Danger Close (Shadow Warriors)

by Lindsay McKenna

“Unladylike,” Strike completed, smiling. He held up his hands. “I know, I know…but I can’t help myself….”

  Cathy smiled. “I think fighting one war is enough, don’t you?” Cathy knew there were women who would take the medic’s comment as sexual harassment; but she didn’t. She knew the difference and these men were not in that mode.

  Crossly grinned broadly. “Yeah, more than enough.”

  Strike was too busy slurping down his portion of the strawberries to pay much attention to what was being said. “Huh?”

  “Do we go around calling you asshole just because you might be one?”

  Gomez demanded. “No. We call you something nicer.”

  “Yeah,” Chesty rumbled, “dingleberry.”

  Cathy choked. Gomez patted her on the back in a fatherly fashion.

  Strike glowered at all of them, hoarding the fruit in his mess kit.

  “I don’t care what you call me, Strike,” Cathy told him, trying not to laugh. “Just as long as it isn’t derogatory.”

  DUSK SETTLED into Ban Pua and Cathy nestled down in the large slit trench that wound like a sidewinder around the hill. The trench was located halfway between the perimeter of concertina at the base and the bunkers above them. Individual firing positions had been cut into the walls. The trench served as an interconnecting pathway to a series of fortified bunkers in case they got shelled and had to run for safety.

  Arnley had placed her between Gomez and another Recon team. There were six to ten feet between them. To her right, a young Recon smiled but kept his distance. Cathy understood his reaction. She was a type of woman the eighteen-year-old Marine had never encountered. Every time he’d steal a glance at her, he’d blush. Although he was built like Chesty, he reminded her of Billy, and Cathy gently returned his unsure smile when their eyes finally did meet once in the dusk. Soft footfalls caught her attention and she peered out over the rim of the trench, immediately recognizing Jim Boland. His face was grim and shadowed beneath the helmet he wore.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” he said by way of greeting, descending into the trench beside her.

  She watched as he crouched down, a few feet separating them. “You have?”

  “Yeah. How’d things go today?” Even in the dying light, he could see that she was exhausted.

  “Okay. My kidneys need new suspension.”

  He laughed quietly. “Convoy duty sucks, to put it mildly,” he agreed. “How about physically?”

  “Tired but stronger. I felt better today.” Cathy studied his profile and sensed he was worried. “What’s up? Attack tonight?” she hedged softly.

  He scowled. “Count on it. We spent six months up on this coffin and coming back here is too soon as far as I’m concerned.” Lapsing into silence for almost a minute, Jim found himself wanting to simply confide in her. His voice was low as he spoke. “When I first saw the color of your eyes they reminded me of one of my favorite places.”

  Cathy warmed to the intimacy he always established with her and rested her head against her drawn-up knees. “Tell me about it, this favorite spot of yours?”

  “Back home on my parents’ farm in Nebraska, there’s a big pond behind the house.” He picked up a clod of dirt, hefting it in his hand. “It’s quiet. Someplace where you can go to think.”

  “Does the pond give you answers?”

  Boland managed a slight smile. “Yeah, sometimes…”

  “I ought to go to it. I need a lot of answers.”

  “I’d like to take you there.”

  Cathy’s heart thumped once against her ribs. Again, she sensed he was being honest with her and it left her confused. There was no defense against Jim Boland, she was discovering.

  Sensing her shock, Jim shifted the conversation. “Why do you say you need a lot of answers, Cathy?” He sifted the dirt of the crumbling clod through his long, callused fingers.

  Shrugging, she muttered, “Before I joined the Marine Corps, I had my life pretty well figured out. I’d work my way through college and get my R.N. status. The rest was a piece of cake—I’d work in neonatal.

  “Why the detour, then? The Marine Corps and now the WLF is one hell of a one-eighty.”

  “Isn’t it?” she agreed wryly. “I did it because my girlfriend Lisa Gardner joined. This may sound soppy, but Lisa’s like a sister to me. I was running low on funds for my last year of college and she wanted to go into the service because she was bored with education, per se. So, I followed her.” Cathy rested her chin on her knees. “And looking back on it, Captain, it was a mistake. All of it. I should have gotten a second job.”

  “You were in a tough spot.”

  Again, Cathy was touched by his understanding. Risking everything, she blurted, “How long have you been in the Marine Corps?” It was a personal question, not something that should be broached between an officer and enlisted person. She saw one corner of his mouth crook.

  “Five-and-a-half years. Got five months to go.”

  Cathy nodded. More personal questions begged to be asked. Because he didn’t seem upset over the first one, she decided to ask another. “Does your wife want you to sign back up or get out at the end of your enlistment?”

  “I’m not married.” Boland took a deep breath, staring off into the encroaching cape of night that was rapidly covering the cobalt sky. “Almost made it to the altar two years ago, but Susan died when a drunk driver swerved his car into her lane. It was a head-on collision.”

  Cathy heard the remnants of pain in his voice. “I’m sorry. Just being around you for this short time, I’m sure she was very special.”

  He studied her in the silence. Her eyes mirrored her sincerity. “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re special, too. There’s a…” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “You have an inner quality of integrity, Captain, and it touches everyone in a positive way. I can’t imagine someone like you not drawing a woman of equal care and sensitivity, that’s all.”

  “Since you’re so good at assessing others, how do you see yourself, Cathy?”

  She laughed lightly. “Ask ten people to describe me and you’ll it get ten entirely different answers.”

  “You’re complex, but not an enigma,” he said. “And I don’t care what those ten people think of you. How do you see yourself?”

  The coaxing tone dissolved the last of her wariness. She felt she could trust him with her secrets. “Embattled. Barely surviving. Hanging on with my fingernails.” She lifted her hands, barely visible now, studying them. Her nails were nonexistent.

  “Go on.”

  “I’m not really a soldier,” she offered haltingly. “I joined the WLF to protect Lisa because I knew she’d joined for idealistic reasons and that she’d get killed if someone didn’t shadow her until she could come to her senses.”

  “Has she?”

  Cathy nodded sadly. “She’s changed so much, it frightens me.” And then she gave a bitter laugh. “We’ve all changed. Some more drastically than others, I suppose. Lisa used to be like a sprite, dancing in and out of life’s situations. The Marine Corps was a lark to her. The WLF was supposed to be the ultimate adventure. Well, it’s turned into the ultimate nightmare for all of us.” Her voice ached with feeling. “To kill an animal to eat in order to survive is one thing. To kill another human being is…”

  He reached over, placing his hand on her shoulder. “No one gets used to it, babe.”

  His hand stabilized her and Cathy bowed her head as his barely spoken endearment flowed across her raw emotional state. “None of us will ever be the same,” she whispered in a scratchy voice. “Sometimes I feel as if this is all a bad dream and I’ll wake up from it. When I’m out there sitting in an ambush, waiting for an LA squad to come by, I can’t believe I’m doing it. And yet, I’m doing it. And I’m pulling that trigger, too.”

  Jim gently massaged Cathy’s shoulder and felt her quiver slightly, then he then realized she was crying. “We all do things in life we don’t want to d
o or like to do,” he told her quietly. How badly he wanted to take her into his arms. It was impossible under the circumstances.

  Cathy absorbed his touch, starved for it. The way his strong fingers worked gently across her drawn shoulder fed her in a way she never thought possible. Sniffing and unable to look up, she asked in a muffled tone, “You’ve killed. How do you handle it?”

  Jim allowed his hand to fall back to his side, wishing that he could take Cathy into his arms and hold her, protecting her against her anguish. “I rationalize it,” he admitted heavily. “The LA is the enemy. He’s hunting me just like I’m hunting him. He’s here in a country killing defenseless women, children and old people. That’s wrong. But I don’t enjoy it.”

  Cathy wiped her eyes and lifted her head. “D-do you get nightmares?”

  He snorted. “Sure. Everyone does sooner or later.”

  “How long does it last after you go back Stateside?”

  “It’s different for everyone, Cathy. Look at Vietnam vets. Some of those guys didn’t show any symptoms from combat until twelve years later and then they blew apart. They call it post-traumatic stress disorder. I call it the hell of war that we wear like a good friend around our heart and brain.” He held her damp gaze. “Take some advice from me?”

  “What?”

  “Keep crying. Talk about it. But don’t hold it inside yourself, okay?”

  Sniffing, Cathy glanced at him. “You’re the first person to care enough to listen. If we’re caught crying over at Delta, we’re punished for it. Lane doesn’t believe combat soldiers should cry.”

  His eyes narrowed dangerously. “The major’s wrong.” It came out as a hiss of denial. Jim quickly wrestled his anger into a hidden compartment deep within himself. This was the first time Cathy had given him a vital piece of information about Delta and Lane. He stared down into her tortured features.

  “What can happen?”

  “Depends upon who catches you at it. If Cassidy sees you, she’ll run to Ingram.” Cathy shuddered. “Ingram has always believed that a little physical pain is good for you, that’s all I can say.”

  Boland balled his hands into fists. “And Major Lane? Does she condone this behavior on Ingram’s part?”

  “She invented it.” And then Cathy rubbed her face dry. “I talk too much. Just forget what I said, okay?”

  He slowly rose to one knee, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Get some sleep, if you can.” His fingers tightened momentarily. “Any time you want to talk more on this or anything else, just come and see me. Deal?”

  Cathy raised her head, meeting and melting beneath his gray eyes. “I didn’t mean to unload on you.” And then she managed an embarrassed smile. “It’s your fault. If you weren’t so easy to talk to…”

  “I feel the same about you, too. I don’t go around telling just anybody about that pond where I get my answers.”

  Boland was hungry to remain and talk further with Cathy but knew it would be awkward if he stayed any longer. He also had to check on the rest of his platoon before going to the command bunker. “Maybe someday I’ll tell you about that old apple tree in the backyard with a red swing hanging under it.”

  Cathy smiled, soaking up his hooded, burning look. “I’d like to hear about it.”

  Jim returned her tremulous smile. Her lips were slightly parted and just begging to be kissed—by him. Shaken by how easily Cathy touched his heart, Jim became serious. He kept his hand on her, wildly aware of the softness of her flesh beneath the rough texture of the utilities. Despite her clothing, Cathy was still a woman, a provocative, emotional woman who wore her heart on her sleeve with no apology.

  “Look, if the LA start walking mortars or rockets tonight, make it to that bunker eighty meters down the trench and then up the hill and to the right. That’s where the platoon will gather and Buck can count heads.”

  “Don’t worry, Gomez has already drawn me a map on how to get there.”

  “Good.” He lifted his hand and gently removed the last tear on her cheek with his roughened fingertips. Her skin was soft and firm beneath them. “Be careful tonight, babe. Don’t take any chances.” He got to his feet and disappeared as quietly as he had come, swallowed up into the inky jaws of blackness as he moved down the trench toward Gomez.

  Cathy was stunned by his unexpected touch. She’d savored his hand on her shoulder, but when he touched her cheek and gently removed the last of her tears, something old and hurting broke loose deep within her. His care burned straight through to her aching heart. Jim was a dream. A desperate dream on her part. It was as if he could read her mind and her heart and know she needed his touch. His care. Cathy slid farther down into the protection of the trench. She kept replaying their odd conversation. She’d never divulged so much of herself to anyone. A wonderful feeling emanated like a blanket from him, settling around her heart. Cathy groaned. Yes, she was drawn to Jim, as a man, but she couldn’t forget that he was an officer and she was enlisted. The ease of communication, trust and open affection had come without effort. It was just there without reason.

  Other things were happening, too. Adapting to life at Alpha was top priority, especially since she had to earn the respect of Arnley and Townsend.

  She scrunched her body down against the dirt wall and dozed off, while the other part of her remained alert in case of attack.

  IN THE EARLY morning hours, the first rockets shrieked out of the jungle and across the grass plain toward the SEATO complex two miles outside the village of Ban Pua. The huge carrump thudded dully. Somewhere, a bunker had taken a direct hit. Cathy jerked awake, fumbled for her helmet and lodged her body into the bottom of the trench. She gripped her M16 to her chest. The earth convulsed in spasm as several more rounds careened out of the jungle and wailed overhead. Concussions hurt her ears as she buried her head against the trench to protect herself from the raining debris and rock. Cries from wounded men drifted eerily into earshot. She was alone in the suffocating blackness listening to the silence as the next rocket stopped the screaming.

  “Oh, God,” Cathy breathed, and waited for it to land right on top of her. She wrapped herself into a tight ball and clutched her legs, opened her mouth to equalize the pressure in her lungs with outside air. The rocket hit twenty yards in front of her. The trench wall belched in on top of her and, in seconds, she was buried by an avalanche of dirt. Instinctively, Cathy clawed her way to freedom.

  Gasping for breath, she found herself alone. Unaware of the concussion she had sustained, her nose bleeding heavily, she dragged herself to her knees. Someone fired the flares and the pop of M16s began. The rhythmic, throaty roar of an M60 added to the crescendo. The trench where she had been was nonexistent as she crawled around on her hands and knees, totally disoriented. Cathy knew she stood little chance of surviving the attack aboveground and crouched under the ghostly light of the flares, trying to locate her rifle before she headed for her assigned bunker. She didn’t dare leave her rifle behind and dug furiously through the loosened soil in the trench.

  There it was! Cathy clutched the rifle and reeled unsteadily to her feet, heading toward another section of trench that was still usable. A rocket exploded nearby and Cathy stumbled and fell in on someone. Strong hands grabbed at her and pinned her up against the dirt wall as LA mortars began following up the rocket attack.

  “We’ve got to move!” her compatriot croaked, pulling Cathy to her feet.

  “No, we’ve got to stay. You can’t leave your post,” she protested. Cathy didn’t know who her buddy was, but he froze when he heard her voice.

  “Stay here!” she repeated. “It’s too dangerous to leave!”

  “No! Come on,” the Marine rasped, gripping her arm and hauling her out of the partially destroyed trench. “Follow me!”

  “No!” Cathy yelled, trying to stop him. Frantically, she dug her heels into the heavily rutted earth. He ignored her and jerked her along with him. It seemed hours to Cathy before they reached the relative safety of a large unde
rground bunker. They dove down the slide. Cathy landed hard on her hands and knees. She slowly looked up into the grim faces of at least twenty other Marines. She swayed to her feet, then slumped against the rough-timbered wall, allowing it to support her. Cathy glared at the young Marine who had panicked and left his position in the trench. She was angry at herself for lacking the strength to resist him. A small lantern clung stubbornly to the barricaded wall, bouncing with every tremor and explosion. The stench of fear mingled with sweat assailed her flared nostrils.

  She wiped her nose.

  The Marine who had pulled her along was the young kid who had been in the trench to her right. Another Marine came forward and he gawked at her. “I thought you were a girl,” he blurted. He turned to his buddies. “It’s true, then!”

  “I’ll be damned,” another muttered. They all inched closer as a group, staring at Cathy, the whites of their eyes contrasting sharply with their glistening, dirt-encrusted features.

  Cathy took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “Look, guys, I’ve got to return to my trench….” Black dots began dancing in front of her eyes and she knew she was going to pass out. Cathy slid to her knees. Someone’s hand steadied her as the rifle slipped from her nerveless fingers.

  “She’s hurt.”

  “Yeah. Here, lay her down over here.”

  Cathy struggled to retain consciousness, blackness rimming her vision as they half dragged and half carried her to a cot along the wall.

  “Bleeding pretty badly.”

  “Get a medic.”

  CATHY SAT ON the green canvas cot, surrounded by curious Marines.

  “The doc’s coming,” someone yelled near the slide.

  “I’ll be okay, Lieutenant,” Cathy mumbled, holding her bleeding nose, “just let me get back to my outfit. I got blown out of my trench. If my sergeant finds me gone I’ll—”

  “Sit right here, Corporal. No sense in getting back out there just yet.” He looked over at his company sergeant. “Check and see if it’s all clear.”

  Cathy looked up at all their expectant faces. If the same incident had occurred at Delta, Ingram or Cassidy would have told her to get her ass to the med bunker, but little else. Blood flowed heavily from her nose and she made a mess trying to wipe it away. One of the men leaned forward, pressing a piece of torn cloth into her hand.