him. But the next night…and the one following…and the time she’d gotten him alone in the aft lockers…then on a bunk at the back of the empty Marine barracks or…
And the sex wasn’t only lock and load. There had been dreamy hours of languid exploration as well, until one or the other of them begged for release.
Sly nudged her again.
Present tense. Caffeine insufficient. She looked up at her commander with bleary eyes.
“I don’t do briefings. That’s you, Chief.”
“Craftmaster needs to be in the briefing. Today that’s you, Maier. Snap to.”
She didn’t understand but she snapped to, tipping back her dry coffee cup in vain hope that some stray drop would instill a positive effect, then dumping her tray at the cleanup station. Just her luck that on a day when she needed an extra eight hours sleep and a whole lot more time than that to do some thinking, she was being dragged into a briefing.
On all of the previous training runs, Sly had taken the briefing, then sat close behind her during the training mission and given her constant feedback and tips. Craftmaster implied that she would be in command on this run.
But Lieutenant Clint Barstowe hadn’t given her any time to think; which wasn’t entirely his fault even if she wished it was. His need for her had been wholly matched by her own surprising need in turn. The only reason it could have built so high was because it had been so long since she’d taken a man to her bed. Get him there, use him to their mutual enjoyment, and then everything could just go back to normal…except it wasn’t.
In under two minutes they were entering Lieutenant Commander Boyd Ramis’ office four decks above the mess hall at the Flight Deck level.
She hadn’t been in the converted pilots’ ready room since the Marines left and Boyd had taken over the space. Instead of a dozen Marine pilots lounging around in full flight gear waiting for a mission go, it was now the LCDR’s office. At one end, he’d bolted down a big desk, immaculate except for a framed picture of his family. Behind him hung an American flag and a picture of the President looking exactly the same as he did on every other US command—kindly but strong. The prior President had looked just the same. Same photographer or Photoshop? Maybe it was part of the swearing in ceremony. They injected the victor with a drug that made them look kindly and strong, but by the end of four or eight years they became so gray and haggard that their own mother wouldn’t recognize them. Who on Earth could possibly want that job? It never ceased to amaze her.
There were couches, several armchairs, and a half dozen simple metal foldouts with padded seats. The room was already crowded when she and Sly arrived. She considered another cup but she guessed that her bladder would not be impressed by the idea later. Besides, her hands were shaking a bit. If her body was feeling the caffeine, why wasn’t her brain? Now that was a raw deal.
One long line of windows looked out on the Flight Deck where the crews were unwrapping the helicopters for a flight. When not in the air, they were kept under shrouds because no one wanted to show off that the 5D was flying stealth gear. Out the other window was an amazing view of the Mediterranean Sea. A lighter blue than the Atlantic, which made no sense, but it was true. Unlike an aircraft carrier, the Peleliu was alone on the ocean. No other vessel nor any land in sight.
The sun had just kissed the horizon and she could practically hear it sizzle as it was doused from sharp yellow to dull red and sank into the sea. Clear skies and calm seas, good for night operations. Then she looked out the other windows and saw clouds looming up over the African continent that didn’t look nearly so pleasant.
But no one was explaining why she was here. She was one of only two here that weren’t officers—Chief Petty Officer Sly Stowell, still an enlisted man, was the other. Colonel Michael Gibson of Delta Force. The women of SOAR were here in force: Captains Claudia Jean Gibson and Kara Moretti, Second Lieutenant O’Malley, and Chief Warrant Lola Maloney. The only male from the Night Stalkers was the long, lean Texan Justin Roberts who flew the monstrous Chinook helicopter.
Nika decided that an extra cup of coffee was a good idea after all. Maybe the caffeine had all settled in her lower extremities and she just needed to raise the tide level in her body until it reached her head. She turned toward the urn and bumped her nose on the center of someone’s chest. And that’s when the last of this day’s luck finally ran out the rest of the way.
“Petty Officer Maier,” Clint greeted her.
“Lieutenant Barstowe,” she tried not to admire the chest at eye level that she had so enjoyed curling up against.
But he would know as well as she did that officers and enlisted didn’t mix—even if that was only one of the many things they’d never talked about. They especially didn’t mix in public on a ship. And double that when she didn’t know what to make of it either.
Yet it was the smell of him, the feel of that gentle bump together, that finally brought her wide awake.
# # #
Clint did his best to look away from her, but it was hard. Nika had revealed herself to him so completely, that it was impossible to not think about her. That first night, she had simply abandoned herself to the fire raging between them. Every attempt he made to bury that fire had only ignited it afresh. There was a life, a deep-rooted vitality that drove Nika Maier. Being permitted to share in that was a gift indeed.
He followed her over to the coffee pot, because she made that look like a very good idea. She made everything look like a very good idea.
That first night he’d slipped from her room with no one the wiser, and spent the hour between then and breakfast pumping iron and taking a shower. One luxury of having the Peleliu so under-populated was that there were few restrictions on showers because he’d needed one, and not just from lifting weights. The nights following, he’d slept like a dead man when he could—when she’d let him. Nika was very creative in how she woke a man.
He knew he was just asking for a court-martial; a realization that had caught up with him that first night just as he bench-pressed two-twenty…and almost dropped the bar on himself.
Had it been worth it? In retrospect he’d have to say Hell, yeah! He not only had never had a woman like Nika. He’d never even dreamed of it. She’d given and given until he didn’t know a man could take so much or want to give so much back. A night like that could carry a man a long damn way. A dozen nights was close to killing him.
Imagining a lifetime of nights like that, well, no way this boy was that lucky. Besides, there had to be a catch somewhere; a “gotcha” like The Bitch and Mr. Used Car.
Had it been worth risking getting Nika in trouble or discharged? Much different answer there, but their attempts to discuss the risks hadn’t lasted longer than their first touch firing them upward once more.
Clint
reasoned that their relationship across branches of the military wouldn’t be a big deal, except they were in a shared chain of command. Sort of. Actually, the chain of command aboard this mash-up of a ship was far less than clear.
He swallowed back his first dose of Navy sludge and felt better for it. Even the Army didn’t make coffee this black. At the moment, he needed it as he scanned the room.
Lieutenant Commander, Navy, Boyd Ramis, a thin, almost patrician man, thought he was in charge, and perhaps he was—of everything except where his ship was going and the missions themselves.
Chief Warrant 3, Army, Lola Maloney, a model beautiful woman with flowing mahogany hair, was in charge of the Night Stalkers’ missions—which was now the driving force of the ship. The fact that several superior rank officers appeared to report to her only made that side of it murkier. Though there was no question about Maloney being the right woman to be in charge; she was a complete natural as a leader.
And there was Colonel Gibson, Army but Delta, a non-descript man if not for his shining blue eyes, who Clint guessed was actually calling the shots behind the scenes. He also had a very small team who appeared to be permanently embedded with these Night Stalkers just as he was.
Behind all of them there lurked Joint Special Operations Command and no one ever knew what JSOC was doing until they pointed and said go.
What was a mere Lieutenant in charge of a platoon of the Army’s 75th Rangers supposed to actually know?
What Clint knew for certain was that if he leaned in just a few inches more as he added two sugars to his own coffee, he and Nika would have been embracing. Her eyes were bright with fatigue, but she smelled of soap and showers—a combination he definitely didn’t want to be thinking about because soaping up Petty Officer Maier had been a serious amount of fun. Toweling her down even more so. Her hair, still a little damp in spots, ruffled about her face, and again those big brown eyes had focused on him briefly with complete frankness.
Most other women would have backed up a step, looked away, had some hidden layers that men weren’t allowed to see. Nika Maier let him see that the wonders of last night had not existed solely in his imagination, as he’d briefly feared this morning.
That had led him back to his “no way in hell was he getting snarled up with a woman ever again.” Hadn’t Mama proved that marching solo was definitely a better way to go? His body had other ideas and they were slowly getting through to his brain.
“Lieutenant? Lieutenant?” Nika’s voice sharpened, cutting through the thoughts that had him leaning in even closer though her voice was little more than a whisper.
“Uh, yeah?”
She tipped her head ever so slightly to the right.
LCDR Ramis had moved to stand behind his desk and was calling the meeting to order.
He heard her laugh in his head, though she only smiled. Then she turned and sat in one of the fold-out metal chairs next to Sly.
Clint fumbled for a moment and ended up taking the last open seat, next to Colonel Gibson. The D-boy was a couple inches shorter than he was, but Gibson still made Clint feel small; he was simply that good.
During each of the terrorist camp raids, he’d done his best to live up to the Colonel’s standard.
Gibson thumped him on the shoulder in a surprisingly friendly fashion.
“What?” Clint looked at him in surprise.
He was looking pleased, but still didn’t speak.
“What?”
Gibson’s smile shifted slightly.
Clint couldn’t read it.
“Well done,” the Colonel said softly. At first Clint had thought Gibson was congratulating him for what he and Nika were doing while the rest of the ship slept. But then he recalled Gibson would have had a bird’s eye view from the helicopter he’d been circling in above the third terrorist camp they’d raided in two weeks.
“Thanks, I lead good men.”
Gibson’s eyes narrowed for a long moment, then he nodded once more. His enigmatic smile was back as he once more thumped Clint’s shoulder in a friendly fashion. Sadness? Pity perhaps? But neither made any sense.
Clint had distinct feeling that he’d completely missed the point and had no idea where to go looking for it.
# # #
She was going to kill both of them, Nika just didn’t know in which order.
Lieutenant Clint Barstowe for costing her yet another night’s sleep and stirring up all sorts of things she didn’t want stirred up? Because her first-ever attempt at having just casual sex had backfired on her like hell. Not letting him speak that first night had been an even worse mistake than allowing it. Clint had used it as an opportunity to morph their sex into lovemaking and the smallest gestures into romantic silliness. Over the last two weeks he’d continued to expand on the theme. And his worst offense? She couldn’t seem to get enough of him.
Or should she off Colonel Michael Gibson first for that knowing smile and thumping congratulations to Clint for being the first man to bed Nika Maier in over three years?
Maybe she’d wait until the next time they were lined up together and she had the controls on the LCAC. Two for one with old Number 316. Not a jury of women anywhere would convict her.
Nika glanced at the other women in the room—the powerhouses of the Night Stalkers. Lola was saying something about heli-assets and Trisha was teasing her about it. But Claudia was also observing the antics of her husband Michael, apparently unusual enough that it had her brow furrowed. Claudia started scanning the room until her gaze met Nika’s, then they widened slightly in surprised recognition—perhaps reading Nika’s intent to commit murder, or at least severe retribution. A glance back at the two men before returning. Nika thought she saw the austere Captain soften in…not pity, but perhaps in commiseration.
Then Sly nudged her in the ribs. Great, now he was in on the whole joke and she’d have to run him down as well. If she could manage it without ending up in the brig, at least she’d get a shot at driving the hovercraft in his place. Then—
He nudged her again before nodding toward the other side of the room.
“—and Petty Officer Maier,” LCDR Ramis was saying, “will be driving the LCAC for this exercise.”
She did her best to hide her gasp of surprise with a simple nod of acknowledgement that didn’t fool Sly for a second. Thankfully it turned out to be the beginning, not the end of the briefing. As Ramis laid out the plan, Nika was relieved that Sly was off the hook. Now the only men in need of a lesson in humility were both from the Army and not the Navy. That they were two of the most amazing warriors she’d ever met was a different issue. She’d have to be sneaky.
Thankfully, the Navy had trained her body well enough that it took notes even while her mind continued on to other matters.
Aircraft carrier three hundred kilometers away. Exercises with Rangers and Night Stalkers enroute. Refuel, cargo pickup. Return.
No one was saying what kind of cargo or why it wouldn’t be more efficient to just send the Night Stalkers’ big Chinook. Captain Roberts sat back in a chair with his white cowboy hat tipped back on his head, looking as casual as if this was a night on the range around a campfire and not a pre-mission briefing, but she suspected that he didn’t miss a thing. He flew for the 5D which put the stamp of excellence on his forehead as clearly as the cowboy hat.
As the briefing broke up, Claudia crossed her path without making it appear out of the ordinary. She’d been with the outfit for over a year but they’d never exchanged a word outside of operations. Nor did they this time. Claudia simply squeezed her shoulder for a long moment, then moved past her and out toward the Flight Deck.
Nika felt oddly comforted by the simple gesture. As she turned to go, Trisha O’Malley was blocking her path.
The short redhead grinned up at her, “Claudia’s a deep one. Guess she likes you. Means the rest of us will too.”
With a solid punch on the arm—more pain than comfort—the pilot jogged out of the room.
If there was one thing Sly had rammed through her thick skull it was that there was no difference in performance on a training mission versus a live one—if you didn’t practice full tilt, you couldn’t be sure to deliver full tilt. Within ninety seconds of the strange greeting by the two Night Stalkers, Nika was six decks down, two hundred feet aft, and calling out Sly’s typical training line, “Let’s go prove we still know how.”
“She-it!” was Tom’s first comment from where the other three of the crew waited atop the ramp. “Her head is gonna swell something fierce now.”
“Might be,” Sly replied merrily from close behind her. “Let’s find out how badly.”
“Ten says her helmet no longer fits,” Dave grinned at her.
“Twenty,” Tom had to up his buddy of course.
“I’ll take both bets,” Jerome said quietly in his deep voice.
“No, wait. We were kiddi—”
“Witnessed and signed,” Sly called out, siding with Jerome.
“We have to deal with the Army again,” Nika went for some control of the situation, “so let’s show them how it’s done.”
“Where are they?” Tom looked up the empty ramp behind Nika and Sly.
Nika pointed east, “Enroute toward Benghazi; which is four hours away.”
That quieted the crew, just as it had left Nika mute during the briefing. Carrier Strike Group Two was idling along the Libyan coast out at the extreme range of the LCAC’s reach. And that’s where they’d been assigned to go. The LCAC could travel five hours on a full fuel load, but was only rarely tasked with a run of more than an hour.
“We leave in three minutes,” Nika reached inside the port entry door and grabbed the preflight checklist she always kept hanging there.
Christmas at Peleliu Cove Page 7