As little as she liked berthing overnight alongside the river, Cari had to nix the idea of using shipboard batteries to power external lights. "We'll need every ounce of juice to. restart the engines. We'll have to wait until morning to unfoul the propellers."
Assuming she could unfoul them, that is.
Mac concurred. "It's best not to fumble around underwater in the dark. Lieutenant, why don't you accompany the reverend back to the village, grab some chow and snatch a few hours sleep? I'll use what's left of the netting to camouflage Pegasus and take first watch."
He made the suggestion so naturally Cari suspected he didn't even realize he'd assumed command. Since they were once again ashore, she yielded to his authority.
This passing the baton back and forth was becoming a habit with them, she thought wryly. What's more, they were getting pretty good at it, each allowing the other to exercise their unique skills and expertise.
That thought was still in her mind when she made her way back to the river four hours later.
She'd downed a fantastic meal of roast fish, black beans and plantains. She'd also scrubbed away her dirt and sweat, and curled up on a straw mat for three hours of total unconsciousness. Now it was McIver's turn.
She found him stretched out on the bank, back propped against a tree, boots crossed at the ankles, sharing a fire with two of the men from the village. The fire was carefully banked, a mere red glow in the darkness, but it emitted enough smoke to keep the worst of the mosquitoes at bay. Either that, or they shied away from the awful stink put out by the thin, long stemmed pipes clamped between the men's teeth.
"Banana leaves," Mac explained when she dropped down beside him and wrinkled her nose. "Flavored with what I'm guessing is some sort of guano."
"Guano? Like in bird poop?"
"I'm thinking it's more likely bat droppings."
"You're smoking bat droppings?"
His shoulders lifted. "When in Rome..."
This was a whole new side of the man, one Cari was seeing for the first time. In their months together at the New Mexico test site, she'd pretty well decided his personality and general attitude were every bit as starched as his BDUs. Yet here she was, sitting cross-legged on a riverbank beside him while he smoked bat dung and carried on a lively conversation with two grinning Caribes via grunts and hand signals.
Then there was that kiss.
Now that the tension of the afternoon had eased some of its brutal grip on her mind—and on her neck muscles!—the memory of Mac's mouth coming down hard and hungry on hers kept sneaking into Cari's thoughts. She still couldn't figure out where that kiss had come from, and the fact that she couldn't was driving her nuts.
Unfortunately, she found no opportunity to slip the topic into the conversation. A ferocious rumble from the vicinity of Mac's stomach reminded her he had yet to chow down or get some rest.
"It's my watch," she reminded him. "You'd better go feed that growling beast something other than banana leaves and bat dung."
Mac didn't argue. Like Cari, he'd spent enough years in the field to know the importance of snatching food and rest whenever the situation permitted.
"I'll be back in four hours." Gesturing to his companions to stay and keep her company, he pushed to his feet. "You've got your radio?"
She tapped her shirt pocket. "Right here."
"Contact me if you see anything—anything—that makes you nervous."
"The only thing that worries me at the moment is the possibility these guys might press me to take a turn on your pipe."
In the dim glow from the fire she saw his teeth flash in a quick grin. "You should try a puff or two. It's really not all that bad."
"No, thanks."
He stood for a moment, a dark shadow against the even deeper black of the jungle. "It's been a helluva a day."
"That it has."
Cari couldn't believe she'd jumped out of bed at 5:00 a.m. this morning convinced the most momentous challenge she'd face was taking Pegasus into the Gulf of Mexico for his first deep-water swim. Eighteen hours later, she was stranded on a Caribbean island with a boatload of kids, two missionaries and one U.S. Marine.
"You did good today, Lieutenant."
Good grief! Two compliments in one day! Coming from Russ McIver, she was sure that constituted some kind of a world record.
"We both did good," she returned. "Although some people might say I fell a little short of excellence when I hung my boat up on a fishing net."
"Yeah, well, there is that minor problem to rectify. Still..." He hesitated a moment before moving into dangerous territory. "Your friend Jerry might have had his eyes opened if he'd seen you in action today."
She was still formulating her answer to that when another loud rumble cut through the buzz and whir of night insects.
"Go eat something," she insisted.
"Aye, aye, skipper. I'll back in four hours."
He started off, his boots squishing on the spongy vegetation lining the riverbank. Cari debated for all of four or five seconds before unfolding her legs and following after him.
"Hey, McIver!"
"What?"
"You remember that e-mail Captain Westfall suggested we send before departing for Caribe?"
"That isn't something I'm likely to forget in the space of one day."
"I e-mailed Jerry."
She sensed rather than saw his shrug.
"Understandable."
Moving toward him, she wondered why the heck it was suddenly so important to clarify the matter of Commander Jerry Wharton. "Not that it's any of your business, but I turned down his proposal."
Surprise colored his voice. "You did?"
"I did. I also ended things between us."
"Why? Not that it's any of my business."
She hated to surrender ground to a marine, but saw no other choice in this instance. "You were right back in Corpus. I'm good at what I do. Damned good. What's more, I love being part of something important. I ought to be able to find a way to combine a career and a family. Other women have certainly managed it."
"You're not other women, Dunn."
The flat assertion left her almost as confused as his kiss had earlier that afternoon. And more than a little irritated. She wasn't sure what kind of reaction she'd been expecting to the news she'd ended things with Jerry, but this certainly wasn't it.
"See you in four hours," she said, turning to make her way back to the two fishermen.
Mac let her go.
He wasn't about to admit her cool announcement had rocked him right back on his boot heels. Nor would he give in to the suddenly fierce urge to grab her wrist, spin her around, and feed the beast inside him that hungered for something other than smoked fish and black beans.
They were on a mission, for God's sake! Responsible for the safety of two Americans and a passel of kids. But when they got the Whites and their charges out of Caribe...
A vivid image leaped into his head. Cari sprawled on a bed. Her hair tangled and dark against white sheets. Her lips swollen. Her brown eyes languorous. Mac went so hard he almost doubled over.
Gritting his teeth, he forced the image out of his head. The vivid detail blurred, but the ache stayed. All these weeks they'd worked together, Mac had refused to let himself think of Caroline Dunn that way, had done his damndest to keep her out of his head. Now he wanted her in his bed so badly he ached with it.
Somehow he suspected he wasn't going to drop off to sleep any time soon.
He had that right.
Stretched out on a raised sleeping platform in the hut given over for the visitors' use, he caught only fitful snatches of sleep. Finally, he dozed off—only to jerk awake again sometime later.
A slow, stealthy rustling in the darkness had him grabbing his assault rifle.
Chapter 5
Rifle to his shoulder, Mac picked out a glowing green figure in the weapon's Night Vision scope.
"Hold it right there!"
His snarled command
froze the ghoulish shape in a half crouch. A head whipped around. Eyes surrounded by iridescent green shadows stared at Mac.
Disgusted, he lowered his weapon. "Didn't anyone ever tell you sneaking into a room in the dark of night is a good way to get hurt, kid?"
Evidently not. Paulo scrunched his face into a scowl and looked distinctly unintimidated.
"What are you doing here?" Mac growled. "Why aren't you bedded down with the others?"
As soon as the words were out, he gave himself a mental kick. Oh, that was smart. Why not ask the kid a couple more questions he couldn't respond to? Besides, the answer was obvious now that Mac had shaken the sleep out of his head. The boy was crouched over the webbed utility belt, conducting a little midnight raid.
The possibilities of what he'd find in those pockets made Mac's stomach clench. He'd stuffed a small arsenal of spare ammo clips, grenades and other deadly items in that belt. None of which made suitable toys for children.
Rolling off the woven straw platform, he flicked a match and put it to the wick of the kerosene lamp hanging from a low rafter.
"What are you after?"
At his approach, the kid sprang up and hotfooted it for the straw mat that served as a door. Mac caught him by the collar of his shirt before he could escape.
"Oh, no you don't."
He swung the boy around and faced off with him for the second time that day.
"We need to have a little powwow here, kid. You can't... Ow!"
For a scrawny little runt, the boy sure knew how to put his boney elbows and knees to use. Mac took a sharp whack on the shin that left him feeling distinctly unfriendly.
Paulo gave no signs of feeling any friendlier. With an inarticulate little grunt he twisted around and tried to lock his teeth on a handy patch of wrist. Swearing under his breath, Mac held him at arm's length.
"Now look, pal. Let's get something straight. We're on the same side."
Maybe.
And maybe not.
Now that he thought about it, could be the kid wasn't real anxious to leave Caribe for a new home and as yet unknown adoptive parents in the States. Or could be the boy had an aversion to authority figures. The Lord knew Mac hadn't been on the best of terms with very many in his younger days.
Keeping a firm grip on the ragged Spider-Man shirt, he dragged the sullen boy back over to the belt. "What were you after here? ¿Qué usted, uh, desea?"
Paulo made an abrupt gesture with one hand. The Whites had taught the boy to communicate via sign language. Mac had never learned signing, but this particular gesture was universally recognizable.
"¿Que?" he growled. "Show me."
Scowling, Paulo pointed a grubby finger at the survival knife attached to the belt. The six-inch parkar-ized steel blade with its serrated top edge and leather-grooved handle lay nestled inside a canvas scabbard.
Mac's eyes narrowed. What the heck did the kid want with a blade like that? The mystery was solved a moment later, when a distracted Harry White came in search of his missing charge.
"There you are! What are you doing?"
Paulo shrugged, leaving Mac to answer. "From what I can gather, he came after my knife."
"Oh, dear."
White directed a torrent of Caribe at the boy, who answered with a flurry of hand signals.
"He didn't want the knife," the minister interpreted. "Just the sheath. Show him, Paulo."
With a fierce scowl, the boy dug his hand into the pocket of his shorts. When he withdrew it, his grubby fist was clenched tjght. It took a gentle prod from the missionary to get him to uncurl his fingers.
In his palm lay a small pocketknife. The handle must have been inlaid with mother-of-pearl at one time, but most of the iridescent shell had chipped away. Shooting Mac an evil look, Paulo dug out the blade. The steel was broken off at the tip and rusted in spots, but it was clear the knife was the boy's prize possession. It was also clear why he'd wanted the sheath of Mac's survival knife. Hunkering down, the boy drew the broken blade along the narrow whetstone sewn into the side seam of the canvas scabbard. For a moment the snick of steel against flint was the only sound in the hut.
"The knife was in his pocket when he showed up at the back door of the mission," White explained while Paulo methodically sharpened the blade. "He was only four or five at the time. Far too young for such an implement, of course, but every time we took the thing away and hid it, he'd ferret it out. We've since discovered he's very careful with it. And quite good at carving beads and toys for the other children from seed pods and monkey wood."
Mac would bet the little tough could probably carve his initials in a man's shinbone, too. He kept his thoughts to himself and expression neutral, though, until the boy had whetted the blade to his satisfaction. Rising, he snapped the blade shut, dropped the knife in his pocket and started to saunter off.
"Paulo!"
White said something in Caribe. The boy's lips pressed tight. His jaw jutted.
Sighing, the minister tried again. "The major let you use his whetstone. What do you say?"
At the gentle suggestion, the youngster flashed a quick hand signal. The tips of the missionary's ears turned a bright pink.
"He, er, said thank you."
Yeah, Mac just bet he did.
Quickly, White shooed the boy into the other room. His ears still glowing, he spread his hands apologetically. "Paulo has had a rough time. From the little we've been able to pry out of him, he apparently saw his mother murdered by the rebels, along with half of his village."
So it wasn't just anyone in authority the kid reacted so strongly to. It was anyone in BDUs. Feeling a tug of pity for a child who'd taken some major hits in his six short years, Mac asked about his father.
"We don't know who he was or what happened to him. Paulo just showed up at the mission one day. No one in the government bureaucracy can produce so much as a birth certificate or baptismal record for him. It's pretty much the same story with all the kids. That's why we've had such a difficult time getting them out of Caribe. They have no papers, therefore they don't exist."
Remembering his earlier thought, Mac posed another question. "Are you so sure they want to leave Caribe? It's their home."
"We're sure. They know they're going to families who've waited for years to adopt. All except Paulo. We've had some difficulty placing him, but finally found a family who's willing to take him after he completes his surgery."
"What surgery?"
"My sister's been in contact with doctors at the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. They've experienced considerable success implanting artificial voice boxes in patients with severe throat cancer. It would take a number of delicate operations, but we're hoping they can do the same for Paulo."
The thought of the scruffy kid in the next room going under the knife for a series of operations left Mac feeling distinctly uncomfortable. So much so, he couldn't get back to sleep after Reverend White returned to the other room. Edgy and restless, he hooked his utility belt over one shoulder, jammed on his hat and slipped out of the hut.
He used his pencil-thin high-intensity flashlight to find his way to the river. All around him, the jungle was alive with the sights and sounds. Night-feeding creatures crunched on leaves and insects. Bats whooshed through the trees. A dozen or more red dots glowed in the inky blackness, steady, unblinking eyes that followed Mac's passage.
The carefully banked fire was little more than an orange blush in the darkness, but provided enough light for Mac to observe the trio keeping Pegasus company. Cari had assumed the same comfortable position Mac had earlier—her back against a peeling banyan trunk, legs crossed at the ankles. She'd evidently declined their hosts' offer of a pipe, however. The two Caribe fishermen squatted comfortably nearby, providing more than enough pungent smoke to keep the mosquitoes away without her assistance.
"It's McIver," Mac called out in a quiet voice so as not to startle them too much. "I'm coming in."
Cari sat up, chiding herself fo
r the ridiculous way her pulse skittered at the sound of his voice. How like McIver to materialize out of the night just when her wayward thoughts had returned to him...for only the ninth or tenth time in the past few hours!
She darted a quick look at the illuminated face of her watch, confirmed it was only a few hours since she'd relieved him. "What are you doing back here?" Her voice sharpened. "Is there a problem?"
"No problem. I just couldn't sleep."
Nodding to the two fishermen, Mac folded his legs and made himself comfortable beside her. She scooted over a few inches to give him a share of the tree to lean against. The other men seemed to take his arrival as a signal for them to abandon their post. In a mix of Spanish, Caribe and eloquent hand gestures, they indicated it was time for them to hit the rack and melted into the jungle.
A minute ago, the muted symphony of night sounds and mostly incomprehensible murmur of her two self-appointed guardians had lulled Cari into a relaxed, sleepy state. All of a sudden she was wide-awake, her every nerve tingling. Deciding some conversation would force her mind away from Mac's close proximity, she angled her face toward his.
"Why couldn't you sleep?"
"I kept thinking about that e-mail you sent Whar-ton."
"What about it?" she asked, surprised and just a little wary.
He hesitated a moment or two before making a grudging admission. "Maybe I was out of line, pushing at you the way I did back in Corpus."
"Maybe?"
"Okay, I tend to come on a little strong at times. The point is, I shouldn't have ragged you. Not about something so important. And maybe you shouldn't have given Wharton his walking papers. That isn't the kind of decision a person should make right before taking off on a mission."
The comment took Cari completely aback. After the bone-rattling kiss that afternoon, she would have supposed he'd be the last one to suggest she'd made a mistake with Jerry.
Or maybe this was his way of suggesting he'd made a mistake, she thought with a sudden lurch in her belly. Maybe he was worried she'd read too much into a simple lip-lock.
"I knew what I was doing," she said coolly. "Not that it's any of your business."
The Right Stuff Page 5