by Radclyffe
Now here she was, playing a role again. But she didn’t have a choice, and she’d use whatever resources she had. The clock on her bedside table read a little after seven. She was supposed to meet Kennedy and Smith in the lobby in half an hour. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She’d slept on and off during the endless night out of sheer exhaustion, and awakened not feeling rested. Her dreams, what she could recall of them, had been fragmented and filled with clatter and the sour taste of danger. She’d kept the light on in the adjoining bathroom and the door partly ajar. She hadn’t wanted to go to sleep in the dark and couldn’t help but think if Max had been with her, she wouldn’t have cared what nightmares crept into her dreams.
Her hand trembled and she put down the sponge covered in pale pink powder. Max. More than twenty-four hours since she’d seen her. What had they done to her in the last twenty-four hours? Rachel wasn’t so innocent as to disbelieve the stories she’d heard of interrogation techniques, but surely not with a United States naval officer?
She couldn’t think about it. If she did, panic swelled and her head grew light. She’d felt safer in the jungle, trapped in an empty, decimated camp surrounded by the dead and faceless enemies than she did here in this supposedly civilized world. She’d felt safer because she’d been with Max and they’d stood together, waiting to face whatever was out there. And she’d known with absolute certainty that Max would be beside her, no matter what.
“I’m coming,” she said as she turned from the face in the mirror. “I hope you know that. I’m coming.”
The phone rang on the small table by the bed and she jumped, the sound so alien she almost couldn’t recognize it. She picked it up on the third ring. “Yes?”
“Rachel, it’s Amina.”
“Amina!” Rachel sank onto the side of the bed. The sound of a friendly voice made her eyes fill. “How are you? Where are you?”
“I am home, with my family. They drove me from the camp yesterday. You got the message I had left, yes?”
“Yes.” Kennedy had informed her that Amina was gone as they’d driven Rachel to the embassy. She’d been glad that Amina was safe, even though the loneliness was choking.
“Good. I did not want you to think I had left you.”
“I knew you wouldn’t.”
Amina said. “I also got yours—the one you left at aid headquarters. I called there this morning and they gave me this number.”
“I couldn’t think how else to reach you,” Rachel said. “I knew you’d call there sooner or later.”
“How are you?”
Rachel considered the security on her phone line. Anything was possible, but she rather doubted the hotel lines were being monitored. “I’ve been better. Something strange is happening.”
“Many questions,” Amina said tentatively.
“Someone talked to you, didn’t they?”
“Yes, after you left yesterday morning, Major Newton came back. I’m afraid I might have made a mistake.”
“No, whatever is going on, none of this is your fault.”
“She asked questions and I was very tired. And…remembering. I didn’t think what I was saying.”
Rachel’s breath grew cold in her chest. Making Amina relive the horror was torture by any name. Rachel wanted an enemy to face, not these nameless shadows. “I know. The remembering is hard.”
“I told them about the phone call. I didn’t realize it would matter.”
For a minute, Rachel couldn’t sort out what Amina was saying. Time had become so compressed at the camp—moments became hours and days felt like weeks. She felt as if she’d known Max all her life, maybe because during the time they’d been together her life had been distilled into a series of acute moments where every thought and action mattered. How could it be that a whole lifetime of moments could have less meaning than just those very few? She shuddered and closed her eyes. God, Max. Where are you?
“Rachel?”
Rachel opened he eyes. “Phone call? Oh, the night before—”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I thought I should tell you. I didn’t think then it mattered, but I’ve been remembering all those questions. Now that I am not so tired, I am worried I said too much.”
“It’s all right. Really.”
Amina’s sigh came through the line. “What about Max and Grif?”
“Grif is going to be all right.”
“I’m so glad. He was very brave.”
“So are you. He asked me to tell you that. And he said to tell you thank you.”
“He remembered?” A lightness filled Amina’s voice, a note of pride and happiness amongst so much sadness.
“Yes, he did specifically. And he was right. I don’t think I could have held it all together if you hadn’t been there.”
“Yes, you could have. You became a warrior, like Max.”
“No,” Rachel said softly. “Not like Max. But thank you.”
“She is all right?”
“I don’t know,” Rachel said softly. She glanced at the clock. “But I will soon.”
Chapter Twenty-five
“Commander.” The chief saluted Max as she walked into the anteroom of the CO’s office. He rose from behind his desk, his broad face implacable as always.
She returned the salute. The clock on the wall behind his desk showed one minute before 0800. Her escort, unofficial guard, had picked her up as she’d walked back to her CLU from the hospital. He hadn’t returned her grin when she’d climbed into the Humvee.
“Come with me,” the chief said. “They’re in the ready room.”
They’re? Max followed him, a kernel of hope threatening to germinate. Maybe this was just a routine debriefing. After every mission the team got together to reconstruct the events—the timeline, the roles everyone played, the problems, the outcome. Not only did this help provide useful information on mission planning and effectiveness, it provided the additional benefit of letting the team members voice their experiences. The incidence of post-mission stress and anxiety dropped as debriefings became standard. If ever a mission required an after-event review, it was this one. Carmody’s face flashed through her mind as she walked down the brightly lit hall. His involvement had changed everything. No one was likely to volunteer any information about the failed attempt to rescue Rachel.
No. She wasn’t headed to a debriefing. More likely she’d be facing a panel from JAG—hopefully with a representative from the legal corps on her side. At least if that was the case, she wouldn’t have to go up against a group of them one-on-one. She almost smiled. She’d rather go one-on-one against a dozen armed rebels than four lawyers. At least in the field, she understood the nature of the battle. Somewhere behind all of this was politics, something she understood enough to know she hated. She bumped up against it now and then in medicine but managed to stay clear by refusing advancement into positions where she’d have to play the bureaucratic game in order to achieve her goals. She was much more comfortable going head-to-head against any kind of adversary.
The chief rapped on the door to the ready room, pushed it open, and stood aside for her to enter. She knew the layout—a long table in the center of the room, standard metal folding chairs around it. With luck, fresh coffee in the big pot on a stand in one corner. She stepped inside, the door closed behind her, and she tried to register what she was seeing. Nothing made sense. All she could see was Rachel.
She stopped breathing, a cannon barrage filling her head, driving out thought. Rachel sat on the far side of the table, her hands folded on top, looking back at Max. She looked…different. Beautiful in an entirely different way than Max had ever seen her before. Beautiful in the way of women she would have automatically discounted as anyone she might have anything in common with. Rachel’s hair shone in lustrous red-brown waves that fell around her shoulders and feathered on her neck. Her green eyes were clear, without smudges beneath or shadows within. Her face was elegantly composed, every line and angle accentuated to perfection. The lacer
ation Max had closed beneath her eye was invisible—expertly covered with makeup. Her mouth glistened with a light gloss—apricot or peach. Max could almost taste the sweetness. Her smile was a subtle stroke, appraising or secretly seductive. Her shirt was a deeper green than her eyes, silk or some other sleek fabric that clung just enough to show the outline of her breasts. Only the glint of fire behind the cool surface of her gaze hinted at the woman Max had discovered in the jungle. The one she’d held astride her.
Rachel didn’t greet her and Max felt the ground shift under her boots. Another hot zone, new rules of engagement.
Max pulled her attention away and looked at the man seated beside Rachel. About Rachel’s age, he wore a white shirt open at the throat, his cuffs casually rolled back to mid-forearm. His skin was tanned, the muscles corded. His hands were smooth and regular, not the scarred, bruised, rough hands of a soldier. His black hair curled slightly around his ears and at the back of his neck, surprisingly soft-looking in stark contrast to the chiseled planes of his face. He resembled a marble Michelangelo come to life, and he sat very close to Rachel.
Less than twenty seconds had passed. Max pivoted to Pettit and saluted. “Sir.”
Pettit sat at the head of the table looking moderately annoyed. He saluted and gestured to a chair opposite Rachel and the other civilian. “Have a seat, Commander.”
Max pulled out a chair and sat down, her gaze returning to Rachel. She couldn’t look anywhere else. This woman was contained and controlled, as Max imagined Rachel had been before the assault on the camp. Maybe this was the real Rachel, not the woman who had taken her pleasure with abandon, wild and carefree. Maybe the woman she’d held in her arms had only existed in the aftermath of shared horror and had faded into the shadows of forgotten memory.
Pettit’s voice cut through her reverie.
“I believe you know Ms. Winslow. Mr. Benedict is with Reuters.”
Max focused on Benedict. A journalist. What the hell?
Benedict reached across the table and held out his hand. “Commander, very happy to meet you.”
“Mr. Benedict.” Max couldn’t quite figure out what this guy was doing here. Journalists and photographers were familiar figures around the base. They were embedded with a lot of the units, and she’d flown with some on board. But what was he doing here, and what did he want with her?
“Before we get started, I just wanted to add a personal note of thanks.”
“Oh?”
“For saving my future sister-in-law…and the others, of course.”
“Tommy,” Rachel said softly, laying a hand on his arm. “This isn’t—”
“Sorry, Rachel, but it’s true.” Benedict glanced at her, his expression earnest and charmingly intense, before turning back to Max. “My sister Christie would’ve been devastated if anything had happened to Rachel. We all would have been.”
Pettit cleared his throat. “Commander, Mr. Benedict is here to do a story about the rescue of Ms. Winslow and her associates. I think you understand our position on these things.”
Max was still trying to process what Benedict had said about Rachel being his future sister-in-law. Rachel and Benedict’s sister, Christie, engaged? Why was she surprised? A woman like Rachel wouldn’t be unattached.
Icy calm settled through her. Whatever had happened out there in the jungle was over and done. Now she had to focus on what was in front of her—she didn’t know why Rachel was here with this reporter, but she’d go along with it if it kept her out of the box with Carmody. This was just another mission to be gotten through. At least this time, no one would end up bleeding.
She glanced at her CO. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
He didn’t have to tell her that anything said to the press must represent the corps in a good light. When the press was around, no one complained about the duty. No one criticized policy. No one ever revealed the truth of what they saw or did or how they felt about it.
“We’re happy to cooperate with the press, of course.” Pettit stood. “The American public needs to know that the Navy is here to protect the citizens of Somalia and our international civilian allies everywhere in the region. That’s what you and your fellow troops came here to do, and that’s what you did. Your duty.”
Every word sounded as if it was being pulled out of his intestines with pliers. Most military personnel, especially the brass, viewed the press as having a different and often opposing agenda. The press was looking for news—and sometimes the news was not to the benefit of the military. But good PR was as important to the military as to any other group jockeying for money and power, and they couldn’t be seen as uncooperative or adversarial.
Max understood what was expected of her. “I don’t know that I’m the best one to represent—”
“Of course you are,” Benedict said. “You were there on the ground with Rachel and the others. If it weren’t for you, as I understand it,” he glanced at Rachel, “none of them would have survived.”
Max regarded Rachel. “Ms. Winslow exaggerates. I was only doing what any other troop would have done.”
His smile suggested he didn’t really believe her. “Well, let’s talk about that, so we can tell the world just how important it is that you’re all here.”
“Right.” Max shifted her gaze away from Rachel. Just another mission.
*
Tommy clicked off the tape recorder. “Thank you, Commander. I…well. Like I said before. That’s a remarkable story, and I’m sure the Sec—”
“Tommy,” Rachel said before Tommy revealed any more personal details she hadn’t wanted Max to find out this way, “I’m sure the commander knows how much we all appreciate what she and the whole team did out there.”
Max stood. She looked gaunt and worn, but her shoulders were back and her voice clear and strong, as it had been through the seemingly endless interview. “Please be sure to include the other members of the team when you write your story, Mr. Benedict. Because no one out here makes it on their own, and no mission is ever successful just because of one person.”
“I’ll be talking to the others,” Tommy replied.
“Good.” Max nodded to Rachel, her expression as remote as if they were strangers. “Good-bye, Ms. Winslow. I hope you have a safe trip home.”
Rachel rose, but she didn’t have time to protest before Max spun around and left. She only had a minute to make a decision as she started after her. “Tommy, go ahead without me. I’ll find my own way back.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Go ahead. I know you want to file your story.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve got some unfinished business.” Impatiently Rachel hitched her shoulder bag higher and opened the door. If she didn’t hurry, Max would be gone.
Tommy grasped her arm, his brow furrowed. “What about the security people? Aren’t they supposed to drive us back to the hotel?”
“Damn it, yes.” Rachel spun back to him. “Tommy, I need a favor. Tell Kennedy—that’s the woman—”
Tommy grinned his devil-may-care grin. “I noticed.”
“Tell her I’ll be here a while but that you need to file your story right away. Ask them to drive you to the motor pool or somewhere so you can catch a ride back to the hotel.”
“Ah—where will you be?”
“I’ll be back here in an hour. Tell Kennedy that’s how long I’ll be with the CO.”
“Why do I feel like we’re back at Yale and I’m about to get busted again for sneaking into the sorority house?”
“You did sneak in, and I covered for you so you wouldn’t get suspended. I told you my roommate wasn’t interested, but you wouldn’t listen. That part wasn’t my fault.”
He fingered his jaw. “She didn’t have to deck me.”
“Yes, she did. Now go run a screen for me—I really have to get out of here.”
He kissed her cheek. “All right. But I want to do a follow-up story in Mogadishu and maybe a longer exposé when
we get back to the States. You agree?”
“Yes, all right. But get this one filed first. It’s important.”
“It’s a great story. I’ll talk to you soon. Dinner tonight?”
“Yes, of course, if I can.” She just wanted to get away. She wanted, needed, to find Max.
Tommy gathered his briefcase, recorder, and notebooks and left. Rachel forced herself to wait five minutes before searching for an exit that would let her avoid the main entrance in case Kennedy or Smith didn’t buy Tommy’s story and were still outside. She slipped out a side door and hurried toward the road, angling between the adjacent buildings until she was far enough away not to be seen. She hoped.
The last two hours had been hell. She’d known reliving her experiences out in the jungle for Tommy would be difficult, but watching Max withdraw behind a shield of remote indifference had been harder. Max had answered Tommy’s questions, she’d been polite and, as Rachel had expected, had downplayed her own role in the events. But Max had never looked her in the eye after those first seconds when she’d stared at Rachel in confusion, then anger, and finally dismissal. The distance between them was agonizing. Damn Tommy.
Not that he was to blame for his assumptions about her relationship status, but she’d have to make things clearer to quite a few people. First she needed to find Max. She stopped at an intersection and didn’t recognize anything. She’d been walking so fast she hadn’t paid any attention to where she was. Rows and rows of CLUs stretched in every direction. The place was a maze. God, was she lost? She couldn’t be lost. She didn’t have time to be lost. She had to find Max. She half laughed, a painful sound that caught in her chest and tore at her. She was lost and she needed to find Max. Why had it never occurred to her she’d spent so much time avoiding the paths other people laid out for her, she hadn’t been able to see where she wanted to go?
