0630 Friday
THE HILTON HAWAIIAN VILLAGE
Honolulu, Hawaii
CINCHING THE OVERSIZE towel threatening to slip, Tam lingered near the phone, towel-drying her wet hair. She’d begun to feel as if she were stalking the man, she’d dialed his number so many times.
Well, this time she’d gotten through. And tonight they’d be dining together. Dinner, not breakfast.
That wasn’t exactly her plan.
But she couldn’t very well ask him to rearrange his schedule to suit her needs. She didn’t want to make this situation any more awkward. Or complicated. She’d have to be very clear up front. She needed his help, but that was all she needed from him.
Stepping up to the mirrored closet, Tam thanked her lucky stars the Navy hadn’t shipped the lieutenant to places unknown. She’d tracked him down to Hawaii through his battalion in Gulfport, Mississippi. But the officer on duty had taken himself a little too seriously and refused to give her any more information.
That’s when she’d thought of her Navy contact at Pearl Harbor. The captain heading up the transition of Midway Islands had accessed the lieutenant’s numbers, including his personal cell phone number, and had given them to her without question.
Of course she’d had the knife as an excuse to make it sound official. Had the knife. U.S. Customs had the knife now.
Perhaps she’d be wiser not to bring that up until after she got what she wanted from the lieutenant.
Tam reached for her uniform, then hesitated. She had a long day of errands and meetings ahead of her. She probably wouldn’t get a chance to change.
She made a rash decision and pulled out her light gray pinstriped suit and tossed it to the bed. Her mother had made her mark as a fashion designer by taking the traditional Vietnamese ao dai and adding western flare. The Mandarin collar, fitted bodice with long skirt slit to the waist, and loose pants were cut from a summer-weight wool rather than silk. A Lan Nguyen Original.
From half-starved worker in a textile factory to seamstress to top fashion designer, Lan Nguyen had come a long way. In all that time she’d never forgotten her roots.
And wasn’t that what this evening was all about?
Tam grabbed a lavender silk bra and panties from her open suitcase and got dressed. She felt both professional and feminine and extremely proud. And just a ti ti nervous. She needed to hear her mother’s voice.
Tam wouldn’t give her mother false hope, just reassure herself that she was doing the right thing for both of them. She dialed out and the phone rang on the other end.
“Hello?”
A man answered, catching Tam completely off guard. “Who is this?” she asked, looking at the phone as if she could see through to the other side. She heard the good-natured chuckle and put the receiver back to her ear.
“I’m guessing you’re Lan’s daughter.”
“That’s right.”
“Tam, this is Shane O’Connor. I know we haven’t met, but I already feel as if I know you. Your mother just ran to the bakery on the corner for some bagels. She should be right back if you want to hang on to the line.”
Tam picked up her watch from the bedside table and checked the time; six-thirty Hawaii time was eight-thirty California time. Still early. What was her mother doing having breakfast with a man? A man who felt comfortable enough in her mother’s home to answer the phone!
“Do you always answer other people’s telephones, Mr. O’Connor?” Tam realized too late she sounded rude.
He didn’t seem fazed by her question at all. “We’re expecting some long-distance calls this morning. You came up as ‘out of area’ on the caller ID, but even if I had known it was you I still would have picked up.”
“It’s hard not to like someone who’s going out of his way to be nice to you,” she admitted, then got straight to the point. “Do you care about my mother, Mr. O’Connor?”
“Very much,” he answered without hesitation.
Tam felt a tightening in her chest. “That’s all I needed to know. You can tell my mother I’ll call her back later.” Tam hung up the phone.
0700 Friday
THE NAVY-MARINE GOLF COURSE
Pearl Harbor, Hawaii
“LIEUTENANT PRINCE.” Harris made a point of checking his watch. “Better late than never.”
Bowie glanced at his own. According to Greenwich mean he was right on time. “Sorry ’bout that,” he apologized to the threesome and their caddies as he joined them on the first tee. “I had to stop at the pro shop.”
He’d purchased his Tiger Woods-joins-the-Navy outfit right off the mannequin after the salesclerk had assured him everything matched. His heart had been set on new cleats and clubs, as well, until he discovered he’d left his MasterCard at the Paper Tiger.
He had other credit cards, but the missing one gave him enough of a shock to rein in his spending. He’d bought a new pair of cleats, but rented a set of clubs.
Bowie shook hands all around, first with his godfather, Stevens and Harris, and then their caddies as he was introduced to each of them. He should have thought to ask McCain to caddy. The junior officer would have done it in a heartbeat and would have been better company. He hadn’t realized his godfather’s invitation had included his C.O.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” Admiral Dann said, stepping up to the tee. “No one likes to play through a five-star admiral. Bowie, you’re bringing up the rear.”
“Are you sure you’re feeling up to this, Lieutenant?” Harris asked, taking the driver offered by his caddy. “I’ve managed to take four strokes off my handicap in the month I’ve been here.”
“I’m feeling great.” Bowie dumped his rented bag in the nearest golf cart and pulled on his gloves. The fact that his C.O. had been in Hawaii a whole month surprised him more than the older man’s improved handicap.
“Really?” Harris questioned. “Because Stevens said he thought you might be feeling under the weather this morning.
Bowie looked over his shoulder at Stevens. Stevens, Admiral Dann, even Harris were all grinning at some inside joke. He knew what they were doing. Golf was a mental game as well as a sport; they were trying to psych him out.
“Youth is wasted on the young,” Harris muttered, taking a couple of practice swings. The admiral and Stevens had already taken their turns.
Bowie’s godfather squeezed his shoulder. “And don’t even pretend to know what that means. You won’t until you’re at least forty.”
“Looking at life from the downhill slope instead of the uphill climb does have its advantages,” Harris added. “Fore!”
“I know when I’m being suckered.” Bowie had chosen a driver he felt would take the ball downrange and took a practice swing. “I just didn’t know you had the spook spying on me.”
Bowie ranked par for this course, so he played without a handicap. But he had a feeling these old geezers were about to give him a run for his money.
“It wouldn’t take a shadow operator to see you staggering out of that club Thursday morning,” Stevens said.
“But I was still on my feet,” Bowie defended as he addressed the ball. Taking a deep breath, he waited until his total concentration was on the game. The club sliced the air and the ball rode the leeward wind, then fell far short of the other three golf balls on the green.
“Standard bet, loser buys lunch,” his godfather taunted with a smile as they headed toward the golf carts.
Bowie sucked in his breath and let it out again. “To think I had a better offer this morning.”
“What’s her name?” Stevens asked.
“I doubt he can keep them straight with a girl in every port,” Harris answered.
Her name stuck somewhere in Bowie’s throat and he intended for it to stay there. “Afraid I don’t live up to that reputation.”
They divided into two carts. Paired with Harris and his caddy, Bowie offered to drive.
“That reminds me,” Harris said, climbing in on the passenge
r side. “Did the warden of Midway ever get ahold of you? Said something about your knife and needing to return it. Funny thing is Customs called this morning, said the same thing.” Harris gave him that all-knowing look of his.
“Oh, yeah?” Bowie was still trying to absorb the fact that Tam had spoken with Harris when he was hit by the realization that she no longer had his knife.
“So you did speak with her?”
“This morning,” Bowie confirmed, replaying the conversation in his head.
“Did she happen to mention the transition meeting?”
“No.” It appeared she’d forgotten to mention a few things.
“I may as well brief you now, before we meet with the warden this afternoon. We’ve been given the overlay project. A high-profile campaign like this puts One thirty-three in line for the Peltier Award from the Society of American Military Engineers.”
“We’re shipping out to Midway?” Bowie punctuated the question by putting on the brakes. “Sir, we need to discuss morale—”
“Save your breath, Lieutenant. I’m aware your men are giving up a well-deserved homeport. But I want my best man on the job. And that’s you.” Harris hopped out of the cart. “Don’t forget to have your men report to sick call Monday morning for drug testing.” With that parting shot, he strode toward the second tee.
Could today get any worse?
By the eighteenth hole Bowie realized he never should have asked himself that question.
“Don’t forget your tee,” Stevens reminded him for the second time.
Bowie turned back around and removed the tee from the ground. “Thanks.”
Stevens studied him openly. “Red’s my lucky color. Care to make a trade?” He held out a box of white tees for Bowie to take his pick.
Bowie studied the object in question. Stevens either knew or suspected that Bowie couldn’t distinguish the colored tee in his hand from the grass at his feet when it was in the ground. Except by outline. And he’d become very adept at that.
Was this a test?
“Why not, it hasn’t been that lucky for me.” Bowie offered up the red tee and took a white one in exchange. “Did I pass or fail?”
He walked away from the CIA agent without waiting for a response. Shoving the club into the bag, he hopped into the cart with his C.O., thinking Harris seemed the lesser of two evils right now.
He didn’t like it when people played games with him. Something he’d put up with all his life.
FOLLOWING THEIR GAME and lunch for seven—on him—at the 19th Puka Club House, Bowie found himself alone in a corner of the locker room with Rob Stevens.
“You need to loosen your grip.” Stevens offered the unsolicited advice as they returned from the showers. Towels couldn’t hide the ex-SEAL’s many visible tattoos and scars.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” There was nothing wrong with his grip. He had plenty of reasons to be tense. Turning his back on the man, Bowie opened his locker and stowed his shaving kit. It struck him then that he’d sounded like a sore loser, which really wasn’t the case.
Gripping the damp towel around his neck, he turned and leaned against a closed locker. Another towel hugged his lean hips. “As my master chief would say, xin loi. I got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
Stevens followed with a string of Vietnamese that left no doubt the man was as fluent as the master chief’s brother-in-law. He sat down on the center bench looking as if he expected to carry on a conversation.
“I have no idea what you just said,” Bowie admitted.
“I asked you to come work for me at the agency.”
“The CIA?”
Stevens nodded. “I made the same offer to your sister when she finished SEAL training. The Teams wanted nothing to do with women, but I knew Tabby to be an invaluable asset. Eventually, they saw the light. My loss.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Zach and his wife both fly for me on occasion.”
“Really?”
They were tight. Yet his brother had never once mentioned it. Not that he doubted Stevens for a minute. It sounded like something Zach would be crazy enough to do, but Michelle? Bowie just shook his head at the thought of two former Top Gun Navy pilots flying for Air America.
No wonder they didn’t have any kids yet.
“I’m not really like my brother or my sister. I’d just as soon not pick a fight if I don’t have to. I’m not the kind of guy who throws a punch, I’m the kind of guy who blocks it.”
“I understand, more than you might think. And I need players on defense as well as offense.”
“I appreciate the offer. But I’m going to stick with blowing up bridges and building roads for the Navy.” Whipping the towel from around his neck, he dropped it to a growing pile on the floor.
“For what it’s worth, I think you’ve made the right decision.” Stevens pushed to his feet and turned his attention to his own locker.
Thinking the conversation over, Bowie did the same.
“Just curious,” Stevens continued over his shoulder. “How’d you get through underwater demolition training being color-blind?”
“So that was a test?” Bowie asked, turning back around.
“A guess,” Stevens answered, continuing to dress. “I’m trained to observe. That and something Rusty said about your vision tipped me off. We relied on color-blind spotters in Nam. The military has used them since World War Two. It seems you guys can’t be fooled by camouflage because you’re used to looking beyond the obvious.”
“Adapted, memorized. Faked it,” answering the man’s earlier question, Bowie shrugged. “Been doing it all my life. The sky is blue. The grass is green. I see color by distinction. Not that faking it hasn’t got ten me into trouble.” He had an all-too-recent review board to remind him exactly how much trouble he’d gotten himself into.
“So when defusing ordnance how do you know the difference between the red wire and the green one?”
“Red-green color deficiency is the most common type of color blindness. But eyes are complicated. There are different degrees of impairment. In my case I receive all three colors, red, green and blue, but with reduced green sensitivity. The cones and rods work together, so it’s more about distinguishing colors from one another. For me a red tee in bright sunlight is a red tee, but a red tee in green grass cast in shadow is a different story.”
“Except there’s not much on the line in a game of golf.”
“You’re right, and to answer your question, once the Navy found out I was faking it, they busted me and limited my speciality.” But they couldn’t take away his training. “Besides, I’m an optimist, which is why I have these.” He removed a pair of glasses from his locker and put them on. The specially tinted lenses corrected his vision to some degree. “It’s really not so bad seeing the world through rose-colored glasses.” That wasn’t exactly what is was like for him, but most people could relate.
Stevens nodded. “I certainly wish I could. Vietnam colored my world and changed it forever.” Turning back to his locker, he reached inside for his shirt.
Once again, Bowie was struck by the pattern of crisscross welts on the older man’s back. “If you don’t mind my asking, did you get those in Vietnam?”
“I hardly remember they’re there anymore. Bamboo beating. Courtesy of my stay at the infamous Hanoi Hilton. Ever hear of it?”
“Prisoner-of-war camp in North Vietnam.” Bowie had a hard time believing the man didn’t remember something like that every day of his life.
Stevens nodded. “If it wasn’t for your old man I’d be dead.”
“I’m sure he was just returning the favor. He said you saved his life over there.”
Rob had a far-off look in his eyes, but a slight smile touched his mouth. “As a squad we relied on one another.”
Bowie nodded in understanding. “Why’d you stay after the war?”
“There was still work to be done. Once a SEAL, always a SEAL.” He closed
his locker. “When did you get the tattoo? Not that I was checking out your ass,” the man quipped, “just that it’s hard not to notice around here.”
“Couple years ago we started a fraternity, Sons of the Sixty.” His father, godfather and Stevens were three of the original sixty SEALS. But the Navy didn’t like its officers tattooed, so unlike Stevens, Bowie had the skull in a fairly inconspicuous place. “How come you haven’t asked me why I didn’t become a SEAL? I mean, everyone who knows my father asks. But then I guess you know because I just told you why I can never be a Navy SEAL. Or a Navy pilot—”
“Or a UDT Seabee?” Stevens finished for him. “Seems to me you can be anything you want to be. You’re more like him than you know. I don’t think the word can’t is in the man’s vocabulary. There’s won’t because he’s such a stubborn cuss. But won’t is a choice. I think you made yours. And I think your father knows that. I know he’s proud of you. He once said, ‘Bowie marches to a different drummer. He’s traditional. He loves history. He knows Seabees were frogmen before Navy SEALs were ever commissioned.’ And that’s why he thinks, and why I think, you choose to be one.”
Bowie thought about that for a moment. “Recruiting films depict SEALs as the guys who cleared the beaches in World War Two. The first frogmen were just Seabees who could hold their breath. The first SEALs were just Seabees trained in demolition. Hell, the SEALs still go through our schools.”
“But you know the truth. And that’s what matters.” Stevens offered a wry smile. “How much do you know about Vietnam?”
“What I’ve read. My dad doesn’t talk about it much.”
“No, I imagine he wouldn’t.” He paused, as if gauging his next words. “We fought a Shadow War in Laos. It mirrored the Vietnam War, but started before and ended…well, let’s just say it wasn’t unusual for profiteers to flourish. Our side, their side, many ran drugs. The Vietnamese had the supply, the Americans had the demand and the connections to open trade routes.
Midway Between You and Me (Harlequin Super Romance) Page 6
