She found the Colonel back at his desk poring over several bills of lading and attempting to handle an argument between two Costa Ricans who were squabbling noisily. Alanna leaned back against the door momentarily, a grim smile on her face. He looked absolutely frustrated. Finally, he looked up, his eyes lighting with pleasure at the sight of her.
“I need your linguistic ability,” he coaxed. “Come over here and interpret for me, will you? Either that, or I’m going to throw both of them out the front door.”
She hesitated, thinking of the fiery kiss he had placed on her lips the day before. She hadn’t forgotten it for one hour or one minute since then. “It will cost you, Colonel,” she warned as she sauntered over.
“If you can get these two off my back,” he answered grimly, “you can have the moon if you want.”
“What I want will be close to that,” she promised sweetly. Within a few minutes, the entire matter was set straight, and she had to smile to herself, watching Matt’s face take on a look of relief. He looked harried, running his fingers through his hair more than once. After the pacified drivers left, he leaned back in the straight-backed wooden chair, sizing her up. He pointed at the yellow papers in front of him.
“You wonder why we have missing supplies? Here’s part of the answer.” He waved three sheets of official but tattered papers at her. “The truck driver receives a set of these when he picks up his load at the ship or airport. Then the warehouse provides another set which are invariably modified by the time the driver leaves the front gate.” His voice tightened with frustration. “I guess it’s too difficult to call a crate a crate instead of a carton, box, or container. When our men inventory the contents, we have four sets of numbers attempting to identify the same shipment.” He shook his head, slowly getting to his feet and stretching.
“I have my own set of numbers, Colonel,” she assured him briskly. “And I believe you owe me one.”
He nodded, moving around the desk and pouring a cup of coffee into a tin mug. “You want some?” he asked. “It’s instant, but it tastes a hell of a lot better than halizoned water.”
“No, thank you.”
“Oh, you like stronger stuff? Wine? Maybe Scotch. I understand that’s the ‘in’ drink up on the Hill: Scotch on the rocks.”
She put a chain on her temper. “I prefer a light claret, Colonel. As I’m sure you don’t have any here, it’s pointless to discuss the subject. Anyway, I want you to look at these orders.” She stressed the word “orders,” because that was exactly what they were. Orders from Marine Corps General Frederick to Colonel Breckenridge. She watched with satisfaction as he languidly unfolded the crisp white papers and sat back down at the desk. Taking a sip of his coffee, he frowned as he read through them. The skin across his cheekbones tightened, and his mouth thinned into a single line. He looked up slowly.
“So, Senator Thornton got the brass over at the Pentagon to issue these orders. Your ability to manipulate impresses me,” he said in a dangerously low whisper. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“I’m keenly aware of what I’ve done.” Her heart skipped erratically, and it wasn’t from anticipation. Her feelings bordered on fear as she saw the violent glint in his gray eyes.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he murmured. “Not this way and not now. I would have got one of the jeep drivers to take you up just as soon as the fog lifted. It wasn’t necessary, Alanna.”
She heard a note of hurt in his voice. Or was it disappointment? “The only thing you seem to understand and respect is power, Colonel. And that’s exactly the game we’re going to play here from now on. Politicians versus military. Dove versus hawk. Call it what you like. I want results. And I’m working for a senator who wants them now. You’re ordered to personally take me up to San Dolega. Right now. I’m sure you have an aide who can take over here while you drop me off. It should only take an hour or two of your time.”
Matt deliberately set the orders down, staring up at her. “I don’t believe this is the real Alanna talking to me. What’s happened? What’s gone wrong? Did Senator Thornton call you and start screaming at you to get some results? What?”
She felt the blush sweeping over her cheeks and silently cursed the telltale sign. “If I told you, you wouldn’t understand. You didn’t this morning, and I don’t think you ever will,” she said defensively. “We’re two different breeds of people. And all I want to do right now is finish this job and get as far away from you and this place as possible.”
He studied her for a long time. Finally, he stared back down at the orders. “Are you sure this is what you want? If you can’t wait twelve hours more until this fog lifts, I’m not going to be responsible for you or my actions.”
Alanna’s eyes widened at the softly spoken threat. He looked absolutely emotionless. His voice was as hard as tempered steel. A ribbon of fear jolted through her. What did he mean? Her throat ached with tension, but she forced the words out. “You’re not making sense. You have your orders, now carry them out.”
He stood, a hawk ready to make the kill, and she sensed the anger which up until now had been hidden. She took two steps back, stunned by his implacable determination. His hand shot out quickly, and she gasped as his fingers closed in a viselike grip around her upper arm. He guided her to the door, throwing it open and placing her outside it.
“You stay right there, Miss McIntire. I will be back in exactly five minutes, and then we’ll leave for San Dolega,” he snarled under his breath. “You want to play tough? We’ll play it your way.”
She stood there trembling, huddled against the hut, trying to keep out of the rain. She wasn’t quite sure what was going to happen next, but she tried to convince herself that she could handle it. She closed her eyes, trying to take a steadying breath. She would never understand the military or the minds that ran it! Damn them all!
In exactly five minutes, Matt Breckenridge drove up in a military jeep. It had no protective covering over the top of it to keep the rain out. He was dressed in his poncho, his cap drawn down over his eyes so that she could not see his expression. Perhaps that was a blessing. In the rear was a huge pack with a small shovel attached to the back of it.
“Get in,” he ordered tersely.
She slid onto the wet, slippery seat, gripping the metal siding as he yanked the jeep into gear. The vehicle slewed through the mud as he ground through a series of loud, noisy gears. The base camp disappeared behind them and was replaced with a rutted excuse for a single-lane road which wound beneath the tall tops of the mahogany forest that dominated the landscape. Rain slashed unrelentingly against her face, and she held up her hands to protect her eyes, compressing her lips in anger over his inconsiderate behavior.
It was a nightmarish ride. She had no idea how long they had driven; she was only aware of the continual bumping and jolting of the jeep as it roared through three inches of mud and the hardened ruts that had been created during the dry season. Her hips and thighs were bruised black and blue, and her back ached from the terrific strain placed upon it as the jeep leaped out of one rut and landed heavily in another. Fog swirled chokingly around them, and Alanna was grimly determined not to cry out. Not even once. She knew it would give him a measure of satisfaction. But he was going to get not one ounce of it from her.
Finally, they halted at the end of the road. Alanna’s eyes widened as she saw at least two hundred crates of supplies stacked up before them and military and civilian men carrying them on their backs up a narrow mountain trail that seemed to disappear into the fog. Matt turned the key off, jammed it in his trouser pocket, and got out.
“All right, Miss McIntire, I suggest you roust yourself out of the jeep and hit the deck. We’ve got some walking to do.”
Alanna starred stupidly at the line of porters slowly struggling up the steep grade and then swung her gaze to Matt, who was shrugging into the pack. “But,” she stammered lamely, “you didn’t say we had to walk.”
“You didn’t bothe
r to ask before setting your plan into motion. I believe it was you who stressed the orders meant ‘right now,’” he growled. “If you are really interested in reaching San Dolega, you have to walk, because the orders did not specify that I had to carry you. At your pleasure, Miss McIntire, the road to San Dolega,” he added with a tight smile of triumph. “Come on, we’ve only got five miles and three thousand feet to go.” He studied the thinning fog. “And maybe, if we’re lucky, this fog will keep clearing as we get closer to the village.”
She felt tears gathering in her eyes, a wave of humiliation sweeping across her. Why did she back herself into a corner with him every time? Five miles in her leather shoes? Alanna sighed, taking a grip on her briefcase, and walked carefully around the jeep. Without even a backward glance, he started off toward the mountain trail, and she silently followed, pushing to keep up with his long, fluid strides.
The jungle was forbidding, closing in on all sides as they walked beneath its canopy. Alanna heard him calling out to the porters, giving them words of encouragement as first he and then she passed them at a faster pace. She couldn’t imagine carrying a thirty-pound crate on her shoulders for five miles in any circumstances. At one point, she caught up with him. Or did he slow down for her? She was gasping for air and vaguely remembered that the village was seventy-five hundred feet above sea level. Oxygen became sparse at that altitude. Her throat felt on fire, and she gulped down more air.
“Why are you carrying that pack?” she asked.
“Because it’s a mobile home. It has everything I need to survive out here for seven days.”
She eyed the canteen on the web belt around his waist. “Please,” she whispered, “I need a drink of water.”
“Did you bring any?” he asked coolly, catching her startled look.
“Why—of course not. I thought…I thought you would share.”
“Did you bother to inform me of your actions before you initiated them?” he demanded, slowing.
“I didn’t have to!” she defended hotly, her voice becoming hoarse.
“It’s called chain of command, lady. Something political people seem to ignore constantly. You reduce everything to trading so-called favors when, in essence, you’re blackmailing.”
“Damn jarhead,” she hissed, jerking to a stop.
He turned, grinning. “Now where did you pick up that kind of language? I didn’t think civilians knew any of the technical terms for a Marine.”
“Technical term?” Alanna gasped. “That’s an outright insult.”
“If you had called me an Army dogface, then I might have gotten angry,” he returned blandly. He reached down in his web belt, loosening the canteen and slowly unscrewing the cap before handing it to her. “Only drink a little,” he warned. “At this altitude and with another four miles to go, you don’t want it sloshing around in your stomach.”
Her mouth felt as if it were full of cotton balls, and she eagerly reached for the canteen, putting it to her lips and swallowing a huge gulp. With a cry, she spit it out. “This is horrible,” she wailed.
He gave her an impatient look. “Halizone has been put in it for your protection. If those tablets weren’t dropped in there, you’d probably get dysentery. Now take a swallow and let’s get going. And don’t waste any more of my water.”
She grudgingly took a small sip, wrinkling her nose in utter distaste over the foul-tasting water. Matt, however, seemed hardly to notice the taste when he took a drink of it himself. Turning, he began to walk, only this time at an obviously slower pace for her benefit. Alanna cast a mournful look down at her pants. They were muddied up to her knees. Her feet were cold, and her toes felt numb as she forced herself to keep pace beside him. The jungle looked forbidding and threatening right now, and she felt anything but brave. In a way, she was thankful for his presence, even if it was an irritating one.
“What school did you graduate from?” he asked conversationally.
Alanna peered up at him, taken off guard by his friendly tone. For a moment she considered ignoring him but decided it was an unwise move. She might need to drink more water, and she wouldn’t put it past him to refuse her if he felt so inclined. “Radcliffe.”
“Did you major in political science?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“A logical guess.”
“I suppose I look like all those other politicos up there on the Hill. We all have black, beady, weasel eyes and are out to lie to the public and grovel for our power positions,” she muttered.
He laughed. It was a full, resonant laugh that reverberated within the small cleared area of the jungle, and Alanna found herself warming to it.
“Hardly, lady. You’re a sight for sore eyes under any circumstances, believe me. No, your problem is that you try to replace your intuition with rationalization and end up making the wrong decision. Such as this fiasco we’re on now.”
Alanna smirked. “Thanks for reminding me. But I still value my logic.”
“Women were made to feel out situations,” he commented seriously.
She laughed bitterly. “It goes without saying that you’re a typical male chauvinist.”
“No, you didn’t hear what I said. Women think differently than men. For instance”—he pointed toward the jungle wall to their right—“most men would only see that as a barrier of trees and vines and a path in front of them. But a woman would take in much more—the odors, the sounds, the colors—utilizing all of her five senses to a greater degree than her male counterpart.” He allowed a small grin, watching her closely. “I’m saying that you’re cheating yourself by trying to rule your five senses with logic.”
Alanna mulled it over. What he said did make sense. “How did you stumble onto this little gem of wisdom?”
“I found out the hard way,” he offered. “Two years in a jungle getting hunted by the enemy and you become more aware of the five senses. You learn to depend on your intuition. Most men won’t do that unless they’re under severe stress. And even then, they may not. I’ve watched women react to other less dangerous circumstances and get a better overall impression of the situation. Men tend to take things at face value. The black and white of it. I think most women see through that and are aware of the shades of gray in life.”
“And so you ‘stretched’ your intuitive abilities?”
“It’s saved my life and the lives of others many times. You bet I did.”
Alanna remembered Tim Thornton abruptly, wondering for an instant if the senator was wrong. She quickly dismissed that thought, unable to believe that the senator could feel so strongly about Colonel Breckenridge without due cause.
“So, who canned your five senses and forced you to make all your decisions on the basis of logic?” he asked.
She was beginning to breathe hard again, despite the fact he was slowing down the pace. The trail twisted steeply, with roots and vines now crisscrossing the path. Her heart was pounding in her ears, and she felt a tension headache coming on. How far had they gone? How far was it to the village? The question caught her completely off guard, and she blurted out the answer without stopping first to analyze it. “The man I used to live with, Paul Ramsey. He is a political analyst for a powerful lobby in Washington. I’m afraid we were mismatched from the outset.”
Matt stopped, pulling out the canteen and offering it to her as they rested at a small crest. His face had a sheen of sweat on it, but his eyes were hawklike in intensity, missing nothing. “A computer for a mind and no emotions?” he inquired.
Alanna gratefully drank the water down, the halizone taste seeming less potent this time around. She handed the canteen back to him. “Yes. You sure you aren’t reading my mind?”
He lifted the canteen to his mouth, taking a small swallow and then replacing the cap and snapping it back into the belt. “No. It just comes from experience,” he assured her.
“Look,” she begged, “can we rest just a moment? My feet are killing me.”
He checked his wat
ch. “Five minutes.”
Alanna collapsed on the spot, balancing her weight on a thick root that had been washed clean of the surrounding soil by the ferocity of the September rains. Her braids hung like thick ropes, tendrils of hair escaping around her temples, softening the angularity of her high cheekbones. Matt sat opposite her, digging out a candy bar from his pocket, breaking it in half, and offering it to her.
“It’s high-energy. Go ahead, eat it.”
She stared down at it. “Will it taste as bad as that water?”
He shook his head, a glint of laughter returning to his gray eyes. “No, I promise.”
The seconds flew by in companionable silence, the only sound the plop, plop, plop of water drops falling from the higher reaches of the trees to the lower leaves surrounding them.
“How long did you live with him?” he asked quietly, breaking the pleasant tranquility.
“Four years.”
“Meet him right after graduation or before?”
“I met him a year before he got his master’s from Harvard.”
He raised one eyebrow slightly. “Probably was the head of his class?”
She nodded, relishing the taste of the sweet chocolate. For some reason, it didn’t hurt as much to talk about Paul. Before, whenever she thought of him, she could feel the ache begin in her heart, and it was too much for her to bear. At times like that she would throw herself into her work to forget the whole fiasco. “He’s a brilliant man,” she said earnestly. “A genius.”
“Of ideology, no doubt.”
Alanna gave a muffled laugh. “God, don’t remind me!” She rolled her eyes upward. “I try to forget the hours we spent discussing economics, politics and social issues. He always won out with his damn logic.”
Captive of Fate Page 5
