“Aye, aye,” he said and sucked in a breath, “survivor woman. Any . . . other orders?”
“Don’t go on the beach and . . . look for live things before you pick the coconuts up.” His lips and mouth moved. She couldn’t tell if it was silent cursing or attempting to work up saliva. He went in the direction where coconuts littered the ground.
“Wait.” It was obvious he needed water and so did she. She didn’t need him getting sick or passing out. She took a knee, removing a knife from the sheaf at her ankle.
“Geezus, woman. What else are you hiding?”
She ignored him, fingered several vines checking for critters. Selecting one three inches in diameter, she hacked and sliced until it was severed. “Come here.”
Before he reached her the vine dripped water like a leaky faucet. “It’s the jungle juice joint.” She shoved the vine in his direction. “Drink.” He hesitated. “Go ahead, it’s clean.”
“What about you?”
“Drink.” She shoved the vine to his mouth. “Look around.” She flipped a hand over other vines, sending them swaying. Plenty here.” Oh. She got it. He didn’t trust her. She sliced through another vine. The moment the liquid began to drip she tipped her head back, holding the cut vine over her open mouth. It tasted damn good. Walsh did the same.
She was exhausted. Getting a shelter built would be difficult. Battling with the plane’s yoke to keep them in the air as long as she could put a world of hurt on her arms. She sure as hell didn’t want Walsh to know. She wanted him to see her strong and competent, follow her lead without question or they would never get to that village. There was five days of survival food in the packs. Water from vines, coconuts and afternoon rain would keep them well supplied. If she pushed hard, it was conceivable they could be upstream at that village in forty-eight hours. She handed her vine to Walsh and shrugged out of her pack but didn’t put it down.
“When you’ve had enough, get the coconuts. Four should be plenty. In a couple of hours,” she said and tipped her head in the direction of the approaching clouds, “or less, we’ll be able to collect rainwater.”
Walsh’s gaze went to the ocean and the storm. They both flinched at the lightning streaking across the sky. He shrugged out of his pack. “Can I put this down anyplace?”
Gemma smiled. Okay, he was learning. She removed one of the small tarps from her pack, shook it out like it was a sheet and she was making a bed, and let it drift to the jungle floor. “Here.” She put her own pack down. He dropped his and silently turned to go about his assigned task. “Wait.” She opened a side pocket of his pack and removed a pair of tactical gloves. The gloves were designed for combat application. To provide hand protection without compromising control and finger dexterity. She tossed them to him. He examined them and slipped into them like he was going into surgery. She went back to the packs, removing what they would use for the night. Utility knife, her gloves, rain tarps, hammock, water catcher, protein bars, ibuprofen—they were both going to need more of them—gum, wipes, and glow sticks. Pausing, she fingered the GPS emergency beacon in its sealed inner pocket. She glanced at Walsh, who was crouched inspecting a coconut, moving it with a stick. One push of the button and the satellite beacon would declare they were in need of assistance and relay their exact GPS location to rescuers and . . . with a very high probability it would relay the exact same information to that boat. Not pushing the button meant they would have three, maybe four days of discomfort. Go home with scrapes and cuts. They could go home in a body bag if she depressed the key and the boat had satellite tracking. Gemma closed the packs. As long as they were uninjured and healthy, she wasn’t pushing any buttons.
Walsh dropped two coconuts on the tarp, returning in seconds with two more. He crouched and reached for the knife. Gemma grabbed his wrist.
“I was going to open them,” he said.
“No.”
“I know my way around a knife.” He held up his hands and gave her a grin that showed most of his teeth. “I’ve got gloves.”
“Agreed. I’ve seen your work, Doc.” She shook her head. “Even with gloves this is too iffy. A slip and you won’t be able to help those kids. I’ll do it later. Here.” She slapped a protein bar in his hand and sat back on her heels, peeling the foil away from her own bar. They both could use an energy boost.
“Aggh.” He coughed and made a face. “Not the best I’ve ever tasted.”
“Nope. But packed with protein like those grilled coconut grubs you told the village elder I would just love to taste.” She gave him a hard look. The village they’d delivered medical supplies to yesterday had prepared a feast for them. The grubs were appetizers on sticks. They live exclusively in coconut palms and taste like coconut. It was the idea of biting into a worm the size of her thumb that had given her trouble. She shuddered.
Walsh squinted and rubbed his cheek. “I didn’t think you’d actually eat them.”
“Like I was supposed to insult the man and say no thanks, I don’t eat insects.” She looked at the bar. “I think the grubs tasted better.” Walsh laughed.
A wind gust swirled leaves and swayed branches, ending Gemma’s break. She’d already selected a place for Walsh’s hammock away from palms and their killer falling fronds. He spread the coconuts around the tarp to hold it down and joined her. Working together, it took little or no time to secure the hammock. The air grew heavier, the thick clouds blotted out the afternoon sun, and thunder rolled. Winds shifted and were sustained, a sure sign the front was close. She wasn’t going to get any kind of off-the-ground shelter made before the rain started.
“Change of plans,” she yelled over the increasing wind. “We’ll have to go with a basic shelter. Storm is moving too fast.” She flung him the edge of the biggest tarp and together they shook it open. Using the hammock as a centerline, they draped the high-tech waterproof material to create a roof. The wind blew a good twenty knots now and Walsh fought to hold the lightweight material down as she secured the corners and edges. Gemma worked quickly to spread the second large tarp underneath, bringing up the edges on the open sides to create walls. Stinging rain mixed with a screeching wind as they dragged the cloth with their items to the shelter.
She pushed Walsh to the opening. “Get in.”
“What about you?” he called as he scrambled inside.
“Right behind.” She shoved the bags and tarp in then secured a water collector, took a last look around and joined Walsh, drawing up the tarp behind her and sealing the gap.
She pulled a light stick from her pocket, and a snap later the space was flooded with a horror movie green glow.
“Reminds me of home,” Walsh said as she hung the stick above them on the hammock cord.
“I’d like to see that.”
“Survivor woman, are you fishing for an invitation?”
Lightning lit the space like day. They both ducked reflexively and once again a second later when the thunder reverberated in the dense air. Another flash followed immediately with a boom that sucked the air from Gemma.
“Holy shit,” Walsh said. “That was close.”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “Once the leading edge is through it should get better.” She had a feeling they were in for a long night.
“Here.” She handed him a protein bar and jerky package. “Eat another one of these crappy protein bars. I don’t know about you but I’m shaky coming off my adrenaline high.”
Walsh grasped her wrist. His fingertips pressed her pulse point.
“You feeling dizzy? Are you sweating?”
“I’m fine, Doc. Not dizzy, still sweating. I’m hungry and getting tired. It’s been a long day.”
“Okay.” He released her wrist.
“Well?” she said, tearing open a packet of jerky with her teeth.
“Well what?”
“Am I going to live?” She cautiously put her tongue to one of the jerky strips.
“Survivor woman has a strong and steady pulse.” He used the deep vo
ice again and watched her bite a piece of jerky off. “Is it safe to assume these things taste better than the protein bars?” he said and flapped a jerky strip around.
“Mmm,” she said and shook her head as he took a huge bite.
Rain came hard and the tarp began to take debris pings. Coconuts and the occasional palm fronds dropped, sounding like faraway artillery fire between the thunder boomers.
“We safe from those coconut bombs?” Walsh asked.
Gemma grinned. “You’re more worried about coconuts than lightning?”
“Yeah. Way more coconuts than lightning.”
He had her there. “I picked a spot away from palms.”
“Those ropes going to hold?” he asked after a strong gust.
“Yes. If I learned anything . . .” She hesitated and reworked the sentence without in the Coast Guard, “it’s how to tie knots. It’ll hold.” To give him confidence she crawled the interior edge, inspecting and tightening the cord in one spot where wind forced in the occasional mist of rain. “We’re good.” She sat and wiped her hands on the sides of her thighs. All in all, she was pleased with the shelter considering the amount of time spent putting it up. They had enough room to lie down and the center peak allowed head room for them to sit or kneel. Tomorrow, as soon as dark clouds appeared on the horizon, she’d stop and set up a proper shelter off the ground.
The waterproofed tarps popped with increasing ferocity but did their job keeping the wind and water at bay. When the pelting rain sounded like pebbles hitting, she forced Walsh to move to the center of the shelter for safety. She retrieved the rain collector, filled their bottles and returned the collector outside, the rain stinging her arms each time.
She gave a bottle to Walsh. “Drink.”
They ate and drank silently, growing used to the intermittent thuds of coconut bombs and rolling thunder.
“What’s next? We play board games, cards?”
She gave him a sideways look. “We sleep.” He opened his mouth to speak. “In survival situations you sleep and eat when you can. You never know what the next minute brings.” He squinted at her.
“What?”
“About that smell thing back there.”
Gemma said nothing. If he was going to admit to some fetish thing, she didn’t want to hear it.
“I’m sorry. Scent is a memory trigger for me. I’m not trying to excuse it. You smelled . . . familiar.”
Gemma did a mental wince. Walsh was on staff at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. It was entirely possible they’d met at some function in the D.C. area but highly improbable. If she’d ever met him, she’d remember. Still, for him to remember her from the way she smelled? Just her luck he was part bloodhound. She reached out and grabbed his wrist, pretending to take his pulse. “Doc, if salt water, sweaty armpits and rotting vegetation smell good to you maybe you’re the one that’s not feeling too good.” She paused dramatically. “Or . . . you could have seen me on that survivor show.” She let go of his wrist.
“You were on that show?” A grin spread, showing teeth very white in the eerie light against the dark stubble on his face.
“Yeah. I was the one who made them go north.” She returned his smile.
Walsh’s grin faded. “For a minute there I thought you meant it. For the record, I’m serious. There’s something familiar about you and I can’t nail it down. I think we’ve met.”
“Get comfortable, Doc, and get some sleep.”
She brought her knees to her chest and Walsh laid on his side behind her using a pack for a pillow. He squirmed around until he pressed against her. “You comfy yet?” she said.
He gave her a pat on the back. “I’m good.”
She pulled up the edge of the ground tarp, tucking it in around them for added protection.
“Gemma.”
“What?” she said through a yawn and noted the use of her given name.
“I didn’t thank you for . . . for the way you handled things today,” he said with a hint of Texas accent coming through. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” The sincerity in his voice kept her from saying anything snarky about his safety being her secondary goal. She folded her arms over her knees and put her head down.
“Did you learn that trick with the plane doors in survival school?” Again with sincerity.
“No.”
“Pilot training?”
Oh, what the hell? She might as well tell him. “TV.”
“Huh?” He raised up on an elbow.
“I was in an airport lounge waiting for a connecting flight. These guys”—guys she thought were idiots until this afternoon—“were saying it was possible to stabilize a small plane that had lost its tail by opening and closing the cabin doors.”
“So you knew it would work by watching a TV show.” Walsh laid back down.
“Had no idea if it would work. Was surprised it did.”
“Don’t know if that makes me feel good or bad.”
“It’s done. You survived. The only time you and I will be in a plane together again someone else will be piloting. No worries.”
He patted her back. “Lay down. There’s room.”
“I’m fine.” Tonight she was sleeping sitting up. It was a better offensive position. She didn’t want to be on the ground if land crabs found their way in. The thought of them crawling on her caused a shudder.
“You’re going to be uncomfortable.” He tugged her arm and she shrugged out of his grip.
“I said I’m fine. I can do anything for a few hours.”
Walsh sucked in a loud breath but didn’t protest further. She yawned and was asleep in moments.
Chapter 3
Ben carefully edged his body close around her to give support as she slept. Geezus. She was one stubborn woman and determined to protect him. From the moment she stepped out of the Gulfstream looking like she owned the damn jet she’d confused the hell out of him. She paused at the top of the stairs and gave him an up-and-down, side-to-side look that he returned. She looked spec–tac–ular. The pilot uniform was a definite turn-on. At the bottom of the steps she stopped, raised her sunglasses, looked straight at him with laser-sharp eyes and a look that said it was on. He pushed off the truck he leaned against and stood straight to give her a better look. All the mutual interest came to a screeching halt when he put a hand out to shake and introduced himself. Every bit of spark left her eyes. When the medical supplies were off-loaded from the plane he’d asked her to have dinner with him. “I don’t do clients,” she’d said very seriously, then blushed when she realized the double entendre. He pressed, asking to see her when they were back in the States. He’d fly anyplace to meet her. She’d blinked and paled. The answer was an adamant no. And damned if he knew why. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind she’d been as attracted to him as he was to her. There was more than the client-employee aspect. In the plane he was on the verge of flat-out asking her but was rudely interrupted by the blood-freezing sound of bullets tattooing the plane. Now this weird feeling of déjà vu had him thinking they’d met before. He was damn sure if he’d seen her before he’d remember.
He felt it first. The fine hair on his arms stood on end. His heart felt like it was being pulled from his chest, the air from his lungs. The brilliant light and deafening crash were followed by a gut-wrenching crack like a thirty-aught-six shotgun unloading next to his head. He tried to sit up but Gemma tackled him. “What the fuck?”
“Trees breaking,” she yelled and he understood. Above them branches popped like gunfire at the O.K. Corral. His man DNA took over and shoved Gemma over, rolling on top of her. She struggled but her I-am-in-charge survivor-woman routine wasn’t going to work. “No,” he shouted, holding her down with his full weight. He was hit in the head and back and for a moment thought the shelter was collapsing until he realized Gemma had slung the packs on his back for protection. She coiled her arms around them and wrapped her legs around his body. He braced for the worst as limbs crashed and bounced until
a ground-shaking thud vibrated through their bodies. Several long moments later the only sounds were shrieking wind, pelting rain and the ringing in his ears.
Gemma released the pack, running her hands frantically over his head and back. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” He rose up enough to look into her face. “You?”
“I will be once you stop crushing me,” she said, wiggling under him.
“Give it a few more seconds,” he swallowed hard, “for everything to settle. More shit could fall.” He didn’t move, enjoying the feel of her way too much.
She arched under him and with one hand reached up and snapped one of the glow lights she’d attached to the hammock cord. She rolled her head side to side, presumably looking for damage. All he could think about was how fine her body felt under him and how his legs were between hers and . . . how he was turning into an idiot.
“Doc.”
Her voice was soft and familiar.
“Walsh!”
Where had he met her? He pulled his head back and stared.
She braced her palms on his shoulders and shoved. “For crap’s sake, get off me.”
Reluctantly he rolled away and got to his knees, offering her a hand up, which she didn’t accept. She snatched a light stick and before he realized what she was doing crawled into the storm. “Are you fucking crazy?” He curled his fingers inside her waistband and hung on. She reached around and swatted his hand.
“Let go.” She moved farther into the storm.
“Get in here.” He yanked, pulling her pants half off her ass.
“Okay. Okay.” She came in and knelt, wiggling her hips and hiking her pants back up. “We were fucking lucky.” She reattached the light to the hammock cord and he saw she was soaked.
“Lightning split the tree. The thickest part of the trunk fell a few feet away. Branches are lying across us.”
“Should we get it off?”
“In that?” She gave a quick tilt of her head. “No.” She wiped water from her face and sat. “It’s adding more protection from the wind.” She stopped and gave him a look. “Thanks for protecting me. Don’t do it again. I should be doing that for you.”
Under Fire: The Admiral Page 3