From out of the crush of soldiers, Tara saw a man roughly six foot two inches tall coming toward her. His features were dark and set. He had narrowed green eyes, a square face, a crooked nose and a thinned mouth. His gaze was trained on her.
Instantly, her heart beat once in response to the searing look he was giving her. Dressed in battle fatigues, he wore a pistol around his waist, along with a tan web belt that contained essentials like extra magazines of bullets. The green beret shouted that he was one of the proud A team officers. Seeing the black embroidered captain’s bars on his epaulets, Tara knew without a doubt this was her boss, Captain Dave Johnson, leader of Tiger 01. Her team. Her assignment.
As he slipped through the last barricade of men, Tara tried to brace herself. Johnson was clearly not a happy man. His mouth was pulled downward, his brow was furrowed and those thick black eyebrows were dipped in a V. Tara saw the warrior in this man as he walked purposefully toward her. He seemed more hunter than human. Still, she liked his eyes, even if they were narrowed. They were a beautiful forest-green, with huge black pupils, and she liked the alertness she saw in them. Widely spaced, they stood out against his darkly tanned, weathered features.
Out of habit, Tara’s gaze flicked for a moment to his left hand. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. But that didn’t really mean anything; many men took off their rings on missions like this.
Girding herself, as he rapidly closed the distance between them, Tara ordered herself to relax, or at least appear that way even if her stomach was knotted. She reminded herself that she, too, was a captain, the same rank as Johnson, and that he did not have seniority over her. They would share the command, and Tara was glad of that. Judging from the thunderous look he was giving her, she guessed that anyone of a lesser rank he’d eat alive.
“Captain McCain?” Dave tried to keep his voice low and smooth, though he felt anything but calm. The large-boned woman before him was tall and proud looking, her shoulders thrown back. Morgan had told him that she would not advertise herself unduly as a woman for the duration of the mission. Dave could almost believe she could pass for a man, except for the soft fullness of her lips. And that was his undoing…her mouth. Even though she wore absolutely no makeup, Tara McCain was a damn good-looking woman, in his estimation. Her dark brown hair was cut short, hidden mostly by the red beret she wore. Her eyes were blue and thickly lashed and he found himself being pulled by her wide, arresting eyes as she looked up at him.
“Yes, I’m McCain,” she answered, and offered her hand.
Dave halted, staring at her proffered hand. Her nails were blunt cut and he could see calluses on the palm. Still, she had a beautiful, graceful hand with long fingers. Mouth tightening, he reached out and gripped it. He was surprised at the returning strength. Okay, so she wasn’t one of those cushy Pentagon types that never worked out.
“Dave Johnson. I’m the leader of Tiger 01.”
“Nice to meet you.” Well, maybe, Tara thought, as she released his large, square hand. There was nothing pretty about Johnson, either in his face or his demeanor.
“I wish I could say the same.”
“Excuse me?”
Dave stared down at her. He noted the steely glitter in her eyes, saw her mouth pursing with displeasure. “Look, I don’t like this. I don’t like the fact that I have to take a woman into a dangerous combat situation with my team, but I’m saddled with you. So we’re going to make the best of it. My men are my family. We’re tight and we’ve bonded over the years. You’re a stranger walking into our unit, and I have to get you folded into my team’s dynamic so we operate as one fluid machine. Got that?”
“Yeah, I got it, Captain.”
Dave sighed and straightened. He dropped his hands on his hips and looked around, and then back at her. Anger was banked in her blue eyes. “Time’s short, McCain, and I need to say a few things.”
“Like you haven’t already? Are you throwing down a red flag, Captain? You want me to pick it up? Maybe you’re forgetting whose side I’m on. Well, you don’t speak Pashto. I do. And I’m fluent in two other dialects of Afghanistan, not to mention Farsi, the language of Iran. You won’t have a prayer of a chance without me acting as interpreter, so if I were you, I’d be treating me far better and with a lot more respect than you are presently. I stand between you and the enemy, Captain. If you can’t understand the language, the only way you’ll know who’s going to kill you is when they raise their weapons in your direction, and by that time it may be too late. So let’s start again, shall we? I’m not going to be bullied by you because you’re having a tizzy over a woman being on your all-male team.”
Her low, husky voice flowed straight through all the defenses Dave had erected. The blazing blue of her eyes reminded him of Wyoming, where he’d been raised. The sky over the Grand Tetons was exactly that shade.
“Okay,” he muttered defiantly, “so you aren’t the soft marshmallow I thought you were going to be.”
Tara almost smiled, but thought better of it. “Don’t count out marshmallows, either, Captain.”
Managing a sour smile, he took a step back, raised his head and looked around. “Okay,” he rasped, meeting her mutinous gaze, “I apologize, Captain. I came on strong. Me and my team are all uptight and eager to get the bastards who did this to our people.”
“Like I’m not?”
A sliver of a grin started. He swallowed it. Seeing the petulance and defiance in her oval face, those huge blue eyes slitted with silent rage, Dave realized she was a fighter, too. “Truce,” he murmured, and held up his hand. “Okay?”
“We’re on the same page, right? We’re all going after the Taliban. We’re a team. I’m going to dress like a man and keep my femininty subdued as best I can. I will be at your side at all times, Captain Johnson, when we interface with Afghan people. Right?”
“Right,” Dave said, some of the anger going out of him. He looked down at her military pack and the M–4 rifle leaning against the wall nearby. “You ready to go?”
“Of course I am. How about you?”
Plucky. Feisty. A woman warrior. Okay, he could buy that. “Yeah, we’re saddled up. All I’m waiting for is the Air Force loadmaster out there on the tarmac to give us the signal to board.”
Tara eyed him warily. She saw his anger receding, replaced by open curiosity—about her. She wasn’t too sure she wanted that kind of attention from him. Burned by another Special Forces officer in a relationship that had ended more than a year ago, she had sworn never to get involved with one again. Still, Dave Johnson was larger than life. He had that kind of quiet, demanding charisma that a good military leader possessed. It seemed to flow naturally from him, and whether she liked it or not, Tara was drawn to him. Unhappy with the stirring in her heart, she tamped down her feelings. This was not the time or place for such a thing. They had an objective: locate the Taliban and destroy them. Give Afghanistan back to the people, and release the Afghan women from the terrible bondage they endured under that regime.
“Once we get on board, you and I need to go over the mission briefing.”
“Fine,” she said.
“You ever been out in the field like this?”
“No.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“It’s not a sin, Captain.”
“No, but it’s a detriment to my team.”
“I’ll try not to be a pain in the arse to you.”
“Oh, I have a feeling you’re probably a pain in the rear most of the time, Captain, but where we’re going, that may prove to be a positive.”
“Glad you think so, Captain, because I won’t stand for insubordination from you or your enlisted men. Are we clear on that?”
“Don’t worry,” Dave said, “my men will treat you like a sister.”
“I worry about your attitude, Captain.”
Shrugging, Dave said in a low tone, “How I feel about you personally is never going to show out in the field, Ms. McCain. I can guarantee that.”
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“Good, then we should land at Tarin Kowt one big, happy family, right?”
Grinning, Dave replied, “Absolutely. But I don’t think it will be too long before the village leaders realize you’re a woman, even if you are wearing men’s clothes.”
Tara knew that when they landed in Afghanistan, everyone would shed their military uniforms for local garb, so that they blended in. If they stood out they were much more likely to be spotted and shot by the Taliban.
“We’ll have to take it as it comes,” Tara growled back. “I don’t want to be targeted, either.”
“How do you think the local leaders will react to you being a woman?”
“Depends upon the leader. There’s all kinds of attitudes and biases for and against women over there. Some who follow Islam treat women as equals, but they are few and far between.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Dave murmured.
“Let’s hope so,” she answered. “But I have my ways of getting through to people, Captain Johnson. If I need to, I’ll get the man’s attention and he will speak to me or else.”
Dave could believe that. He saw the resolute look in her eyes, heard the determination in her voice. Minute by minute, he was being convinced that maybe, just maybe, this woman could handle herself. But she’d never seen combat, and that was a completely different situation.
“Are you leaving loved ones behind?” he asked. Maybe he shouldn’t nose into her personal life, but it was eating at him. Did she have a significant other? Was she married? Dave knew little about her. He hadn’t had time to read her file due to the speed and urgency of this mission.
“My parents live in New Hampshire. I was able to call them yesterday and tell them I was going undercover on a top secret mission, and that I’d contact them upon my return.”
“I see… Any husband? Kids?”
“None of the above, Captain Johnson.” Tara saw an emotion flicker across his face. Relief? No, that couldn’t be. Why a look of relief? That didn’t make sense to her. “What about you?” she challenged.
“Me? I’m from Wyoming. My parents own a cattle ranch that butts up against the Grand Teton Mountains. Ever been in that state?” He saw her face thaw. Tara was very attractive when she wasn’t giving him that sour look. Of course, Dave realized, he was the one who’d put that expression on her face.
“Yes, mountain climbing is a hobby of mine.” She held up her hands, showing him the calluses on her palms.
“That explains why your nails are short and your hands strong,” he murmured, almost to himself.
“It does, doesn’t it?”
Smart mouth. Plucky. He liked that. And he liked her a helluva lot more than he should. Scalded two years ago by a messy divorce, Dave had sworn off women in general. Rubbing his chest above his heart, he stated, “Well, where we’re going, there’s plenty of mountains.”
“I hope your men are trained for them?”
He swallowed another smile. Now she was challenging him. “We’ve done some work in mountains, Captain McCain. I think we’ll be able to keep up with you should we have to climb the face of one.”
It was her turn to smile, and her grin was wolfish, as if to say, Gotcha! “Okay,” she drawled, “we’ll see, when and if the time comes.”
“Is this show and tell time?” He held out his hands to her, palms up.
Tara couldn’t help but laugh. His palms were covered with thick calluses denoting how much time he’d spent roughing it out in nature. It was obvious he’d done his own share of mountain climbing.
Her laughter was like sweet, warm honey pouring into his heart. Surprised at the sensation, he caught himself smiling in return.
“Maybe you aren’t going to be such a pain in the rear,” he murmured.
“I was thinking the same thing about you, Captain Johnson.”
Chapter 2
Exhaustion pulled at Tara as she trotted through the hazy gold dusk of their first Afghanistan sunset. She was following on the heels of Dave Johnson, who was setting a helluva pace toward the village of Tarin Kowt. The CH-53 Sea Stallion had just disgorged them, and the billowing yellow dust churned up by the rotor blades as the aircraft took off practically choked them all. Dave had told Tara to tie her green bandana around her nose and mouth. Feeling a little stupid when she realized all the men on his team had done so already, she quickly covered her face and found relief from the suffocating dust.
Ahead, Tara could see several men coming out to meet them from a large village of square mudhut homes. They all wore turbans and were dressed in colorful, voluminous long-sleeved shirts, with bandoliers of ammunition across their chests, and dark-colored pants with leather boots. Each of them had a rifle at the ready. Dave slowed a little, raising his hand and gesturing for her to move up to the front with him. Surging ahead, Tara followed him easily, until the rest of the team was spread out in a semicircle. Directly behind her was the radioman, Private Doug Seabert, of Tallahassee, Florida. He carried the most advanced communications gear in the world on his broad back and thick shoulders.
Dave saw an older man wearing a cream-colored turban, his white beard neatly trimmed, standing in the middle of the awaiting party. He was probably the ruling war lord or chieftain of this village. Swallowing his fear, Dave wondered how these men would respond to Tara. In the deepening dusk, everyone’s face was hidden in shadows, so it would be difficult to identify her as a woman. She had a low, husky voice that reminded him of aged, mellow whiskey. Still, they weren’t trying to hide the fact that Tara was a woman, but they didn’t want to call attention to it.
Glancing to his right, he saw her move with fluid ease at his side, her M–4 in her hands, just in case. He’d been told that the warlord of the village, Chieftain Khalid Zaher, was anti-Taliban, and that he was also one of the most forward-thinking of the men who ran the country. Dave hoped so. Would he accept Tara as an interpreter? That would be their first huge test on this mission.
Pulling up, Dave raised his hand. His team automatically gathered in a circle around him as he halted a few feet from the group of Afghans. Seeing the suspicion in their eyes, he pinned his hopes on Chief Zaher, who was frowning directly at him.
“McCain?” Dave ordered. “Talk to them.” He wouldn’t use her first name; it would be a dead giveaway. In the military, the practice of using last names was common, anyway.
Swallowing, Tara stepped boldly forward. Dave noted that she was the same height as the thin, bearded leader, who stood with his arms crossed against his chest.
“Salaam,” she said, and then touched her brow, lips and heart, a respectful greeting for a person of the Islamic faith. Even though she wasn’t a Muslim herself, the greeting would go far in setting the right tone.
Tara feared the leader would not like the fact that she was a woman. However, her face was coated with yellow dust and the bandana across her lower face and nose effectively hid the rest of her features.
“Ah, someone who speaks Pashto,” Zaher said, and returned the age-old greeting.
Relief swept through Tara. Zaher seemed delighted, his chocolate-brown eyes dancing. “Chieftain Zaher, I’m the interpreter for this Special Forces A team. Our chief—” she motioned to Dave, who was standing at her shoulder, his M–4 pointed downward as a show of no hostility “—Captain Dave Johnson, has come to help you and your men make Tarin Kowt safe once more from the Taliban.”
A booming laugh erupted from Khalid. The rest of his men joined in.
“Indeed? Well, we have just routed them from our humble village once again. They know that I hate them and their ways. We have been fighting them almost daily for years, to keep them out of here. They believe that our women are not to be educated and are only broodmares to advance our race.” He turned his head and spat into the yellow dust at his feet.
From behind the half-dozen Afghans, Tara saw another soldier appear. Blinking, she realized it was a young woman, very tall and thin. She was dressed exactly like the men.
“Ah, here is my daughter.” Zahir held out his hand in her direction. “Come, Halima, come and let me introduce you to the men who are going to help us rout the Taliban once and for all….”
Dave blinked twice. He saw Tara give him a look of surprise. He swallowed his own reaction. The woman was dressed exactly like the chieftain’s soldiers. She had bandoliers of ammunition crisscrossing her chest and the voluminous clothing she wore hid the fact that she was a woman. The only giveaway was her long, black hair, which flowed from beneath the white turban on her head.
“Halima Zaher. Freedom fighter for the true Afghanistan,” Khalid proudly announced. “My eldest daughter fights at my side and risks her life so that the women of our village remain free to be educated, and not hidden in their houses as if in prison. Halima, meet McCain and Captain Johnson.”
Halima bowed respectfully, grasping the old rifle in her long, thin fingers. “We welcome you to our land,” she murmured.
Tara grinned, but no one could see it beneath her bandana. If the chieftain allowed his daughter to fight, he wasn’t going to have a problem with her being a woman, either. Pulling off the bandana, she held Khalid’s limpid gaze. “Just as your daughter fights for the true Afghanistan, the U.S. Army also allows me, Captain Tara McCain, to come and help your efforts, as well.”
In Love and War Page 8
