Joint Task Force #2: America (17 page)

Something blocked the faint light coming into the compartment. A face peered through the porthole. This
happened every few minutes. She wondered what they could see looking into the dark compartment. They could barely see each other, and they had their night vision. When they looked through the small window into the compartment there was no way they could see what their captives were doing. The face disappeared, and the faint trail of light appeared once again along the center of the compartment.

“Whoa, there,” Senior Chief Leary said as the compartment dipped and then rose again. “I think we hit a big wave with that one.”

The creak of the watertight latch drew their attention.

“Looks as if our hosts are returning.”

“Hope they brought food and water.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

The hatch opened about six inches—wide enough for a hand to reach in and toss a long can into the center of the compartment. It rolled into the faint light. A cloud of spray spewed from the nozzle, carrying a fine vapor into the air.

“Grenade!” Kelly shouted, rolling to the right.

“It’s not a grenade. Hold your breath and shut your eyes!” Early shouted, knowing it was futile. They would have to breath sometime, and when they did, whatever was filling the compartment would fill their lungs.

Minutes later the three of them collapsed on the deck.

CHAPTER 7

TUCKER LEANED AGAINST THE DOOR, FIGHTING THE WIND
trying to blow it open. The wind sent a keen whistle whipping around the edges of the heavy wood door. Rain blew almost horizontally, shooting through the opening, soaking him and the black plastic sheet someone had thrown on the floor at the entrance to keep others from slipping on the wet tile. St. Cyr dashed through the door, stopping a couple of feet inside, the rain beating against the Frenchman’s back. Nonchalantly, St. Cyr pulled his wet beret off, shook his head, sending water everywhere as it flew off his thick stock of black hair. He squeezed the beret, water dripping on the floor, and then tossed the head cover onto a nearby coffee table to the left.

Tucker peered around the door, the wind and rain causing him to squint through closed eyes. Up steps, leading to two piers below, came the stocky outline of the Special Air Service Wing Commander, head tucked down with his chin against his chest. Tucker jumped back, holding the door against the wind, leaving it opened only wide enough so a person could slip through.

Tibbles-Seagraves shouted his thanks as he more dove
into the room than walked. Tucker pushed the door shut. Tibbles-Seagraves casually removed his rain slicker, picked up the Frenchman’s cap, and hung them on the coatrack to the side.

“I say, chaps! Is this the Virginia weather for lovers I’ve heard so much about?” Tibbles-Seagraves asked, running a small linen handkerchief over and through the sparse strands matted across the top of his head.

“Seen worse,” Tucker replied, struggling out of his raincoat.

The Chief Petty Officer standing behind the desk that doubled as the quarterdeck walked around the counter. “Morning, Commander,” he said, reaching out to St. Cyr and taking his rain slick from him. “I’ll put this over here with the others, sir.” The Chief turned to a young sailor who was leaning against the counter near the opened green logbook, reading a comic book. “Thompson, put that shit away and go grab the swab again. Get this water off the deck.”

“Aye aye, Chief,” the young man said, hurrying over to the closet and removing a huge mop with a handle too big for the sailor to get his hands around.

“And when you finish with that, Thompson, get your ass upstairs and see how the coffee situation is.”

“Yes, Chief,” the young man grunted as he pulled the metal tub along the floor toward the front of the building.

“Chief, where is the meeting?” Tucker Raleigh asked.

“Most of them are already up there with the Commodore, sir. I would say it’s more of a free-for-all than a meeting—what with this weather and all.”

The Chief glanced at the sailor swabbing the deck and pointed to a puddle on the other side of the door. Without missing a beat, the young man spun the mop, the cotton strands spreading out like a fan, and dropped it where the Chief pointed.

“You have a friend here, too, Commander Raleigh. A Navy nurse who came in with the response team from Bethesda a couple of days ago. She’s in the wardroom.”
The Chief smiled as he walked away, chuckling as he shook his head.

“Ummmmm; must be nice, Tucker. Does each officer in your Navy have his own nurse?” St. Cyr asked, raising his eyebrows in amusement. “Of course, in France, they would bring a picnic basket”—he brought the tips of fingers to his lips and kissed them—“With a nice bottle of wine.”

“Of course,” Tucker said, convincingly. “Why else would we choose such a dangerous job if we couldn’t get decent medical support?”

“In England, we have the National Health Service . . .”

“And I am sure some of the finest-looking nurses,” St. Cyr said.

“It really depends.”

The sound of approaching heels down the hallway to the right of the quarterdeck stopped the banter.

Lieutenant Commander Samantha Bradley appeared, a smile breaking across her face. She stopped at the end of the hallway and stared at Tucker. He was surprised to see she wasn’t in uniform. Sam was wearing the revealing white blouse he had complimented with a risqué comment after a tryst in a park near the Pentagon. The fear of someone catching them had added to the moment. A pair of dark pants ended a few inches above black pumps. The overcast of the storm had forced the quarterdeck to turn on its fluorescent lights, inadvertently creating a makeshift stage for her appearance from the darker doorway. The light gave her dark hair a reddish sheen that Tucker had never noticed. It also played through the see-through blouse, revealing a low-cut bra, pushing pert breasts together, creating a small but eye-catching cleavage that enticingly appeared and disappeared between the two opened buttons on her blouse as she walked.

“Are you going to speak, Commander?” Sam asked, coming to a stop at the edge of the quarterdeck. A huge grin spread across her lips, along with a slight shade of red creeping up her neck.

He had lost himself in watching her approach. Tucker
stuttered a few times before taking a couple of steps forward to embrace the woman he had left abruptly a few days before in Washington. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” she said, leaning back in his arms to look him in the eye. “Why, Commander Raleigh, I am your physical therapist, aren’t I?” she asked, teasingly.

“I give up. We have nurses in the French military, but we would never give our junior officers a physical therapist,” St. Cyr said.

Tucker reluctantly released his embrace of Sam, his left hand trailing down her left arm as he turned to face the two men. When his hand reached her hand, she took it.

St. Cyr and Tibbles-Seagraves stood side-by-side, broad smiles across their faces. Remnants of rain continuing to trail down their cheeks, dropping onto their cammies. Tibbles-Seagraves cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” Tucker apologized. “Sam, this is Wing Commander Tibbles-Seagraves of the Royal Air Force, and this fine gentleman with the bushy mustache is Captain Marc St. Cyr of the French Navy.”

Sam shook hands and smiled at St. Cyr. “I would say, Captain, that someone has removed most of the bush from your mustache.”

The Frenchman smiled and nodded slightly. “I think your boyfriend makes fun of it.” He reached up and ran his finger along his thin mustache. “I prefer to think it is the right statement without being too gaudy. I would hate for someone to think I was British.” He nodded toward Tibbles-Seagraves, who reached up and twisted the end of his long handlebar mustache.

“I say,” Tibbles-Seagraves retorted. “We, too, would hate for someone to make that mistake.” He reached forward and shook Sam’s hand.

Tucker smiled. Sam covered her mouth; a mischievous twinkle in her eyes met his. It was good to see her, but it would have been better if she had at least let him know she was coming down. Even though the focus of the search for the terrorist ship had shifted to the European
theater, they were still on alert. Granted, sitting in the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, drinking beer, arguing whether to watch American or European football, and periodically commenting on the wind and rain slamming against the windows wasn’t really what the general public would think of as military men on alert. These past three days had been boring. Today, they had been ordered to move their gear to the alert headquarters of Commodore West’s near the Special Boat Unit Twenty piers. He hadn’t decided whether to argue about moving here or not. He failed to see any reason for them to rough it here when they could stay in the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, where there was at least television.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“I was wondering why you are here,” he lied.

She released his hand. “Hope you’re not disappointed.”

“I am looking forward to seeing how you manage to disengage your foot from your mouth with this one, my American friend,” Tibbles-Seagraves offered.

The telephone on the quarterdeck rang, saving him.

“They’re here, sir. I’ll tell them.” The Chief hung up.

“Commander, the Commodore is in the control tower topside. He says y’all should come on up and join him.”

“Sam, I have to go.”

“Not to worry, I’m going with you,” she said. She took his arm and pulled him aside. “Sorry, gentlemen, I need to give some professional instruction to my patient.”

The other two men started up the stairs.

She kissed him on the cheek. He reached forward to take her in his arms, but she gently pushed them away. “You know, you’re cute when you’re lost for words. Bethesda needed a volunteer to augment the ready-response cell here on the waterfront, and the DiLorenzo Clinic at the Pentagon let me take it. I didn’t know you were down here until I arrived at Portsmouth Medical Center and saw that Navy medicine had transferred your digital records to SpecWarGru Two. It was that little tidbit of information that told me why you hadn’t returned my telephone calls.”

“I wanted to—”

She laughed. “Sure, you did.”

“No, honestly, I wanted to, but was ordered to board a helicopter with Admiral Holman—”

She laughed.

“No, it’s true,” he protested.

“Of course, it is,” she said with amusement in her voice. “I have to admit, it’s the best line I’ve heard so far.” She waited a moment, and when he didn’t say anything, she added, “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

“Well, when I got down here, Admiral Holman hustled us aboard his flagship, the USS
Boxer,
and we set sail. We only returned to port three days ago.”

“Telephones don’t work?”

“Wait a minute. I tried to call. I even left messages.”

She reached forward and touched him on the arm. He eased her into an embrace. “I did call, you know,” he said.

“I know. I got your messages when I checked my answering machine yesterday. I tracked you down to the BOQ late last night and they told me you had moved out. It didn’t take long to track you down. After all, you did say you missed me.”

He lifted her chin and kissed her—a kiss that lingered, warmed, and drew his body closer to hers.

A series of loud coughs caused them to break apart. The Chief Petty Officer at the quarterdeck stared at them. Near the door, the young seaman was scrubbing the deck, back and forth the swab went, as fast as the young man could move it.

“Sir, ma’am; if you don’t mind,” the Chief said, jerking his thumb at the seaman. “Young Thompson isn’t used to how officers greet each other, and I think the Commodore is waiting for you. He’s not the patient type.”

They broke apart, neither speaking to the Chief as they headed down the hallway toward the stairs.

“It’s not as if this is a top-secret Special Forces mission, is it?” She stuck her arm through the crook of Tucker’s elbows.

Tucker let out a deep breath. The building vibrated to a long roll of thunder. Behind them, a torrent of rain
rattled the windows. He squeezed her hand. Everything was right with the world. He had worried his disappearance had sealed the fate of their budding relationship. Then again, others would say this relationship was moving too fast—doomed to failure and all that bullshit. Deep inside of him was the professional bachelor’s mixed fear about rushing head-on into something where he may wake up one day to discover himself walking glassy-eyed down an aisle in the church with all the exits locked. Tucker ran his free hand along the mahogany railing of the stairs as they climbed toward the control room of the old 1950s tower.

The tower had been used to control seaplanes during World War II. It lay at the edge of a sea ramp where decades ago amphibian aircraft had rolled into and out of the manmade canal that lead to the sea. What had once been a tarmac for the vintage aircraft was now a parking lot for the sailors. He glanced at Sam, watching how her hair bounced softly off her shoulder. How like a curtain it hid her eyes and with each movement revealed a glimpse of her nose; a flash of smooth cheek; and always the dampness of full lips, leading the assault on his senses. He hated to admit he was glad the rogue freighter was somewhere in the East Atlantic. He was going enjoy this deployment.

TUCKER, ST. CYR, AND TIBBLES-SEAGRAVES STOOD
slightly behind the Commodore, who had quickly dismissed any concerns with having a Navy nurse accompanying the men. He was a surface warfare officer assigned as the Commodore Special Boat Unit Twenty. Commodore Tony West stood about five-foot-five and had come up through the ranks as a mustang. A former Chief Petty Officer, he was fond of telling people that he had been a horrible Chief. When they had decided to clean up the ranks back in the nineties, they’d commissioned him as an ensign, figuring it didn’t take much technical know-how to be an officer. He had had a good career. Not one
that was going to catapult him into flag ranks. When you reached your fifties and you were a mustang to boot, the establishment still sat there like an anchor on top of the ladder. The ever-present “they” wanted those who wore the stars to have sufficient time left in their careers to make full Admiral—
four stars
. Fifty-plus-old captains just don’t meet this unwritten age criteria.

But no one ever heard West complain about it. Most envied him. In the last three tours of duty, a small cadre of loyal officers and enlisted had followed him from his command in Rota to his duty in the Pentagon, and now to his twilight tour at Special Boat Unit Twenty in Little Creek, Virginia. You could say what you wanted about the old man, but you couldn’t say it in front of this group.