Danger Close (Shadow Warriors) (8 page)

Cathy’s lips pulled away from her teeth, adrenaline exploding through her.

“Don’t you even think of striking back, you bitch,” Lane snarled. “Now you sit your ass down out there and fill out a situation report on exactly what happened. Right now. Understand?”

“B-begging the major’s pardon. I—I had no intention of striking…” Black dots danced in front of Cathy’s eyes and she was unable to speak.

Cathy saw the major pick up the oak stick that she carried wherever she went. Ingram had used that stick on her once before, two weeks ago. She still had bruises on her rib cage from the blows. Cathy broke out in a cold sweat, standing rigidly. Waiting…wondering if Lane was going to hit her with it.

“Dismissed,” Lane rapped out. “Give your sit-rep to Captain Ingram when you’re finished.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Cathy saluted. Lane threw one back, her lips exposing her teeth into a snarl. Cathy executed a poor about-face and nearly stumbled over her own boots as she left. The three women in Communications looked up from their respective jobs. Cathy saw the compassion in their stares; they’d heard every word. She had screwed up royally by calling the Marines instead of sending her request via Delta, as she was supposed to. Too tired to wonder why she had done it, Cathy leaned her dirty rifle against the closest empty table. She found a sit-rep form and sat down. Her hands were cut, bruised and bloody, destroying the pristine whiteness of the form. Shakily, she pushed strands of hair out of her eyes, trying to concentrate. Trying to figure out what should be put down.

If Thatcher lived, her report would differ widely. Cathy deliberately left out the fact that she had pulled the Ka-Bar on Thatcher. She also left out the fact that Mead, who was supposed to take over, had frozen. Janet Hayes was never mentioned, either. What if Major Lane had Mead make out a report, too? Technically, Mead was in command when Thatcher became wounded. Wearily, Cathy rubbed her dirt-streaked face. She no longer cared. After three months, all her emotions had been wrung out and destroyed. She felt hollow and gutted. If Lane was going to find out she had taken command, so be it. What would she do? Put her in the Cellar like she had two weeks go after Lane had taken her squad away from her?
Screw them
. Cathy shoved the paper and pencil away.

Standing, Cathy took the sit-rep to Ingram. The captain stared down at it from behind her desk, her mouth tightening with disapproval.

“Who the hell taught you to hand in a messy report like this, Fremont?”

Cathy’s humor over the question verged on a hysterical giggle, but she remained at attention. What did Ingram expect? She hadn’t been given time to clean up. “No one, ma’am.”

Ingram rose, her heavy shoulders hunched and tense as she glared across the desk at the woman. “Wipe that smirk off your face, Fremont, or I’ll do it for you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You won’t give in, will you, Fremont?” she asked in a dangerously low voice. “To you, this is all a game. You’re an outsider looking in. I know your type—and I know you. Understand this, Corporal—you may be a loner, but your ass belongs to the WLF. You’re here and you’re going to continue to act like a soldier or else.” She punched her finger down at the report in disgust. “When you’re done cleaning up, you get back over here and copy this onto a new sit-rep. And keep it clean. Now get the hell out of my sight.”

LOUISE LANE FINISHED reading Cathy Fremont’s bloodstained sit-rep, her brows drawn down into a scowl. She glanced up at Kay, who stood with her back to the entrance. “According to Fremont, she counseled Thatcher to flank and not go directly into that confrontation.”

“I saw that,” Kay said grimly. “If I had one wish, it would be that Fremont got wasted out in the bush.”

“At this point, I’d be willing to waste her myself if I didn’t need low KIAs,” Louise muttered just loud enough so that Kay could hear her. “Dammit, anyway. We’ve got another three months to go. We’ve got good body-count figures.” She turned around in the chair, looking at the huge wall chart, which took into account WLF casualties against LA killed or captured. Worriedly, Lane studied the figures. “If we had started out with a larger force of women, ten dead wouldn’t look so damn high to the press.”

“Or the American public,” Kay glumly agreed, walking over and resting her hip against the desk as she looked at the chart.

“Right now, we’ve lost ten percent of our effective force.” Louise rubbed her furrowed brow. “Not bad when you consider a soldier’s duty is to go out and die for their country. But…” she said, and exhaled, “our great American public seems to forget that important premise, Kay. Soldiers are contracted by law to become paid killers for their civilian counterpart. They struggle to control their own terror long enough to kill the enemy. We ask them to kill, to sign an unlimited contract with us, to die when we want them to….”

“Well,” Kay said softly, “you’re doing a good job. The stats show that. The Marine regiment has only six percent casualties, but we’re doing better than they are on enemy body counts.”

Lane snorted. “We’re also putting our ass out on the line twice as often as they are. We’re running two patrols, day and night. Our KIAs ought to be doubled, but they haven’t.”

“We have good women, Louise. You trained them right.”

The major slowly turned around, her eyes mirroring her worry. “We’re caught between a rising tide of concern by the public with our KIAs and our own women’s change in attitude, Kay. I read the newspaper clippings that are sent to me from Stateside every week. Senator Fredericks is whipping up more and more opposition against the WLF every day.”

“That bastard! He’s a fucking throwback from the Stone Age,” Kay sputtered.

Lane opened a drawer in her desk and handed Kay one of the news clippings. “Read that. Fredericks’s latest attack is—‘ten young women dead. Ten who would have married, had a family and borne children. Now none of them will.’”

“Bullshit. How about the young men who die in combat? How many women won’t be screwed and get pregnant and then be walked out on? Hell, horny men contribute more to the welfare roster than any woman ever could. Women can’t get knocked up by themselves. The Immaculate Conception was a one-shot deal. Why don’t we hear that public outcry on the wonderful young men we’re losing over here instead? The son of a bitch. I’d like to blow his balls off, but like any politician, he doesn’t have a pair.” She tossed the clipping down on the desk, her brown eyes burning with anger.

A sliver of a smile pulled at Louise’s tense mouth. “You’re good for me, Kay. You say all the things I think to myself.”

Kay began pacing, a habit born in an effort to work off her nervous energy. “And I’m smart enough to say it to no one but you. You understand. You always did. God, I hate the male patriarchy. I hate what they have done to us, what they’re doing now and how they try and hold us down.”

“Slowly but surely, we’re gaining ground,” Lane soothed. “The fact that the WLF is in existence is a big step up and out of that pit.”

“If bitches like Fremont keep fucking us over, we’ll slide back down into the pit.” Kay turned, her face set. “I’m telling you, we need to get rid of her. I keep hoping every day she’ll get shot out on point where we’ve placed her. But just because I want Fremont blown away so she’ll quit contaminating our women’s heads, she leads a charmed life.”

“She’s dangerous,” Louise agreed, sitting down. “Fremont isn’t leading a charmed life anymore. Did you see that shrapnel wound on her arm? Maybe now that she’s gotten hit, it will rattle her enough to get her killed.”

Kay agreed, having seen other personnel, when wounded, suddenly become aware of their mortality as never before. “I hope you’re right. God, how I hope you’re right.”

THE LAST threads of Cathy’s control were disintegrating as she stumbled toward the medical bunker. Tears scalded her drawn face. She made no effort to stop them. Lane allowed no one to cry. Combat women never showed emotion. If Lieutenant Capp had spotted her, Cathy could easily have been placed on report. Bitterly, she no longer cared. She had been driven to the edge by too much combat duty and too little sleep. She was the least seriously injured from a triage medical standpoint and waited her turn.

“Cathy?” Dr. Len Tucker called as he saw her hesitate, staring around the heavily sandbagged interior. “Come here, child,” he coaxed gently, his gaze moving to her bloody arm.

Cathy placed the rifle up against the wall. His hand closed about her elbow to steady her.

She gave him a relieved look. At fifty-three years old, his hair was prematurely gray, his eyes a watery blue and he was almost pathetically thin.

Tucker frowned as he perused her. Again, he regretted ever joining the U.S. Navy, just because he couldn’t keep up his struggling medical clinic in Bar Harbor, Maine. And studying Cathy’s pale, waxen features, he cursed Lane. He led her toward the steel surgical table. “Come and lie down on the table here.”

The quietness of Tucker’s voice was a balm and Cathy wordlessly sank onto the table.

“It’s just shrapnel,” she volunteered as he cut away the sleeve with brisk efficiency. “Clean it out, give me a tetanus shot, antibiotics, and I’ll be okay.”

Tucker placed a folded towel beneath her head. “I know you’re a trained paramedic, but you keep quiet, rest, and let me do the doctoring.” And then his narrow face drew into a gentle smile as he watched Cathy’s eyes droop closed. “Any other time, I’d value your opinion, Nurse Fremont. Today, you’re the patient here and not my assistant.”

Many times, Cathy would volunteer her few free hours to help him in the medical bunker. Leonard now considered her more like a daughter to him. But that was their secret, one that they could share because he knew Cathy was as much an outcast in the WLF as he was.

Lane had trapped them both in different ways. Cathy simply had signed a contract, but Lane had protected Tucker’s career when a young woman Marine had died of an abortion that he had performed illegally many years ago. And Lane knew just how badly he wanted his retirement in two more years. With that twenty-year pension paycheck he would only need a small supplemental income so he and his wife, Madeline, could live comfortably.

Tucker leaned over the inch-long cut, cleaning it thoroughly. “Just a little bit more. Then I’m sending you back to your platoon with a sick chit authorizing three days’ rest.” He searched her young, badly peeling, sunburned face.

“How many patrols does that make you for this month?” he demanded tersely.

A wobbly smile tipped the corners of Cathy’s mouth. “Two a day. It’s been thirty days now, I think….” she whispered, trying to stay awake.

Tucker swore softly beneath his breath as he quickly stitched the wound closed and placed a dressing over the disinfected wound. He began to wrap clean, white gauze around her arm. “That’s too many. Why is Lane gunning for you like this, Cathy?”

“Don’t know, Doc,” she answered groggily. “I’m not exactly high on her list of charm, poise and personality. Never have been. You know that.”

“The leaders of this unit can’t stand to see anyone behave as an individual,” he began. And then Tucker halted, realizing his words would be considered treasonous by Lane. “You’re absolutely exhausted. You’ve got low blood pressure. I’m ordering you to take three days off whether Lane likes it or not.” And she wouldn’t. Tucker didn’t know who he despised more: himself for allowing Lane to dangle him like her puppet, or himself because he didn’t have the courage to stand up and face the consequences of what he’d done.

Cathy pulled open her eyes. “No one’s been allowed three days off for anything, Doc.”

He shook his head adamantly. “You’re getting it. This time, regardless, you’re staying on that sick roster. They’re killing you with work.” Then he added, “For once, I’m not going to allow them to use you as a scapegoat for their own mistakes. Acker told me what you did out there today. You saved a hell of a lot of others from getting wounded or even killed.”

“What about Thatcher?”

“Acker said she had a neck wound. That’s not good.”

Cathy was too exhausted to respond to the fear of Thatcher possibly dying. She lapsed back into a semi-sleep, her body screaming for rest.

Tucker didn’t have the heart to move her from the table. It was hot and stuffy down in the bunker during the dry season, but at least it was out of that killing heat of the Thai sun. Cathy appeared dehydrated. He let her sleep nearly an hour. Her rumpled, oversize utilities were alarmingly dry and he worried about severe, crippling dehydration. Waking her, Tucker made her drink several cups of salted water to shore up her body’s defenses against the 110° heat coupled with ninety-percent humidity. “Drink a lot of water. Get back to your hootch and
take it easy
,” he ordered, wagging a finger into her pale face.

Cathy’s mouth stretched into a broken smile as she slowly stood up. “Okay, Doc.” She found his hand and squeezed it. “Thanks for letting me get some sack time.”

“You feel any worse, get back over here immediately. Understand?”

Nodding, she picked up her M16. “I will,” she said faintly, heading up the rough wooden stairs.

By the time Cathy had climbed out between the saddle of the two hills and down to her hootch, which sat on a slope, her head was throbbing. Flies and other bloodthirsty insects buzzed incessantly around her, biting at her exposed bare arms, neck and throat. The heat was smothering and she shrugged stiffly out of the heavy Kevlar vest and let it drop at the lip of her hootch. After sliding down beneath the roof she had constructed of some corrugated metal, she threw a dirty green towel over her head and lay down. In minutes, she had spiraled into a deep sleep.

Cathy groggily awoke at 1500, the hottest time of the day. Her skin was oddly cool and dry to her touch. Sitting up, she looked over toward the wide stream that flowed between Delta and the other Marine companies.

Cathy’s gaze traveled disinterestedly to a group of Marines down at the stream washing their clothes. It had been off-limits to the rest of the Marine regiment until Colonel Mackey had pushed an order over Lane’s protesting head. Lane wanted no fraternization between her women and the Marines. Now, between frequent rocket and mortar attacks, they too could come and wash their clothes in the single available place. It had been the only battle Major Lane had lost, so the scuttlebutt said.