“Nice guys.”
“Quinn heard about the village and went in. Just him and a driver. They had to travel through a hundred miles of hostile territory and almost drove off a mountain road in a blizzard, but finally reached Al Sharif.”
“Anything to get a story,” Tess murmured.
“Yeah, well, in this case Quinn got more than a story. He sent back digital photos via a commercial news satellite. The stark photos convinced various relief organizations to organize an emergency airdrop of food and medicine. They sent in enough to get the village through the winter. Quinn probably saved two, three hundred lives. Back where I come from, that classifies him as an okay guy.”
That pretty well tagged the man, Tess admitted silently. Pig-headed. Too prone to take risks. A pain in the butt about his so-called exclusive. But…okay.
“I was surprised to see him on Namuoto,” Anderson continued. “What was he doing there?”
“Following the trail of al-Qaeda-supplied arms.”
“The ones he blew up?”
“The very same.”
The journalist’s role in the dramatic events on Namuoto grabbed the interest of everyone on the plane. The recovery team drifted over to join him, as did the other Phoenix Ravens and the aircrew members not confined to the cockpit. Soon Quinn was in the middle of a lively discussion punctuated with offers to stand him several rounds of drinks when they touched down in Hawaii.
He also received an invitation from Dr. Courtland to visit the military’s Central Identification Laboratory on Hickam Air Force Base.
“Our mission is straightforward,” the blond, sunburned scientist said, “and unbelievably complex. Simply put, we want to find and identify the almost ninety thousand Americans still classified as missing in action and presumed dead.”
“Hang on a sec.” Dragging out his Palm Pilot, Quinn punched a few keys. “Ninety thousand?”
“If you want more exact figures, there are seventy-eight thousand still missing from the Second World War. Another eight thousand from Korea. About two thousand from Vietnam and a hundred and twenty from the Cold War era.”
“Good grief! I didn’t realize we had so many still unaccounted for.”
“Most people don’t,” the lieutenant on the recovery team put in. “They also don’t know our lab employs the largest staff of forensic anthropologists in the world. And the most qualified. Dr. Courtland and her colleagues hold the highest possible board certification.”
“Tell me more.”
Tess stayed where she was, her legs out-stretched, her back curving in the web seat, as fascinated as Quinn by the recovery team’s description of their state-of-the-art computers, radiographic imaging, odontology procedures and mitochondrial DNA testing.
She’d heard about the Central Identification Lab, of course. But until this mission she’d had no idea of the lab’s scope or the utter dedication of its staff to recovering the country’s lost warriors. Maybe, she admitted grudgingly, it wasn’t such a bad idea for Quinn to do a story on the lab, give its people the kudos they deserved.
She just wished he’d give up the idea of making money off of the dead American they were bringing home.
The short, incredibly moving ceremony when they landed in Hawaii some sixteen hours later should have convinced him of the solemnity of the occasion.
Dawn was just breaking. Streaks of red flamed the sky above the Punchbowl, turning to gold as the transport taxied to its designated parking spot. Evidently, word of their arrival had been broadcast across the base. Despite the early hour, a crowd of military and civilian personnel had congregated at the flight line. At their forefront a USMC honor guard in full dress uniform stood at attention, waiting to render honors to their fallen comrade.
Tess felt a catch in her throat as the plane rolled to a stop and the flight engineer lowered the rear ramp. The sight of the American flag fluttering in the morning breeze straightened her spine and brought her shoulders back.
The red and gold flag of the United States Marine Corps flew beside the Stars and Stripes. The flag was weighted down with battle streamers. The colorful ribbons signified the major wars Marines had fought in, from the bloody conflicts on American soil to a host of foreign wars.
The American Revolution. The War of 1812. The Civil War. The Barbary Coast Wars. The Nicaraguan Campaign. The Yangtze Expedition. The First and Second World Wars. Korea. Vietnam. The Gulf.
As she swiped her palms down her flight suit to remove the worst of the dirt and blood and sweat, Tess wondered how many men and women had answered their country’s call to arms during all those conflicts. She thought of her granddad, remembered his tales from the trenches and honored his memory along with that of the warrior they’d brought home. Shoulders back, chin high, she stood at attention with the others as the band struck up the Marine Corps Hymn and the honor guard marched forward.
From the halls of Montezuma
To the shores of Tripoli
The music called to mind two hundred years of sacrifice. Two hundred years of service by men and women who left their homes and their families to contribute to the defense of their nation. Her throat tight, Tess kept her gaze locked on the flags as a small phalanx marched toward the lowered ramp in rigid lock step.
“Detail, halt!”
The crisp command carried over the last strains of the hymn.
“Color guard, to the left, harch!”
The five men carrying the flags wheeled left, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip.
“Funeral squad, forward, harch!”
Six white-gloved marines marched up the ramp, their cadence slow and deliberate. Following another series of commands from their leader, they halted beside the flag-draped casket. Each marine executed a razor-sharp turn. They stood at rigid attention while their leader brought his arm up in a solemn salute.
Slowly, so slowly, the six men lifted the flag-draped casket to their shoulders. Step by measured step, they carried their fellow marine off the plane.
The entire crew on board the plane and the assembled crowd remained at attention while the casket slid into the bed of a waiting hearse.
A moment later, the clear, clean notes of a bugle cut through the absolute quiet. Tess blinked furiously to hold back tears while the mournful call of Taps drifted across the morning air. Her throat was raw and aching when the last, somber notes died away.
A white-gloved marine gently closed the rear door of the hearse. The vehicle moved slowly across the ramp. The crowd parted to let it through.
A lost warrior had come home at last.
Chapter 5
After the heart-wrenching ceremony, the crew stand-down and mission debrief was definitely anticlimactic, but unfortunately, necessary. Tired all the way to her bones, Tess grabbed her gear and started down the ramp. Quinn caught up with her halfway to the crew bus.
“I need to fill in some details about the Phoenix Ravens for my story. How about you and I get together later?”
She angled her head, studying him through gritty eyes that were probably as red as his. She didn’t have a clue how the man could look so sexy with his flowered shirt ripped to shreds, his hair styled by wind and rain, and his cheeks covered in black bristles.
But he did. He most certainly did.
“I’m staying at the Outrigger,” he told her. “You could meet me there for dinner. Or better yet…” He waggled his black brows in an exaggerated leer. “I could come to your place. That way you could take a shower and slip into something comfortable.”
“Like a red lace thong?”
“Christ, woman, don’t give me a heart attack!”
She couldn’t hold back a laugh. “You never let up, do you?”
“Nope.”
Tess actually considered the offer for all of a moment or two. Now that she was back in Hawaii, though, she had a chain of command to answer to.
“I’d better check with the Public Affairs Office before I provide you any more details about the Phoenix Ra
vens. I’m probably in enough hot water as it is for letting a journalist in on this mission without proper clearance.”
Not just for that, she discovered when a jeep squealed up to the flight line and her supervisor climbed out. Heavily muscled and tested by fire, Senior Master Sergeant Steve Jenkins wore his blue Phoenix Raven beret like the badge of honor it was.
“The squadron commander wants to see you, Hamilton.”
“Before the team debrief?”
“Before the team debrief.”
Uh-oh. She’d expected this summons, but had hoped to clean up and get her mind out of exhausted mode before she reported to the C.O.
“I suppose he wants the details of that little incident on Namuoto.”
“You got it.” Jenkins’s glance cut to Quinn, then back to Tess. “He also wants to know how you ended up with an unauthorized civilian on your team.”
Quinn stepped forward. “Look, if this is about me, I’ve worked with the military before. A quick call to my boss in Los Angeles will verify my security clearances.”
“No, sir. This isn’t about you.” He looked to Teresa, his expression deadpan. “It’s about the formal protest the White House received some hours ago from the President of Namuoto. Seems the search and recovery mission we sent into one of his islands turned into a search and destroy. The squadron commander would like a full report, Hamilton. Now.”
“I’ll come, too,” Quinn volunteered. “I was part of that little fracas.”
“Sorry, sir. At this point, the matter is strictly a military affair. Where can we find you if the C.O. wants your input?”
“At the Outrigger.” He turned his attention to Tess. “About getting together later…”
“I’ll call you.”
Maybe, she added under her breath as she climbed into the jeep.
And maybe once she’d finished her report, had a shower and grabbed a few hours sleep, she’d realize scruffy, opportunistic journalists weren’t really her type.
That’s exactly what she might have done if her squadron commander hadn’t taken a hand in matters.
Tess debriefed him and a whole room-full of other officials, some uniformed, some not. They listened intently to her report, took notes of the type and make of the arms she’d seen in the cave, and didn’t appear all that concerned that she’d destroyed a good chunk of the island along with the arms. She was starting to breathe easier when the gaggle filed out and left her with her squadron commander.
“I’ve got enough to send off the initial Situation Report,” he told Tess. “But we’ll need to follow up with a more detailed report.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’d also better get with this Quinn character and make sure there aren’t any significant deviations between his story and ours.”
Well. Nothing like having a decision made for you.
“I’ll take care of that, sir.”
“Good. That’s all, Hamilton.”
Nodding, she collected her gear and started for the door. The colonel stopped her with a few gruff words of praise.
“That was a helluva job you did there on Namuoto.”
She tipped him a grin. “Piece of cake…for a Phoenix Raven.”
“Yeah, right.”
It took Tess two hours to complete the full post-mission debrief with the rest of her team. Another couple to clean, inventory and turn in her equipment.
Her tail was dragging by the time she claimed her car and drove the short distance to the off-base apartment she shared with two other female sergeants. The rent for a condo ate a hefty chunk out of their paychecks, but they considered the spectacular ocean view from their fifth-floor apartment worth the bite. They rationalized the cost by the fact that the breeze coming in through the lanai saved a bundle on air conditioning. Plus, by supplying a great party pad, they could talk their friends into bringing the eats and drinks.
Tess loved the place. After a mission like this, the sound of the sea murmuring outside her balcony soothed away the jagged edges. Dumping her gear in her room, she headed for the kitchen.
Both of her roommates were at work, but one of them had left the remains of last night’s pizza in the fridge. Blessing them both, Tess took the cardboard carton with her to the bathroom. Between bites of cold pepperoni and cheese, she scrubbed off Namuoto’s dirt, shampooed her hair, and, as an afterthought, shaved her legs. Not because she wanted to impress Quinn with the short, swishy halter dress in a hot-pink Hawaiian print. Only because the strappy sandals that complemented the dress called for smooth, bare legs.
Her thick mane took too long to blow dry, so she just scrunched it into damp waves and left it loose. A few daubs of makeup hid the tired circles under her eyes. A spritz of her favorite perfume made up for the sweat she’d been forced to endure for the past thirty-six hours.
“There,” she announced to her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “You’re a whole woman again. Or as close as anyone in combat boots ever gets.”
Tucking the initial report of the events on Namuoto into a straw clutch bag in the same dazzling pink as her dress, she went out into a breezy dusk.
She expected to find Quinn at the Outrigger’s bar, regaling the patrons with his version of the explosion. Instead, a friendly desk clerk let drop that Petey had just gone upstairs and directed her to his room.
Petey, was it?
The clerk was young, dewey-eyed. Just the right age, size and shape for a red lace thong.
Tess stabbed the elevator button, both amused and more than a little chagrined. Not only had she shaved her legs, she’d resorted to a scrap of white lace of her own. Talk about lame!
She’d show Quinn the report, she decided as she marched down the corridor to his room. Get his chop on it. Depart the premises. That was the plan, anyway, until the blasted man opened his door.
Tess gaped. That was the only word for it. Her jaw dropped. Her eyes widened. She flat-out gaped.
He must have just showered and shaved. The bristles were gone. So were the dirty, tattered shorts. Instead he wore only a towel draped loosely around his waist, the cotton stark white against the dark oak of his skin. Damp swirls of black hair shadowed his chest. His very broad, very muscled chest.
But it was his welcome that stopped the breath in Teresa’s throat. He didn’t say a word. Not a word. Just slid a hand under her hair, drew her inside, kicked the door shut, and picked right up where he’d left off on the C-130.
Chapter 6
Lord, the man could kiss!
Tess had already sampled Quinn’s talent in that particular arena. That, she now realized, had just been a taste. A teaser.
This was the full-course banquet.
His mouth angled over hers, hard and hungry. The hand he’d tunneled through her hair held her head steady. The other wrapped around her waist. In response to his silent demand, she opened her mouth under his. He tasted of mint-flavored toothpaste, whiskey and hot, hungry male.
She braced her palms against his still-damp skin, felt his muscles coil under her fingers. She could feel him against her thighs, her belly, her breasts. Tess wasn’t prepared for the need that slammed into her. It caught her by the throat, sent her mind spinning.
She must have made some sound or given some other signal that told him he’d gotten to her. With a grunt of pure male satisfaction, he shifted his stance. The arm around her waist tightened, drawing her up against him.
Tess couldn’t remember the last time she’d been plastered against six-feet-plus of solid male. Wait! Yes, she could. About eighteen hours ago, in the belly of a C-130. Then, as now, the experience had left her gasping for breath.
Pulling her head back, she dragged in some air and tried to clear the chaos this man was making of her senses. Quinn took that as a green light to go to work on her neck.
“Damn, you smell good,” he muttered, nuzzling the spot just under her ear.
“Better than on Namuoto, anyway,” she managed with a shaky laugh.
His to
ngue traced a trail from her ear to the curve of her shoulder. “You taste better, too. Not as salty.”
“Thanks. I think.”
He was too busy to pay any attention to the dry response. He’d just discovered the knot at the back of her neck.
“I have to say, this dress is a considerable improvement over your flight suit.”
“Somehow I suspected you’d think so.”
“Do these straps untie?” He tugged on the knot. “Well, what do you know? The gods are smiling on me. They do.”
Whoa! This was going way too fast. Tess put a hand on his chest and pushed. It was like pushing against a solid, muscled wall.
“Quinn. Wait.”
“Okay.” He lifted his head and grinned down at her. “What am I waiting for?”
He looked as though he didn’t have a worry in the world except getting her naked. He probably didn’t, Tess thought wryly.
Suddenly, inexplicably, she didn’t either.
It was probably a delayed adrenaline surge. A belated spike of excitement generated by the wild hours they’d shared on Namuoto. Whatever it was, it took Tess straight past cautious and hesitant to hungry. Going up on tiptoe, she slid her palms up the smooth planes of his chest and wrapped them around his neck.
“This, big guy. You’re waiting for this.”
He was more than willing to let her pull his mouth down to hers. This time she was the one who angled her head. She found his tongue with hers. She started the mating dance that soon had them locked together once more.
And, when her nerves were on fire and her belly tight with hunger, she snared a hand in his towel and tugged it loose. It pooled at his feet, cool and damp. Quinn filled her hand, hot and hard.
A Military Affair Page 5
