скачать книгу бесплатно
How could he when her last words to him played like the persistent rattle of urgent Intel coming over his headset? No regrets, McCaffrey.
He tossed the invitation to the trash before he conjured up images of soft curves and satin sheets to go along with the voices in his head. As he rounded his desk he dug out the invitation again. He didn’t know what to make of it.
Reservists were being called to active duty by the shipload. Hell, he’d spent the better part of the past twelve months in parts unknown, or at least unspoken. Doing the unspeakable. The Teams were recruiting young blood in record numbers and calling up reserve forces. Activated civilian-sailors were being deployed right along with regular Sea, Air and Land Special Ops. The same would be true for the Wings.
But Hannah? Commander, Helicopter Combat Support (Special) Squadron Nine?
Emphasis on Special Warfare.
A part of him, a very selfish part, was almost glad.
She’d be activated a year or two at least. Which meant they’d be working together, not just training together two weeks a year in the Nevada desert.
Of course that complicated matters. Because the smartest thing she’d ever done was kiss him goodbye.
He shuffled through the rest of his mail and messages while his brain tried to sort out the situation and put it in perspective. She’d be here. They’d be working together. Period.
Too bad that set his pulse into overdrive.
Testing the limits of his self-control, he slammed on the brakes by putting the emphasis back on work. He sat down at his desk, rolled his shoulder to ease the damage done by sleeping on the cold, hard ground, then turned his energies to putting Hannah out of his head.
While processing his mail, he stalled at a message from HCS-9. Had Hannah called after all? That was one possibility. Though in all likelihood, Loring, or someone from Loring’s office, had decided to follow up on the invitation. But Mike had Hannah on the brain and his mind held on to that one possibility.
He looked up from the slip of paper to stare at his Choker Whites still in the dry-cleaning bag hanging on the back of his office door. If he were looking for a sign, his Service Dress Whites would be it. Normally the uniform hung in the back of his closet, worn only on those rare occasions when he dressed to impress.
But he wasn’t looking for a sign.
Was he?
Shaking free of the notion, he reached for the routing envelope containing the daily SOPA messages and got back to work. The Senior Officer Present Afloat coordinated information among the tenant ship and shore commands in and around the San Diego area. The top message read:
CAPT JJ LORING, USN, WILL BE RELIEVED AS COMMANDER, HCS-9 BY LCDR HC STANTON, USNR, IN CHANGE OF COMMAND/RETIREMENT CEREMONIES 1000 25 JUL AT HANGAR 9 NASNI. ALL INTERESTED PERSONNEL AND THEIR SPOUSES ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO ATTEND. UNIFORM FOR ATTENDEES IS AS FOLLOWS: SERVICE DRESS WHITES. REQ SOPA ADMIN PASS TO ALL SHIP AND SHORE ACTIVITIES SAN DIEGO AREA.
The Commander, Naval Special Warfare Command had attached a hand written Post-it. “I’ll save you a seat.”
While not a direct order, one was implied—a sign Mike couldn’t ignore.
“Ah, hell.” He scrubbed a hand over his stubbled, grease-painted kisser. He’d just run out of excuses. Or found the excuse he was looking for.
There’d be no easy out. And no easy day. At least not today. Because today he’d come face-to-face with the woman he’d spent the past three hundred and sixty-five yesterdays trying to forget.
NAVAL AIR STATION NORTH ISLAND
Coronado, California
FROM THE BACK SEAT of her staff car, idling in a line of staff cars, Lieutenant Commander Hannah C. Stanton peeled back a white glove to check her watch. Resigned to her fate, she braced herself with a sigh. These things never started on time, or at least it seemed that way.
In the distance a gull soared above the fleet of gray ladies harbored in San Diego Bay. Following its flight out to sea, Hannah’s gaze drifted in the general direction of San Clemente Island. Once again, she found herself fiddling with the band of her Chase-Durer. She’d indulged after receiving orders to active duty. The jeweler’s Special Forces collection had prompted her to buy another as a gift.
Impulse control was not her strong suit. At least not when it came to jewelry stores and a certain SPECWAR Operator. But with a little luck and a lot of help from the helicopter pilots over at HCS-5, McCaffrey would be a no-show and the case of B. Stefanouris ouzo it cost her would be worth it.
Even though Commander, SEAL Team Eleven hadn’t bothered to RSVP, she couldn’t take the chance he’d come. He had a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Today’s Change of Command Ceremony qualified as both. And if anyone knew two wrongs didn’t make a right, she did.
Banishing McCaffrey from her mind almost as quickly as he’d vanished from her bed, she sat back and tried to relax. An impossible task with the Navy’s Social Usage And Protocol Handbook on the seat beside her. She’d read it cover to cover half a dozen times. For every rule there was an exception. For every exception there was an exception.
In this case she was the exception, a female commander in the male-dominated world of SPECWAR. One misstep and she’d embarrass her entire sex, not to mention her new command. All eyes were on her, waiting for her to stumble, if not flat out fall.
She shuddered as cold air blasted her from the vent. Despite the chill, her palms were sweating through her gloves. The enormity of the situation made her long for civilian life. She had to keep reminding herself she’d trained for this. Well, not this.
She’d trained to fly Seahawks, the Navy’s version of the Hawk Class helicopter, for Combat Search and Rescue and Special Warfare Combat Support. But CSAR and SPECWAR ops were a far cry from all this pomp and circumstance. Further still from her safe little niche in the civilian world. Of course how safe would she feel ignoring the danger to her country? She’d much rather be on the front lines doing her duty, and doing it well enough to bring one more soldier or sailor home.
The driver inched the car forward, then stopped. The door opened. The waiting officer offered his free arm while keeping his sword to his side with the other. She accepted with the lightest touch.
Primly keeping her knees together, she swung her legs around and stepped white heels to the curb in a ladylike gesture that did her mother and the Navy proud.
Almost.
“I can take it from here, Spence.” She dismissed her dashing co-pilot.
“Sure thing.” The younger man winked in understanding as he took a step back.
Billy Idol lyrics in her head, she looked over her own White Wedding—or the closest she’d ever come to the real thing—and hoped she wasn’t committing career suicide. “Calypso, what have you done?”
She’d been tagged Calypso—after the sea nymph—while still flying CH-46 Sea Knights off the aircraft carrier USS Enterprise. On her first SAR mission she’d saved half a dozen stranded Greek fishermen from their sinking boat. Despite the increasing risk from hazardous weather conditions she’d hoisted every last man and the ship’s mutt aboard the helicopter. The grateful sailors had toasted her with a bottle of ouzo they’d salvaged from the wreckage, convinced only one of the Titan’s own could have pulled off the stunt.
They didn’t know how right they were.
At least Calypso had forever replaced Bubbles, the name a less-than-PC instructor had cursed her with in flight school. She hated that it made her sound like a stripper. But more than that she hated that it called attention to her weakest area in training—water.
One panic attack while upside down in the Dilbert Dunker, and she’d become infamous for those tiny little oxygen bubbles that rose to the surface when she hadn’t. Worse than almost drowning, worse than Navy swimmers having to rescue her from the simulated cockpit, was having to do it all over again or wash out of the program.
She’d made it out of the harness and to the surface on her second go-round and every time since when she updated her quals. But not without that feeling of utter panic.
That dunk tank was easy compared to this.
She took a last deep breath before taking her next career plunge.
Assuming command was very much like a marriage. It required commitment and, in this case, compromise. The only thing missing was her bouquet. And, of course, there was no groom caught in the crosshairs of her sights.
And no father of the bride at her side.
Hannah stepped onto the white carpet. Alone.
So much for embarrassing missteps. She’d now committed a major faux pas. With deliberate pride.
Pride goeth before the fall. So you damn well better not trip all over it, Stanton.
A pair of side boys, the appropriate honors for a lieutenant commander, stood at attention. On the Executive Officer’s command they rendered sharp hand salutes. Two gongs sounded. Then the XO, as Master of Ceremonies, announced her arrival.
The handbook said single ladies were to be escorted, but single female officers fell into a gray area. Because nowhere in that book did it say single male officers had to be escorted down the aisle.
First impressions were important. In marriage as in life, one should start out as one intended to go along. For Hannah that meant going without leaning on any man.
One last gong followed her march through the white-topped VIP tent. Despite her bravado, she missed her father more than she had since that day two Naval officers had shown up at their door. She would have liked to hear him say he was proud of her today.
Climbing the steps to the red-white-and-blue-swagged dais, she reached her seat to the left of Captain Loring. Admiral Riker, the highest-ranking official taking part in the ceremony, sat to Loring’s right. The chaplain sat to her left and the XO stood at a podium to the far right. The podium in the center remained open for their use.
“All rise for the national anthem,” the XO requested.
As she rendered honors to the flag, Hannah got her first good look at the assembled crowd. The squadron stood by in formation. The guests got to their feet from uniform rows of folding chairs. Except for a white rose, the first chair to the left of the aisle remained empty, in memory of Captain Loring’s deceased wife. The second chair held the folded triangle that had adorned the casket of Hannah’s father. Her mother, Rosemary Stanton, pressed a kiss to the bud she held and placed it on the flag beside her before covering her heart with her hand.
After that, everything became a blur set to band music as Hannah blinked back tears. Sometimes sacrifices were made on the battlefield. But just as often they were made on the home front.
Her younger sister Sammy, bouncing baby in her arms, stood beside their mother. The three-month-old needing all the attention was Hannah’s own precious daughter.
Fortunately her mother and sister were willing to go above and beyond the call of duty. If Sammy hadn’t been able to move to California, Hannah as a single mom would have been forced to leave her daughter behind with her family in Colorado.
Adventure aside, the United States Navy was a job 24/7.
She had to be deployable.
No excuses. Not even little ones. Like wanting to spend time with her baby girl.
Or big ones. Like wanting to keep her daughter from knowing the pain of losing a parent.
“The Star Spangled Banner” ended, and the XO requested everyone remain standing for the Chaplain’s invocation.
Hannah mouthed the words thank you to her mother and sister.
She had a two-year obligation to Uncle Sam and the two hundred men and women of HCS-9. In answering the call to duty she’d given up more than family time and social ties, more than a mid-six-figure salary in the aerospace industry and a plot of real estate in the Rocky Mountains. She’d given up her peace of mind. Because sooner or later she’d run into McCaffrey and out of excuses.
When she did, she’d need her family more than ever.
They’d been there for her when he hadn’t.
Seated once again, her gaze shifted to the audience. She tried hard not to make the comparison between the empty chair reserved for her father and the empty chair among the SEAL commanders. McCaffrey wasn’t here, but he’d been safe and sound when the Fire Hawks of HCS-5 picked him up from San Clemente Island. And as long as he stayed away so was their daughter.
The baby slept through most of the speeches, but woke fussy. Already showing signs of independence, like her mother, a chubby fist found its way to a rosebud mouth in the time it took Auntie Sammy to dig through the diaper bag for a bottle. Hannah somehow managed to maintain her military bearing even as every maternal instinct she possessed made her want to leap from the platform. But her complement of uniforms didn’t include Wonder Woman or Super Mom costumes, just a flight suit and the wings of a Naval Special Warfare Aviator.
Captain Loring stepped center stage, the cue for the participants on the dais to stand once again.
“The Change of Command Ceremony is a Navy tradition without equal in the Army or Air Force,” he began. “Custom has established that this observance be both formal and impressive while at its heart is the reading of official orders.” After a lengthy speech, he got around to doing just that. Afterward he turned to Hannah. “Ma’am, I am ready to be relieved.”
Hannah stepped forward and read her orders. As courtesy demanded of the relieving officer, she kept her comments brief. When finished, she turned to Loring and executed a sharp salute. “I relieve you, sir.”
Captain Loring returned the salute. “I stand relieved.”
The Color Guard marched forward. Loring ordered his command pennant lowered, followed by Hannah ordering hers broken, readying it for unfurling. On command, the Color Guard raised her banner. Wind snapped it to attention. Above the command flag for the North Island Night Hawks of HCS-9, the simple white pennant bearing the silver eagle of a captain had been replaced by the silver oak leaf of a lieutenant commander.
Hannah turned to salute her immediate superior in the Chain of Command—Admiral Riker, Commander, Helicopter Wing Reserve. “Lieutenant Commander Hannah C. Stanton reporting for duty, sir.”
CHAPTER TWO
WITH ALL THE FORMALITIES OVER, except the receiving line, the squadron had been dismissed to “mill about smartly.” Which meant they were to remain on their toes. The Navy band played an endless stream of John Philip Sousa compositions. Officer and enlisted mingled under the shade of the open hangar bay and the scattered trees near the grassy knoll that separated the blacktop grinder from the paved parking lot. Distinguished military and civilian guests filed out from under the tent to pass through the line.
As protocol demanded, Hannah exchanged more white-gloved salutes and handshakes. To her left stood the departing CO. To her right the XO, because the book said a proper receiving line should not end with a lady, and the lady in question had no hand in the planning of today’s events. Otherwise she would have seen to that detail, as well.
“Congratulations, Commander Stanton.”
“Thank you for coming, Admiral Moore.” The exchange with the Commanding Officer of North Island lasted only as long as their brief hand clasp. Since he was also the Commanding Officer, Naval Base Coronado, Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, Outlying Field Imperial Beach, Navy Radio Receiving Facility, Mountain Training Facility LaPosta, Warner Springs Training Area and Naval Air Landing Facility San Clemente Island, that pretty much made him the most important man present.
Whether he supported her in her new roll as the CO of HCS-9 remained to be seen. She did note, however, that he’d dropped “Lieutenant” from her rank, but whether that was out of courtesy for her new title or simply Navy shorthand she didn’t know. At least she’d chalked up eight titles with one handshake. How many more to go before the good ol’ boys actually accepted her as one of them? Like that would ever happen.
Over the departing admiral’s gleaming gold shoulder board, she spotted a charter member of the boy’s club—one of the Bad Boys of Bravo. The Commander of SEAL Team Eleven, Mike “Mac” McCaffrey. He climbed out of his rust-bucket Jeep Wrangler, looking for all the world as if he’d staged his late arrival. Mirrored sunglasses in place, he reached back into the open cab for his headgear, then disappeared in a sea of white.
Hannah almost missed her cue to address the next uniform in line. Recovering with a sharp salute, she once again extended her white-gloved hand and exchanged a few polite words with Commander, Naval Special Warfare, Rear Admiral Warren Bell and his wife, Lucy.
“Call me Lu.” The woman’s exotic eyes suggested various ports of call where the couple might have met. A romantic notion at best. Mrs. Bell spoke English with the accent of a native Southern Californian. “Let’s skip the formality of a social call, Commander—may I call you Hannah?—and do lunch. Just us girls.” She glanced toward her husband. “Warren won’t mind, will you, dear?”
Lu’s question seemed perfunctory at best.
Admiral Bell shrugged. “I can see it’s out of my hands. However, I did wish to speak with the Commander—”
“Libby doesn’t need her father running interference, Warren.”
“Petty Officer Bell is your daughter? I’m sorry I hadn’t made the connection.” Hannah had committed the squadron roster to memory, including the detachment of rescue swimmers. “You must be very proud. Only a handful of women have ever made the cut.”
“The same could be said for Seahawk pilots.”
Hannah acknowledged the admiral’s compliment with a nod. At least she took it as a compliment. To even qualify she’d had to log over two thousand hours in the cockpit, and a command position was a long shot even for a man. “Is there a problem with Libby?”
“Absolutely not,” Lu said.
“We’ll discuss it later,” was the admiral’s noncommittal dismissal.
The remaining parade of names and faces passed by in a forgettable haze. Hannah told herself she’d only imagined McCaffrey because he was the last man on earth she wanted to see right now.
The receiving line had trickled down to one last handshake when the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She didn’t need to turn around to know he stood right behind her. Her radar had been fine-tuned to Mac years ago. As the others in line drifted away in private conversation, she dared to turn around.
McCaffrey leaned against the now-empty grandstand. His broader shoulders and badder attitude set him apart from the rest. If it wasn’t for the Ray-Ban Predators he hooked to his breast pocket, the attitude might have been subdued by his Choker Whites. He pushed away from the platform and strode toward her.
Taking a deep breath, she sucked in her stomach. Twelve weeks of no carbs and brutal crunches still hadn’t primed her for this moment. Why did he have to look so damn ready for heart-stopping action in that uniform?
Her fingers twitched as she prepared to salute the rank of commander he wore on his epaulets. Just as she was about to execute the move, he outmaneuvered her by removing his cover. Hat in hand, looking anything but humble, he stopped a few paces from her. Dark crew-cut hair. Dark, unreadable eyes.
His gesture might have escaped notice in the gas-lamp district of San Diego. But the Navy had its traditions. Written and unwritten. He may as well have announced to everyone present they’d slept together.
Heat scalded her cheeks. Even legendary sea nymphs were entitled to one mistake with a sailor. Unfortunately, most of those epic stories ended in tragedy. This one was no different. Not that making love to Mike McCaffrey could ever be considered a tragedy. But falling in love with him might…
