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She didn’t have time to communicate with her large, widely dispersed circle of friends and family now, but she’d do a quick read to make sure no one was hurt or in trouble. A click of her mouse brought up a one-line e-mail.
Marry me, beautiful.
“Oh, hell.”
She didn’t realize she’d muttered the words out loud until Kate Hargrave glanced up from the workstation next to hers.
“Are you having trouble bringing up the post-run analysis screen? That last program mod is a bitch, in my humble opinion.”
When Cari hesitated, reluctant to discuss personal matters in such a cramped setting, the weather officer scooted her chair over.
“Oh.” Understanding flooded Kate’s green eyes. “I see the problem. How are you going to answer him?”
Cari frowned at the screen. How the heck was she going to answer Jerry? She’d been dating the handsome navy JAG off and on for almost a year. He was fun, sexy, and up for an appointment as a military judge. He was also the divorced father of three children. He’d learned the hard way how tough it was to sustain a two-career marriage. A bitter divorce had convinced him two careers, marriage and kids made the situation impossible.
Cari didn’t want to admit he was right, but the figures spoke for themselves. The divorce rate among the seagoing branches of the military was astronomical, almost twice the national norm. Long sea tours and frequent short notice deployments put severe strains on a marriage. If she wanted kids, which she most certainly did, something would have to give. Jerry and her parents—not to mention her own nagging conscience—suggested it should probably be her career in the coast guard.
Sighing, Cari fingered the mouse. “I don’t know what I’m going to tell him,” she murmured to Kate. “I have to think about it.”
“What’s to think?” Russ McIver put in sardonically from her other side. With a silent groan, Cari saw that he, too, had scooted his chair over, no doubt to check out the glitch with the troublesome new modification.
“The choice looks pretty clear to me,” he drawled. “It’s either yes or no.”
Irritated that her private communication had become a matter of public discussion, she returned fire. “Why am I not surprised to hear that coming from you?”
Mac’s hazel eyes hardened. Although Cari hadn’t discussed her relationship with Jerry with anyone other than her roommates, there were few secrets in a group as small and tight as this one had become. Mac in particular had expressed little sympathy for Cari’s personal dilemma. She might have guessed he wouldn’t do so now.
“It’s your decision,” he said with a shrug. “Never mind that the coast guard selected you for promotion well ahead of your peers. It doesn’t matter that you were chosen for a prestigious exchange tour with the British Coastal Defense Force. Or that you’ve racked up years in command of a ship and a crew. If pregnant, barefoot and permanent kitchen duty is what you want, Lieutenant, you should go for it.”
Cari’s brown eyes lasered into the marine’s. “Last I heard, Major, it wasn’t a court-martial offense to want to get married and have children. Nor is every woman who chooses to leave the service a traitor to her country.”
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 communiqué 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 up-raised 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 Westfall 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 could 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 Dramamine 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.
