The two other women officers present instantly closed ranks behind her.
"Lots of men leave the service," Jill Bradshaw pointed out acidly. A career army cop, she took few prisoners. "In fact, the first-term reenlistment rate for women is higher than it is for men."
"And in case you've forgotten," Kate Hargrave snapped, "the military is like any other organization. It's a pyramidal structure that requires a large base of Indians, with increasingly fewer chiefs at the more senior ranks. The services don't want everyone to stay in uniform."
Doc Richardson arched a brow and exchanged glances with USAF Captain Dave Scott. They were too wise—and had each grown too involved with one of the women now confronting McIver—to jump into this fray. Russ, however, appeared undaunted by the female forces arrayed against him.
"You're right," he agreed, refusing to retreat. "The military doesn't want everyone to stay in uniform. Only those who are good at what they do. So damned good they're hand-picked to field test a highly classified new attack/assault vehicle that could prove critical to future battlefield operations."
Cari clamped her mouth shut. She had no comeback for that. Neither did Kate or Jill. Like the male officers assigned to the Pegasus project, they'd been chosen based on their experience, expertise and ability to get things done. They were among the best their services had to offer and darn well knew it.
Still, she wasn't about to let the marine who alternately irritated, annoyed and attracted her have the last word.
"If any of us want to stay in uniform," she said tartly, "we'd better get off the subject of my personal life and onto the task at hand."
Swirling her chair around, she clicked the mouse to save Jerry's e-mail. She'd answer him later, when she figured out what the heck her answer would be. Another click brought up the analysis program. Wiping her mind clear of everything but the task at hand, she began drafting her preliminary post-mission report.
She was still hard at work when Captain Westfall wove his way through the racks of equipment to join his crew some time later. His expression was unexpectedly somber for a man who'd watched his baby perform flawlessly.
"Let me have your attention, people." His steel-gray eyes swept the crowded area, dwelling on each of his officers. "I've just received a coded communique from the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Pegasus test cadre is being disbanded effective immediately."
Shock rippled through the group, along with a chorus of muttered exclamations.
"What the hell?"
"You're kidding!"
"Why?"
Captain Westfall stilled the clamor with an upraised hand.
"Our cadre has been redesignated. We're now the Pegasus Joint Task Force. Our mission is to extract two United States citizens trapped in the interior of Caribe."
The announcement burst like a cluster bomb among the stunned officers. Cari's mouth dropped open, snapped shut again, as her mind scrambled to switch from test to operational mode.
A map of Caribe flashed into her head. It was a small island nation, about sixty nautical miles off the coast of Nicaragua. Its internal political situation had been steadily worsening for months. The island's president for life was battling ferociously to hold on to his sinecure. In response to his repressive tactics, rebels had stepped up their action and the fight had turned bloody.
The Joint Chiefs of Staff had alerted Captain West-fall weeks ago about the possibility of using Pegasus to extract U.S. personnel, if necessary. As a result, he'd compressed the test schedule until it was so tight it squeaked. Evidently the deep-water sea trial Cari had just completed would be the final test. From now on, it was for real.
But two hours! That was short notice, even for a military deployment. Westfall made it clear they were to use that time to draw up an op plan.
"The U.S. began evacuation of its personnel this morning," he advised. "All are accounted for and are in various stages of departure except two missionaries. A squad of marines has gone into the interior after the missionaries and will escort them to a designated extraction site."
"I've flown over Caribe," Dave Scott commented grimly. "The jungle canopy is two or three hundred feet thick in places. Too thick to permit an extraction by air."
"And rebel forces now hold the one road in and out of the area," Captain Westfall confirmed. "The only egress is by river."
"Pegasus!" Cari breathed. "Now that he's demonstrated his sea legs, he's the perfect vehicle to use for an operation like this."
"Correct. Captain Scott, you'll fly Pegasus on the over-water leg from Corpus Christi to Nicaragua. Their government is maintaining a strict neutral position with regard to the political situation on Caribe but has given us permission to land at an unimproved airstrip just across the straits from the island."
Dave gave a quick nod. "I'll start working the flight plan."
"Once in Nicaragua, Lieutenant Dunn will pilot Pegasus to Caribe and navigate up the Rio Verde to a designated rendezvous point. Major McIver, your mission is to make contact with the marines and bring out the two stranded missionaries."
"Yes, sir."
"You'll be operating under strict rules of engagement," Westfall warned. "To avoid entangling the U.S. in the internal political struggle, you're not to fire lethal weapons unless under fire yourself. Questions?"
Her blood humming at the anticipation of action, Caroline joined the chorus of "No, sir!"
The steel-eyed navy officer turned away, swung back. His glance skimmed from Mac to Cari and back again.
"Things could turn ugly down there. Real ugly. Make sure your next-of-kin notification data is up-to-date. You might also zap off a quick e-mail to your families," he added after a slight hesitation.
He didn't need to explain. Since 9/11, Cari had participated in enough short-notice deployments to know this might be her last communication with her folks for a while. Or her last, period.
Cari followed the captain's orders and zapped off one quick e-mail. Pumping pure adrenaline, she swung back around to find Mac contemplating her with a tight, closed expression.
"You didn't bat an eye at the prospect of going into Caribe."
"Neither did you," she pointed out.
He hooked a thumb toward the now blank screen. "What about Jerry-boy?"
Her shrug made the question irrelevant. This was what she'd trained for. This was what wearing a uniform entailed.
"Jerry isn't your concern. We've got work to do."
Chapter 2
Mac couldn't believe it. Here he was, stuffing spare ammo clips into the pockets on his webbed utility belt, less than twenty minutes away from departing on a mission to extract U.S. citizens from a potentially explosive situation.
Yet for the first time in his life Mac couldn't force his mind to focus solely and exclusively on the task ahead. Every time he thought he'd crowded everything else out, the damned e-mail Cari had received a while ago would pop back into his head.
Marry me, beautiful.
What kind of a jerk proposed to a woman via e-mail? Particularly a woman like Caroline Dunn.
Mac had worked alongside a lot of professionals in the corps, male and female. The small, compact brunette currently frowning over a set of coastal navigational charts left most of them in the dust.
Hell, who was he kidding? Cari left all of them in the dust. He'd never met any woman with her combination of beauty and brains, and he'd tangled with more than his share. Particularly in his wilder days before the United States Marine Corps started him down a different path thirteen...no, fourteen years ago.
Fourteen years! Shaking his head, Mac shoved another spare clip into his belt. Hard to remember now how close he'd come to ending up on the wrong side of anyone in uniform. Harder still to remember the woman who'd almost put him there. He'd had no idea the thrill-seeking blonde who'd climbed on the back of his beat-up Harley was married to a California state senator. And he sure as hell hadn't known the woman was carrying a stash of Colombian prime in her fanny pack.
When the cops hauled the still underage Mac into her husband's office, the wealthy politician had given him a choice. A trumped-up possession charge and jail time or the United States Marines. It wasn't much of a choice. Mac had been staying just one step ahead of the law since flatly refusing to let the state put him in yet another foster home. He figured the marines would kick him out fast enough, just as his series of foster parents had.
Instead, the corps had molded a smart-mouthed punk into a single-minded, razor-edged fighting machine. In the often painful process, Mac found the home he'd never had. He'd also finished high school, earned a college degree, learned to lead as well as follow, and been chosen for Officers' Candidate School.
He'd never forget that crystal bright April morning at Quantico, when he'd raised his gloved hand to be sworn in as a commissioned officer. He took his oath to protect and defend the United States against all enemies very seriously. So, apparently, did Lieutenant Dunn. She'd served for more than ten years, had several command tours under her belt, and had played a key role in the war against terrorism during the coast guard's transition from the Treasury Department to the new Department of Homeland Security.
Yet here she was, actually debating whether to give up her career and her uniform to marry a smooth-talking JAG who'd probably never seen the business end of an assault rifle. The idea torqued Mac's jaws so tight he wasn't sure he'd ever get them unscrewed. They stayed locked the whole time Kate Hargrave and Cari pored over the charts.
"I've updated Pegasus's onboard computers with Caribe's tidal patterns, riverine data and predicted climatic and atmospheric conditions," the weather officer was saying. "You might see some swells from that squall on the way in, but rough weather shouldn't hit until you're on your way out."
"How rough?"
"Better pack some extra barf bags for you and your passengers."
"Oh, great!"
Shaking her head, Cari bent to stuff the charts in her gear bag. Her green-and-black jungle BDUs stretched taut over a trim, rounded rear. The enticing view had Mac grinding his teeth. Wrenching his glance away, he jammed another clip into his belt.
Okay. All right. He cotild admit it. The idea of Lieutenant Caroline Dunn marrying anyone, including a pansy-assed JAG, rubbed him exactly the wrong way. The woman had tied him up in knots more than once in the past few months. If he hadn't learned the hard way to avoid poaching on another man's territory—or if Cari had given the least hint she was interested in being poached on—he might have made a move on her himself.
But he had, and she hadn't.
With a little grunt, Mac reached for his assault rifle. He was checking the working parts when a low whine brought his head around.
Pegasus was spreading his wings. Like the mythical beast he'd been named for, the craft fanned out its delta-shaped fins. When they locked in place, the engines slowly tilted upright. Another whine, and the propellers unfolded like petals. In this configuration, Pegasus would lift straight up like a chopper. Once airborne, Dave would tilt the engines to horizontal and fly it like a fixed-wing aircraft.
The air force pilot was in the cockpit, clearly visible through the bubble canopy. Hooking a glance over his shoulder, he gave Captain Westfall a thumbs-up. The captain nodded and turned to Mac.
"Ready, Major?"
"Yes, sir."
"Lieutenant?"
"All set, sir."
Cari's calm reply did nothing to loosen the knots in Mac's chest. He'd been air-dropped into Afghanistan by a female USAF C-17 pilot. Had a bullet hole patched up by a particularly sexy navy nurse. Had relied on enlisted female marines to provide ground support and combat communications. He valued and respected the vital role women played in the military.
But this was the first time he was going into harm's way with a woman at his side. If she'd been anyone other than Caroline Dunn, the prospect might not have put such a kink in his gut.
Shouldering his assault rifle, he followed her through the open hatch.
Four hours later Pegasus was once again in sea mode—wings swept back, engines tilted rearward, propellers churning water like a ship's screws. Nicaragua lay well behind. Caribe was a gray smudge on the horizon. In between was a big stretch of open sea.
An increasingly turbulent sea, Cari noted.
"Kate was right on target," she commented, pitching her voice to be heard above the engines as she steered her craft through rolling green troughs. "Looks like we're starting to pick up some of the swells from that squall."
Mac responded with a grunt that earned him a quick glance. He didn't appear to appreciate the craft's agility to cut through the deepening troughs. In fact, he was looking distinctly green around the gills.
"The seas will probably get higher and rougher when we hit the barrier reef around the island," Cari advised. "You'd better pop a couple of those Dram-amine pills Doc put in the medical kit."
"I'll make it."
"That wasn't a suggestion, Major."
The deceptively mild comment slewed Mac's head around. Cari could feel his gray-green eyes slice into her, but didn't bother to return the stare. He might outrank her on land. Aboard this craft, she was in command.
She kept her gaze on the gray smudge ahead as Mac dragged out the medical kit. Only after he'd downed the pills as ordered did she slant him another glance. Like her, he was dressed for the jungle—web-sided boots, black T-shirt, black-and-green camouflage pants and shirt. Instead of a ball cap, though, a floppy-brimmed "boonie" hat covered his buzz-cut brown hair.
He looked leather tough and coldy lethal. Not someone you wanted to suddenly come nose to nose with in the jungle. Cari had to admit she was glad they were on the same side for this operation.
"Is this freshening sea going to slow us down?" he asked with an eye to the digital map displayed on the instrument panel.
Their course was highlighted in glowing red. It took them straight across the fifty-mile stretch of open water, through the outer reef encircling Caribe and into a small bay on the southern tip of the palm-shaped island. Once inside the bay, they'd aim for the mouth of the Rio Verde and head some twenty-six miles upriver.
"Pegasus can handle these swells," Cari said in answer to his question. "We should arrive right on target."
"Good enough. I'll confirm with Second Recon."
He'd already established contact with the six-man reconnaissance team that had been sent into the jungle to retrieve the American missionaries. Luckily, they were equipped with CSEL—the new Combat Survivor/Evader Locator. Not much larger than an ordinary cell phone, the handheld radio provided over-the-horizon data communications, light-of-sight voice modes, and precise GPS positioning and land navigation. The handy-dandy new device was state-of-the-art and just off the assembly line. Neither the rebel nor government forces in Caribe could intercept or interpret its secure, scrambled transmissions.
"Second Recon, this is Pegasus One."
"This is Second Recon. Go ahead, Pegasus."
The marine in charge of the reconnaissance team sounded so young, Cari thought. And so grimly determined.
"Be advised we're twenty nautical miles off the coast of Caribe and closing fast," Mac informed him. "We're holding to our ETA."
"We copy, Pegasus. We're about five klicks from the target."
Five kilometers from the mission put them about eight from the river, Cari saw in another quick glance at the digital display. The marines still had some jungle to hack through.
"We'll bundle up our charges as soon as we reach the target and proceed immediately to the designated rendezvous point," the team leader promised.
"Roger, Second. We'll be waiting for you."
Frowning. Mac took a GPS reading on the team's signal and entered its position with a few clicks of the keyboard built into the instrument console. His frown deepened as Pegasus plowed into another trough. The hull hit with a smack that sent spray washing over the canopy.
"The swells are getting heavier."
"They are," Cari agreed.
He shot her a hard look. "Can't we put on a little more speed? I don't want to leave those marines sitting around, twiddling their thumbs with the rebel forces combing the jungle for them."
"We won't."
The calm reply brought his brows snapping together under the brim of his hat. "Are you that sure of yourself or is this the face you put on when you're in command?"
"Yes, I'm sure," she answered, "and what you see is what you get."
For the first time since they'd departed Corpus Christi, Mac relaxed into a grin. "From where I'm sitting," he drawled, "what I see looks pretty good."
Her hands almost slid off the throttle. "Good grief! Is that a compliment?"
"It is."
A tiny dart of pleasure made it past the butterflies beating against Cari's ribs. After all these weeks of butting heads with the stubborn marine, she hadn't expected any warm fuzzies just moments away from entering a potential hostile fire zone. Her brief pleasure took a back seat to business when she checked the displays and saw they'd entered Caribe's territorial waters.
"We're within twelve miles of the island. We'll hit the coral reef in a few minutes. You'd better get ready for a bumpy ride."
Bumpy didn't begin to describe it.
Waves pounded the sunken coral reef. The swells that had kept Mac's stomach churning became monster waves. The huge walls of green curled and crashed and roared like the hounds of hell. He clamped his jaw shut and tried not to wince at the vicious battering Pegasus took.
Cari, he noted, didn't so much as break a sweat as she worked the throttle and wheel. Somehow she managed to dodge the worst of the monsters while keeping her craft aimed straight for the calmer waters inside the reef.
Finally, Pegasus broke through the pounding surf. Mac mouthed a silent prayer of relief and swiped the sweat off his forehead with a forearm. Squinting through the canopy, he searched the vegetation fronting the beach for some sign of an opening.
"We're right on track according to the GPS coordinates," Cari confirmed after another read of the instruments. "The river mouth should lie dead ahead."
The Right Stuff Page 2