Call of Duty [Class of '93 Trilogy Book 3]

by Felicia Forella

  "I can tell you that story, sweetheart. Chad here thought he was the chief stud, not only at the Blue Zoo, but at his first assignment. So to get back at him, the squadron decided he needed a very masculine call sign, something that went hand in hand with his last name. He's been Marilyn Monroe ever since."

  Kelli cast a smile in Chad's direction. “Maybe I should ask you a question you can answer for yourself."

  "I have a better idea, how about I ask you a question. Haven't you been married long enough by now to behave yourselves?” He knew he sounded like a petulant child but he couldn't help himself. What must it be like to enjoy such a powerful love?

  "I'll never get tired of Bobby's touch.” Kelli's smile could be heard in her voice. “Surely you experienced the same thing when you were married. You were still a newlywed when—"

  Bobby glared at his wife, effectively silencing her.

  The air around the table thickened.

  "I'm sorry, Chad."

  He nodded his head at her by way of acknowledging her apology. He didn't trust himself to say anything.

  "No, really Chad, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to bring up painful memories. Bobby did tell me about it when it happened. I swear this baby is sucking my brain dry. Please forgive me?” She rubbed her large belly affectionately even as her eyes pleaded with Chad.

  A shining example of why I never talk about this.

  "There's nothing to worry about, Kelli.” A change in topic was in order. “So, let's get this mess cleaned up. What did you make me for dessert?” Chad popped out of his chair, determined to lighten the mood. “Do you have any games around this place? Rebel sucks big time at backgammon."

  "Tell me something I don't know.” Kelli hooked her hand through Chad's arm as he hefted a load of dirty dishes and headed for the kitchen with them balanced against his chest.

  With dessert finished and Rebel's tattered pride tucked aside with the backgammon game, Chad said his good-byes. Kelli only released his arm when he promised to be a frequent visitor to their home. He hugged her good-bye and dropped a kiss to her forehead.

  The sun settled on the horizon and spread its peach-colored rays out over the desert sand as his candy apple red Corvette purred its way through the gate and off base. The air held a faint reminder of the day's heat and the promise of a cool night. Chad needed speed to focus his mind and clear his thoughts before he headed back to the hotel. He needed a good night's sleep since he started his new job in the morning.

  He enjoyed the dinner with Rebel and his wife. He liked nothing more than seeing an old friend happy, despite the twinges of some darker emotions. Judging by the constant little touches and glances, the couple was still very much in love. He wished he could ignore the jealousy gnawing at him.

  But too many memories crowded his mind, clouded his senses. Thoughts of a marriage that hadn't been hugs and touches and kisses. The nightmares would start soon enough, if last night was any indication. He might as well enjoy a couple of hours before they attacked.

  Preparations for a proper drive began in earnest as he distanced himself from the base. He tugged on custom-made leather driving gloves, a gift from his baby sister. He flipped his sunglasses in the glove compartment and made sure his baseball cap was securely tucked away on the passenger side floor. He turned on the stereo and cranked the volume all the way up.

  A deft flick of his wrist headed the Corvette north of the base toward a sparsely populated area and a vast stretch of highway. The snap of his forefinger sent the top of his convertible inchworming back. His sneakered foot applied gentle pressure on the gas pedal. He watched the speedometer on his head's up display steadily creep over the speed limit, a testament to a real V8 engine.

  Ever so slightly off-key words scattered as Chad sang along with the CD. Notes and lyrics fluttered to the shoulder of the road, heard only by a lonely prairie dog too stupid to run for the safety of his hole. He loved this song, an anthem to speeding and enjoying it. Nope, driving fifty-five wasn't for him either.

  Nothing could compete with the adrenaline rush of doing Mach 2, of chasing the stars, but this was certainly a thrill. The wind rushed past, tugging his skin back and flat against his bones. His hands gripped the wheel, sensitive to every nuance the road offered. He maintained SA—situational awareness—as alert at the controls of a car as at the controls of a fighter jet.

  The speed forced him to clear his mind of everything except the union of the car and the road and his surroundings. Perfect, just perfect. He continued to croon on about the joys of going faster than the speed limit. The deep driving bass of his voice joined in symphony with the purr of the Corvette's engine to accompany his erstwhile singing. His left hand tapped out the infectious beat on the frame of the windshield.

  Length of time and distance traveled mattered little to him as he regained his equilibrium. All but the top wedge of the deep red sun hid behind the horizon as he guided the Corvette back to Nellis and his hotel. He cruised through a sprawling apartment complex not far from his hotel, his attention still hyperfocused, when an object bounced into his line of sight.

  Only his highly trained, lightening fast reflexes averted disaster. The squeal of screeching tires and the stench of burning rubber reverberated through him. His chest heaved and his pulse raced as he yanked on the emergency brake. Flinging open the door, he spied a young towheaded boy standing perilously close to the Corvette's front bumper.

  "Hey, kid, are you okay?"

  The boy looked up at him wordlessly, sending a pang of fright stabbing through Chad. Is something wrong? Did I hurt him? Please, dear God, tell me I didn't hurt him.

  Then he heard the wail. An ear-piercing, heart-wrenching wail. Only it wasn't coming from the pint-sized person in front of him. Several seconds passed before he was able to focus on the banshee barreling toward them.

  "Jackson. Ohmigod. Jackson. Are you okay, sweetie?"

  She came charging at the boy with every bit of the concern and anguish she felt written all over her face. She snatched the boy into her arms, rocking him while she spilled silent tears into his hair. Her hair flailed wildly about her face and neck; her tank top revealed more of her braless breasts than it concealed.

  "What the hell was your kid doing playing in the street, lady?” The adrenaline coursing through his body amplified his anger and fear, overpowering the lust. His voice sounded gruff to his own ears. Not that it mattered. The child could have been seriously injured. Or he could have died in his arms. Another little boy could have died in his arms as the result of a car accident.

  She sputtered, glaring at him as if he sprouted horns, but not seeing him. “Wh-what the he ... eck,” she covered her son's ears with her hands, “are you doing driving around here like a bat out of h-e-double hockey sticks? Do you live here? No, you couldn't possibly. If you did, you'd know about all the kids in this complex. If you did, you'd know that kids do unpredictable things. That's why there are signs all over the place and the speed limit is fifteen miles an hour.” The boy in her arms wiggled and jiggled against the firm embrace confining him.

  On some level, Chad realized a moving kid meant an alive kid. And he had yet to see any blood. His breathing began to slow along with his pulse rate.

  He recognized the mother as the shock and anger drained from him, replaced by relief. “Lin—I mean, Casey?"

  "Yes, who are you? Do I know you?” She kept her gaze focused on the little boy, patting him down and checking every inch of his body.

  "I believe we met at The Cockpit last night, though I didn't exactly get a chance to introduce myself.” He whistled soft “crash and burn” sounds under his breath.

  Casey turned her attention from her son long enough to apparently try to identify the man standing in front of her, a flickered hint of recognition flashed in her eyes before she masked it.

  Why did that hurt so damn much?

  "Chad. Major Chad Monroe.” He extended his hand only to have it remain empty. He wiped his palm across his thi
gh in a vain attempt to hide his embarrassment. “Is he hurt?” He gestured to the little boy cradled in her arms.

  "He doesn't seem to be. I don't see any blood, which is always a good sign. Jackson, tell Mommy what happened."

  The adults hung on every word issued from the child's mouth. He said had been bored waiting for his mother to finish getting ready for work. Playing with his brand new ball seemed like a good idea. Except it rolled off the porch and he had to run after it. After much coaxing, he admitted to running into the street before looking both ways.

  Chad struggled to keep his eyes focused on the storyteller and not on his mother's still heaving half-exposed breasts. No easy task, as her chest expanded with every breath. Inappropriate lust temporarily overwhelmed all other emotions. He shook his head to regain his senses. For Pete's sake, he could have killed the kid and here he was lusting after the mother.

  "Thank goodness for your quick reaction."

  Was that gratitude he saw in her eyes?

  The boy squirmed in his mother's embrace, finished with the inquisition, and whined to be put down. No sooner did his sneakers hit the pavement then he darted across the street. He returned seconds later with a ball gripped to his belly.

  "You awmost ran over my baw, Mister."

  Chad couldn't help the chuckle of relief that welled up inside him. The kid was totally oblivious to the danger he'd been in.

  "Jackson. The major almost ran over you.” She fixed her son with what could only be described as a maternal stare. “My apologies, Major Monroe. He's not supposed to be playing outside by himself. And he knows that."

  Chad grimaced at the glare shot at the youngster. He had been the recipient of many such disapproving glares.

  Undaunted by the reprimand and with all the strength he could muster, Jackson yanked open the passenger door to Chad's car. The ball rolled unnoticed back to the street, no longer important now that a new toy had been discovered.

  "You have a reawy coo car, Mister.” He grabbed the hat from the floor. “Hey. Are you a fighter piwot? My daddy's a fighter piwot. Do you know my daddy?” He brimmed with youthful enthusiasm.

  Well that explains last night. She's married. Married women were no-no's and strictly forbidden. Numbers three and four on his list. He forced his smug satisfaction down before answering. Her marital status explained everything. But it did nothing to calm Little Chad, still desperate for attention.

  "I sure am a fighter pilot, an Eagle driver. Is your daddy here at Nellis?” Chad squatted down, balancing on the balls of his feet as he talked to Jackson, who was now sitting in the passenger seat and reaching for the seat belt.

  Casey jumped in to answer, her tone flat. “Jackson's father is in Florida."

  "Ah, well, I guess I had better let you get ready for work. I wouldn't want you to be late on my account.” He hefted the boy from his car and slammed the door.

  "Can I go for a ride some time, Mister? Pwease?” The boy hopped to his mother's side as soon as Chad set him to his feet.

  Something tugged at Chad's heart as Jackson reached to slip his hand in his mother's.

  "That's up to your mom, kiddo. We'll have to see."

  "Can I, Mommy? Can I pwease?"

  Casey appeared to purposefully evade the question. “Thanks again for being so ... well ... for ... stopping in time."

  "No need to thank me. I'm sure I'll be seeing you around. When I come back to give Jackson his ride.” With his best smile and a wink, he hopped into the driver's seat without opening the door and drove off.

  Regret tugged at the fringes of his consciousness as he covered the distance to his hotel. Now that he knew she was married, he could strike her from his list. He had to cross her off. He'd have to back away from Pamela Anderson if she were married. He did have some scruples, after all.

  Being shot down by a married woman really wasn't being shot down at all. After all, she wasn't available. Hell, she'd turn down George Clooney or Hugh Jackman or whoever was the latest hunk of the month. It was certainly no reflection on him.

  Strange, though. His radar usually picked up wedding rings. How had he missed the sign?

  Still, the incident at The Cockpit and Casey meant nothing now. She belonged to another man, one who had offered her happily ever after and all that jazz. That game was firmly off limits. His code of honor—as a man and as an Air Force officer—didn't allow him to make a move on another guy's girl.

  No matter how much that girl—that woman—called to him. No matter how much she intrigued him. No matter that she reached down and grabbed his balls and refused to let go.

  Casey the bartender was officially off-limits.

  All he had to do now was ignore the blood pumping in his veins, thrumming with awareness of her.

  Chapter 3

  A check ride ought to be like a skirt—short enough to be

  interesting, but long enough to cover everything.

  The crisp morning air nipped at Chad as he watched the top of his convertible glide shut. Even in Las Vegas, the chill of autumn infected the early October day. He stretched his arms over his head, anxious for Monday morning and his new assignment to begin. He also wondered when he'd hear something about his covert mission.

  A nightmare-free sleep freed him to concentrate on his new duties. Waking to the alarm clock's buzz and the clear blue Nevada sky roused him. No ghosts haunted him this morning.

  Not unless he considered the lush blonde who wormed her way into his dreams in a spectacular blaze of glory. Casey. She more than haunted him, she plagued him. His palms itched as flashes of a highly erotic dream pushed its way into his thoughts. The all-too-real feel of her unbound breasts teased his fingers, threatening to make the front of his flight suit very uncomfortable, not to mention embarrassing. He willed the memories back to the fringes of his consciousness and focused on the day ahead.

  A week on the road and out of the cockpit was seven days too long. Damn, but it felt good to be back in his flight suit, even if it was the standard issue green Nomex suit worn by all pilots. The patch on his sleeve marked him as a fighter pilot and his abilities ranked him among the best. It distinguished him from all the other pilots. Nothing else mattered. He could look like them, but they would never be as good as him. He longed to tangle with the newbie pilots and prove his skills.

  Inhaling a deep breath of the jet exhaust-laden air energized him for the day ahead.

  His feet stuck to the floor as he stepped through the door of his CO's conference room at the building headquarters for training operations. The sprawling two-story beige building hummed with activity. He flicked his gaze to his watch. Zero seven fifty-five. He cast a surreptitious glance at the clock on the wall. Zero seven fifty-six.

  He snapped a salute to the colonel. “Am I late, sir?” He glanced around at the dozen or so other men in the room, recognizing only Rebel. “My orders were to report at zero eight hundred.” He mumbled more to himself than the others in the room. Shit, what a way to make a first impression.

  "Not at all, Major. Not at all. You're punctual, as I've been led to expect. I asked these gentlemen to arrive early so they could join me in welcoming you."

  One more glance around the room confirmed his suspicion that all present were fighter pilots. Identical flight suits differed only by squadron patches and rank insignia. Even in civvies, the men would have marked themselves as jet jockeys by their stance. The fighter pilot's manner of standing was common knowledge the world over. Feet braced shoulders’ width apart and arms crossed over the chest. A slightly arrogant tilt to the chin completed the mannerism.

  Laughter broke out in the room as he finally realized the purpose of the gathering. God bless tradition, this one being as simple as welcoming the new guy. A loud “woofing” resounded through the room, echoing down the hall, accompanied by the stomping of combat boots when his fellow pilots let loose with their congratulations on the new assignment. The men converged on him with introductions. He accepted the firm handshakes and
hearty slaps on the back with quiet dignity. A large measure of pride filled him as he returned the salutes of his fellow officers. An overwhelming sense of belonging, of camaraderie, enveloped him at moments like these, overwhelming his frustration surrounding his assignment as an Air Force Security Agency Officer.

  Life is abso-damn-lutely wonderful. It just doesn't get much better than this.

  "So this means drinks are on you tonight at the Club, right, Marilyn?” Rebel's twang was unmistakable over the throng.

  "Only if you salute your superior pilot before you drink him out of house and home, you old dog."

  "No problem, you just have point him out to me."

  Masculine laughter filled the room, along with cracks and cuts. A young airman bearing a box of donuts and a pot of coffee pushed her way to the table in the center of the room, temporarily stalling the banter. The fact that her gaze never left Chad did not go unnoticed.

  "Major, may I suggest you keep your dubious talents confined to the civilian women of the area?” A higher-ranking pilot chided him as soon as the door clicked shut behind the airman.

  "Of course, sir. Otherwise, none of you would stand a chance anywhere.” Raucous laughter broke out only to be stifled by the consumption of the treats on the table.

  The colonel gestured for the men to be seated so the business of the day could begin. The pilots surrounding him at the table were the members of both squadrons of the training team—a wing of F-15s, or Eagle drivers, and a wing of F-16s, or Viper pilots. The assembled pilots were assigned to Nellis for a tour of duty as members of the combat training wing. Their job entailed simulating the maneuvers of opposition enemy forces to improve the ability of American and allied forces in war conditions. They would mimic the tactics of hostile planes as closely as possible.

  Members of the armed forces from across the country and around the world arrived soon to form the Blue Force. The “home team,” or Red Force, would use the opportunity before they converged to acclimate the newcomer to the terrain, the plane, and the playing field in which they would be flying, known as Redland.