A Military Affair

by Merline Lovelace

  Smoke billowed out from the burning crates. The air above cracked with the sound of rifle fire. Quinn’s eyes stung and his heart thumped against the launcher, but he didn’t budge.

  “How about I cover you?”

  “I’m a whole lot better shot than you are.”

  “Yeah, well, you haven’t seen my pictures yet, lady.”

  It was a feeble joke, but the best he could do under the circumstances. He knew she was right, knew she was doing the job she’d been trained to do, but everything in him balked at the thought of leaving her.

  Another fusillade from above underscored the danger of staying where they were. He was jeopardizing her as well as her mission by delaying the inevitable. Clutching the thirty-plus pounds of missile against his chest, he prepared to scuttle over the ledge.

  Her fist gripped his arm. In full commando mode, she held him in place and issued one last instruction. “Get down to where the slope levels off and you have some cover. If I don’t follow you within the next ten minutes, fire the missile.”

  “No way, lady.”

  Her eyes burned into his. “Think how many innocent lives these weapons could take. Think how many they may have already taken. Fire the missile, Quinn!”

  Before he could answer, she spun around and let rip with the SAW.

  “Go now!” she shouted between bursts of fire. “Now!”

  She’d left him no choice. He went.

  With the Tweet cradled awkwardly in his arms, he half stumbled, half slid down the lava bed. The jagged edges sliced at his calves. Bullets zinged down all around him. Quinn now knew exactly how the emperor must have felt when one of his more intrepid young subjects pointed out that he wore no clothes.

  He was naked. Absolutely naked.

  His blood hammered in his ears and his breath came in wheezing pants by the time the lava thinned and the jungle took over. He dodged behind a tree, whipped around and searched the rocks above.

  The smoke from their bonfire was thick now, so thick it formed a hazy cloud. He couldn’t see the ledge. Couldn’t see Hamilton.

  How long had it taken him to reach the trees? Three minutes? Five? Where was she?

  His hands shaking, he swung the Tweet out and held it at arm’s length. It looked simple enough to operate. The sight was at the front, right next to a square, boxy antenna. The arming mechanism consisted of a single lever. The trigger hung down from the barrel.

  If he remembered right from those weeks he’d spent with the 101st, all he had to do was activate the antenna, aim it at the heat source, wait until it pinged to signal a lock, and fire. Once launched, the missile would look for the infrared light put out by the targeted heat source and follow it in.

  That was the general idea, anyway.

  Resting the launcher on his shoulder, Quinn sweated for another minute. Two. Three.

  The breeze off the ocean caught the smoke, blew it down in gusts. He wanted to curse the gray blanket but knew it provided Tess the cover she so desperately needed.

  His heart pounded out the seconds, the minutes.

  Where was she?

  His muscles twitching at each crack of rifle fire, he pushed up the lever to activate the antenna. It hummed in his ear. Hands sweaty on the slick tube, he peered into the scope and aimed for what he hoped was the source of the gray smoke.

  Suddenly, the launcher emitted a distinctive ping. Quinn experienced a second of sheer exultation. Damned if the radar hadn’t locked onto the burning crates. His hand went to the trigger.

  The next instant, it dropped.

  No way he was firing the missile. And he wasn’t sitting here on his butt while GI Jane fought off a small army alone. Flicking the lever to de-activate the radar, he hefted the missile higher on his shoulder and started back up the slope.

  He’d climbed maybe five yards when a figure in silver-green emerged from the haze of smoke above him. She had the gray knapsack slung over one arm, the SAW over the other. She’d lost the clip that held her hair. The damp, curling mane made a flag of dark copper against the glistening black rock.

  Quinn was grinning like an idiot when she covered the last few yards toward him. The sight of several more figures plunging down out of the smoke wiped the grin right off his face.

  “Fire the Tweet!” she shouted, racing toward him. “Now!”

  The lever went up. The radar hummed. Quinn aimed, waited two agonizing lifetimes for the ping that indicated a lock. Fired.

  He felt the jolt when the missile left the tube. Heard the hiss when the launch engine separated. Saw the trail of white smoke as the rocket cut through the sky in a graceful arc.

  Then he dropped the launcher, grabbed Teresa’s hand, and ran like hell.

  The first explosion sounded like a deep, bellowing roar of outrage from Vulcan, god of the underworld. The second was even louder.

  Tess spun around, saw the jagged peak come apart, and punched a fist in the air.

  “Yes!”

  Quinn didn’t even bother to look. He was more concerned with putting as much distance as possible between them and any of their pursuers who managed to survive the shower of rock and debris from the disintegrating mountain. Yanking on Teresa’s arm, he jerked her after him. Side by side, they dodged the humped roots of giant strangler figs and whipped around ferns the size of small houses. They’d traveled only a few dozen yards before her radio cackled.

  “Raven One. This is Raven Two.”

  Pulling her arm free of Quinn’s grip, Tess fumbled for her mike. She didn’t key it fast enough for Boyle. He came back on, his Alabama drawl sharp with urgency.

  “This is Raven Two, chief. Come in, please.”

  “Raven One here. Go ahead, Two.”

  “What in blue blazes is going on? From where we stand, it looks like the top of the mountain just blew off.”

  “That’s what it looks like from here, too.”

  “Was that your doing?”

  “Actually,” she panted, aiming a goofy smile at the man chugging along beside her, “it was Quinn’s.”

  “Come again?”

  “The newspaper guy. Our guide. Look, I’ll explain things when we get to the plane. Ask the a/c to have the plane ready to roll, will you? We may have a few unfriendlies hot on our tail.”

  “The props are turning as we speak.”

  Quinn didn’t think he’d ever seen a more beautiful sight than the C-130 Hercules sitting at the end of the crushed shell runway. Its four turboprop engines stirred up clouds of white dust. The short, squat fuselage vibrated with restrained energy, like a champion quarter horse at the gate, ready and eager to run. The rear ramp was up, but he saw three or four figures spread out beside the gaping side hatch. They had their weapons at the ready and were scanning the jungle in different directions.

  Beside Quinn, a now seriously gasping Tess keyed her mike. “Raven Two, this is…One. We’re coming in…at…eleven o’clock.”

  The figures whirled, searched the tangle of trees. “We have you, One. Come home to papa.”

  When they burst out of the jungle and raced across the clearing toward the airstrip, Quinn did the emperor thing again. He felt totally exposed, completely naked.

  Like Tess, his breath was coming in gasps. A sharp little stiletto plunged into his side with every pant. But when he dropped back, intentionally lagging a few yards behind, it wasn’t because he was fast running out of steam. It was to shield her back.

  She wasn’t having any of it. Whirling, she grabbed his arm and dragged him with her. They were within shouting distance of the transport when the crack of rifle fire split the air and a plug of dirt flew up a yard or so to the left.

  “Down!”

  Tess dropped to her knees, dragging him with her, then went flat on her face. Quinn’s nose hit the dirt just as her team answered with a barrage of fire.

  Over the whine of the Herc’s engines, he caught the thud of boots. Within seconds, a small phalanx had planted itself between them and the jungle. Quinn was
n’t stupid. He kept his head down. But the newsman in him had him reaching for the camera still looped around his neck.

  Thank God for technology. He used to tote a monster Nikon, along with a dozen different lenses, various filters, and a month’s supply of film. This little digital miracle with its quartersized spare disks had replaced two suitcases of equipment. Contorting his body, Quinn snapped off four quick shots before Tess shouted in his ear.

  “Okay! Let’s hustle.”

  They made for the open side hatch. Hands reached down to haul Tess up. Quinn provided an assist by planting both palms under her bottom and heaving. He flopped inside next and had barely rolled out of the way when the rest of her team vaulted in.

  By the time he scrambled to his feet, the plane was already rolling. Tess was suspended half out the hatch, hanging onto a cargo strap with one hand and firing her SAW with the other. Her team crowded beside her and provided protective fire while the Herc gained power.

  Quinn didn’t let the opportunity pass. He got in several fantastic shots before the C-130’s nose went up and the tail dropped. Grabbing at the cargo netting draped over a pallet of equipment, he held on until the jungle fell away, the rattle of automatic fire died, and the transport soared into the sky.

  For several moments, the only sound in the hold was the roar of the engines and the whistle of the wind coming through the open hatch. Only after the loadmaster cranked the hatch closed did one of Tess’s crew let out a wild whoop. The others pounded her on the back.

  “That was some show you put on, One.”

  “Yeah, it was.”

  Raking her tangled hair out of her face, she turned to the bristly-cheeked journalist. Her green eyes were alive with the thrill of having beat the odds. “Way to go, Quinn.”

  He didn’t even try to fight the urge this time. Wrapping both hands around her upper arms, he hauled her against his chest.

  Her jaw dropped. Her eyes widened in surprise. While her crew watched with varying expressions of astonishment, Quinn bent her back over his arm and covered her mouth with his.

  Chapter 4

  Having made the flight from Hawaii to Namuoto just yesterday, Tess knew the return trip would take sixteen hours, with a stop en route at Wake Island to refuel. Plenty of time to decompress after the wild events on the island.

  Her first priority was to brief the aircraft commander and her team members on the stash of arms she’d found in the cave. Once the plane was airborne and on course to Wake, the pilot climbed out of his seat and came back to the belly of the plane to hear the details.

  Pitching her voice to be heard over the roar of the four turbo-prop engines, Tess gave him and the dirt-streaked team members a brief recap of what had happened.

  “Let me get this straight,” the pilot said with a grin. “You blew up the whole cache with a single Chinese Tweet?”

  “Well, technically Quinn here blew it up. His hand was on the trigger. I just provided, uh, a few words of encouragement.”

  The eyes of everyone on board turned to the newcomer in their midst. Tess hid a smile at their varying expressions of disbelief. In his gaudy tropical shirt and wrinkled shorts, Quinn had that effect on people.

  “I’ll radio ahead to Hickam,” the pilot told her. “They’re going to want a full report when you land.”

  No kidding! Tess figured she’d spend the next week filling out forms.

  Still hyper from their close escape, both the recovery team and the Phoenix Raven crew wanted to hash over events on the island. First, though, they conducted a simple, heart-wrenching ceremony.

  “I’ll take that,” Dr. Courtland said, relieving Tess of the gray knapsack slung over her shoulder.

  Her sunburned face solemn, the anthropologist retrieved the wooden recovery box from inside the bag and passed it to the senior military representative on her team. The lieutenant stood at attention, the small wooden container in his hands, while the rest of the recovery team lined up on one side of a plain, coffin-like transfer box. The Phoenix Ravens flanked the other side.

  With a nod, the lieutenant signaled for the lid to be raised. Slowly, step by deliberate step, he moved forward and placed the recovery container inside the larger box. Once it was securely nested in the foam liner, the lid came down. An American flag was unfurled with a snap and draped over the coffin.

  The lieutenant stepped back. As Tess had done up on the mountain, he raised his arm in a slow, measured salute. A silent observer, Quinn was struck by the centuries of symbolism and tradition embodied in the gesture.

  Sixty years separated the two warriors. One was young, black and dedicated to recovering the remains of fallen comrades. The other had died alone, consumed by a fiery crash and mourned by a family who’d never known where he rested all these years. Yet, with a simple salute, the lieutenant rendered the gratitude and respect of an entire nation.

  The scene stirred emotions in Quinn’s chest he hadn’t felt for a long time. Admiration for a generation who gave everything in them in defense of their country. Respect for their sacrifices. A vague longing for the days when there were no shades of gray; there was only the sharp, clear white of duty. Honor. Country.

  He stood back, well away from the small cadre, framing his shots with an artist’s eye. The drone of the engines drowned out the quiet click of his camera’s shutter. He’d get the names of everyone on the team later, enter them in his Palm Pilot. The device’s memory contained names, dates, notes from the various interviews he’d conducted, outlines of the stories he was working. This one, he decided as he lined up another shot, would get top priority.

  When the simple ceremony was done, the passengers in the back of the C-130 sloughed off their weapons, wrung out their wet socks, and tried to make themselves comfortable for the long flight home. One of the Ravens broke out a case of MREs—the army’s ubiquitous Meals-Ready-to-Eat. Lifting the brown foil packages one by one, the sergeant read the labels.

  “Okay, troops. Listen up. We have hearty beef stew. We have cheese tortellini. We have chili macaroni and chicken with rice.”

  Quinn put in a bid for chili macaroni and caught the package the security specialist tossed him. He’d dined on MREs during his weeks with the 101st Airborne and knew each meal pack came with an entrée, a side dish, dessert, crackers, cheese spread, a beverage powder, a spoon, gum and a towelette. Although his conscious mind balked at the idea of eating food that had been cooked and packaged as much as six or seven years ago, his stomach rumbled in eager anticipation.

  He found a place on one of the fold-down web side seats. The friendly—and very curious—Sergeant Boyle hunkered down next to him.

  “So where do you know Tess from?” the sergeant asked casually, ripping open the foil of his MRE.

  “From Namuoto.”

  “You mean you never met before today?”

  “No.”

  Boyle hooked a brow. His glance drifted to his team chief, curled into one of the fold-down web seats.

  “You two sure got friendly in a couple of hours.”

  “Yeah,” Quinn murmured, following the direction of his gaze, “we did.”

  And he planned to get a whole lot friendlier.

  Staff Sergeant Teresa Hamilton had gotten to him in a way no female had in a long, long time. The woman had the heart of a lion and the body of a temptress. Quinn got hard just imagining all the ways to exploit that potent combination.

  Digging his spoon into the package of cold chili macaroni, he started thinking ahead. To Hawaii and a breeze-swept hotel room. A steaming hot shower. Cool, clean sheets. A certain slender redhead stretched out under him.

  Tess felt an odd sensation ripple along the nerves just under her skin. Seeking its source, she threw a look over her shoulder. She caught Quinn’s gaze, hot and intense. She held his eyes for a long moment while the ripples intensified to became a river of pure sensation.

  Shaken by its intensity, she jerked her attention back to her chicken and rice. This was crazy! She’d
met the man all of…what? Four or five hours ago? In those short hours, she’d formed a less-than-favorable impression of his character, his morals and his motivation.

  And yet…

  He’d stuck with her, toughed it out up there on the mountain. More to the point, he’d fired a Chinese-made missile and destroyed a store of arms that would have supplied international terrorists for years. That alone raised him several notches in her estimation.

  And, she admitted with a funny little quiver low in her belly, he’d pretty well blown her away with that kiss. Obviously he’d been working on his mouth-to-mouth technique for a long time. No doubt he’d perfected it with Miss Red Lace Thong.

  Fighting a traitorous desire to discover just what other techniques Quinn had perfected, Tess spooned out a chunk of chicken. She was halfway through her meal when Raven Three brought his over and joined her. Like Danny Boyle, Jeff Anderson made no effort to hide his curiosity.

  “Funny thing, Peter Quinn popping up on Namuoto like that. I thought he was still in Kandahar.”

  Tess slanted the lanky Texan a quick look. Anderson had just rotated onto her team a few weeks ago following a tour in Afghanistan.

  “Did you bump into Quinn at Kandahar?”

  “No, but I heard a few tales about him.”

  “Like what?”

  He hesitated, obviously unsure how much to spill after the lip-lock the journalist had laid on his team leader. Loyalty to one of his own won out. His warning was oblique, but definitely designed to give her a heads-up.

  “Rumor is,” he said with a shrug, “Quinn figured out how to get past more than one sweet young thing’s veil.”

  Tess gave a small snort. “So tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “Well… Do you know about Al Sharif?”

  “Who or what is Al Sharif?”

  “It’s an isolated village in the mountains west of Kandahar.”

  She flicked a curious glance at Quinn. “What’s our newsman’s connection to this village?”

  “It was caught between two vicious warlords,” Anderson related in his slow Texas drawl. “They rounded up every male over the age of ten and forced them to fight for one faction or another. They also rounded up every pig, goat and sack of grain in the village. The women, children and old folks were left behind to starve.”