Some timeless moment later…
He never lost track of time.
But he just had.
…Claudia shifted back that same half step.
She didn’t try to fill the silence with words. No apologies. No false compliments. Nor true ones.
Her blue eyes studied him as intently as his studied her.
There weren’t questions either.
There was a simple, stupefying rightness.
He turned and held the door for her to enter the passage to the number two ready room. A door heavy enough to block most of a Harrier jet’s noise on takeoff or landing—which was major.
A door that felt as if it was opening to many places at once.
* * *
Claudia crossed through the passageway into a room she didn’t expect.
Instead of containing the heavy table with bolted-down benches—on which she used to rest her butt until it was so sore it hurt to stand when the “saddle up” or the “stand down” order was finally issued—this was a comfortable office. A small table, a couple of couches, even comfortable chairs. All bolted down in case of rough seas, but still very pleasant.
It was just wrong. She’d come home to… Just wrong.
Lieutenant Commander Boyd Ramis, who’d been First Officer on the vessel when she’d been here as a Marine pilot two years ago, was seated at the desk. He’d made the room his office.
Claudia couldn’t help herself. No matter what Trisha had said, she snapped to attention and saluted sharply.
The Lieutenant Commander rose and returned the salute without complaint or equivocation. Then held out his hand and offered a firm handshake. “Welcome back aboard, Captain Casperson. Pleasure to see you again.”
Boyd was good at that. He might be only an okay commander, but he surrounded himself with good people and he listened to them. And he kept them loyal by always knowing their names, their wives, even most of their kids.
“Thank you, sir.” Sure enough, despite a two-year gap, he asked about her mom but not her dad, recalling that he’d died of cancer during her former service aboard. She considered telling him about her stepfather and how happy he and her mom were in Flagstaff, but she didn’t want to start that conversation with everyone around.
She chose the least-comfortable-looking chair to stave off sleep as long as possible and tried to assess the others as they arrived. It wasn’t a big crowd.
Boyd and Michael, Trisha and Bill. She remembered Petty Officer Sly Stowell, the head of the ship’s amphibious assault craft, managing to dredge up his name a moment before he had to remind her. By his greeting he definitely remembered her. Female Marine pilots were still counted in the dozens rather than the thousands, so he had a distinct advantage. Sly moved off; apparently he and Michael had some mutual respect going as they fetched coffee and stood together, though it was a silent respect because neither man spoke.
But Claudia had little doubt where their attention was focused. Michael was working a little too hard at not looking at her.
Fine, Mr. Crazy Delta Colonel.
But she wasn’t having much luck ignoring him. Didn’t want to.
A kiss chaste enough for a brother, if she’d had one… Okay, it hadn’t been that chaste. Still. A kiss like that shouldn’t be changing her view of anything. Not of the man, not of herself.
Yet it lingered there like the warmth of hot tea deep in her belly, making her feel more welcome to be aboard this boat than at any moment until now.
Despite the impossibly convoluted series of circumstances that had her coming back to this boat for a wholly different outfit after two years away, it was a return to exactly the right place at exactly the right time.
Claudia didn’t know what to do with that. She’d raised herself with minimal help from her parents and only a little more from their neighbors. It had been up to her alone to consciously form herself into who she wanted to be. She was pretty pleased with the woman she’d built so far.
So what was this instinctual thing that had the Ice Queen kissing a crazy D-boy colonel? One she couldn’t even keep out of her head.
His presence seemed to radiate from a quiet center.
Yet as aware as she was of him, he was invisible to so many others. People moved so close that they might have thought him a wall or piece of furniture. Few even greeted him. One actually startled himself when he almost walked into Michael.
* * *
Michael was always amused at how simple it was to disappear in a room. It wasn’t about outer stillness; it was inner stillness. Very few saw past that.
Lieutenant Commander Ramis hadn’t even seen him enter the room. Of course with a woman of Claudia’s fine looks in front of him, that was little surprise.
Sly was more observant than most.
Claudia turned away from them, but he could still feel her awareness of him. He shifted, fetching a couple cookies from the refreshment table tray for himself and Sly.
Something, something he couldn’t see, had caused her to glance back at him as he did so.
She shouldn’t be a Night Stalker; she should be a Delta operator, except there weren’t any women allowed. Not yet, but the landscape of the military was changing. Even four years ago there hadn’t been any female Night Stalkers.
Well, if Captain Claudia Casperson was an example of that change, he was all in favor of it.
In more ways than one, which was a wholly inappropriate thought. But even though he was biting down on a chocolate chip cookie, that wasn’t the taste he was remembering.
It was a woman at sunset.
* * *
Claudia was doing her best to retain names as one person after another arrived. It wasn’t like a Marines operation with multiple ground commanders, flight team leaders both jet and helo, and so on. This was definitely a lean-and-mean operation: Night Stalkers, Rangers, Delta, and Navy.
An extremely tall, slender guy strolled in, actually wearing a white cowboy hat tipped back on his head. His easy drawl proved that the hat wasn’t just an affectation as he introduced himself.
“Captain Justin Roberts, ma’am. Pilot of the Chinook CH-47 Calamity Jane at your service. Nice to have another captain aboard among all this riffraff.” He moseyed—a man who actually moseyed—his way over to one of the deep chairs and settled in. In SOAR, a company command didn’t necessarily follow rank. Seniority and experience were far more important in a regiment where captains and even majors flew the helicopters.
Of course, a colonel in the field. Maybe Michael was only in planning. No. Last night. Yemen. Leading a four-man fire team himself.
The man was a puzzle.
The last trio to arrive was a very strange set. The man was tall—though shorter than the Texan—and slender, and introduced himself with a very Boston accent, not all that different from Trisha’s, as Air Mission Commander Archie Stevenson III. The man Claudia had traded a dozen words with last night before he sent her into Yemen. He moved off to the coffeepot.
If he saw Michael, it was hard to tell. There might have been a brief nod.
The woman he’d entered with just stood there facing Claudia until she rose uneasily to her feet.
“Let me guess,” the newcomer addressed Claudia. “This is Trisha’s doing.”
Claudia knew in that instant who commanded this unit. It was the voice from the DAP Hawk last night. The woman was tall, wore her mahogany hair in a long, flowing wave that framed a stunning face, and had an air of absolute authority.
“Well”—she didn’t even wait for Claudia’s answer—“when you’re conscious tomorrow, you can officially report in. I did send Trisha to guide you in and welcome you aboard ship. She was supposed to lead you to me eventually. I’m Chief Warrant 3 Lola Maloney, by the way.” She had a firm handshake.
“Trisha, ah, took me aloft, ma’am.”
&
nbsp; The woman glared at the gray steel ceiling, clearly counting to ten. Slowly. Possibly twice. “O’Malley…” she ground out between her teeth.
“I had to see.” Trisha came over and shoved a cold can of ginger ale into Claudia’s hand. “I mean, last night she was good and all, but not like it was a tricky mission or anything. She did great, Lola. Can see something of all those Marine Corps SuperCobra habits, but well integrated. Took to the bird right away, compensated for the stealth characteristics nice and clean. No freeze in a crisis. If it were up to me, I’d sign off on her right now.”
Lola glanced down at the pint-sized chief warrant officer.
Unless Claudia was mistaken, Lola’s gaze had shifted from anger to interest. So, Trisha might be a certified lunatic, but she was well respected by her commanding officer.
“You, Captain Casperson, are forgiven. We’ll talk more after you’ve slept again. You, O’Malley, just stay out of my face for the rest of the night, please.” She didn’t speak as if she expected such a request to be obeyed.
She headed off with a nod, leaving the third person who had entered watching Claudia frankly. The girl looked about fifteen, yet she stood with the poise of someone much older. Claudia studied her face. Except for the look in her hazel eyes, the girl was fifteen. But no young girl had ever looked at the world with such old eyes. She was as tall as Trisha but clearly still had some growing to do. Even now, her sleeves were just a little short, unless that was some new style. Her dark, ruffled hair was hanked back in a sloppy ponytail built off a pair of smaller braids that swept back from her temples, revealing her dark skin that matched no one else’s in the room.
All of the others were dressed in some variation of combat casual, with only Boyd wearing the Navy tan slacks and shirt open at the throat typical of a boat officer. This girl was dressed in full teen style: black boots, skinny-leg jeans, a red cami under a yellow tank top, and an airy, worn green scarf with dark blue trim draped over her otherwise bare shoulders. She had a smartphone with headphones and an e-reader. She was fully equipped, but for what?
“What are you reading?” Claudia asked to break the stretching silence between them. Other conversations were going on in the room, but they had disappeared into a background buzz that was easy to ignore—except for her awareness that Michael was watching them intently.
Claudia was so tired that it was a relief to focus on only one person at a time.
“Hunger Games. A strange title. Hunger is never a game.” The teen spoke as if this were a matter of the deepest importance.
“No, it isn’t.” No one else was paying any attention to the strange conversation. As if casual fifteen-year-olds always appeared on ships in the service. SOAR was definitely far outside the norm. Or perhaps it was just D Company.
The girl continued her inspection of Claudia for a moment longer, then moved over to the end of a couch next to AMC Archie Stevenson, plugged in and, after waving hello to Michael, began reading. She might as well have been in a suburban living room as in an amphibious-assault-ship briefing room. The way the two leaned together, they clearly were close. Yet Claudia felt as if she’d just been subjected to the toughest test of a tough day with the verdict still outstanding.
The AMC must have noticed her confusion. “My daughter, Dilya.” There was no sign of the man in the girl. Maybe she favored the mother, about a hundred percent. No explanation of what she was doing here, but no one seemed bothered by her presence.
And Michael was being nice to the kid. He’d actually smiled and waved back. He had an amazing smile, which made her glad that he hadn’t tried it on her yet. It had a genuineness that shone right through him.
The final person arrived quietly and slipped into a seat beside Claudia. She required a second look. She had a Mediterranean complexion of dusky olive. Her straight hair, as dark as her eyes, reached to her lower back, accentuating her long frame. Special Operations Forces allowed some leeway in hair style, but Claudia’s own hair length, brushing past her shoulders, was the normal limit. This woman really stood out.
The woman offered a nod and a fine-fingered handshake.
“Captain Kara Moretti, SOAR,” the Italian beauty offered with a distinct Brooklyn accent that almost provoked a laugh from Claudia. The woman didn’t offer any further explanation or any hint that humor would be welcome.
Claudia hadn’t heard the name before, and it made the count wrong. She knew exactly how many women were in the regiment.
By the side glances from the others, no one else knew who Captain Moretti was either. Justin, the Texan pilot, didn’t bother to glance; he simply stared as if he’d been struck by lightning. Only Michael didn’t react. He simply accepted her presence. Chief Warrant Lola Maloney also knew who the woman was.
Well, if Colonel Michael Gibson was attracted to sheer beauty, he would be a goner on this one. It was ridiculous, but Claudia found herself a little irritated that Captain Moretti had some connection to Michael. More than a little irritated, which was beyond ridiculous.
Boyd Ramis rose and everyone settled. “Michael came to me this afternoon with an interesting idea that I’ll leave for him to explain. Before he does, I just want to say I think it’s a great idea. I rang up Roger at EU NAVFOR, and he said it sounds ‘top-notch.’ But I’ll leave it up to you experts to decide.”
Roger at…that would be Dutch Commodore Roger Hamstein, the afloat commander for the entire Operation Atalanta—the operation against Somali piracy that stretched over much of the Indian Ocean. So, the mission hadn’t even been explained yet, and now command was expecting it to happen. Michael didn’t look pleased, but he managed to hide it from Boyd, if not from her.
Michael rose to speak. “Six months ago we flew Operation Heavy Hand.”
It was Claudia’s first chance to notice his voice when it was meant for a group and not just for her. It was low and soft. He was the sort of man who never had to shout because when he went really quiet, he scared the crap out of you. But at least at the moment it was a gentle voice, as if he were whispering to a horse. Or maybe a redwood. Everyone went dead silent to listen.
“We took out over sixty pirates including four pirate lords, recovered five ships and forty-seven hostages, and lost only one person.” All eyes in the room traveled to Trisha, though most shied away before they got there.
Claudia didn’t see any accusation; it was all sympathy. So, no one even questioned if it might be Trisha’s fault. Good. It made her think a little better of the woman. “Pulled a Roland” on her—that was one hell of a coping mechanism, reenacting the death of her copilot as a test.
But that also matched the way they were using the mission as a teaching tool at SOAR training. Every step of the operation had been dissected and analyzed: on the classroom board, in three-dimensional simulations, and as specific techniques in the field. They’d spent a full week studying something that had been planned in a day and taken barely ten hours to execute. All but forty-seven minutes of that had been transit time.
To this day, SOAR hadn’t been mentioned in any news story relating to the operation. Nor Delta, yet clearly Michael had been a part of it as well.
* * *
Michael made a quick assessment of the room. Most of the people here had been involved in that mission. The Texan Chinook pilot and Kara Moretti hadn’t been here and clearly didn’t know what he was referring to.
Claudia did. He could see her connecting the pieces of her recent training with the people in the room. He actually waited, giving her a moment of silence.
At seven seconds, her attention shot to him, shifted to Billy and Trisha, then back to him. That fast she’d put together exactly who had been deepest in country.
Damn! He really needed a new word for her, but she was impressing the hell out of him in more ways than one.
She made him feel…hopeful. Hopeful of what, he’d analyze later.
&n
bsp; He’d thought to keep her in the background for this mission, toward the safer rearguard positions until she had her feet down. He wondered if he’d ever met anyone whose feet were so clearly down solidly.
On the fly, he made a change to the plan’s flight assignments. He considered if it might be a personal bias, but he didn’t think so.
He forced his attention back to the briefing but felt as if he was presenting to Claudia alone despite his previous conclusion.
* * *
Claudia studied the map of the western half of the Indian Ocean that Michael had put up on the projector.
“Al-Shabaab militants have been driven out of Mogadishu. They are still fighting an active war in the south but losing against the new government with the assistance of AMISOM, the African Union Mission to Somalia. The south only holds one ship at present, one that apparently no one is interested in paying a ransom for. They’ve been using her as a long-range mother ship to deliver pirate teams up to fifteen hundred miles away in the Maldives and—”
“Give me a break, Michael.” Trisha, of course. “How are we supposed to find one mother ship in two million square miles of ocean?”
“O’Malley.” Lola made it sound like a wounded plea. “Shut up and let the man speak for once.”
But Claudia could see there was no real heat behind the request. Even through her exhaustion-hazed view, she could start to see how tight this team was. Trisha might have ticked off her commander, but they’d chosen to sit side by side on one of the couches.
Over the next two hours, Michael laid out his plan. Thirty-eight hostages from four ships were spread across five locations in southern Somalia. Even though the boats were gone—two accidentally sunk, one more lost in a storm, and one recaptured at sea while being used as a mother ship—the hostages were still ashore.
Unlike the northern territories where professional criminals had replaced the original fisherman-pirates attempting to protect their fishing rights, the southern piracy was run by religious jihadists. Al-Shabaab embarrassed most of the Muslim world with its extreme practices. Even Al-Qaeda had parted ways with the group. Kidnapping seven-year-old boys and arming them as shock troops was but one of many travesties.
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