Dangerous Waters

by Radclyffe

  Dara remembered the day a decade before when she and the housekeeper had spent a frantic two hours searching for that dress while her grandmother verged on the brink of a full-blown anxiety attack, only to find it neatly folded in one of the boxes her grandmother had marked for the handyman to take to the Goodwill. No amount of explanation could convince Caroline that the housekeeper or some other member of the help staff hadn’t put it there. By then, she’d been forgetting more and more, and Dara had finally been forced to consider options for the future and what would be needed to keep her safe. The task fell to her, since her mother just couldn’t cope, and there was no one else, was there.

  Now the dress, laundered dozens of times since, was a faded reminder of the woman Caroline used to be, even though right at this moment, her eyes were clear and focused outward.

  “She’s fine, Grandmom. Busy,” Dara said, searching madly for something to say about her mother. “You know, with so many of her humanitarian organizations.”

  Charity had lost its political correctness, even though Dara suspected that’s what her mother considered anything that truly benefited those beneath her social status.

  “Well, your sister always did like helping others,” Caroline said.

  “She’s my mom,” Dara said gently. Her grandmother’s social worker had suggested this was a safe correction when her grandmother was lucid but still a little confused.

  Caroline frowned. “Of course, I know that. Barrister’s wife.” She smiled. “And you’re my favorite granddaughter.”

  Also, the only granddaughter, but Dara just reached out and took her grandmother’s hand, happy to have her nearby for a few minutes. “Have you been outside for a walk lately? It’s getting cool enough in the afternoons now, and I know how much you like the flowers.”

  Caroline nodded. “Yes, thank you for reminding me. I must tell the gardener to trim the roses. They’re getting so leggy.”

  “You know,” Dara continued gamely, “there are roses along the path. I’m sure Brian will be happy to walk with you.”

  “Brian. Oh, of course. He always was such an attentive son.”

  Dara couldn’t bring herself to correct her, since thinking about her father—correction, Barrister—brought up too much anger. Anger she really should’ve let go of a long time ago and told herself she would every time the flush of old resentments rose within her. Twenty years was a long time to harbor feelings that were perfectly appropriate for a twelve-year-old, she’d told herself more than once. So what if he’d walked out, left them, started another life and another family. In his eyes, he’d always done his duty, being sure the family had everything money could buy.

  “Brian is your nurse,” Dara said. “The African American guy who helps you get to the dining room and your group sessions?”

  “Of course, Brian.” Caroline’s face brightened. “But I think you’re confused, darling. He’s not the nurse. I’m quite sure he’s the attorney.”

  “Would you like to go outside now?”

  Caroline was quiet for a long moment, her gaze slowly drawing away, pulling back from Dara’s. She shifted to glance out the window that looked onto the acres of lawn and gardens and trees behind the residence, the walkways carefully maintained so the elderly or the less than able could manage them on foot or in a wheelchair.

  “I do so wish Barrister wasn’t so busy,” Caroline whispered. “I’m sure he’d come by more often, if he could.”

  Dara swallowed hard. Barrister had stopped coming by the moment he’d walked out the door. His checks and the dividends from the family businesses continued to flow into her trust and her mother’s accounts, but his attention—the one commodity of his she’d truly longed for and never been able to capture—had gone elsewhere. A new wife, eventually a new family. Half siblings she never knew.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Dara said around the silent screams choking her.

  Her grandmother focused on her again. “I’m so glad you decided to visit. You will come again, when I’m not so busy, won’t you?”

  “Of course I will.” Dara kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you again soon.”

  Her grandmother smiled, the smile she’d cultivated over years in polite society, the one she aimed at those whose faces and names she would forget as soon as she turned away.

  Landfall minus 10 days, 4:30 p.m.

  Roc Hotel

  Miami Beach, Florida

  Sawyer jolted up in bed, the sheets a tangle around her bare feet, the room a dull yellow, the air a heavy coat of grit and sweat on her skin. She’d drawn the beige floor-to-ceiling curtains across the double sliding glass doors to block out the relentless sun, the glimmering white sands, the insistent bludgeoning brightness of the holiday beach.

  She couldn’t quite capture the dream flickering at the edges of memory, not that she wanted to. She’d stopped dreaming somewhere in the middle of her last year in Africa. The heat, the blazing sun, the ever-present thump of ordnance in the dark had scorched the possibilities from her unconscious. Dreams were things that existed in the daylight, and only nightmares ruled the dark. Fortunately, she’d driven both away, and if the price was random stretches of near coma masquerading as sleep that didn’t haunt her while awake, she was willing to pay.

  She rubbed both hands over her face and through her sweat-damp hair. She needed a haircut—the back was going to hit a good inch below her collar soon. She could probably get by until she headed back to base, though. She had plenty of time—too much time. She looked at the clock. Three hours gone. She’d only intended to stretch out for a few minutes after her shower, but her body had had other ideas. At least her head wasn’t pounding any longer. Still a little fuzzy, but nothing she wasn’t used to. Dehydration was a familiar companion. Absently grabbing the bottled water from the bedside table, she downed half of it and checked her phone with the other hand.

  As she expected, all the messages were work related: internal memos from central command, updates on regs, squad movements, activation orders, changes in schedule. Halfway down, she saw a rare personal header.

  Rambo@gmail.com

  How is the sun?

  Smiling, she swiped to view.

  Hey, Bones. How’s the beach? How are the babes??

  Getting anything? I mean, relaxation wise :-) :-) :-)

  R

  PS #2 is on the way!

  Grinning, Sawyer hit Reply and typed:

  Water’s great, getting lots of sleep, having a great time. Congrats, what’s your hurry?

  B

  She hit Send and leaned back on the pillows. Rambo, aka Ralph Beauregard, was about the best friend she had in the world. They’d gone through Guard ROTC in college together, ended up in the same battalion group, and deployed together. They’d both gone active Guard together too, and now he was her counterpart in supplies and acquisitions. He kept troops fed and clothed—and armed when necessary. He also kept her search and rescue teams outfitted with the latest gear and medevac supplies.

  Just seeing his name made her miss the squad. Why’d she ever think a leave with nothing to do except not think about where she’d been or what lay ahead was a good idea?

  The twelve days in front of her stretched longer than twelve months in the field ever had.

  Landfall minus 9.5 days, 6:15 p.m.

  National Hurricane Center Atlantic Ops

  Florida International University, Miami, Florida

  “Hey,” the tech at the big screen said to the room in general, “something’s cooking out there.”

  The evening supervisor walked over and scanned the readouts. “Huh. Wind speed above that wave formation has doubled in the last hour.”

  “Yeah, and the water temp’s still high.”

  “Could be something forming,” the supervisor said. “Let’s send out a watch notice. I’ll pull up the list of names.”

  “Pretty far out there,” the meteorologist said.

  The supervisor nodded, still watching the patterns swirl
and coalesce. “Yeah, probably nothing to worry about.”

  Chapter Four

  Landfall minus 8 days, 3:05 a.m.

  National Hurricane Center Atlantic Ops

  Florida International University, Miami, Florida

  NOAA Hurricane Advisory

  Tropical Depression Leo

  12:00 a.m. AST

  Location: 12°N 32°W

  Moving: NNW at 20 mph

  Min pressure: 980 mb

  Max sustained: 35 mph

  Stan Oliver cleared his throat as he swiped his phone off the stand beside the bed, his thumb automatically repeating the action to take the call. Next to him, his wife mumbled, “Let the dog out,” and rolled over, sound asleep again before Stan could mutter hoarsely, “Hello?”

  “Sorry to wake you, Stan. You said you wanted to be notified—”

  “No problem.” Stan was operations chief at the NHC, and the only reason he still took shifts on the floor was because he liked it. He liked seeing his people at work, and he liked watching the patterns of wind and rain and life moving over the vast surface of the Earth, reminding them all—at least all of them who paid any attention—of just how very insignificant they all were, and how much they owed the planet for tolerating their presence.

  “Jonas change course, did he?” Stan sat up on the side of the bed and cupped the phone in his palm, although Anna gave no sign of hearing him. They’d been tracking Hurricane Jonas, a Cat 1, who’d been heading into open water in the Gulf as it lost power throughout the evening. He’d checked on him just before he’d gone to bed a little before midnight, and he’d shown no signs of rebuilding, as sometimes happened when the speed dropped over warm waters. Inez had long since been downgraded to storm status and no longer threatened the East Coast. Unusual, to have two so close together. Ten named storms, with six progressing to hurricanes, was about average for the whole season, but it was peak week in peak season, and weather was changeable. That was a fact that never altered.

  “Not Jonas—Leo. He’s showing rapid intensification. Speeds have increased twenty knots in the last four hours.” Claire Donahue was a seasoned meteorologist, and the faint rise in her voice hinted at excitement only someone who knew her well would pick up.

  Stan heard it. An increase in speed that quickly was the hallmark of a powerful storm forming. “Is he looking like a Cape Verde event?”

  Cape Verde storms formed just off the coast of Africa and the Cabo islands, and if they managed to track all the way across the Atlantic, often became the big storms—the monster storms. The hurricanes that literally rained down death and destruction to hundreds.

  “He’s already as big as Hugo was, with half the time forming.” Claire paused. “If he keeps moving this way and the currents stay hot, he’s going to be bigger than anything we’ve ever seen.”

  “I’m coming in.”

  Landfall minus 7 days, 8:45 a.m.

  NOAA Hurricane Advisory

  Tropical Storm Leo has been upgraded to a Category 3 hurricane. Five-day, tropical-storm-force wind probabilities of 90 mph winds are projected over an area ranging from the Caribbean to the mid-Atlantic United States.

  Landfall minus 7 days, 4:45 p.m.

  Roc Hotel

  Miami Beach, Florida

  Sawyer stroked underwater, her lungs just starting to burn when she hit the far end of the fifty-foot pool. A hundred laps, all of it submerged except for a breath at each turn. After the first half mile her mind emptied, even as every other sense heightened. Shadows rippled on the surface—bodies moving across the steaming patio tiles; turbulence to her left—a swimmer making a clumsy dive; a distant hum—music, not incoming. She wasn’t alone anywhere, and she could never let down her guard.

  When she surfaced in the deep end of the pool, she let her momentum carry her up and out, slapped both hands flat on the surround, and tucked her legs. She straight-armed into a push-up, knifed her body over the side onto the deck, and vaulted to her feet. Flinging water and tendrils of black hair from her eyes with a quick shake, she quickly focused to check her position. All clear.

  She stretched, welcoming the subtle buzz of adrenaline and the undercurrent of restored control. No more alcohol, a reasonable five hours of sleep the night before, and two good meals a day put her back on an even keel. Two miles in the pool had even started to work off a lot of the nervous energy she couldn’t seem to burn off anywhere else. Weren’t vacations supposed to be relaxing?

  Maybe they were, for most people, but not for someone who’d been in near-constant physical motion all her adult life, and the bulk of that time in mortal danger. Sitting still, even to read a book, which she’d done plenty of while deployed, was a trial.

  “Very, very nice,” a deep sultry voice said from behind and to her right, accompanied by soft clapping.

  Sawyer pulled up a mental snapshot of the terrain even as she turned. A lone sunbather, midforties, blond, bronzed, and toned, in a white two-piece that revealed a whole lot more than it covered up.

  The woman smiled slowly, removing designer shades to reveal sharp green eyes. A shapely arm encircled with a pricey-looking gold link bracelet held out a snowy white towel in Sawyer’s direction. “I almost hate to cover up the scenery.”

  Sawyer took the towel and riffled it over her hair, letting it dangle in her right hand when she was done. The blonde surveyed her with frank interest. Sawyer hadn’t worn a conventional bathing suit, just a sports top and tight black jogging shorts, which covered about as much as the cutoff T-shirts and shorts she was used to wearing in the desert for the endless days they waited for orders to move out. She’d gotten used to not being looked at. The brutal heat, constant stress, and insidious boredom went a long way toward dispelling physical interest. Her stomach tightened in a wholly unexpected way as the woman’s gaze moved over her bare shoulders, down her nearly bare torso, lingering for a few seconds on her midsection, before slipping farther down.

  “What is it exactly that you do to get a body like that?” the woman asked.

  “Not a thing,” Sawyer said. “Good genes.”

  The woman laughed and lifted a martini glass with two olives rolling in the bottom. She gestured to a lounge chair beside her. “Join me?”

  “Thanks, but I gave it up.”

  “Drinking, or fucking?”

  Sawyer glanced around, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to them. She grinned. “The first, although it’s a little early in the day for the second too.”

  The woman tipped back her head and laughed. “Now I know you’re lying.” Her lips lifted in slow invitation. “I’m Catherine Winchell. I’m sure you’ve never heard of me, which is just as well, considering the circumstances. And who might you be?”

  Sawyer strode closer, folded the towel, and set it on the chair next to Catherine. “Sawyer Kincaid.”

  “And what are you doing here? You don’t have the look of a beach bum, and I don’t see the wife and kids anywhere.”

  “None of the above. Just a somewhat reluctant vacationer.”

  “I can see that. Maybe you should learn to relax a little more. Sawyer.”

  Sawyer nodded. “You’re right, and I appreciate the advice.”

  Catherine sipped her drink. “If you don’t want to be propositioned, you probably should cover up those abs. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a body like yours before.”

  “Uh…thanks.”

  Catherine laughed again. “If you change your mind, I’m in 742.”

  Sawyer gave a slight nod. “I’m a whole lot more than flattered—”

  “You don’t need to be flattered, you just need to be good.”

  Sawyer was searching for an answer to that one when one of the pool waitstaff came toward her holding out a portable phone. “Colonel Kincaid?”

  Sawyer unintentionally straightened. “Yes?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Catherine sit up a little, her expression turning hawk-like, avid, as if she suddenly sensed prey.<
br />
  “Emergency call for you…uh…Colonel…sir?”

  “Thanks.” Sawyer held out her hand for the phone. “This is Colonel Kincaid.”

  “Sawyer, sorry to interrupt your leave,” General Jim Baker said.

  “No problem, General,” Sawyer said, turning her back and walking to the far side of the pool, out of hearing range of the few remaining people who hadn’t gone inside to start preparing for the dinner hour. “How can I help you, sir?”

  “NOAA just sent out another updated hurricane advisory. Big storm coming, and the governor has ordered us to mobilize. I want you to take ground command.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be there in four hours.”

  “Driving?”

  “Yes, sir. From Miami Beach.”

  “Why don’t you head on out to MIA. We’ll send a bird for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “See you at the briefing.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sawyer blew out a breath and glanced out toward the ocean. The sky was a gorgeous aquamarine over water almost the same color blue, with playful gulls circling above lacy froth-tipped waves, and dozens of oblivious vacationers scattered along the immaculate beach in colorful cabanas. Unsuspecting, unwary, and possibly in mortal danger. In the Keys, on islands, in cities along the coast, the same picture unfolded. Battles came in many guises.

  The boredom, the aimlessness, the uncertainty of purpose fell away and Sawyer knew exactly who she was and what she was about. She strode back around the pool, and as she passed Catherine Winchell’s chair, the woman called out.