The Seal’s Baby

by Rogenna Brewer

  “And when somebody is shooting at you?”

  “I’m too busy to be worried.”

  “Well, I feel this terrible sense of foreboding, like something bad’s going to happen.” She dropped her head to her raised knees, resting it there briefly before turning to study his outline. “I worry about you.”

  He reached over with one hand and massaged the tension from the back of her neck. “I’m a big boy, Han. I can take care of myself.”

  His hand came to rest on the middle of her back. She could feel its warmth through the jacket he’d draped over her shoulders. “Do you ever think about what you’ll do when you get out?”

  He removed his hand. “Is this where you tell me you’ll marry me if I consider a new line of work?”

  “I’m not into ultimatums.”

  He fixed his gaze on the bottle in his hand. “But you’d like me to change….”

  “I’d be a fool to think I could change you. An even bigger one to want to. I’ve never understood women who fall in love with a man and then want to change who he is—kind of makes you wonder if they’ve fallen in love with the man or the idea of falling in love.”

  He looked up from the bottle.

  “And no, I still won’t run away with you to Reno.” She smiled sadly into the darkness.

  “There’s middle ground in there somewhere, Han.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “Maybe you’re just not looking hard enough. If two people want to make it work they find a way.”

  “Not always. I don’t think we can. For the same reasons you won’t give up your command for a woman, I can’t give up mine for a man.”

  “What’s there to give up? You’re active duty for twenty-four months, then you’re back to being a weekend warrior. Your current situation is temporary at best.”

  “That’s the problem. But let’s say it isn’t. You’re the last man who can give me guarantees, but say two years from now I’m a civilian sailor again and you’re still going strong as a Navy SEAL. I live in Colorado. I want kids.”

  She didn’t need light to see the stubborn set to his jaw. “Kids.” He shook his head. “That’s the real fork in the road, isn’t it?”

  “Why? Why not kids? The world’s a big bad place and you don’t want to bring children into it?” That had been her own excuse once.

  “You know I don’t believe that.”

  “Then why?”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Try.”

  “It’s complicated. Kids are a big responsibility. I like not having that responsibility. Not everyone wants kids.”

  “Time and circumstance aren’t small divides that can be crossed easily. When one partner wants children and the other doesn’t, that’s a pretty big divide.”

  “Because I don’t want children? I recall a conversation in which you didn’t want children. You had a career to think about and—”

  “And I thought the world was a big bad place. I don’t anymore.” She felt the vibration of her pager. “I need you to want children, Mike.”

  “It’s not going to happen.” He checked his own pager. “I have to take this call.”

  “Me, too.” There was a plague in her perfect place. She wanted to tell him about his daughter. And now she knew she never would.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE

  Coronado, California

  “THE PHILIPPINE GOVERNMENT has a longstanding ban on foreign troops participating in combat on their soil.” Admiral Bell began their briefing while his aide passed out folders. Hannah accepted hers with a polite, out-of-place “thank you,” which echoed through the war room. McCaffrey glanced at her with a frown before setting his stern concentration back on the admiral.

  “Three years ago Abu Sayyaf guerrillas set up camp on Basilan Island in order to conduct their campaign of mass kidnappings and killings throughout the Philippines. Foreign investments and tourism suffered. In counterterrorism maneuvers last year, U.S. Special Forces—in an advisory role to the Filipino Army—helped wipe out the guerrillas there. But the six months of training exercises sparked controversy.

  “As you know, the P.I. gained its independence from the U.S. on July 4, 1946, and they’re eager to maintain it. Their president has made very public statements denying U.S. participation in this fight against Muslim extremists. We are not to do anything that will embarrass our former colony. I hope I’m making myself clear?”

  The admiral’s question, of course, was rhetorical.

  “SEALs acted as forward observers last year, conducting an intel sweep of the islands to the south of Basilan. You’ll note in Commander McCaffrey’s report…”

  Hannah flipped open her folder and scanned the top page. She stole a look at McCaffrey. He hadn’t just written the report, he’d led the recon.

  “Is everyone on the same page?” the admiral asked before continuing. “The network of islands in this region, many with structures built by the Japanese and the Americans in World War II, make it almost impossible to locate every last participant.” Admiral Bell drew their attention to the enlarged map on the wall behind him.

  “But Mac anticipated the remaining members of Abu Sayyaf would regroup on Jolo and identified Muslim separatists that might sympathize with the guerrillas. One of those splinter groups, al-Ayman, already has a stronghold on that island.”

  He paused for a moment to let his words sink in.

  “As predicted, the two groups have joined forces. Original estimates on the number of guerrillas thought to have escaped Basilan have more than doubled. And al-Ayman has ten times that number. The Philippine army is going to be confronting a small army of terrorists while America and the rest of the free world is otherwise occupied in the Gulf.”

  Hannah tensed. If she felt this shell-shocked after receiving her first real-world mission, how was she going to fare when bullets started flying?

  Real bullets.

  Her men were counting on her. McCaffrey and his men were counting on her and their daughter was counting on her.

  No more “pleases” and “thank-yous.” She’d come to play with the big boys and she had to act like one. “What do we know about al-Ayman, Admiral?”

  “The Holy Right Hand, the hand of judgment, as they like to call themselves was started by this man.” An out-of-focus picture came on the screen. “Mullah Kahn, the Cobra. One of the top-ten terrorists in the world, and we don’t even have a decent picture of this guy. Just last year we caught and locked up two of his sons. It’s been personal ever since.

  “Calypso, HCS-9 will be flying support for the SEALs and any additional duties assigned to your squadron by the military liaison at base camp X-Ray. Mac, Team Eleven will be island-hopping to the south and west of Jolo, serving as forward observers.”

  “Is anyone actually going to use the intel this time?” McCaffrey asked.

  “That’s not your concern. Gather intelligence. That’s it.”

  “And if we get shot at?”

  “Your mission is recon only. Do not engage the enemy.”

  “And if the enemy engages us?”

  “The official U.S. position is that you’ll need permission from your Filipino counterparts before engaging in any combat. These are the rules of your engagement. Gentlemen, kiss your sweethearts goodbye. We’ve got a job to do.”

  HANNAH RETURNED home to pack clean underwear and squeeze in some precious minutes with her daughter. The movers had come, but Hannah’s bedroom looked and felt more like storage than living space.

  “How long will you be gone?” Sammy asked, trying to make herself useful by gathering Hannah’s dirty laundry.

  “I don’t know.” Hannah held Fallon while she lifted folded underwear out of her drawer and transferred it to her seabag. Two weeks without her daughter had been too much. Fallon had grown so big Hannah couldn’t imagine leaving her for two months. Or more.

  She kissed her baby’s downy head and let Sammy finish her pack
ing.

  “Well, where are you going?” her mother asked as she stepped into the room.

  “You know I can’t tell you that,” Hannah said, padlocking her seabag. Amazing what she could do with one hand when she had to.

  She didn’t want to put Fallon down, but she gave her to Sammy. The baby started to cry, which had Hannah starting. “Mommy will be back as soon as she can, sweetheart. I promise.”

  BASILAN ISLAND

  Philippine Islands

  ONE MONTH, several phone calls home and several islands later, Hannah found herself looking forward to the few minutes McCaffrey would spend in her Seahawk. Each time she picked him up he looked a little grungier, and each time she dropped him off she hit “Cruisin’” on the CD player.

  The man might be in his element, but she couldn’t help but feel apprehensive leaving him until the next time she saw him.

  She’d medevaced several wounded Philippine soldiers by this time and had even extracted some under fire. One of McCaffrey’s men had suffered a nasty fall, and she’d gone in after him, as well. He was now laid up with a sprained ankle. A quick check on his injured man had been McCaffrey’s only trip back to base camp X-Ray in a month.

  Today her gunship crews were headed out earlier than usual now that their pickup points were getting farther out.

  She’d gathered her pilots and crews in the Quonset hut that served as their ready room. “Time hack,” she called. “For 2030 hours.” Her pilots fiddled with the setting on their watches as she counted down on hers. “Five, four, three, two, one…hack.”

  Married men twisted off wedding rings and stowed them in their lockers so they wouldn’t catch them and lose a finger. The first items on their list completed, she called attention to the navigation logs, maps and weather charts spread out on the table and briefed the men on their mission.

  Coordinates had to be figured with precision. One degree off course could put them a mile off target—a mere pencil line on a map, but unacceptable in a covert pickup.

  Being good with sticks and switches wasn’t good enough for a Special Warfare pilot. A conventional helicopter pilot could err on the side of safety, a Seahawk pilot had to be on target every time—no matter what the hazard.

  At 2030 hours they set their watches. At 2245 hours they were strapped into the cockpit. At 2255 hours they started their engines and ran through preflight checks.

  The rumble from the eight gunships on the tarmac reached a deafening roar. Earplugs filtered out the worst of the background noise while earphones crackled with crew chatter. On top of that Hannah had a dozen radio frequencies to monitor.

  “Number one engine? Started,” she asked, and answered herself, continuing down the laminated engine-start checklist on her knee. Nothing was left to chance. “Throttle. Set. Fuel-control levers. Open.”

  Rotor blades turned at exactly 2300 hours.

  She ran through her before-taxiing checklist. Ground crews pulled the blocks from under the wheels, and she moved her gunship down the taxiway.

  Keeping cyclic stick and pedals steady, she pulled back on the collective, lifting her Seahawk off the ground. The helo shook, rattled and rolled out.

  “Goggles up,” Hannah ordered, dropping her own night-vision goggles into place and her world turned monochromatic green.

  She hit play on the CD player and “Playing With the Boys” came on. They were flying in pairs with Parish’s gunship trailing hers.

  About ten klicks out from their pickup a broken call came through on the frequency they used to monitor the SEALs.

  “Medevac.”

  “Did you copy that, Spence?”

  “Sounded like a call for a medevac.”

  “That’s what I heard. Can you repeat?” she asked in the mike.

  The next stream of communication came through in local dialect.

  “Anyone speak Tagalog?” Hannah asked, knowing that her crew didn’t, but recognizing enough of the language to realize that’s what it was.

  “Can you repeat in English?” she asked the distressed caller.

  “—injured man—requesting medevac to Basilan Island…”

  “Please identify yourself.”

  The soldier complied as requested and even knew the proper codes and passwords.

  “That was yesterday’s password,” Webb, their most experienced crew member, pointed out.

  Hannah checked her watch. “Copy that, Chief.”

  “Maybe he didn’t get the updates yet,” Spence said. “How many times were we late getting ours?”

  “Your location?” Hannah asked so she could determine, which two gunships might be close enough to break away for an emergency medical evacuation.

  He gave them coordinates to the island where they were to extract Team Eleven’s Bravo Squad. Several miles separated the two points, but if she adjusted her speed by a few knots she could make the evac and still be on time to pick up Mac.

  “Hollywood, get BravoEleven on line. We’ll proceed with caution,” she said to the crew. To the distressed caller, she said, “This is NightHawk, Romeo five five,” giving their squadron call sign and her gunship number. “We’re on our way.”

  HANNAH FILLED IN Parish en route, and he maintained his course behind Hannah. When they reached the island, radar gave her an image of what was going on outside her Seahawk.

  “There,” Spence said, picking up the bright green spot not far from the beach at the north end of the island.

  She flew in closer. No hot spots or unusual activity in the jungle to indicate an ambush. Their evac appeared to be what he said he was—a lone man. But Hannah couldn’t shake her bad feeling. “Something’s not right,” she said, sharing her suspicions with her crew.

  “I agree,” Webb said.

  Rotor wash whipped back up from the ground as she hovered over their target. Hannah stabilized the control stick near her left knee, mindful that inaction made them sitting ducks. “I’m going in,” she informed both crews. “Boomer, keep that machine gun pointed right at him. Fifty mm of threat should keep him from doing anything stupid. Chief, you nab and grab.” She then broadcast instructions to the injured soldier, “Hands on your head. Then on your knees.”

  He complied.

  She touched down. The Crew Chief hopped out, pulled the man to his feet and assisted him, none too gently, into the back of the helo while patting him down for any undisclosed weapons. “He’s clean.”

  Up close the man wore the uniform of the Philippine army. His battered face and torso, visible because of his open shirt, suggested a severe beating. Webb gave him the courtesy helmet so Hannah could speak to him, and he introduced himself once again, “Sergeant Wray…Philippine Special Forces.”

  “Our pleasure, Wray,” Hannah said as she took the bird up. “Have you reached McCaffrey yet?” she asked Spence.

  “The Americans?” Wray asked. “When my teammate and I were captured yesterday. We saw Americans. They’re being held by al-Ayman to the southwest. I escaped. My teammate was not as fortunate—they beat him to death.”

  “Maybe the SEALs escaped.” The statement was a prayer.

  “No,” Wray said.

  “What do you do for the army, Wray?” Webb asked.

  “Scout. I’m a scout. Special Forces. Recon.”

  “How many Americans?”

  Hannah could tell by Webb’s questions that he wasn’t going to trust Wray.

  If a scout could escape, A SEAL could escape. And eight SEALs could turn a terrorist camp upside down.

  Flying parallel to the island, toward her southwest target, she reached the extraction point a few minutes later. But Mac’s fire team wasn’t there, and they still hadn’t broken radio silence. She waited fifteen minutes past their rendezvous time before making the decision to leave. If there was a Tango camp on the island, a visual would help, at least it would be something she could take back to the rest of McCaffrey’s SEAL Team along with Sergeant Wray.

  Like her crew chief, she wasn’t ready t
o take their passenger at his word. But she did know one thing—with a member of the Philippine army on board she could shoot real bullets.

  “You don’t mind if we take you on a little training op, do you, Sarg?” Without waiting for his answer, she pointed the joystick to the southwest, not too far from the extraction location.

  Flashes of light appeared in the jungle. Gunfire.

  “Romeo five five.” Someone from the ground hailed their gunship. They could clearly hear the gunfire from his mike.

  “It’s McCaffrey,” Spence said.

  “Copy, BravoEleven. Hang on, we’re coming to get you out.”

  “Negative. Negative. Do not attempt extract—at this time….” His com was breaking up. “Under heavy fire—enemy engaged…”

  That didn’t make any sense. If he and his men were under fire they’d want to be pulled out. Their mission was recon. They’d be severely outnumbered and unable to engage the enemy. Other voices came through the line in a mix of Tagalog and English, but clearly calling for her help.

  “BravoEleven, we’re coming in with air cover.”

  “Negative. Abort.”

  He wanted her to abort? Leave him and his men there to face the enemy alone? Because of her? She could see them now. The SEALs, identifiable by the glow-in-the-dark markings on their left shoulders, running with fire power on their heels. Where were they running to if not to her?

  “It’s your call,” Parish advised over the radio, in a rather transparent attempt to make the decision for her.

  “Eyes open. We’re going in—danger close!” she ordered, swooping in with a slashing L attack. With friendlies in the line of fire, they were extra cautious. The second gunship fell in right behind her.

  Boomer fired a hail of bullets stopping the line of advance and giving the SEALs more time to distance themselves from the enemy. The ping of responding fire meant they were now the prime targets. If she turned, she’d be exposing her vulnerable starboard side, but then she’d be closing off the enemy’s line of attack and that’s what she wanted them to do.