“Yes.” She sounded distracted. “How can she reach you?”
Mike gave her the base number, the one that would put her in to his buddy. “Ask her to have them patch her in to Colonel Jared Whalin’s office in Baghdad.”
“Okay.” A few seconds passed. “There. You’re Mike Meade, you’ve been looking for a daughter named Hannah for eleven years, and you’re in Baghdad.”
“Right.” He searched his mind. “One more thing.” He hesitated. “I used to surf.”
“Surf?”
“Yes, ma’am. It was part of the message on the video. She has a picture of her father with a surfboard.”
“Well,” the woman’s tone was hopeful. “Maybe you’re the one.”
“I hope so. You’ll make sure she gets the message?”
“I will. I’ll look up her information and give her a call within the hour. So if I give her the number you gave me, she’ll be patched through to you?”
‘Yes, ma’am.” Mike had no doubts. Colonel Whalin would walk through fire to give him the message if his daughter called for him.
“Very good, then. I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
The conversation ended just as his commanding officer returned to his desk. “Take care of everything?”
“Yes, sir.” Mike stood at attention again. “Something personal.”
The man motioned to him. “At ease, Meade.”
Mike relaxed. “I’m ready, sir. Everything’s in order.”
“Good.” He looked down, took hold of the ashtray on his desk, and gave it a light shake. The soft gray ashes inside fell to an even layer. “Look, Meade, we’ve done everything we can to minimize the danger.” He glanced up. “But it’s still a risk. You’ll be hanging in the air a long time.”
“I know, sir.” Mike tried to concentrate, but he kept hearing her voice. “You and me, Daddy. This’ll be our house someday… ”
Colonel Whalin anchored his forearms on his desk. “Your guard has to be up every minute, every second.”
“Yes, sir.” She was drawing him the picture with the big yellow sun, writing her first sentence. Hannah loves Daddy. He squinted. “Every second.”
“Take no chances, Meade. Everything by the book.”
“Of course, sir.” And she was in his arms, cuddling with him while he read The Cat in the Hat Comes Back and giggling when the cat ate pink cake in the tub and …
“No chances at all, Meade, you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” And now there was the slightest small chance that she remembered him, that she was looking for him the same way he’d been looking for her. That he might see her again. “No chances at all.”
Colonel Whalin rapped the desk and pushed his chair back. “I’ll be out there tomorrow to see you off. And one more thing … ” He searched Mike’s eyes. “We’ll have Air Force medevac on standby. Just in case.”
“Yes, sir.” The news was good, but it underlined the obvious. A mission like this came with an expected number of wounded men. Possibly even casualties. “Thank you, sir.”
“Go get some sleep.”
Mike started to go, but he hesitated. “Sir … I might get a phone call tonight. It’s, well,” he scratched his head. “It’s important, sir.”
The colonel looked at him for a long moment. “I’ll get you, Meade. Whatever the hour, I’ll get you.”
As soon as he was back at his bunk, Mike pulled out the bag. It was still early, and he was alone in his area of the tent. He eased the contents out onto his bed and let his fingers move slowly over them. The broken clay pieces, the delicate folded paper, the photo of him and Hannah building a sandcastle on the beach.
“Hannah … ” He let her name settle on his lips, the way it had so often back when she was his. Her eyes seemed to look straight to his soul, and he moved his finger over her hair, her face. “Hannah girl, I love you.”
He looked at the items for a long time, and put them away just before the other men filed into the tent a few at a time and prepared for bed.
CJ approached him first. He sat on the edge of his cot and gave his socked foot a squeeze. “We’ll be okay. I have a good feeling about it.”
Mike nodded, fear far from him. “Definitely. No fear, no failure.”
“Right.” He grinned. CJ was long and lanky with an easy smile, even in the most tense situations. “I figure eleven minutes in the air isn’t too bad. Remember the Gulf War? What’d we hang there for, half an hour that one time?”
A smile tugged at the corners of Mike’s mouth. “I think it was eight minutes.”
“Ah, you know … “ CJ leaned back on his elbows. “Eight minutes, thirty minutes. Same thing, right?”
Mike thought about the brown bag beneath his cot. “All in a day’s work.”
“Right.” CJ winked at him and jumped up, headed off to his own cot and whatever he still needed to get in order for the mission.
Jimbo and Fossie took turns talking to him after that, laughing about some joke they’d heard in the food tent.
“Hey, man, be careful out there.” Jimbo gave him a light punch in the shoulder. “We need you.”
“You know it.” Mike still had the bag in front of him, his fingers tight around the neck. “Don’t give my bed away. CJ’s, either.”
“You’ll be back tomorrow night.”
“But if I’m not.” He gave Jimbo an easy smile. A mission like this came with the possibility of capture. “You know. Just don’t give my bed away.”
“Never.”
Fossie was next, handling his good-bye the same, keeping things light. He patted Mike’s stomach with the back of his hand. “Nerves of steal, Meade. Same as back in your surfing days, right? Catch a wave and ride it home.”
Mike chuckled. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
“See… ” He grinned. “That’s why they call me Fossie the Optimist.”
The other guys made a point of saying something, both to him and to CJ. Wishing him luck or the best or whatever it is guys say when they know there’s a chance they won’t see each other again. Only Stoker mentioned prayer.
“You a praying kind of guy, Mike?” Stoker pulled up a chair and turned it around, sitting so that his arms rested on the back.
Mike shrugged. “Sometimes more than others.”
“Me, too.” Stoker shrugged. “I guess it’s never a perfect science.”
“No.” Mike glanced at his watch. It had been an hour and still she hadn’t called. Come on, Hannah … pick up the phone and dial the number.
“Anyway, I want to promise you something.”
“What?”
“I’ll pray for you, Meade. The whole time you’re gone.”
“Okay.” Was it the danger ahead or the video message from a girl named Hannah? Mike wasn’t sure, but the idea of Stoker praying for him made something inside him relax a little. He smiled at his friend. “Don’t forget.”
Stoker stood and turned the chair back around. “I won’t.”
It took another hour for the guys in his tent to fall asleep. All but him. She still hadn’t called, and that could only mean a few possibilities. Either she wasn’t home, or she wasn’t the right Hannah.
And as the night wore on, as ten o’clock became midnight and midnight became two, and the mission drew closer, Mike forced himself to fall asleep. Because he couldn’t be on his guard unless he got some rest, and if he wasn’t on his guard he wouldn’t come back alive.
Which was something he had to do. Not just because it was Colonel Whalin’s order, but because Hannah might be looking for him, because she might still remember him. That fact and the image of a little girl who still lived in his memory would be enough to keep him alert and ready at all times.
Even on the most dangerous mission of all.
At eleven o’clock that night in Nashville, Tennessee, an evening janitor made his way into the studio of the nation’s biggest country western music television station and began cleaning arou
nd a bank of computers. The room was empty except for a few producers working on feature pieces.
As was his routine every night, he sprayed a fine mist of industrial cleaner on the desktop around the computers and rubbed away the day’s grime and germs. The producers and staff assistants at the station knew to keep loose notes and scrap papers in their desk drawers and normally he could clean around whatever stacks of information or files or documents might be shoved up against the computer screens.
But this night—as was the case on occasion—when the janitor rubbed his rag across the desktop, a single piece of notepaper drifted to the floor. The janitor stopped, straightened, and pressed his fist into the small of his back. He’d been cleaning offices for twenty-two years. His body was feeling the effects.
He set the rag down, bent over, picked up the piece of notepaper, and stared at it. The words were scribbled and hard to read. Something about Mike Meade and surfing and someone named Hannah. A phone number was written across the bottom. The janitor studied it a moment longer and turned back to the row of computer stations.
Where had the paper fallen from? Had it been near the computer on the end, or the one in from that? Or possibly the computer four stations down? The janitor shrugged, opened the desk drawer closest to him, and tossed the paper inside.
Someone would find it eventually.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Carol Roberts boarded a plane bound for Washington, D.C., late Tuesday night, December 13. Her frustration was at an all-time high. She hadn’t wanted to come home during the holiday season, but now she had no choice. Four days had passed since bedlam broke loose in the States, since the Washington Post ran an article under the headline, “Daughter of Former Senator Searches for Biological Father.”
The plane was crowded, but Carol barely noticed. From her seat in first class, she stared out the window, closed her eyes, and pressed her forehead against the cool glass. What was Hannah thinking? The letter hadn’t been for anyone’s eyes but hers. She was supposed to read it, take in the information, and squirrel it away somewhere. It was supposed to occupy her mind and make the holidays less lonely.
Since then the story had run in every major newspaper in the United States, including USA Today. None of the reporters were pointing fingers at Carol or Jack. Instead it had become a human interest story: “Will Ambassador’s Daughter Find Birth Father in Time for Christmas?” One paper wrote an emotional plea for the man to surface under the headline: “Hannah’s Hope—will Christmas Include a Visit from Her Father?”
The media circus had made its way to Sweden, doubling the calls that normally came from the U.S. to the embassy. Reporters wanted to know what was being done from the ambassador’s office to help find Mike Conner. And what was the reason Hannah was only finding out about him now? And how come Carol had left him when he joined the Army? And had he really joined the Army, since no record had been found indicating the truth in that?
Finally Jack had given her an order. “Get home and take care of this mess. We can’t afford the distraction.”
Carol clenched her fists. Jack was right, and that’s why she was on a plane headed for Washington, D.C. A dull ache pounded in her temples. If Hannah wanted help finding Mike Conner, why hadn’t she simply called? Carol might not have had all the answers, but she could’ve put Hannah in touch with someone who did. Instead the girl had shown the independence that had marked her recent years.
Calling Congressman McKenna? What fifteen-year-old did things like that? And granting an interview with the Washington Post? Carol repositioned herself, settling against the headrest. She kept her eyes closed. The next two weeks were supposed to be spent planning parties and receptions and dinners for dignitaries.
Since the news had broke, the conversations with Hannah had been short. The last one, two days earlier, was what finally convinced her to board the plane. She needed to get back to the States and cool things off. For everyone’s sake. Carol let the words play in her mind again …
“The Washington Post? How could you, Hannah?”
“You’re repeating yourself, Mother.”
“I’ll repeat myself as much as I like.” Carol had been pacing across the Italian stone floor in her spacious kitchen. “The Washington Post? Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“What, Mother? What have I done?” Hannah’s voice rang out, shrill and sincere. “You mean by telling the truth?” She exhaled hard and fast. “Well, maybe I’m not much of a liar. Can you imagine that? Maybe I think it’s better to be honest.”
“Your father is a very important man.” Carol hissed the words. “He doesn’t need our name plastered over every newspaper in the country.”
“My father is missing. Isn’t that the point?”
“Our family life is no one’s business but ours.” Carol heard the lack of compassion in her voice. “The world doesn’t need to know about Mike Conner.”
“Yes.” The fight left Hannah. “But he needs to know.” She made a sniffing sound. “Otherwise I’ll never find him.”
“What’s the rush, Hannah?” A calm came over Carol. She was angry at Hannah, but she hadn’t meant to make her daughter cry. “He’s been out of your life for more than a decade. Why do you have to find him now?”
“Because.” She coughed twice, her words thick. “Because I want to spend Christmas with him.”
That was when Carol knew she’d have to go home. Her plan had backfired. She had hoped the information about Mike would distract Hannah, keep her mind occupied so she wouldn’t be bored during the holidays. But she never should’ve said anything, never should’ve told her. Not until she was older. Because now the whole world knew about Mike Conner.
As the flight got underway, Carol tried to sleep, but all she could think about was a blond, blue-eyed surfer and whether right now, somewhere in the world, he knew that Hannah’s single hope was to find him before December 25. Like gathering storm clouds, other details about her time with Mike built along her heart’s horizon. She held them off while they crossed the Atlantic and as they landed at Dulles International Airport just before noon Wednesday. She kept them at bay on the limo ride to her house and even as she came through the front door and greeted her mother.
There was no need to talk about the subject. Obviously she’d come home to clear up the media disaster. Her mother only raised her brow and gave the slightest shake of her head. “Why did you tell her?”
Carol looked away. “She had to know sometime.”
“Yes, in person, maybe. When she would have been old enough to sort through the news.”
Carol’s anger bubbled closer to the surface. “Thank you, Mother. I’ll handle it from here.”
And that was all there was. After a few minutes, her mother returned to her room. Two hours later when she appeared downstairs again, she was stiff and distant, her chin tilted upward, eyes narrow. “Have you called Hannah?”
“Not yet.”
“Call her. I’ll have lunch for us in the dining room.”
Carol studied her mother, watched as she turned, back straight, and headed for the kitchen. When had things between them grown so shallow and cold? A functional ability to exist in the same room was all they had together, all they shared. But even as she pondered the lack of depth between her and her mother, a question slammed into her soul.
Was this how Hannah saw her? An imposing figure who visited a few times a year? Suddenly the cost of living overseas felt overwhelming. What had she missed with Hannah? Walks in the park and bedtime stories? Endless conversations about school and boys and maybe even Mike Conner? Certainly his place in her life would’ve come up sooner if she and Hannah lived together.
Carol dismissed the thoughts. She spun, walked down the hall and into their home office, and shut the double doors. Hannah’s cell phone would be off during school hours. She went to the phone and dialed the school’s number.
“Thomas Jefferson Prep, how can I help you?”
“This is Carol Robert
s.” Carol leaned against the desk and felt the tension at the base of her neck. Maybe Hannah wouldn’t care if she was home; maybe she’d disregard her request and stay at school all afternoon. Carol summoned her strength. The clouds in her memory were about to break wide open. “I need to get a message to my daughter, Hannah. She’s a freshman.”
Hannah was in advanced placement history that afternoon sitting next to the jerky junior, the one with blond hair, when an office attendant came through the door and whispered something to the teacher. After a few seconds the teacher nodded his head and took a note from the attendant.
As the woman left, the teacher looked at Hannah. “Ms. Roberts, I have a note for you.”
A note? Hannah felt her back tense. Could it be from Mike Conner? Had he seen the story and found her at TJ Prep? Who else would be sending her a note in the mid-die of the school day? She gulped and straightened herself in her chair, her eyes on the paper in the teacher’s hand.
“Hey, Hannah.” The blond next to her leaned in. “Secret admirers in the office, too?” His tone was ripe with teasing. “So what’s wrong with me, Hannah? I could help you find your dad.”
“You—” She made a face at him, her voice louder than she intended. “—are pathetic. You couldn’t help me find my way out of the room.”
The teacher rapped his hand on the closest wall. “Classroom visitors,” his voice boomed across the room, “are no excuse for childish behavior.” He gave a sharp look at the junior and then at Hannah. “Miss Roberts, you will refrain from any further outbursts.”
Hannah’s hands trembled as she took the note from the teacher. She gave the blond one last glare. Everyone knew about her father now, but she didn’t care. He had to be out there somewhere, seeing the stories, watching the music video with her message. Any day now he was bound to get in touch with her.
She opened the paper slowly, like it was a bad report card. Her eyes skipped to the bottom of the wording, and what she read there made the blood drain from her face. What was this? The note wasn’t from her father at all. It was from her mother: Darling … I’m at home waiting for you. Cancel your afternoon appointments. We need to talk. Mother.
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