Hard Landing

by Marliss Melton

  Hard Landing

  The Echo Platoon Series

  Book Two

  by

  Marliss Melton

  Bestselling, Award-winning Author

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-724-1

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Copyright © 2015 by Marliss Melton. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover & eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Publisher

  Acknowledgements

  Excerpt from FRIENDLY FIRE (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3)

  Meet the Author

  Dedication

  I dedicate this story to the eleven servicemen who died in the Black Hawk helicopter crash that took place on Friday, March 13, 2015. Among those who perished were Marines from the 2nd Special Operations Battalion of the Marine Corps' Special Operations Command at Camp Lejeune. And among those seven Marines was a very special man—Master Sgt. Thomas Saunders, whom I knew when he was just a toddler. As his teenaged neighbor, I babysat Thomas and his sweet younger sister. Even then, I recognized that he was destined to be a remarkable young man and a blessing to his amazing parents. He could not have asked for a finer family. At three, he could recite the names dinosaurs I had never heard of. Last year, the Marine Corps Association and Foundation named him the "critical skills operator of the year." Our country will be forever grateful for his service, but we will never get over his loss and the loss of his brave comrades. Surely God's legions are invincible now.

  Chapter 1

  Brantley Adams stepped out of his 1986 Ford Bronco, clutching his contribution to the party—a case of his favorite bottled beer. Checking that he'd cracked the windows of his vintage truck to counteract the sweltering Virginia Beach heat, he locked it up and marched toward the sprawling white brick ranch-style house where his commander lived.

  Lieutenant Commander Max McDougal—the Team-guys called him Mad Max whenever he was out of earshot—headed up Brant's task unit. He didn't command all of SEAL Team 12, just Brant's task unit, but he carried a great deal of influence and enjoyed throwing his weight around. Hosting parties on every national holiday was only one of the strategies he used to exercise his power. Brant grumbled under his breath. Here he was, forced to make an appearance at another of his CO's parties when he would rather have been enjoying his day off.

  Approaching the man's whitewashed house, he had to admit Max owned a lovely piece of property, about an acre in size and situated on Rudee Lake. The ranch-style home looked humble in comparison to the elaborate homes on either side. The pool in the backyard was one of its nicest features, as was the private pier and the dry dock for Max's boat. A three-car garage housed his Tahoe and his kit car. Max loved his toys. He also laid claim to the prettiest, most pleasant wife on planet Earth, who happened to be Brant's good friend. Unfortunately, the way he saw it, the CO treated his wife as another of his ego-enhancing possessions.

  As he traversed the paving stones bisecting the lush lawn, the option of playing hooky slowed his step. These social functions weren't mandatory, but if he wanted to stay on Max's good side—and no one wanted to get on the CO's bad side—he should probably show his face. Not that he needed to kiss the CO's butt, as he had zero desire to be promoted to senior chief—too much responsibility. He was happy to remain a chief for as long as he stayed on the Teams.

  Then why am I here? he asked himself. The answer occurred to him at once: He wanted to visit with Rebecca, Max's wife.

  As usual, he'd have to be careful not to spend too much time alone with her. He rolled his eyes with annoyance. Max watched Rebecca jealously—not that he needed to. She seemed as true blue as apple pie, and Brant had no intention of making any moves on his commander's wife. Who would be that stupid? He merely wanted to hang out with her—period, the end. Was that asking too much? With a shake of his head, he ascended the front stoop, artfully graced with potted geraniums that were indicative of Rebecca's nurturing touch.

  He didn't bother knocking. Everyone knew just to come on in. Once inside the foyer, he could see straight through the great room and out the wall of rear windows to the throng gathered around the shell-shaped pool. The house itself looked deserted, with the exception of the one dark-haired woman he was hoping to see—Rebecca. She entered the eating area via the French doors, and his outlook suddenly improved.

  Stepping inside, he cut right through the formal parlor and dining room, keeping out of sight of those out back. Arriving at the rear of the kitchen, he leaned against the opening to watch her slice additional celery for the veggie plate.

  What was it about Rebecca McDougal that made him smile inside? He wasn't attracted to her sexually—not much anyway. She wasn't his type, which tended to be blondes with big knockers. Rebecca projected femininity, but she didn't ooze it the way some women did. She represented everything that was honest, considerate, and classy.

  He liked the way her glossy brown hair—today caught up in a ponytail—brushed her shoulders when she moved. The length of her neck, the dainty cleft in her chin, and the slight scoop of her nose created a profile he never tired of looking at.

  "Hey," he said, cluing her in to his presence.

  To his astonishment, she jumped like a startled cat. The knife in her hand came close to slicing her cheek open as she whirled to face him, lifting up her hands simultaneously as if to ward him off.

  Whoa, sister.

  "Bronco," she breathed, her gaze softening and her hands lowering. "God, you scared me."

  "Sorry." He stepped closer, taking in her strained smile and the way she broke eye contact almost right away. Hosting these enormous parties couldn't be easy. The skin of her face, usually soft and incandescent, looked like it was pulled taut over her forehead and especially around her mouth. "How are you doing?" he asked her.

  "Good." She glanced at him again, her dimples flashing momentarily, but they promptly disappeared as she took in the box of beer hanging from his left hand. "The cooler's out
back, if you want to stick those in there." Turning her back to him, she went back to slicing celery.

  Brant didn't move. Everything about her greeting struck him as off. She hadn't asked him how he was doing, for one thing, and she'd never not shown an interest in what was going on in his life. An awkward silence ensued, but then she broke it, asking, "Where's your date?"

  "Couldn't find one," he replied. Truth was he was dating two women at once, both of them SEAL groupies. The probability of one finding out about the other if he brought either to the party wasn't worth the inevitable drama. Besides, he'd come here to see Rebecca, which neither of his playmates would understand.

  "Oh, please," she scoffed. The blade of her knife struck the cutting board at regular intervals. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

  "All right. You got me. I didn't know which one to bring." He hoisted the beer onto the countertop so he could lean a hip against it and watch her work. "In fact, I'm tired of juggling females. I think I'm going to try celibacy for a while." The inspiration simply came to him.

  She snorted at what she clearly perceived was a falsehood. "Sure you are."

  "You don't believe me?" Her lack of faith wounded him. "You think I can't handle celibacy?"

  "Maybe for a day, but I bet you couldn't last a week."

  "Really?" Now he wanted to prove her wrong.

  She set her knife down, turned her head and contemplated him. Chestnut-brown eyes trekked over his chest, then back up to his face, sparking an unexpected thrill in him. He tamped down his response at once, blaming it on her flowered sundress with its plunging neckline, which showed a surprising amount of cleavage—not that he was looking. He liked and respected Rebecca too much to think of her as anything more than a friend.

  "Try it," she suggested, her face hardening in a way that he didn't understand. "Let's see how long you last."

  Wow, something had her riled up. Now that he realized as much, he could see a storm brewing behind her pleasant façade.

  He sent her a searching look. "What's my sex life got to do with anything?"

  She went still, blinked, and looked away. "Nothing." Her sweet mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go there." She started to turn away, but he reached for her elbow and drew her back around.

  "Hey." It might have been the first time they'd ever touched with the exception of that Christmas Eve, almost three years ago, when the CO introduced his new bride to him. The skin on her forearm was even smoother and softer than her palm had been that day. He squashed the urge to rub his thumb over it. "Something's bothering you, Becca. You want to talk about it?"

  Eyes wide, she swallowed visibly. "I'm fine," she said in a tight voice.

  When women said that, it meant they were anything but fine. A weight of concern dropped into the pit of Brant's stomach. He searched her gaze, wishing he could read her mind. "You know you can tell me anything," he murmured.

  They had touched on a multitude of topics over the last three years, carrying on conversations so interesting and stimulating that he hadn't wanted them to end. But their conversations had never become too intimate, for obvious reasons.

  Her eyelashes, long and curved, swept downward, as she regarded his tanned hand still on her forearm, though she made no move to pull away.

  A rush of air and the sudden onslaught of voices warned him that guests were entering the house. With a reluctance he didn't care to question, he released her, picked up the case of beer, and turned away. He hadn't taken two steps before he ran into her husband, followed immediately by Master Chief Kuzinsky, who inspired fear just like Max, but also respect.

  The CO's gray eyes glinted as he divided a suspicious look between his chief and his wife.

  Seriously? Was the man that possessive that he didn't like seeing his wife alone with his chief? Or was it Brant's reputation with the ladies that bothered him?

  "You're late," the man growled. Standing two inches above Brant's six feet, he filled the kitchen with his larger-than-life aura. Nearly as broad as he was tall, with a crop of ash-brown hair and a walrus-like mustache, he reminded Brant of a nor'easter—full of bluster and potential destruction.

  Best not to point out that his attendance was supposed to be voluntary.

  Behind the CO, Rusty Kuzinsky, who stood a full head shorter than his commander, but was still considered the biggest badass SEAL in history for the number of firefights he'd survived, gave a subtle jerk of his auburn head, indicating Brant should get outside and join the others. Muttering his excuse, Brant sidestepped the two men and slipped out back into the humidity of a late summer's evening.

  The scent of barbecued ribs, chlorine, and citronella hit him along with the warm air as he headed for the cooler. Transferring his beer offering into the giant tub of ice, he kept one for himself, twisted off the cap, and looked around as he took his first swallow. His good friend, Bullfrog, floated in the pool atop an inflatable lounge chair. Brant toasted him with his bottle and received a salute from Bullfrog's red, plastic cup. On the other side of the pool, Lt. Sam Sasseville, who went by no other name than Sam, and his pretty wife, Maddy, sat in the shade of the gazebo with their newborn sleeping in a carrier between them. Spying an empty spot next to them, Brant worked his way through the gathering, passing several more members of his unit along the way.

  Haiku, the Japanese American communications specialist who often spoke in abstract riddles, was chatting up a gorgeous young woman with a puzzled look on her face.

  Brant laughed to himself as he traipsed past them. He made a note to give Haiku a little advice. If you want to impress a girl with a bra size bigger than her IQ, you'd better speak plainly, and maybe just in one-word compliments.

  Corey Cooper, leader of Charlie Platoon, gesticulated wildly and weaved on his feet at the edge of the pool while telling a story to a handful of listeners. His audience included Hack, their new techno-geek, Carl Wolfe, the breacher who knew more about explosives than any man alive, Halliday, a former NASCAR driver, and Bamm-Bamm, their linguist, who could speak seven languages when he wasn't yet twenty-one years old.

  Brant didn't intentionally push Corey Cooper into the pool. But he did brush a little too closely, and the junior lieutenant, who'd yet to prove that he could replace his injured and retired predecessor, flailed and lost his balance, splashing everyone who'd been listening to him as he toppled backwards into the water.

  "Bronco!" Maddy scolded, shaking her golden mane in exasperation.

  Brant didn't bother defending his innocence. Sam's wife wouldn't believe him anyway, since she considered him the bad boy of Echo Platoon. His nickname, Bronco, didn't come from the fact that he drove an old truck by that name, but from his pre-Navy experience as a bronc rider. It was true he'd been around the arena a time or two.

  Once upon a time, he'd gotten his thrills competing in rodeos in his home state of Montana. But then he'd given up trying to follow in his famous father's footsteps and fought hard to join the ranks of the U.S. Navy SEALs. Now he got his kicks descending on the enemy in the middle of the night and scaring them to death—quite literally. As rigorous and uncomfortable as platoon life got, he'd had more fun in the past eight years than he could have ever imagined.

  Sam clasped his extended hand. "I was about to give up on you, brother," he chided with a cadence in his voice that betrayed his Cuban heritage.

  Brant dropped into the chair beside him, while sweeping his gaze over the assemblage by habit, looking for unseen dangers. Of course, there weren't any, unless you considered the possibility that a drunken Corey Cooper appeared to be drowning in the shallow end. On closer inspection, he was only showing off his impressive lung capacity. Cooper held the team record for holding his breath underwater—anything to win the approbation of his teammates.

  Brant looked over at Sam, relieved that his own platoon leader was a man he could look up to. "I had decided not to come," he admitted. Of their own accord, his eyes swung toward the sliding glass door where he cou
ld see into the kitchen. There, he noticed his commander wore the same hard expression that he wore at work when giving orders, only now he was talking to Rebecca.

  "She asked about you," Sam muttered, following his gaze.

  Intrigued, he looked curiously back at Sam. "What'd she say?"

  Sam shrugged. "Just asked if you were coming."

  They both turned their gazes toward Rebecca as she exited the sliding glass door bearing the freshly loaded veggie tray. The corners of her mouth turned up in a smile that failed to tease out her dimples. Concern tugged at Brant for a second time, and he wondered again what might be wrong. Watching her fuss over the food display then pick up discarded paper plates, he realized she wasn't mingling with the guests the way she usually did.

  "Dude, you'd better stop staring at her," Sam warned out of the corner of his mouth.

  He jerked his gaze away, encountering Max's glacial stare as their CO stepped outside to rejoin the party. As Brant watched, he turned with a counterfeit grin toward a knot of officers of equal and senior ranking to himself. When it came to brownnosing with the upper brass, no one could outshine Max.

  Brant drained his beer in one long swallow and stood up. "Looks like I'd better rescue Cooper," he observed. He whipped off his T-shirt and kicked off his flip-flops, leaving him in only his swim trunks, which he'd worn in lieu of shorts.

  Taking three long steps, he dropped feetfirst into the five-foot depth, letting the cool, clear water encapsulate him. He emptied his lungs of air so that his lean body mass carried him to the bottom of the pool. There, he quietly observed the world from a different perspective.