Into the Night (36 page)
Muldoon nodded. "Yes, sir." He didn't look happy as he watched Paoletti, who was still deep in a very serious discussion with the senior chief.
"Fuck," Sam said under his breath. Was it possible that Tom Paoletti thought there was going to be serious trouble during the President's visit to Coronado?
If so, that was one fucking serious discussion Paoletti and his senior chief were having, indeed. A little piece of paper called the Constitution made it very clear that the U.S. military could not take up arms against the civilian population. Repelling a terrorist attack on U.S. soil would be the job of the FBI and the Secret Service.
Of course, if the FBI invited the SEALs to join in, that would be a different matter altogether.
Never one to take a sense of foreboding lightly, Commander Paoletti no doubt was making sure his team was going to be ready for anything.
Feeling positively light-headed, Joan dropped the morning edition of USA Today onto the table and speed-dialed first Myra's and then Dick's phone numbers.
Both of her immediate superiors' phones were busy, so she called Meredith, back in D.C.
Who was in her office and answering her phone, because although it was early here, it was, thank God, three hours later there.
"There's a picture," Joan said, "of two Navy SEALs in combat. On the front page of USA Today. Have you seen it?"
"Hoo-yah," Meredith said. "Isn't that what SEALs say? Talk about a pair of hunks and a half. You know, if I weren't afraid of giving Mrs. Alison a heart attack, I'd scan it and make wallpaper for my—
"No." Joan cut her off. "There is nothing even remotely worth joking about here. This is very serious, Mere. I need to know—ASAP—where the hell this picture came from and who the hell authorized its release to a freaking national newspaper!"
"Whoa," Meredith said. "Joan. Relax. This is the most positive story connected to Brooke Bryant that's ever been printed. Ever. Apparently she's dating a real hero. That's great stuff. Even though the picture's not ours, we've been getting high fives all around for a job well done."
"It's not a job well done," Joan told her. "It's a major pooch screwing! Muldoon is active duty special operations— counterterrorist! It's bad enough that his name was released to the press—I never authorized that! He was supposed to be 'an unnamed U.S. Navy lieutenant' in the press release—but to have his picture in the paper for everyone in al-Qaeda to see? Do we want someone to target this man? This is bullshit! It shouldn't have happened, and I can tell you right now, there's going to be one freaking bad spin on this story if this hero becomes a dead hero. Now, are you going to help me find out who released this photo so we can cut them off at the knees?"
Meredith had gotten real sober real fast. "I'll get right on it."
Joan hung up the phone, dialing Myra again as she unfolded the paper and flattened it out.
Busy. Still busy.
It was definitely Mike Muldoon in this photograph. He was lit as if by a nearby explosion. He was dressed in black, wearing something that had to be one of those combat vests he'd described to her during her tour of the base. One arm was wrapped around the neck of another man who was dressed just as he was—Joan wasn't sure, but she thought it might be the chief whose nickname was Wildcard. The blurb beneath the photo didn't identify anyone but Muldoon, thank God for small favors.
As angry as she was at its existence, it was an incredible picture—a fabulous action shot.
Muldoon held a weapon in his other arm, and he was gesturing with it to someone outside of the picture's frame as the two men ran down a rocky trail.
It was the expression on his face that made the picture so powerful. His mouth was open, as if he were shouting orders, and his eyes held a fierce intensity. He was determination personified.
Boy, was it possible she'd never really gotten to know Mike Muldoon at all? Back when they were first introduced, she never would have believed the man in this photo and the handsome young officer with the polite smile and stiff stance were one and the same.
And that was what kept her from having a total coronary about this. The Muldoon in this picture looked pretty different from the Muldoon who walked around the Navy base, who gave tours and had lunch in town and kept his white uniform sparkling clean.
Someone looking for the man in the photo would be challenged to find him.
However, it would probably be wise for Muldoon to stay someplace besides his apartment for a while. Like until the entire al-Qaeda network was wiped out.
Oh, God, he was going to be so pissed.
Joan looked at the photo again. This was not a picture taken during a mere training exercise, that she knew for sure.
Her phone rang. It was Meredith, sounding out of breath.
"Photographer's name is Camile Lapin," she reported without taking the time for a greeting. "She's French; she's with an extreme right-wing weekly newsmagazine based out of Paris. Our sources verify that she was in Afghanistan several times over the past year. Let's see, name of her paper translates roughly to The Truth, yada, yada ... Oh! She just did an interview with CNN in which she alleges that this picture was taken in Afghanistan late last year. She says Lieutenant Muldoon—he's the one with the—"
"I know quite well which one he is."
"Well, she says he was in charge of some kind of secret military operation helping destroy one of the major al-Qaeda hideouts in the eastern part of the country. She says he risked his life to save her from, quote, certain death, end quote, and that this picture was taken—and I'm sorry, but I find this really hard to believe, because if you look at that picture, those guys are really hauling ass—after the lieutenant broke his knee?"
"Kneecap," Joan corrected her. That was why Mike was leaning on Wildcard. Holy God, he was running down the side of a mountain, in a full, major stride, with a freaking broken kneecap.
She sat down because her own knees suddenly couldn't hold her up.
"Does she have any other pictures?" Joan asked.
"She says no, that this was the only one that came out. Apparently it was a dark night, and it's not easy to get your camera shots lined up with the rockets' red glare and bombs bursting in air."
"Cut the jokes, Mere. This is still not funny," Joan warned her. "How did this happen? Wasn't her camera and film confiscated after she was brought to safety?"
"Yes. But this one roll ..." Meredith paused delicately.
"How do I put this? Or rather, how do I tell you where she alleges she put it?"
Oh, God. "That's going to be fun—explaining that to Muldoon. Do we know why she held the photo until now? I mean, what kept her from going public as soon as she returned to Paris?"
"She says The Truth ran the photo on their front page the day after she left Afghanistan. But both the photo and her story weren't picked up by the Associated Press. Probably because The Truth had recently been discovered printing a whole series of photos from 1991 taken during Operation Desert Storm, that the paper claimed were from the current conflict." Meredith laughed. "It's the classic Boy Who Cried Wolf syndrome. Serves 'em right. Although the fact that the photo was first printed last year makes me think Lapin's telling the truth about it being the only one. If she had other pictures, they would have been plastered all over The Truth, too."
"Yeah," Joan said. "Okay."
"So what now?" Meredith asked.
Good question.
"We're going to have to get Muldoon a room at the hotel," Joan decided. "And Secret Service protection if he wants it."
"You really think he'll need his own room?" Meredith asked. "I mean, if he really is Brooke Bryant's newest hottie..."
"Get him a room," Joan repeated, and hung up.
She dug through her handbag for her bottle of pain reliever as she dialed Muldoon's cell phone number.
This was not going to be fun.
She held her breath, but he didn't pick up.
All that non-fun was going to have to wait. Muldoon's voice mail went on, brief and to the point. "Leave a message, I'll call you back."
"Mike, it's Joan." Good start, but there was no way she was going to be able to leave him a message about this total fiasco. "Call me as soon as you get this message, all right? It's very important that we talk."
She flipped her phone closed. And picked up the newspaper to look at that photo again.
He was going to be really angry about this. Who wouldn't be?
But a man who could run with a broken kneecap ... Now, there was someone who had access to all lands of self-control and normally untapped resources. There was no way that a man like that would stay angry at her forever.
Was there?
"Whoa," Cosmo said.
There was more emotion packed into that one little word than Muldoon had ever heard the petty officer utter in all of the years they'd both been with Team Sixteen.
He turned to find Cosmo staring up at the TV that was tucked in the corner of the sandwich shop.
Instead of eating more MREs—meals, ready-to-eat—they were here, having a real lunch of real food because Commander Paoletti loved them. This sleepy little California town was accustomed to the SEALs fast-roping down from helos to grab some grub. Most of the SEALs were over at the Mexican restaurant across Main Street, but Muldoon— forever and always watching his weight—wanted a turkey on whole wheat.
Besides, he had plans for tonight that didn't include the aftereffects of eating beans for lunch.
"You're on the news, sir," Cosmo said. He smacked the counter with the palm of his hand. "Hey, Frank, give us some volume here!"
But Frank was in the back room. "Be out in a sec!"
Muldoon took a step toward the TV and then another. Jesus, was that really a picture of Wildcard and... ? It was. It was him. A photograph of Muldoon in action, his arm looped around the chief's neck, right there on the cable news.
But then the video cut to a slender young woman with closely cropped bleached blond hair and heavy black eye makeup.
"Shit, it's Camile." Unwilling to wait a second longer, Cosmo dragged a table up to the TV, climbed up, and cranked the volume himself.
"Who's Camile?" Sam Starrett asked, leaning back against the counter.
But whatever Camile—who looked vaguely familiar—had to say was done.
"... in Afghanistan" was all they heard in her heavily accented English.
"Camile is that French reporter, wanted to interview that scumbag Zeeshan when we were taking out that cave last year," Cosmo said, and everything fell into place.
Her hair had been black back then, but it was definitely her. "How the hell did she get that photo?" Muldoon asked Cosmo. "I thought she was searched."
"She was. Shit, sir, I searched her myself. Confiscated her camera and four rolls of film."
"You should have called for a cavity search," Sam said. Easy for him to say. He hadn't been there—hadn't met the woman.
"Guess so," Cosmo said grimly. The muscle jumped in his jaw as he took off his sunglasses and faced Muldoon. "I'm really sorry about this, sir."
"Who knew?" Muldoon said. "Don't sweat it, Cos. It's not so bad. It's been months since that picture was taken. It's not like the info that we were there on the ground during the air strikes hasn't already been leaked."
The news anchor, perky and bright-eyed, was talking about the important role of SEALs and other "special forces" in the war on terrorism, and getting just about all of it completely wrong. Which was probably just as well. The less secrets given away, the better.
But then the anchor said, "As the war continues and stories of heroism and courage are reported, more and more people are clamoring to find out more about the men who wear the uniforms.
"Apparently Brooke Bryant, the President's wild child, was among the curious. Sources at the White House say she's been corresponding through email with Navy SEAL lieutenant Michael Muldoon for quite some time."
What?
"Whoa," Cosmo said again. "Have you really?"
Even Sam was now standing up straight.
And the photo of Muldoon and Wildcard was back on the TV screen.
"No," Muldoon said. Sources at the White House ... He felt sick. "I mean, yes, but—'
"Shh!" Sam said sharply. "I want to hear this."
"Ms. Bryant arrives in San Diego this afternoon," the bubbly anchor said in a voice-over, "where she'll attend a black-tie banquet, escorted by Lieutenant Muldoon. Lieutenant Muldoon is the SEAL officer on the left in this now famous photo."
Someone—a source from the White House—gave CNN his name and released that photograph...
The anchor was all dimples. "A well-recognized aide to the First Daughter was reportedly overheard investigating the preparations needed for a full fanfare military wedding. Sources have neither confirmed nor denied any rumors of impending nuptials, but there definitely appears to be romance in the air today at the White House.
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