“They can’t find his records. I had them check every branch for Mike Conner.”
“Wait.” Carol’s eyes narrowed. “Conner wasn’t his given name. It might’ve been his middle name, actually.” She closed her eyes, willing herself to remember. Suddenly it came to her. “His legal name was Mike Meade. Mike Conner Meade. I’ll bet he’s enlisted under that name.”
Life sprang to Hannah’s eyes. “Really?”
“Yes.” Carol was catching Hannah’s enthusiasm. “On the beach he went by Conner. It was his middle name. The guys called him Mike Conner. Almost no one knew him by his last name.”
“It’s worth checking.” Hannah’s expression came to life again. “Maybe when we get home, okay?”
“Okay.” Carol’s stomach tightened. Was it possible? Would they really find Mike, and if a visit was arranged, would she be able to look him in the eyes after so many years?
Hannah leaned in, her eyes sad. “Was it hard? Saying good-bye to my dad?”
Carol felt her chin quiver. “I loved him, Hannah. I didn’t know how much until I left him.” She hesitated. The headache was getting worse. “But it was harder on you.”
A memory drifted back. Mike had his things in order for basic training, the period that would take him away for as much as four months …
Wait for me, Carol.” He’d found her outside staring at the sky that night. He positioned himself in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Please. You and Hannah. Let me get through training, then we’ll live on post and after a few years we’ll make our way back here, to the beach.”
But she shook her head. By then her mind was made up. Her mother was right; her kind was in Washington, D.C. She’d been tricking herself all those years, but no more. “I can’t stay here, Mike. Hannah and I are going home. At least for now.”
In the end there was nothing Mike could do. He begged her to stay in the beach house, begged her every day. But she left one morning after he left for Oklahoma. There were a few more conversations, and lots of questions from Hannah. But neither of them ever saw Mike Conner Meade again.
Carol took a breath. The story was over, there were no more details to share, no more anecdotes to remember.
“What about me?” Hannah’s voice cracked, fresh tears on her cheeks.
Carol reached across the table and took hold of her daughter’s hands, which after so much time apart didn’t feel even a little bit familiar. “You … you cried for days, weeks.” It hurt worse now, remembering how it felt to leave Mike, how it had been to watch Hannah fall apart.
Now that the truth was out, tension made the air between them thick. Why had she done it? So she could find a man with money? With political power and connections in the nation’s capital? Mike had been so different. He’d taught her how to laugh and spend quiet nights around the fireplace while he played the guitar. He taught her to run carefree down a sandy beach and, for a little while at least, to live free of the expectations of others.
But even so, she was sure of the thought that had struck her earlier in the conversation: if she had it to do over again, she would still leave him. Her life with Mike would never have been enough. She belonged in politics, in powerful circles. She’d been wrong to leave her parents’ house, wrong to take up with Mike in the first place. And in that sense, no one could ever be more right for her than Jack Roberts.
“Mother,” Hannah didn’t blink. “How long before I stopped talking about him. Before I forgot him?”
The answers were harder with every question. “Two years.” Guilt hung around Carol’s neck like a necklace of bricks. It was all she could do to look at her daughter. “When you turned six, you seemed to forget.”
Hannah hung her head. Then slowly she folded her arms up on the table and buried her face in the crook of her elbow. She made no crying sounds, no noise at all. But her shoulders began to tremble and after a minute, her back shook from the force of her silent sobs.
And that was when Carol knew with absolute certainty that she’d been wrong. Hannah had never forgotten, never stopped caring. She’d never for a moment gotten over the loss of her father. For the first time in eleven years, Carol could see that. Her selfish decision had given her the life she truly wanted, the one she loved. But it had hurt other people—her parents, for sure, and of course Mike. But now she knew the worst part.
She’d hurt Hannah most of all.
CHAPTER NINE
The mission had been postponed.
An intelligence report confirmed that the insurgents had left the compound for what appeared to be a short trip into the city. When they returned, there would be little warning. Mike and CJ, the gunner, and the Rangers had to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.
In the days that had passed, there’d been no call from Hannah, and Mike had convinced himself. It was a lark, a fluke, a mistake. Somewhere in the world there was another Hannah with a father serving overseas, a father who used to surf and read to his little girl. Mike had made peace with the reality and he was ready to get the mission underway, ready to eliminate the insurgents.
They knew more about the bad guys now. These weren’t only insurgents, but terrorists in training. The most elite and organized of the opposition to freedom in Iraq. Men who were dangerous and cunning, responsible for the deaths of numerous American and Allied forces. A group who needed to be removed from the theater of war as soon as possible.
And so it came as no shock early on the morning of Thursday, December 15, when Mike woke from a light sleep to see Colonel Whalin standing over him. Mike sat up immediately, working to clear his head. “Sir?”
“Meade, it’s time. The others are getting ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mike was up and dressed for flight in a few minutes. When they were ready, Colonel Whalin lined them up for a briefing.
“The insurgents have returned to the compound as of yesterday afternoon. They’re tired and asleep—sleeping hard, we believe.” He was smoking again, pulling hard on the end of a Camel. He paced a few steps and looked at Mike first. “There won’t be a better time than now.”
Mike was standing at attention alongside Ceej. The gunner was on CJ’s other side, and the Rangers were lined up beside him. It was two o’clock in the morning. Their window was a small one.
Colonel Whalin stopped and put his hands on his hips. “The chopper’s ready, men. Any questions?”
Mike gave a slight nod. “Yes, sir. Total time for the mission?”
“It’s a thirty-minute flight, ten of it over the enemy lines into the area of insurgents. Add ten or eleven minutes for the mission, and I’d expect you back here in seventy-five minutes. Ninety tops. Nothing more.”
“Yes, sir.” Mike knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it again. That way he could will himself to believe his commander was right. That in an hour and a half they’d be back in their tents, facing Colonel Whalin, debriefing the events of the mission. Thanking Stoker for praying.
The colonel went over a few other details, items they’d discussed before. Then he flicked his cigarette out through the tent flap and stared at the men. “Are we ready?”
Mike was the captain, the one with the most seniority. He saluted his commander. “Ready, sir.”
They were ushered out onto a makeshift tarmac where the helicopter was going through last-minute checks. By the time Mike and CJ took the cockpit, it was fueled and ready to go. The Rangers were armed to the teeth, packing M-16 machine guns and M-9 pistols, along with enough ammo to fight their way out of any firestorm. They had protective chest gear and bulletproof helmets.
The gunner was a guy named Fish, with big eyes and few words. He took the jump seat closest to the open door. Mike went through a series of checks with CJ, and then—with the target insurgent compound keyed in on the radar, they lifted.
Choppers were the best way to pull off a mission like this one. They could hover a few feet above a target, waiting while the ground crew handled the job. But nois
e was always a factor. There was no way to move a military helicopter into an area without noise.
Mike stayed focused as he moved across the enemy lines. The camps below looked quiet, almost completely dark. They were bound to hear the chopper, but by the time they crawled out of bed Mike and his men would be too far gone to bother with.
“Closing in.” CJ stared out the window and checked the points on the radar. A few minutes and we’ll be overhead.”
“Roger that.” Mike narrowed his eyes. The men in the cargo area behind him were quiet, no doubt going through the motions of their assignments. Intelligence reports had helped a great deal. Mike knew exactly which part of the roof to hover above, and the Rangers knew which window to break through. The course on the inside had been marked out also.
If everything went well, they might finish in as few as nine minutes. That’s what Mike was pulling for.
“Okay, we’re coming up on it.” CJ still had the trace of a smile, but his voice was tense, the way it always was in situations like this. He was a great copilot because he left no detail to chance. “See it there … just ahead.”
Mike could see it, but there was something wrong. They’d been told that the compound would be dark. Tired insurgents, sleeping hard after a several day outing into the city for supplies and weapons. Instead, a fire burned in the center courtyard, and a group of people stood around it. Far more people than the fifteen insurgents they’d been sent in to capture.
“It’s an ambush.” Mike said the words even as the realization was hitting him. The information must’ve leaked somehow. Or maybe it wasn’t an ambush. Maybe the insurgents weren’t sleeping because they were debriefing, planning an attack of their own. Either way, it didn’t matter. They weren’t only in trouble, they were in danger. “Let’s get out of here.”
Mike was circling, turning the chopper around, when the first grenade ripped through the side of the aircraft, narrowly missing CJ. The control panel was partially destroyed, but before Ceej could survey the damage, a second grenade tore into the rear blades.
“We’re hit! We’re hit!” CJ shouted the obvious, doing his job, keeping Mike informed.
“Roger, heading back to camp.” Mike shouted the affirmation, but it was wishful thinking. The chopper was mortally wounded, losing air speed and altitude. Mike could hear the Rangers’ voices, sharp and intense, making plans for the crash landing that was coming.
“We’re in trouble!” CJ stared at the crowd of men running toward the wounded chopper.
“Come on, baby, get us over the line.” Mike could feel sweat break out across his forehead and his heart raced. He’d been in more firestorms than he could count, but he’d never been hit like this.
“We’re losing speed.” CJ’s face was pale even in the dark. His eyes darted from what was left of the control panel to Mike, and back to the controls. “We need a landing spot.”
The chopper was stuck in a circling motion, unable to move ahead because of the damaged rear blades. Mike fought with the machine but it was no use. Ceej was right. They’d have to land the chopper in enemy territory, in plain sight of the insurgents who had fired the rocket-propelled grenades, full sight of every one of the enemy men gathered around the fire at the compound.
The crash came quickly.
Mike and CJ spotted the field at the same time, a small patch of tumbleweeds and sand with buildings on either side. It was their only choice. He let up on the engine and the chopper sputtered toward the ground. “Prepare for landing,” he shouted at the men in the back.
Ceej checked the radar once more. “When we touch down, run north,” he craned his neck, yelling at the others. “Run away from the compound.”
They were details all of them knew, but in the final minute before the chopper hit the ground, the instructions were all Mike or CJ could do. Mike forced his arms to go limp, something he’d learned in flight school. Relaxed pilots survived more often. Stay relaxed.
“Don’t tense up!” He screamed at Ceej, and in the last seconds before they hit the ground he wondered if this was it, the end of the road for all of them. His eyes met CJ’s just as the chopper leaned hard to the right and made contact with the field.
The fuselage fell apart, ripping right across the place where CJ sat. His head took most of the force of the crash, and by the time the chopper’s engines fell silent, Mike didn’t have to ask.
Ceej was dead. Just like that, life one second, death the next.
“No!” Mike unbuckled himself, grabbed the name-and-rank patch off CJ’s flight suit, and placed his hand on his friend’s damaged head. “No, Ceej … I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He hung his head, hesitating only for a heartbeat. Then he pushed his way into the broken cargo area. The gunner and every Ranger had survived. “Let’s go!”
Mike was first out of the open door, but already it was too late. The chopper was surrounded by armed insurgents—angry, shouting profanities, mocking the soldiers. Mike stood in front of the others, guarding them. He raised his hands and made eye contact with the insurgents. “Don’t shoot!”
One of the insurgents laughed, and then the mob came at them. They were grabbed and pulled from the scene of the crash, six of their guys to every one of the men in the chopper. The fight was over before it began. In the chaos, Mike heard a few English sentences. The one that came across the clearest told him that the end was near:
“Wait,” one of the insurgents shouted. “Don’t kill them until they’re inside.”
But the beatings began long before that. With sticks and clubs and rifle butts, the insurgents attacked Mike and the others, hitting them again and again, forgetting the instructions about waiting until they were inside. Mike closed his eyes and one single thought ran through his head.
Hannah … Wherever you are, Hannah, I love you. He could feel her in his arms, feel her head cradled against his chest as he read Cat in the Hat to her and—
“You!” someone screamed at him. “Open your eyes!”
He did as he was told, blinking back the blood that was streaming down his forehead into his eyes. The door to the compound was still fifty yards away, and at that instant, Mike saw one of the insurgents run through the crowd and swing a boot toward his face.
Then there was nothing but gritty sand and hot-blinding pain and darkness.
CHAPTER TEN
The clue that Mike Conner’s real last name was Meade turned out to be all they needed, and now Hannah had a feeling they were hours away from finding her dad.
Her mother had called Congressman McKenna when they returned home from coffee, but he was out for the day. Now it was Thursday afternoon and she had him on the line.
“You’ve probably read about Hannah’s search.” Carol managed a polite laugh. “We didn’t mean for it to be a media event, but, well … the fact is we need to find him.” She explained that they had more information now. Mike Meade, she told him. Could he please check the Army for a Mike Meade?
Hannah barely remembered to breathe as her mother put the call on speaker phone. The congressman was checking. After a minute he returned to the phone.
“That’s it,” he sounded excited. “Mike Meade, born May 7, 1970.”
Hannah’s mother hung her head, relief filling in the lines on her forehead. “That’s him.”
“He’s a chopper pilot, a captain.” The man hesitated. “Looks like he’s been in since 1994. He’s stationed over in Baghdad, piloting one of the crews designated to fight insurgents.”
Hannah wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded dangerous. She clutched at her stomach and crossed the room to the bank of windows that looked out over their stately neighborhood. Daddy, we found you. Tears stung her eyes. We found you.
But what if he was in trouble? Insurgents? Those were the bad guys, right? She pressed her head against the window frame and willed herself to think clearly. It was dangerous, but it would be okay. He’d been doing this for years.
She turned and listened to the convers
ation. Congressman McKenna was talking.
“I’ll contact his commander, get a message to him right away so he can call Hannah. If anything comes up, I’ll give you a call.”
Her mother rattled off a list of cell phones and contact numbers, in case the congressman couldn’t get through on the house line. Then she thanked him and hung up.
Hannah had never felt close to her mother, not as far back as she could remember. But now—with her father found—she walked back to the place where her mother stood, and without saying a word she fell into her arms. The moment was awkward, but Hannah needed it, anyway.
They were still hugging a minute later when the phone rang. Hannah pulled back, confused. Had the congressman located her father’s commander that quickly? She wrapped her arms around her middle again and watched as her mother took the call.
After a few seconds her mother handed the phone over. “It’s for you,” she mouthed silently. “It’s the country music station.”
Hannah’s breath caught in her throat. So much information at once, she could hardly take it in. She held the phone to her ear. “Hello, this is Hannah.”
“Hi, this is Megan, I’m one of the producers working with the video messages for soldiers overseas.”
“Hello.” Hannah braced herself against the back of the sofa. “Have you heard from my dad?”
“I think so.” The woman sighed. “It looks like one of the editorial assistants took a message from a Mike Meade a few days ago. The message was misplaced until today. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay.” Hannah wanted to rush the woman, get to the good part. “Really, you heard from him?”
“Yes. The man who called said to tell you he has similar pictures.” She paused. “Oh, and that he was a surfer at Pismo Beach eleven years ago.”
Hannah’s head was spinning. Her father had called. It had to be him. He’d seen the video and tried to reach her! She wanted to jump through the roof and fly around the neighborhood. How could it be happening? It was all she could do to stay standing, but the woman was rattling off numbers and she took down the information, thanked her, and hung up the phone.
The Red Gloves Collection Page 34
