The Right Stuff. Merline Lovelace
from Mac to Cari and back again.
“Things could turn ugly down there. Real ugly. Make sure your next-of-kin notification data is up-to-date. You might also zap off a quick e-mail to your families,” he added after a slight hesitation.
He didn’t need to explain. Since 9/11, Cari had participated in enough short-notice deployments to know this might be her last communication with her folks for a while. Or her last, period.
Cari followed the captain’s orders and zapped off one quick e-mail. Pumping pure adrenaline, she swung back around to find Mac contemplating her with a tight, closed expression.
“You didn’t bat an eye at the prospect of going into Caribe.”
“Neither did you,” she pointed out.
He hooked a thumb toward the now blank screen. “What about Jerry-boy?”
Her shrug made the question irrelevant. This was what she’d trained for. This was what wearing a uniform entailed.
“Jerry isn’t your concern. We’ve got work to do.”
Chapter 2
Mac couldn’t believe it. Here he was, stuffing spare ammo clips into the pockets on his webbed utility belt, less than twenty minutes away from departing on a mission to extract U.S. citizens from a potentially explosive situation.
Yet for the first time in his life Mac couldn’t force his mind to focus solely and exclusively on the task ahead. Every time he thought he’d crowded everything else out, the damned e-mail Cari had received a while ago would pop back into his head.
Marry me, beautiful.
What kind of a jerk proposed to a woman via e-mail? Particularly a woman like Caroline Dunn.
Mac had worked alongside a lot of professionals in the corps, male and female. The small, compact brunette currently frowning over a set of coastal navigational charts left most of them in the dust.
Hell, who was he kidding? Cari left all of them in the dust. He’d never met any woman with her combination of beauty and brains, and he’d tangled with more than his share. Particularly in his wilder days before the United States Marine Corps started him down a different path thirteen…no, fourteen years ago.
Fourteen years! Shaking his head, Mac shoved another spare clip into his belt. Hard to remember now how close he’d come to ending up on the wrong side of anyone in uniform. Harder still to remember the woman who’d almost put him there. He’d had no idea the thrill-seeking blonde who’d climbed on the back of his beat-up Harley was married to a California state senator. And he sure as hell hadn’t known the woman was carrying a stash of Colombian prime in her fanny pack.
When the cops hauled the still underage Mac into her husband’s office, the wealthy politician had given him a choice. A trumped-up possession charge and jail time or the United States Marines. It wasn’t much of a choice. Mac had been staying just one step ahead of the law since flatly refusing to let the state put him in yet another foster home. He figured the marines would kick him out fast enough, just as his series of foster parents had.
Instead, the corps had molded a smart-mouthed punk into a single-minded, razor-edged fighting machine. In the often painful process, Mac found the home he’d never had. He’d also finished high school, earned a college degree, learned to lead as well as follow, and been chosen for Officers’ Candidate School.
He’d never forget that crystal bright April morning at Quantico, when he’d raised his gloved hand to be sworn in as a commissioned officer. He took his oath to protect and defend the United States against all enemies very seriously. So, apparently, did Lieutenant Dunn. She’d served for more than ten years, had several command tours under her belt, and had played a key role in the war against terrorism during the coast guard’s transition from the Treasury Department to the new Department of Homeland Security.
Yet here she was, actually debating whether to give up her career and her uniform to marry a smooth-talking JAG who’d probably never seen the business end of an assault rifle. The idea torqued Mac’s jaws so tight he wasn’t sure he’d ever get them unscrewed. They stayed locked the whole time Kate Hargrave and Cari pored over the charts.
“I’ve updated Pegasus’s onboard computers with Caribe’s tidal patterns, riverine data and predicted climatic and atmospheric conditions,” the weather officer was saying. “You might see some swells from that squall on the way in, but rough weather shouldn’t hit until you’re on your way out.”
“How rough?”
“Better pack some extra barf bags for you and your passengers.”
“Oh, great!”
Shaking her head, Cari bent to stuff the charts in her gear bag. Her green-and-black jungle BDUs stretched taut over a trim, rounded rear. The enticing view had Mac grinding his teeth. Wrenching his glance away, he jammed another clip into his belt.
Okay. All right. He could admit it. The idea of Lieutenant Caroline Dunn marrying anyone, including a pansy-assed JAG, rubbed him exactly the wrong way. The woman had tied him up in knots more than once in the past few months. If he hadn’t learned the hard way to avoid poaching on another man’s territory—or if Cari had given the least hint she was interested in being poached on—he might have made a move on her himself.
But he had, and she hadn’t.
With a little grunt, Mac reached for his assault rifle. He was checking the working parts when a low whine brought his head around.
Pegasus was spreading his wings. Like the mythical beast he’d been named for, the craft fanned out its delta-shaped fins. When they locked in place, the engines slowly tilted upright. Another whine, and the propellers unfolded like petals. In this configuration, Pegasus would lift straight up like a chopper. Once airborne, Dave would tilt the engines to horizontal and fly it like a fixed-wing aircraft.
The air force pilot was in the cockpit, clearly visible through the bubble canopy. Hooking a glance over his shoulder, he gave Captain Westfall a thumbs-up. The captain nodded and turned to Mac.
“Ready, Major?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lieutenant?”
“All set, sir.”
Cari’s calm reply did nothing to loosen the knots in Mac’s chest. He’d been air-dropped into Afghanistan by a female USAF C-17 pilot. Had a bullet hole patched up by a particularly sexy navy nurse. Had relied on enlisted female marines to provide ground support and combat communications. He valued and respected the vital role women played in the military.
But this was the first time he was going into harm’s way with a woman at his side. If she’d been anyone other than Caroline Dunn, the prospect might not have put such a kink in his gut.
Shouldering his assault rifle, he followed her through the open hatch.
Four hours later Pegasus was once again in sea mode—wings swept back, engines tilted rearward, propellers churning water like a ship’s screws. Nicaragua lay well behind. Caribe was a gray smudge on the horizon. In between was a big stretch of open sea.
An increasingly turbulent sea, Cari noted.
“Kate was right on target,” she commented, pitching her voice to be heard above the engines as she steered her craft through rolling green troughs. “Looks like we’re starting to pick up some of the swells from that squall.”
Mac responded with a grunt that earned him a quick glance. He didn’t appear to appreciate the craft’s agility to cut through the deepening troughs. In fact, he was looking distinctly green around the gills.
“The seas will probably get higher and rougher when we hit the barrier reef around the island,” Cari advised. “You’d better pop a couple of those Dramamine pills Doc put in the medical kit.”
“I’ll make it.”