“Well, you know, wanted to check out Coronado. See how the other half lives.” He eyeballed her new seaside bungalow, sold sign still stuck in the lawn. Then he turned his attention to Peter. “Commander Mike McCaffrey.” He extended his hand.
“Peter Petrone.”
The two men sized each other up.
“So how much does one of these run?” McCaffrey asked, appraising the lot. “You’re Hannah’s Realtor, right?”
“No, Hannah and I are—”
“Colleagues,” Hannah finished for him, knowing full well Mac was fishing. “Peter flew in from Colorado to discuss a presentation we were working on before I left—”
“That Peter Petrone,” as if he hadn’t known all along. “President and CEO of Hall-Petrone? Should have guessed by the pocket protector.”
Peter looked down at his breast pocket. He wasn’t wearing a pocket protector.
Hannah scowled at McCaffrey. Fortunately the childish prank went right over Peter’s head.
“That’s right,” Peter said.
“When am I going to get a look at that prototype for the new fuel cell you’re working on?” McCaffrey asked. “I could use something to lighten my load in the field.”
Hannah knew from experience that it took about twelve pounds of batteries just to operate a two-way radio for three days, and that didn’t even include the rest of his equipment.
“What do you pack for a typical three-day mission?” Peter asked. “About one hundred pounds of batteries and equipment?”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“I can’t do anything about the rest, but the fuel cell is going to cut your total weight by half. Our two-pound version is about the size of a video cassette and has enough power to run all your field equipment for three days. I have a meeting with a Rear Admiral Bell at the Naval Amphibious Base this morning.”
“What time?”
“Late morning. Ten-ish.”
“What do you say I show you around the base courtesy of Uncle Sam, tag along to that meeting, and then we hook up with Lieutenant Commander Stanton for lunch at the O Club?”
“Sounds good.” Peter accepted the invitation.
McCaffrey led Peter toward the Jeep. While macho man hopped in the driver’s side, Peter looked for the passenger door. When he realized there wasn’t one, he climbed in. “Hannah, aren’t you coming?” he asked.
But it was McCaffrey whose gaze challenged her.
And to that she answered, “I’ll take my own car, thanks.”
NAVAL AIR STATION NORTH ISLAND
Coronado, California
BY THE TIME Hannah arrived at Hangar Nine, she’d missed morning muster and her chance to address the squadron as planned. No apologies. No excuses. Men in charge didn’t make them and neither would she. She repeated the mantra several more times while walking from her car to the building.
As she passed by her yeoman’s desk, the young man stationed in the outer office popped to attention, catching her by surprise. Since leaving her active duty days behind, she’d forgotten more military protocol than she’d ever remember.
“Morning,” Hannah said in passing.
“Good morning, ma’am. The XO is in your office.”
“As you were.” The order came more easily than she thought it would. She’d called Parish from her cell phone to give him a heads-up. Since she’d already been running late, she’d taken a few extra minutes to drive by Navy Housing—though all her Executive Officer needed to know was that she’d be late. Once she’d reached the San Diego neighborhood where she’d lived as a child, she’d realized it might be impossible to find the house without a street address.
They’d all looked alike.
Most flew the flag. Some bore a yellow ribbon, waiting for their serviceman or -woman to return.
But instinct had her parking at a corner lot.
There’d been signs of young children everywhere. From the primary-colored toys scattered throughout the yard, to the drawings hanging in the picture window, it looked and felt like a real home.
Hannah had just sat there taking it all in. The front door opened. Not wanting to be caught spying, she’d put the car in gear and rolled forward. But as she’d stolen one last glance in the rearview mirror, tears stung her eyes as a Naval officer had kissed his wife and daughters goodbye.
She pushed aside the recollection.
Parish stood as she entered her office. She caught his almost imperceptible glance toward the wall clock.
No apologies. No excuses.
“Good morning, Lieutenant.” She hung up her purse on the coatrack in the corner.
“Ma’am.” Her XO handed over the daily SOPAs. “We’re monitoring a promising situation in the Gulf,” he said.
Hannah looked up from scanning the dailies. “How promising?” she asked, already headed for the ready room. Seahawks were the military equivalent of ambulance chasers. Because the Army had so many more Blackhawks, and even the Air Force had both Pave Hawks and the newer and better equipped Pave Lows to do the job, sometimes it was a matter of Seahawks being in the right place at the right time.
“Attention on deck.” Her crew chief, Webb Emerson, called the room to attention.
Spence stopped mid-strum on his guitar. Boomer, her door gunner, nudged the co-pilot to his feet. Also standing at attention were Parish’s crew. Chief Kai Makani, gunner Christian Quinn and co-pilot, Second Lieutenant Ethan “Hawkeye” Hunter on loan from the Marine Corps. With the exception of Hunter, she’d worked with these guys for years. Her crew of reservists drilled out of Buckley Airfield in Colorado and were from the four corners of the west.
“As you were, gentleman.”
The ready room contained everything for those long waits between flights. Ping-Pong table, beverage-stocked refrigerator, a bookcase full of paperback novels and an assortment of gunmetal-gray tables and chairs. Someone had donated an old couch to stretch out on. The once beige upholstery had been worn to a less discriminating color and two paperbacks replaced the right front leg.
The cots in the back room were a better bet for rest. At least the light and noise levels were lower. Of course that was relative in a naval air station with jets and helos flying overhead.
In one corner a police scanner monitored local emergency communications, while another scanner monitored the Coast Guard. A handy two-way radio ensured they could respond to either. There were six TVs of various makes and models mounted around the room, one tuned into local news, four to cable news networks, and one played ESPN 24/7.
Today they ignored the Padre’s game in favor of CNN. They were eager for her to give them the word to go.
Taking off her ball cap, she held it with the clipboard in her hands as she watched the story unfold on-screen. The situation in the Persian Gulf warranted closer observation. “Give Norton a heads-up,” she said to Parish, even though she could guarantee HCS-5 would already be on it. “This one goes to Five, guys. We have to be in Nevada on Monday. But find out what SPECWAR has to say on the situation,” she called over her shoulder to her XO. Spence followed her back to her office. She could tell it was him by the jangle of spurs he wore with his boots.
“Those aren’t regulation.” She stopped and held her office door for him. He preceded her inside. Guitar strapped to his back, Stetson in hand, Spencer Holden took the steel-cowboy image to the extreme.
“Since when did you turn into such a hard ass?”
“It comes with the desk. Seriously, Spence, it’s not all fun and games anymore. We’re here in the first place because it’s real. I want to see regulation boots on those feet when you’re in uniform.”
“I’ll trade you my spurs for your breast pump.”
“Excuse me?”
He rattled the prescription bottle of quinine on her desk. “You haven’t taken a single one. You’ve been pumping more than iron from the looks of things?”
Hannah pushed the flower vase aside and plopped down on her desktop, clipboard
and cap resting on her knee. “You need to mind your own business.”
“My pilot is my business.”
He opened and closed desk drawers. When he reached for the bottom right, she leaned over and slammed it shut. “All right,” she agreed. “Breast pump out, malaria pills in. But you’re going to give me those spurs for safekeeping.”
“But I keep the hat.” He put it on, adjusting the angle and his grin until he had them both just right. It was easy to see why half the female population was in love with him. The other half was just plain crazy.
“Deal.” She extended her hand and they shook on it. “You can even keep the little lady.” She modified their bargain to include his favorite six-string. “I wouldn’t expect you to leave home without her.” Her smile faded at the thought of all she’d be leaving behind. “She’s so little. I’m afraid she’s going to forget me.”
“Not a chance.” Spence was the keeper of her secrets and her insecurities. But being able to read her mind was what made him such a good co-pilot. Of course he was the only one in her squadron who knew McCaffrey was Fallon’s father.
“Just blame it on postpartum hormones and my mother,” she apologized. “See, I’m going to start taking the pills.” She opened the bottle and tapped one into her palm. “First she insists on coming to California, which was fine, I wanted her here for the Change of Command Ceremony. But now that she’s here, she spends all of her time moping around the house.”
He opened the minifridge and handed her a bottled water. Spence had never met her mother or sister, at least not until yesterday, but he made a good sounding board.
“Thank you.” She washed down the quinine with a grimace. It had been almost thirty years since her mother had packed up every last reminder of her father and started a new life for them in Colorado.
But here…his ghost was everywhere.
There were no cardboard boxes to hold those memories. If she didn’t think it would cause her mother more pain, Hannah would have insisted on opening some of those boxes a long time ago.
Or was it a little girl’s pain she wanted to keep stowed away? What was it she’d read recently about memory and expressive language? Humans had the capacity to remember back to the womb, but no language to express it. Which was why memories from the formative ages of three or four were often the first recalled…
Hannah closed her eyes, searching for that three-or four-year-old. “Push me higher, Daddy. Higher!” Strong hands grabbed hold, then let go.
Did that mean she couldn’t express her feelings for her father beyond that of a seven-year-old? Sometimes it seemed that way. She crumpled the water bottle.
Spence propped himself beside her on the desk and fiddled with his guitar strings. “I take it you haven’t told him yet?”
“Him being McCaffrey? No,” she confessed. When it came to McCaffrey, the language didn’t exist to express what she felt.
Spence strummed a few loose bars of “Crusin’.” Her signature song when she flew was “Playing With The Boys.” But sometimes after she dropped McCaffrey and his boys off, she hit the play button for something a little less Top Gun and more Smokey Robinson—even if it was the Gwyneth Paltrow, Huey Lewis version from the movie Duets.
Her co-pilot might tease her about Mac and movie soundtracks, but next time out she’d pay him back with a pop tune from his teen idol days, complete with crew sing-along.
“Got anything cold to drink?” a booming voice called out. “Hey, Calypso. Hey, Hollywood. Fridge in the ready room is on the fritz again.” Boomer strode in on the last few notes, stuck his head in the minifridge and helped himself to a soda. “Is Hollywood giving you a hard time, Commander? Ask him about his Navy nurse—the one who thought he was Dougie Howser—”
Spence shoved Boomer toward the exit. “Take a hike.”
“The door was open,” Boomer protested. “Thanks.” He toasted Hannah with the can of Mountain Dew on the way out.
“A girlfriend? A Navy nurse girlfriend? We’ve only been here—what, five days?”
Spence closed the door behind Boomer and sagged against it, laughing. “I’m glad you got a kick out of that. Come on, do I look anything thing like that Howser kid?”
“That’s what makes it so funny.” She smiled. “How come you’ve never mentioned her before?”
“Because we just sleep together. And I never tell you about any of the women I just sleep with.” He waggled his brows. “Don’t want to appear as shallow as I really am.”
“You’re the least shallow good-looking man I know.”
“Just not as complex as him?”
Hannah sobered, suspicious of where Spence was going with this. “He has a name, you know.”
“I know he’s good at leaving, and you’re good at leaving things left unsaid.”
She definitely didn’t like where he was going with this.
He pushed to his feet, tossed her the bottle of quinine, and headed for the door. “Talk to Mac. Talk to your mom. Now is not the time to leave things unsaid…we’re here because it’s real.”
Spence left her with that bitter pill to swallow. Sometimes she really hated that he wasn’t afraid to call her on the bullshit. McCaffrey was a complicated man. Their whole situation was complicated. Was she making it better or worse by not telling him about their daughter?
No apologies. No excuses.
The rest of the morning passed slowly, most of it spent at her desk. Hannah checked her watch, impatient for a return call from the CO of SEAL Team One. His yeoman had said he’d be out of the office until later that afternoon. There were some last-minute details she wanted to iron out before reaching Nevada. But she suspected, like McCaffrey, all the SEAL Team COs were in that meeting with Peter and the admiral.
She’d debated putting in a call to Admiral Bell to head off Peter’s request that she be the liaison between Hall-Petrone and the Navy. But she didn’t want to run to the admiral with every minor problem. Surely he could see the position was a major conflict of interest for her. Then again maybe it wasn’t. Somebody had to do the job. Maybe she was a fool for not jumping on the opportunity.
Colorado, a playpen in her office…and no McCaffrey.
Or California, a command post, no playpen, but…what? McCaffrey?
CHAPTER SIX
OFFICERS’ CLUB NORTH ISLAND
Coronado, California
WHEN HANNAH SHOWED UP at the O Club dressed in her khakis, McCaffrey was seated at a table for two by himself. She should have suspected something like this from Mac.
Taking a deep breath, she approached the table. “What have you done with him?”
“Petrone?” He feigned innocence. “Don’t look at me as if I stuffed the body somewhere. North Island is the birthplace of Naval aviation and the largest aerospace facility in the world. He got sidetracked. You know the type.”
“I’m leaving.”
“I outmaneuvered you, that’s all.” McCaffrey nudged the chair with his toe. “Sit. We need to talk.”
She was about to refuse when the waiter came up behind her and pulled the chair out all the way. “Thank you,” she said as he placed a menu in front of her. To Mac she said, “I’m only staying because I’m hungry.”
“Of course,” he agreed from behind the menu. “But as long as you’re staying…we need to talk.”
Hannah’s heart hammered her chest. No telling what information McCaffrey had managed to pump from Peter. And Peter being, well, Peter, and Mac being a snake, poor Peter probably didn’t even know he’d been squeezed.
If McCaffrey knew about the baby, he was certainly playing it cool.
She could play cool herself. “About?”
He didn’t answer, forcing her to look up from her menu to gauge his mood. If anything, he looked as starved as she felt. “About Petrone.”
Relief flooded through her. “Oh, him.”
“Oh, him?” he echoed in disbelief. “Are you two lovers, or what?”
“That’s none of yo
ur business.” Or what? He had her on the defensive, but she didn’t owe him an explanation.
“I’ll take that as a no. Give the guy a clue, because he doesn’t have one.”
Hannah sat back in her chair. Mac never sat in a chair, he draped himself all over it. The relaxed confidence belied the restless energy. It was one of the things she liked best about him. But upon closer inspection, he seemed a touch edgy today. “If I didn’t know better, McCaffrey, I’d say you were jealous.”
“Who says I’m not?”
Not in a million years would he admit something like that if he really meant it. “Jealousy would imply that you actually engaged your emotions.”
“Bitterness would imply that I’d actually engaged yours,” he countered. “Is that all we have left, Han, jealousy and bitterness?”
No, there is something else.
The mythical Calypso died grieving Odysseus when he left after seven years. Hannah knew better than to engage her emotions for more than seven minutes with a Navy SEAL. She worked with these guys, she knew what they were like and what the job entailed. If a gal got one to stick around for more than seven days at a stretch, it was only because she was putting out and doing his laundry.
Some might even call that a marriage. Not her.
She could make McCaffrey her captive with four little words—we have a daughter. What she couldn’t do was keep him. In seven months, or seven days, or the next time she turned around, he’d be gone. Again.
“What were we thinking?” she wondered out loud. “You’re the best mistake of my life, Mike. Just not one I’d care to repeat.”
“We can get past mistakes.”
“To where? I’m a thirty-three-year-old woman, soon to be thirty-four, looking for not one or even two nights, but a commitment from a man. Doesn’t that scare the hell out of you, McCaffrey?”
“It should scare the hell out of you.”
The Seal’s Baby Page 6
