The Red Gloves Collection (40 page)

“The first order, sir?”

“Yes, Meade.” He lowered the cigarette. “Come back alive.”

Now Mike took another bite of chicken. It was cooler. He studied the picture on the TV screen. The Duke was on horseback, charging ahead, rifle at his side. The movie was just starting to look familiar when one of the chopper pilots walked up and flipped the channel.

“Hey.” A soldier jumped up. His coffee spilled, soaking into the dirt. “I was watching that.”

“Tough.” The man at the set pointed to the man’s coffee and laughed out loud. “Looks like you got enough trouble all by your lonesome.”

The soldier kicked his coffee cup and stormed off. Mike looked at the airman again. He was still flipping channels. Mike thought about saying something. The Duke was about to do in a few bad guys, after all. But he stared at his chicken instead. TV didn’t matter. He needed a clear head if he was going to get the mission underway and come out breathing.

“Country videos?” The soldier was back with a new cup. He sat down and kicked his feet out. “What’d you go wussy on us, man? Come on! You turned off the Duke!”

“Look,” the pilot raised his hand in the air. “None of yer bellyaching now, y’hear? I’m country folk myself, and my sweet little wife back in Alabama has a message comin’ to me on one of these videos.” He grinned, and a few of the guys seated around the television chuckled and muttered under their breath, guessing at the content of the message. The pilot waved off the comments. “We’re watchin’ country videos until I see the message. Period.”

The soldier made a face and sipped his drink. “Wussies, all of you.”

Another round of laughter as the pilot found the right channel. He turned the volume up and took the chair closest to the set, arms crossed, expectant.

Mike laughed to himself. Stations running those sorts of messages had hundreds on every day. He took another bite and shoved a chunk of bread into his mouth. Probably the last full meal he’d have for twenty-four hours, by the time they debriefed after the mission.

Across the tent the pilot was talking to the television. “No, not that message, man! Come on! My wife’s got the best message of all. Now, please … put hers on the stupid screen, y’hear?”

The videos were numbing. Tim McGraw crooning something about a bull ride, and Rascal Flat singing about today. The songs blended together and Mike helped himself to a second bowl of chicken. He was halfway done when Lonestar kicked in with their classic,
Already There.

At that exact moment something caught his eye.

The pilot was shouting at the TV again, telling the screen to get it right, get his wife’s message up. But this message was from a child. That much was obvious because it started out, “Daddy … ”

The next part made his heart slip all the way down to his dirty boots.

In plain text along the right side of the video, the message read:

Daddy, this is Hannah. Mom showed me the pictures, the one with me and you reading and the other one, with you and your surfboard. I’m trying to find you. So if you see this, call the station and they’ll tell you how to reach me. I love you, Daddy. I never forgot you. Hannah.

Mike lifted slowly from his chair and stared at the television.
Hannah?
His Hannah? Could it really be? He read the message again, the part about the girl’s mother showing her pictures, and how they read books, and the surfboard. The video ended then, and without taking his eyes from the screen, Mike tossed his plate. He reached the pilot near the television in three giant strides. “What station is it?”

“Huh?”

“The station,” Mike pointed at the TV. “What station is it?”

The pilot rattled off the name. Mike was gone before the last word was out.

Hannah remembered him.

He had to call. Colonel Whalin was at his desk when Mike walked in, breathless. “Colonel … “ He straightened, at attention. “I need a favor.”

The man was between cigarettes. “Don’t tell me.” He gave a wry grin. “You want out of the mission?”

Mike hesitated. If it was his Hannah and she was looking for him, then … He pressed his shoulders back some more. The mission was his, no matter what. “No, sir. I need to make a couple of calls to the States.”

His commander was lenient with stateside calls. The regularly scheduled ones came often—especially for the family guys. He slid the phone across the desk. “You know the codes?”

“Yes, sir.” Mike only knew them from checking on his house in Pismo Beach. Personal calls didn’t happen.

“Go ahead.” The officer stood, stretched, and headed out the tent door. “I need fresh air, anyway.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mike worked fast, his first call to a buddy back at the base stateside. He’d need to use that number if Hannah was to call him. She’d call the base, talk to his buddy, and be patched in to the colonel’s office in Baghdad.

Next he found the television station’s number. It had to be her, didn’t it? How many Hannahs had a lost father who surfed? His palms were sweating by the time a person finally answered at the station. “Hi… ” He was short of breath. “I’m looking for the person who takes the messages, the ones for servicemen.”

“Just a minute, please.”

Mike gripped the phone, his posture stiff. Was he crazy? Had the desert heat and sand finally gotten to him? Or was it the mission? He’d looked for Hannah all those years. What were the odds he’d get his first clue the night before the most dangerous job he’d ever taken?

He braced himself against the desk.
Come on … Someone pick up …

His commander was talking to a few men just outside the tent. He didn’t have long by himself. Mike tapped his foot.
Come on and—

“Hello … this is the message department, can I help you?” The woman on the other end sounded busy.

“Yes, ma’am.” He raked his fingers across his short cut hair. How did he say this? “Okay … I’m an Army chopper pilot in Iraq, and I just saw a message on one of your videos.”

“Good.” Her voice softened. “You’re the reason we have the messages. How are things in Iraq?”

Details of the next day’s mission flashed in his mind. “Fine. Just fine.” He worked the muscles in his jaw. “Listen, ma’am, a minute ago the message … It was from a girl named Hannah. She’s looking for her dad.” He paused. There was no turning back now. “I think she might be looking for me.”

“Really? Let me write this down.”

“Yes, if you could.” He only had a few minutes of privacy left. “My name’s Mike Meade. I’m stationed outside Baghdad in Iraq, and I’ve been looking for my daughter, Hannah, for eleven years.” He waited. There was no sound of typing in the background. He turned around and rested against the desk. Was she scribbling it on a scrap piece of paper? “Got that, ma’am?”

“Yes.” She sounded distracted. “How can she reach you?”

Mike gave her the base number, the one that would put her in to his buddy. “Ask her to have them patch her in to Colonel Jared Whalin’s office in Baghdad.”

“Okay.” A few seconds passed. “There. You’re Mike Meade, you’ve been looking for a daughter named Hannah for eleven years, and you’re in Baghdad.”

“Right.” He searched his mind. “One more thing.” He hesitated. “I used to surf.”

“Surf?”

“Yes, ma’am. It was part of the message on the video. She has a picture of her father with a surfboard.”

“Well,” the woman’s tone was hopeful. “Maybe you’re the one.”

“I hope so. You’ll make sure she gets the message?”

“I will. I’ll look up her information and give her a call within the hour. So if I give her the number you gave me, she’ll be patched through to you?”

‘Yes, ma’am.” Mike had no doubts. Colonel Whalin would walk through fire to give him the message if his daughter called for him.

“Very good, then. I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

The conversation ended just as his commanding officer returned to his desk. “Take care of everything?”

“Yes, sir.” Mike stood at attention again. “Something personal.”

The man motioned to him. “At ease, Meade.”

Mike relaxed. “I’m ready, sir. Everything’s in order.”

“Good.” He looked down, took hold of the ashtray on his desk, and gave it a light shake. The soft gray ashes inside fell to an even layer. “Look, Meade, we’ve done everything we can to minimize the danger.” He glanced up. “But it’s still a risk. You’ll be hanging in the air a long time.”

“I know, sir.” Mike tried to concentrate, but he kept hearing her voice.
“You and me, Daddy. This’ll be our house someday… ”

Colonel Whalin anchored his forearms on his desk. “Your guard has to be up every minute, every second.”

“Yes, sir.” She was drawing him the picture with the big yellow sun, writing her first sentence.
Hannah loves Daddy.
He squinted. “Every second.”

“Take no chances, Meade. Everything by the book.”

“Of course, sir.” And she was in his arms, cuddling with him while he read
The Cat in the Hat Comes Back
and giggling when the cat ate pink cake in the tub and …

“No chances at all, Meade, you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” And now there was the slightest small chance that she remembered him, that she was looking for him the same way he’d been looking for her. That he might see her again. “No chances at all.”

Colonel Whalin rapped the desk and pushed his chair back. “I’ll be out there tomorrow to see you off. And one more thing … ” He searched Mike’s eyes. “We’ll have Air Force medevac on standby. Just in case.”

“Yes, sir.” The news was good, but it underlined the obvious. A mission like this came with an expected number of wounded men. Possibly even casualties. “Thank you, sir.”

“Go get some sleep.”

Mike started to go, but he hesitated. “Sir … I might get a phone call tonight. It’s, well,” he scratched his head. “It’s important, sir.”

The colonel looked at him for a long moment. “I’ll get you, Meade. Whatever the hour, I’ll get you.”

As soon as he was back at his bunk, Mike pulled out the bag. It was still early, and he was alone in his area of the tent. He eased the contents out onto his bed and let his fingers move slowly over them. The broken clay pieces, the delicate folded paper, the photo of him and Hannah building a sandcastle on the beach.

“Hannah … ” He let her name settle on his lips, the way it had so often back when she was his. Her eyes seemed to look straight to his soul, and he moved his finger over her hair, her face. “Hannah girl, I love you.”

He looked at the items for a long time, and put them away just before the other men filed into the tent a few at a time and prepared for bed.

CJ approached him first. He sat on the edge of his cot and gave his socked foot a squeeze. “We’ll be okay. I have a good feeling about it.”

Mike nodded, fear far from him. “Definitely. No fear, no failure.”

“Right.” He grinned. CJ was long and lanky with an easy smile, even in the most tense situations. “I figure eleven minutes in the air isn’t too bad. Remember the Gulf War? What’d we hang there for, half an hour that one time?”

A smile tugged at the corners of Mike’s mouth. “I think it was eight minutes.”

“Ah, you know … “ CJ leaned back on his elbows. “Eight minutes, thirty minutes. Same thing, right?”

Mike thought about the brown bag beneath his cot. “All in a day’s work.”

“Right.” CJ winked at him and jumped up, headed off to his own cot and whatever he still needed to get in order for the mission.

Jimbo and Fossie took turns talking to him after that, laughing about some joke they’d heard in the food tent.

“Hey, man, be careful out there.” Jimbo gave him a light punch in the shoulder. “We need you.”

“You know it.” Mike still had the bag in front of him, his fingers tight around the neck. “Don’t give my bed away. CJ’s, either.”

“You’ll be back tomorrow night.”

“But if I’m not.” He gave Jimbo an easy smile. A mission like this came with the possibility of capture. “You know. Just don’t give my bed away.”

“Never.”

Fossie was next, handling his good-bye the same, keeping things light. He patted Mike’s stomach with the back of his hand. “Nerves of steal, Meade. Same as back in your surfing days, right? Catch a wave and ride it home.”

Mike chuckled. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

“See… ” He grinned. “That’s why they call me Fossie the Optimist.”

The other guys made a point of saying something, both to him and to CJ. Wishing him luck or the best or whatever it is guys say when they know there’s a chance they won’t see each other again. Only Stoker mentioned prayer.

“You a praying kind of guy, Mike?” Stoker pulled up a chair and turned it around, sitting so that his arms rested on the back.

Mike shrugged. “Sometimes more than others.”

“Me, too.” Stoker shrugged. “I guess it’s never a perfect science.”

“No.” Mike glanced at his watch. It had been an hour and still she hadn’t called.
Come on, Hannah … pick up the phone and dial the number.

“Anyway, I want to promise you something.”

“What?”

“I’ll pray for you, Meade. The whole time you’re gone.”

“Okay.” Was it the danger ahead or the video message from a girl named Hannah? Mike wasn’t sure, but the idea of Stoker praying for him made something inside him relax a little. He smiled at his friend. “Don’t forget.”

Stoker stood and turned the chair back around. “I won’t.”

It took another hour for the guys in his tent to fall asleep. All but him. She still hadn’t called, and that could only mean a few possibilities. Either she wasn’t home, or she wasn’t the right Hannah.

And as the night wore on, as ten o’clock became midnight and midnight became two, and the mission drew closer, Mike forced himself to fall asleep. Because he couldn’t be on his guard unless he got some rest, and if he wasn’t on his guard he wouldn’t come back alive.

Which was something he had to do. Not just because it was Colonel Whalin’s order, but because Hannah might be looking for him, because she might still remember him. That fact and the image of a little girl who still lived in his memory would be enough to keep him alert and ready at all times.