The Admiral's Bride. Suzanne Brockmann
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The Admiral’s Bride
Suzanne Brockmann
MILLS & BOON
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For Nancy Peeler.
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Contents
Vietnam, 1969
Sergeant Matthew Lange had been left to die.
His leg was badly broken and he had shrapnel embedded in his entire right side. It hadn’t hit anything vital. He knew, because he’d been hit hours ago and he wasn’t dead yet. And that was almost a shame.
His morphine wasn’t working. He not only hurt like hell but he was still alert enough to know what was coming.
The soldier next to him knew, too. He lay there, crying softly. Jim was his name. Jimmy D’Angelo. He was just a kid, really—barely eighteen—and he wasn’t going to get any older.
None of them were.
There were a dozen of them there, United States Marines, hiding and bleeding in the jungle of a country too small to have been mentioned in fifth-grade geography class. They were too badly injured to walk out, but most of ’em were still conscious, still alive enough to know that sometime within the next few hours, they were going to die.
Charlie was coming.
Probably right before dawn.
The Vietcong had launched a major offensive yesterday morning, and Matt’s platoon had been one of several trapped by the attack. They were now God knows how many clicks behind enemy lines, with no chance of rescue.
Hours ago, Captain Tyler had radioed for help, but help wasn’t coming. There were no chopper pilots insane enough to fly into this hot spot. They were on their own.
But then the bomb dropped—close to literally. Well, at least it would be dropping literally, come morning. The captain had been ordered out of the area. He was told that in an attempt to halt the Vietcong, the Americans would be napalming this very mountain in less than twelve hours.
There had been twenty injured men. They’d outnumbered the uninjured by more than two to one.
Captain Tyler had played God, choosing the eight least wounded to drag out of there. He’d looked at Matt, looked at his leg, and he’d shaken his head. No. He’d had tears in his eyes, not that that helped much now.
Father O’Brien had been the only one to stay behind.
Matt could hear his quiet voice, murmuring words of comfort to the dying men.
If Charlie found them, he’d use bayonets to kill them. He wouldn’t want to waste bullets on men who couldn’t fight back. And Matt couldn’t fight back. His right arm was useless, his left too weak to shoulder his weapon. Most of the other guys were worse than he was. And he couldn’t picture Father O’Brien picking up someone’s machine gun and giving Charlie a mouthful of lead.
No, bayonets or burning. That’s what their future had come down to.
Matt felt like weeping along with Jimmy.
“Sarge?”
“Yeah, Jim. I’m still here.” Like Matt might’ve walked away.
“You have a family, don’t you?”
Matt closed his eyes, picturing Lisa’s sweet