“Capturing General Xang was never our primary objective,” Harris said. “His snipers were keeping us from completing our job on the reclamation project. We did what Seabees are trained to do, defended our job site.”
Bowie bit his tongue. His C.O. had never even made it as far as Bangkok during their six-month deployment. And they’d been several hundred miles away in the northern highlands.
“But the fact remains,” Stevens insisted, “your men crossed the border from Thailand into Laos to do that.”
Bowie felt a little smug satisfaction. If Harris wanted to steal his thunder he could take credit for his mistakes, too. But Stevens looked Bowie right in the eye and it wasn’t disapproval he saw there.
“A fact your government will deny.” Stevens’s slight smile told them all they needed to know. “This is not a lecture, gentlemen. Feel free to add your input. You’ve given us a look inside Xang’s operation, which is no small feat. In the war on drugs you made a significant contribution. You made a bonfire out of two thousand kilos of cannabis….”
The picture of Xang on the monitors behind Stevens morphed into photos of burning fields.
Leave it to a woman. The professor had picked up on the scent right away. Until Stevens mentioned it, he didn’t know exactly how many kilos they’d burned under the direction of the Thai government. But it was hard to forget that even standing downwind the Seabees had gotten a little buzz on.
Himself included.
Hopefully there weren’t any drug tests coming up. He wasn’t sure all his men would pass. Which just gave him more to worry about. Harris was likely to pull something like that after a deployment.
“You destroyed a methamphetamine lab,” Stevens continued. “And aided in the release of Hmong highlanders being forced to serve as slave labor.”
“Sir…Rob…” Bowie corrected himself, then waited for the older man’s nod to continue. “I’d like you to know our big break came when Master Chief Cohen remembered working on a site in the highlands of Laos. The lab operated out of an interrogation center NMCB133 built for the CIA during Vietnam. We would never have found it without him.”
Intelligence officers and agents, busy scribbling all this stuff down, started firing questions at the master chief in rapid succession. They wanted to know the who, what, when, where, how and why of everything.
Stevens held up his hands. “We’ll get to the questions in a minute.” He turned to the master chief. “Rusty, I didn’t realize it was you. You mean they haven’t forced you to retire yet?”
“Soon. Very soon.” Rusty chuckled. “And before you go giving me all the credit, I’d like to point out that Lieutenant Prince spotted their man. Tracked him to the general vicinity of the lab before my memory kicked in. He even located the lab with that uncanny way of his.”
Bowie studied the toe of his boot. It didn’t surprise him that the two men knew each other. The master chief had seen action in Vietnam and every conflict since, long enough to know everyone.
Bowie had relied heavily on the man’s experience. When Rusty told him to pocket his rank and scratch the distinction off his helmet or risk being used for target practice, Bowie had done just that. A move that had probably saved his life.
But nothing could have prepared him for the human suffering they’d seen. He and his men had entered the lab with protective gear, but the enslaved Hmong had had nothing. Every pound of meth produced five pounds of poisonous gas. Fires were a constant hazard and burn victims plentiful while emergency medical attention was nonexistent. The squad had arrived and done what they could to save the injured, exploited and sometimes addicted.
Stevens continued down the list of their accomplishments. “You captured fourteen metric tonnes, that’s fourteen thousand kilos, of illicit opiates that won’t be smuggled into the country this year.”
McCain leaned toward Bowie’s ear. “No, we only transported the stuff here ourselves,” Dylan muttered under his breath.
“What’s the street value on all that opium?” one of Bowie’s men asked.
“I think you’re better off not comparing it to your paycheck, Jones.” Bowie spoke over his shoulder to the man who’d asked the question.
Laughter and agreement filled the room. Their payment was in a job well done, not in dollars and cents.
“Laos is the third-largest illicit opium producer in the world. You wiped out ten percent of that supply in one blow. More important, you disabled the operation of the number-one drug warlord in the region.
“And while Xang may have slipped through the system this time, we’re in a very good position to flush him out again. Next time he won’t get away.”
The room broke into a round of applause.
“Gentlemen, I know you’re anxious to get out of here and back to your homeport of…where is it, Gulfport, Mississippi? But I need your cooperation a while longer. We have some questions for you.”
0100 Thursday
THE PAPER TIGER
Honolulu, Hawaii
“SEABEES, CAN DO!” Bowie raised his voice above the music, toasting their official slogan with his bottle of beer. He got distracted by the label. “What’s this stuff called again?”
“Ba Muoi Lam. A Vietnamese brand,” Rusty answered with great patience. Which told Bowie the master chief couldn’t have been very sober or his natural impatience would have come through. “It translates to the number thirty-five or butterfly—as in Madama Butterfly. Playboy, if you’re referring to a man.”
“All that from one word.” Bowie returned his attention to the label. “So a gal’s considered a butterfly if she’s a—”
“Exactly.”
“Baa-mooee-laham.” McCain tried to pronounce it phonetically. “I’m seeing all thirty-five of those butterflies right now.” He seemed mesmerized by the mirrors behind the bar. The play of light and illusion became one, reflecting the topless dancer on stage.
The squad had mustered at the Paper Tiger shortly after the all-day debriefing, taking only long enough for a shower and a shave. The rest of the men were sitting right up on the dance floor, dropping dollars like they had money to burn.
Which they did. At least twenty dollars each of his cash money. Not to mention six months of accumulating paychecks they’d had nowhere to spend until now.
“Cadeo,” Bowie called to the master chief’s brother-in-law behind the bar. “Another round of Ba Moui…Lam!”
In quick succession the owner of the Paper Tiger knocked off the caps against the scarred surface and lined up another round of beer. They were running up the tab on Bowie’s credit card. He couldn’t remember, but he thought maybe there was some regulation against officers buying enlisted men drinks, though maybe it was the other way around.
Or maybe they couldn’t drink together at all.
As far as he was concerned all rules were thrown out once you spent time in the trenches together.
But the three men in charge were sitting apart with their backs to the stage so they could talk over the latest development concerning their company.
Of course, they could peek if they really wanted to. But by this time Bowie had forgotten exactly what he really wanted.
Except for his knife. He’d managed a few calls that afternoon to his connections in Customs. He’d have the Pirate—as his father had always called it—back in short order and without ever having to step foot on Midway Islands again.
That made his promise to return an empty one.
Of course, he’d known at the time it was unlikely he’d ever see the professor again. She probably hadn’t taken his threat too seriously to begin with. They were the proverbial two ships passing in the night.
Bowie took a swig from the bottle.
He would have liked to see her again. But he’d have to be content with the memory.
Long dark hair. Exotic dark eyes. Honeyed skin.
Seabees and honey. The two just naturally went together. But she was afraid of getting stung.
He
couldn’t blame her.
He’d been on the receiving end of a Dear John a time or two. He’d also said more than his fair share of goodbyes. It was the price he paid for being part of a mobile military unit. He’d been places other men only dreamed of, he’d done things that really mattered in his life, but he didn’t have anyone special to share it with. By choice.
Which was probably why he sat here with the guys.
If he squinted at the blurred image in the mirror, the exotic dancer could almost pass for the game warden. Bowie’s eyes drifted closed, but he jerked them open again when McCain said something to ruin the moment.
“I can’t believe Dick canceled all leave. Here we are standing by, instead of standing down.” The unofficial nickname was an accurate description of Captain Richard Harris. “What about homeport? Not that I mind being stuck in paradise so much, just that I have business to take care of, know what I mean?”
“I’m meeting with Harris Friday. Guess we’ll find out then.”
“Friday,” McCain scoffed. “Couldn’t he have given you an extended weekend liberty at least? After all, you earned it. I’m telling you, the man has it in for you, Prince.”
“My wife’s none too pleased with me right now,” Rusty added. “If I knew we’d be here awhile I’d fly her out to stay with her brother and his family.”
“Don’t make any plans just yet,” Bowie warned, wishing he had something more concrete to offer.
The master chief’s life wasn’t the only one left in limbo. One thirty-three’s Alpha company was a mix of marrieds and singles, men and women. Most of the Alpha Dogs had been in Thailand when his squad had gone hunting snipers in Laos. The rest had been scattered around the South Pacific in smaller detachments.
The others had arrived in Hawaii a week ahead of his squad. After a six-month deployment, they should all be headed home. Instead they were awaiting new orders. After his meeting with Harris Bowie would know more. Then he’d have to break the news to his men and listen to their justified grumbles.
That’s why tonight he was getting drunk.
“And what about the world free-diving championships?” McCain demanded. “If we can’t get leave—”
“That’s the least of our worries.” But it looked like they might not be able to compete again this year. With one lung full of air, he could reach depths that challenged fully equipped scuba divers. The sport itself was as old as man’s fascination with the sea. But his quest to be the world’s deepest man would have to wait. Bowie understood duty came first. Nobody had drafted him into the service. He’d chosen his profession and he didn’t have the right to complain. But that didn’t mean he always agreed with his superiors. Or his peers. “I don’t want to talk about it tonight. Let’s wait and see what’s up.”
Bowie lifted his beer, putting an end to the subject.
“So what do you want to talk about?” McCain’s raised eyebrows suggested a specific topic.
Rusty was a little more direct. “Why did you give a little bitty thing like that your knife? Afraid she’d hop on for a piggyback ride if you walked away with it?”
“That’s the other subject I don’t want to talk about.” He’d been a little afraid her trigger finger would start itching. And if she’d pulled a gun on him, where would that have left her? Facing down an adrenaline-charged squad holding M16s? But he could control his men. The truth was he didn’t know why he’d given it up. It was probably his most valuable possession, but he’d felt compelled to leave her with something. And she wouldn’t accept a kiss. “Because I’m an idiot,” Bowie confessed.
“Good enough for me.” McCain saluted with his bottle as if he needed an excuse to chug his beer.
“I think you could come up with a little bit better one. Just a ti ti, little bit,” Rusty said, continuing their education in Vietnamese.
“Tee tee.” McCain tested the word.
“Ti ti, that oughtta impress her.” Bowie’s sarcasm wasn’t directed at Rusty, but at their female subject. Most women at least liked the uniform, the grungier the better, if not the package inside. Not her. She hadn’t seemed all that impressed by either.
He reached for a handful of beer nuts and popped a couple into his mouth. Breakfast had faded to a memory, lunch had been forgettable, and they were drinking their dinner.
“If you want to impress the lady, here’s one for you, L.T. Lai day, pronounced lye dye,” he enunciated.
“What’s it mean?” Bowie asked, thinking maybe he would like to learn some Vietnamese. It never hurt to improve one’s communication skills. If only he could speak the language of the opposite sex. Or at least understand it.
“Come to me. Add a lam on—lahon oon—and you’ve got please. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.” Rusty chuckled. “And if you’re really brave take it further with toi yen em.”
“Toi yen em?” Bowie repeated.
“I’ll let you figure that one out yourself.”
“What about me?” McCain grumbled. “I might be in Vietnam some day. Heard they turned China Beach into a honeymoon resort.”
“You’re getting married?” Bowie asked.
“I’m getting married?” McCain repeated. “To who?”
“That’s what I asked you.”
“You’re the one getting married. I’m not even in love. Though I could be in lust. With her.” He pointed to the mirror, but the dancer had taken a break and the only thing reflected in their line of vision was a pole. “A little skinny for my taste, though.”
“Women!” Bowie shook his head. “They give us the time of day and we drop to our knees in gratitude. Only they call it a marriage proposal. I can guarantee you I’m not getting married anytime soon.”
“I’ll take that bet,” McCain said, extending his hand. “You’ll be the first to fall.”
“Who, me?” But Bowie shook on it.
“Okay, Abbott and Costello. Enough of that routine. Time to load you two into a cab,” Rusty announced. “Some of the guys have already headed back to base.”
“Do we have rooms at the BOQ?” Bowie asked.
The master chief assured them they had rooms at the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters and helped them to their feet.
“Wait! My line,” McCain demanded, like a temperamental actor.
“Here’s one just for you,” Rusty said, urging them toward the door. “Xin loi. Sorry ’bout that.”
A blast of fragrant night air hit them as they stepped outside. Bowie felt woozy, but McCain looked worse.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” McCain warned, barely missing their shoes. “Sin loyee.”
“Uh.” Bowie stepped out of the way.
“What the hell is wrong with you college boys? Don’t they teach Ringknockers how to hold their beer?” Rusty had sure sobered up in a hurry, his patience completely gone as he hailed a cab. “I swear, you didn’t have more than a six-pack between the two of you.”
0550 Thursday
NAVAL AIR FACILITY
Sand Island, Midway Islands
TAM PUSHED ASIDE the mosquito netting from around the bed. Wearing a simple powder-blue tank top and patterned drawstring pants, she shuffled toward the kitchen. Confusing images of jungles and jungle-print uniforms, of knives and scars, clouded her first waking moments. She shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d dreamed of him.
But she was.
“Get a grip, girl.” She brushed a hand through her hair, freeing it from the loose braid she wore to bed. All this thinking before breakfast gave her a headache. That’s one thing she and the lieutenant had in common—the need for caffeine first thing in the morning. Only she liked hers in the form of hot tea.
She chose a ginkgo blend to wake up her brain cells. Putting the tea bag in a chipped ceramic mug, she bemoaned the fact that they’d run out of bottled water a week ago. So she ran the tap water until the rust washed down the drain, filled the mug and placed the whole thing in the microwave, then waited for the timer to ding.
She really hadn’t been kidding when she’d told the man she couldn’t cook. Even if she could, there wasn’t a single egg or a slice of bacon in the house. She opened her cupboards to see if anything interesting had materialized overnight, but closed them in disappointment.
Neither of the military flights this week had brought food. On Monday an unscheduled Coast Guard flight had dropped off mail, and the reason for Wednesday’s flight remained a mystery along with the footprint—although she had her suspicions about that.
As for food, she had to make do with canned goods until the incoming log flight later today. And since she’d be leaving for Hawaii on the outgoing flight, she’d have a nice break from roughing it for a change.
A cool northern Pacific breeze blew in from the open French doors off her living room, billowing the hanging sheers on the other windows around the room. She slept with all the windows open and only ever shut them against the rain. Otherwise the house remained open and unlocked at all times. She didn’t even own a key. She simply squatted in the deserted naval housing area. Soon it would become Fish and Wildlife Service property and wouldn’t matter, anyway.
Mug in hand, Tam crossed the room and leaned against the door frame to savor her morning ritual. From there she could see ribbons of pink on the horizon. She didn’t have a view of the ocean, but she liked listening to the island come alive as she sipped her tea.
Her mother had taught her to appreciate every single sunrise—and live in the moment because life could change in an instant. Only part of that lesson had taken hold. She loved to watch the sunrise.
She was too aware of consequences—past, present and future—to live in the moment.
In this peaceful setting, yesterday seemed so very far away. And her dreams were already beginning to fade as she looked forward to a new day.
But she believed in fate.
So there had to be a reason she’d met Lieutenant Bowie Prince. And a message in her dreams.
But why? And what?
Her jacket hung on the back of the desk chair in the corner. She remembered her mother’s letter and went to get it. It wasn’t so much what her mother had said, but what she’d left unsaid….
Midway Between You and Me (Harlequin Super Romance) Page 4
