Harvard's Education

by Suzanne Brockmann

  "You mean love?''

  He traced her lips with his thumb. "Yeah," he said. "I wasn't sure you were quite ready to call it that, but...yeah. I know it's love. Gotta be. It's bigger than anything I've ever felt before."

  "No, it's not," P.J. said softly. "It's smaller. Small enough to fill all the cracks in my heart. Small enough to sneak in when I wasn't looking. Small enough to get under my skin and into my blood. Like some kind of virus that's impossible to shake." She laughed softly at the look on his face. "Not that I'd ever want to shake it."

  The tears were back in his beautiful eyes, and P.J. knew that as hard and as scary as it was to put what she was feeling into words, it was well worth it. She knew that he wanted so badly to hear the things she was saying.

  "You know, I expected to live my entire life without knowing what love really is," she told him quietly. "But every time I look at you, every time you smile at me, I think, Oh! So that's love. That odd, wonderful, awful feeling that makes me both hot and cold, makes me want to laugh and cry. For the first time in my life, Daryl, I know what the fuss is all about.

  "I was hoping you'd understand when I gave you my body today that my heart and soul were permanently attached. But since you like to talk—you do like your words—I know you'd want to hear it in plain English. I figured since we weren't going to get much of a chance to chat after we leave this place, I better say this now. I love you. All of you. Till death do us part, and probably long after that, too. I was too chicken to say that when we were...when I—"

  "When you married me," Harvard said, kissing her so sweetly on the lips. "When we got back to the States, I was going to make you realize just how real those vows we made were. I was going to wear you down until you agreed to do an encore performance in front of the pastor of my parents' new church."

  When we get back. Not if.

  But marriage?

  "Marriage takes so much time to make it work," P.J. said cautiously. "We both have jobs that take us all over the country—all over the world. We don't have time—"

  Harvard handed her one of the submachine guns. "We don't have time not to spend every minute we can together. I think if I learned only one thing in these past few hours, it's that." He looped the straps of the other weapons over his shoulders. "So what do you say? Are you good to go?"

  P.J. nodded. "Yes," she said. It didn't matter if he were talking about this mission or their future. As long as he was with her, she was definitely good to go.

  Chapter 16

  "You have an hour, ninety minutes tops," Harvard told P.J., "before the guards' shift changes."

  P.J. had made the climb to the roof of Sherman's headquarters with no complaining. And now she was going to have to dangle over the edge of the roof while she squeezed herself into an air vent in which Harvard couldn't possibly fit.

  He'd taken several moments in the jungle to try to rewire his microphone. He got a connection, but it was poor, at best, coming and going, crackling and weak. It was held together by duct tape and a prayer, but it was better than nothing.

  They'd also switched to a different radio channel from the one being monitored by the USS Irvin.

  P.J. stripped off her pack and combat vest to make herself as small as possible for her trip through the ventilation system. She tucked the handgun into her pants at the small of her back and carried the MP5 and a small flashlight.

  She took a deep breath. "I'm ready," she said.

  She was cool and calm. He was the one having the cold sweats.

  "The clock's running," she reminded him.

  "Yeah," he said. "Talk to me while you're in there."

  "I will—if I can."

  He couldn't ask for anything more. They'd been over this four hundred times. There wasn't much else he could say, except to say again, "If something goes wrong, and you do get caught, tell me where you are in the building. Which floor you're on, which corner of the building you're closest to. Because I'll come and get you out, okay? I'll figure out a way." He removed the grille from the vent and lifted P.J. in his arms. "Don't look down."

  "I won't. Oh, God."

  She had to go into the vent headfirst. Weapon first.

  "Be careful," he told her.

  "I promise I will."

  Bracing himself, Harvard took a deep breath, then lowered the woman he loved more than life itself over the edge of the roof.

  It was hot as hell in there.

  P.J. had imagined it would be cool. It was part of the air-conditioning system, after all. But she realized the duct she was in was the equivalent of a giant exhaust pipe. It was hot and smelled faintly of human waste.

  It was incredibly close, too.

  Small places didn't bother her, thank God. But Harvard would've hated it. He certainly would have done it if he had to, but he would have hated it the entire time.

  Of course, the point was moot. He would never fit. She barely fit herself.

  Her shirt caught on another of the metal seams, and she impatiently tugged it free. It caught again ten feet down the vent, and she wriggled out of it.

  She checked it quickly, making sure it was sanitized—that there was nothing on it, no marks or writing that would link it to her or to anyone American. But it was only a green and brown camouflage shirt. High fashion for the well-dressed guerrilla in jungles everywhere.

  P.J. left it behind and kept going.

  She concentrated on moving soundlessly. Moving forward was taking her longer than she'd anticipated. She had to exert quite a bit of energy to remain silent in the boomy metal air duct. Unless she was very, very careful, her boots could make a racket, as could the MP5.

  She pulled herself along on her elbows, weapon in front of her, praying this duct would lead her straight to Captain Joe Catalanotto.

  As Harvard attached the grille to the air duct, he had to be careful. The mortar between the concrete blocks was crumbling. He didn't want a pile of fine white dust gathering on the ground to catch some alert guard's eye and tip him off to the activity on the roof.

  Up close, it was clear the entire building was in a more pronounced state of decay than he'd thought.

  Harvard felt a tug of satisfaction at that No doubt the past few years' crackdown on the local drug trade had had an effect in John Sherman's bank accounts.

  If they were lucky—if they were really lucky—he and P.J. would pull the captain out, and then these two warring drug lords would efficiently proceed to wipe each other out.

  "Approaching a vent." P.J.'s voice came over his headset and he gave her his full attention.

  "It's on the left side of the air duct," she continued almost soundlessly. "Much too small to use as an exit, even for me."

  Harvard found himself praying again. Please, God, keep her safe. Please, God, don't let anyone hear her.

  More minutes passed in silence.

  "Wait a minute," he heard her say. "There's something, some kind of trapdoor above me."

  Harvard held his breath. He had to strain to hear her voice, she was speaking so quietly.

  "It opens into some kind of attic," she reported. "Or least part of it is an attic. I'm going up to take a look."

  For several moments, Harvard heard only her quiet breathing, then, finally, she spoke again.

  "The building's actually divided into thirds. The two outer thirds have this atticlike loft I'm standing in. They're clearly being used for storage. The edges—the loft—overlooks the centre of the building, which is open from the roof all the way down to the ground floor. There are emergency lights—dim yellow lights—by the main doors. From what I can see, it looks big enough to house half a dozen tanks." Her voice got even lower. "Right now it's being used as sleeping quarters for what's got to be five hundred men."

  Five hundred...

  "Here are my choices," she continued. "Either I take a set of stairs down and tiptoe across a room filled with sleeping soldiers—"

  "No," Harvard said. "Do you copy, P.J.? I said, no."

  "I
copy. And that was my first reaction, too. But the only other way to the northeast section of the building—where Crash thought Joe might be held—is a series of catwalks up by the roof."

  Harvard swore.

  "Yeah, I copy that, too," she said.

  "Come back," he said. "We'll figure out another way in."

  "Can't hear you, Senior Chief," she told him. "Better fix that mike again. Your message is breaking up."

  "You heard me and you damn well know it."

  "I can do this, Daryl." Her voice rang with conviction. "I know I can. All I have to do is think of you, and it's like you're right here with me. Holding my hand, you know?"

  He knew. He opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it. He took a deep breath before he spoke. "Just don't look down."

  P.J. had to look down. She had to make sure none of the men sleeping below had awakened and spotted her.

  There were no guards in the room, at least. That was a lucky break.

  She moved silently and very, very slowly along the catwalk.

  Of course, even taking that one lucky break into account, this was about as bad as it could be. The catwalk swayed slightly with every step she took. It was metal and ancient and didn't even give the illusion of being solid. The part she was walking on was like a grille. She could see through the strips of metal, past her feet, all the way down to the concrete floor.

  Adrenaline surged through her, making her ears roar. What she needed most was a clear head and total silence to hear the slight movement that would indicate one of the five hundred men was rolling over, temporarily awake and staring at the ceiling.

  Still, being up here was better than walking through a minefield, of that she was certain.

  P.J. took another step.

  She could feel Harvard's presence. She could sense him listening to her breathing. She could feel him with her, every step she took.

  She clutched her weapon—the Browning he'd risked his life to get for her—and took another step forward. And another step. And another.

  Crash leaned over Blue McCoy's shoulder.

  "Harvard's not responding," Blue said grimly. "Either his radio's off or he's switched to another channel."

  They both knew there was another possibility. He could be dead.

  "I'll start looking for him." The look in Blue's eyes told Crash he would not consider that third possibility.

  Crash keyed the thumb switch to his radio and spoke in rapid French. He turned to Blue. "Let's keep that original channel open, too."

  "Already doing that."

  Harvard sat on the roof, watching for an unexpected guard and listening to P.J.'s steady breathing as she walked across a flimsy catwalk two stories above five hundred sleeping enemy soldiers.

  She was doing okay. He could tell from the way she was breathing that she was doing okay. He was the one who was totally tied in knots.

  "I'm still here with you, baby," he murmured, hoping his microphone worked well enough for her to hear him.

  She didn't answer. That didn't necessarily mean she couldn't hear him. After all, she was trying to be silent.

  He tried to listen even harder, tried to hear the sound of her feet, but all he could hear was the desperate beating of his own heart.

  Finally, she spoke.

  "I'm across," she said almost silently, and Harvard drew in the first breath he'd taken in what seemed like hours.

  There was more silence as one minute slipped into two, two into three. He tried to visualize her moving down metal stairs, slowly, silently, moving through corridors where there was no place to hide.

  Damn, this was taking too long. P.J. had been inside for close to twenty-five minutes already. She only had five more minutes before she'd reach the halfway point as far as time went. She had only five minutes before she would have to turn around and come back—or risk certain discovery when the guards' shift changed and the men they'd temporarily put out of action were discovered.

  "I've found the first of the hospital rooms," P.J. finally said. "The one in the northeast corner is dark and empty. Moving to the next area, toward the front and middle of the building."

  He heard her draw in her breath quickly, and his heart rate went off the chart. "Situation report!" he ordered. "P.J., what's happening?"

  "The other room has a guard by the door. He's sitting in chair—asleep," she breathed. "But the door's open. I'm going to go past him."

  Harvard sat up straight. "Go inside and close and lock the door after you. Do whatever you can to keep them from getting in behind you, do you understand?"

  P.J. pulled her lip mike closer to her mouth. "Harvard, you're breaking up. I heard you tell me to lock the door behind me, but I lost the rest. Come back."

  Static.

  Damn. What had he been trying to tell her? What good would locking herself into a room with the captain do? And she didn't even know if Joe was in that room.

  She moved slowly, soundlessly toward the sleeping guard.

  She could do this. She could be as invisible and silent as Harvard was—provided she was on a city street or inside a building.

  The guard's slight snoring stopped, and she froze, mere feet away from the man. But then he snorted, and his heavy breathing resumed. She slipped through the door.

  And found Captain Joe Catalanotto lying on the floor.

  It was obvious he'd started out on a hospital bed. He'd been cuffed to the bed. The opened cuffs were still attached to the railing.

  Somehow he'd managed to get himself free.

  But he hadn't had the strength to make it more than a few steps before he'd collapsed, apparently silently enough not to alert the guard.

  P.J. quietly closed the door, locking it as Harvard had instructed. It was dark without the dim glow from the emergency lights in the hallway.

  She took her flashlight from her pocket and switched it on, checking quickly around the room to make sure there was no other door, no other way in or out

  There wasn't.

  This was definitely insane. She'd locked the door, but someone on the other side surely had a key.

  Holding her breath, she knelt next to Joe and felt for a pulse.

  Please, God...

  His skin was cool and clammy, and her stomach lurched. Dear Lord Jesus, they'd come too late.

  But wait—he did have a pulse. It was much too faint, far too slow, but the man was still alive.

  "Daryl, I found him," P.J. whispered into her mike. "He's alive, but he won't be for long if we don't get him out of here now."

  Static. Harvard's voice was there, but she couldn't make out what he was telling her. "...scribe...cation..."

  Scribe? Cation?

  Describe her location!

  She did that quickly, telling him in detail how many meters away from the northeast corner room she and Joe were. She gave him an approximation of the room's dimensions, as well as a list of all the medical equipment, the counters and sinks, even the light fixtures on the ceiling.

  She also told him, in detail, about Joe's condition as she quickly examined the captain's wounds. "He's got both an entrance and an exit wound in his upper right leg," she reported. "And he wasn't shot in the chest, thank God. He took a bullet in his left shoulder—no exit wound, it's still in there. As far as I can tell, there was only the vaguest effort made to stop his bleeding—as a result he's lost a lot of blood. His face looks like hell—his eyes are swollen and bruised, and his lip's split. It looks like the bastards gave him one hell of a beating. God only knows if he's got internal injuries from that. Daryl, we've got to get him to the sick bay on the Irvin. Now."

  Static, "...backup...ready for me!"

  God knows they needed backup, but she knew for damn sure it wasn't coming.

  As far as getting ready for him went, get ready for him to do what?

  "Please repeat," she said.

  Static.

  "I don't copy you, Senior Chief! Repeat!"

  More static.

  P.J. flash
ed her light around the room. The beam came to rest against the concrete blocks of the wall. She flashed her light around the room again. Only one wall was made of concrete blocks, the outer wall.

  P.J. remembered Harvard telling her that all he'd need were two more SEALs and a grenade launcher and...

  Back up. Harvard wasn't talking about backup. He was telling her to back up. To move back, away from the outer wall.

  The captain was much too close to it. P.J. grabbed him under both arms and pulled.

  Joe groaned. "Ronnie?" he rasped.

  "No, I'm sorry, Joe, it's only me. P.J. Richards," she told him. "I know I'm hurting you, sweetie, but Harvard's coming, and we've got to move you out of his way."

  "That's Captain Sweetie," he said faintly. "Gonna have to...help me. Don't seem to have muscles that work."

  God, he was big. But somehow, between the two of them, they moved him into the corner farthest from the outside wall. P.J. quietly pulled the mattress from the hospital bed and set it in front of them—a better-than-nothing attempt to shield them from whatever was coming.

  This was definitely insane.

  Even if they made it out by blowing a hole through the wall, the noise was going to raise a few eyebrows. Wake up a few hundred sleeping soldiers.

  And then what? Then they'd be screaming down the mountain—provided Harvard could hotwire one of those trucks out front—with five hundred of Sherman's soldiers on their tail, and God knows how many of Sun Yung Kim's men advancing toward them.

  If they were going to get out of here, there was only one way they could go without getting caught.

  And that was straight up.

  P.J. flipped to the main channel on her radio. "Blue, are you there?" Please, God, please be there.

  "P.J? Lord, where have you been!" The taciturn SEAL sounded nearly frantic.

  "I'm with Joe right now. He's alive, but just barely."

  Blue swore.

  "You said you were the voice of God," P.J. told him, "and I hope you're right. We need you to make us a miracle, Lieutenant. We need a chopper, and we need it now."