The Right Stuff

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.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion, Major.”

The deceptively mild comment slewed Mac’s head around. Cari could feel his gray-green eyes slice into her, but didn’t bother to return the stare. He might outrank her on land. Aboard this craft, she was in command.

She kept her gaze on the gray smudge ahead as Mac dragged out the medical kit. Only after he’d downed the pills as ordered did she slant him another glance. Like her, he was dressed for the jungle—web-sided boots, black T-shirt, black-and-green camouflage pants and shirt. Instead of a ball cap, though, a floppy-brimmed “boonie” hat covered his buzz-cut brown hair.

He looked leather tough and coldy lethal. Not someone you wanted to suddenly come nose to nose with in the jungle. Cari had to admit she was glad they were on the same side for this operation.

“Is this freshening sea going to slow us down?” he asked with an eye to the digital map displayed on the instrument panel.

Their course was highlighted in glowing red. It took them straight across the fifty-mile stretch of open water, through the outer reef encircling Caribe and into a small bay on the southern tip of the palm-shaped island. Once inside the bay, they’d aim for the mouth of the Rio Verde and head some twenty-six miles upriver.

“Pegasus can handle these swells,” Cari said in answer to his question. “We should arrive right on target.”

“Good enough. I’ll confirm with Second Recon.”

He’d already established contact with the six-man reconnaissance team that had been sent into the jungle to retrieve the American missionaries. Luckily, they were equipped with CSEL—the new Combat Survivor/Evader Locator. Not much larger than an ordinary cell phone, the handheld radio provided over-the-horizon data communications, light-of-sight voice modes, and precise GPS positioning and land navigation. The handy-dandy new device was state-of-the-art and just off the assembly line. Neither the rebel nor government forces in Caribe could intercept or interpret its secure, scrambled transmissions.

“Second Recon, this is Pegasus One.”

“This is Second Recon. Go ahead, Pegasus.”

The marine in charge of the reconnaissance team sounded so young, Cari thought. And so grimly determined.

“Be advised we’re twenty nautical miles off the coast of Caribe and closing fast,” Mac informed him. “We’re holding to our ETA.”

“We copy, Pegasus. We’re about five klicks from the target.”

Five kilometers from the mission put them about eight from the river, Cari saw in another quick glance at the digital display. The marines still had some jungle to hack through.

“We’ll bundle up our charges as soon as we reach the target and proceed immediately to the designated rendezvous point,” the team leader promised.

“Roger, Second. We’ll be waiting for you.”

Frowning, Mac took a GPS reading on the team’s signal and entered its position with a few clicks of the keyboard built into the instrument console. His frown deepened as Pegasus plowed into another trough. The hull hit with a smack that sent spray washing over the canopy.

“The swells are getting heavier.”

“They are,” Cari agreed.

He shot her a hard look. “Can’t we put on a little more speed? I don’t want to leave those marines sitting around, twiddling their thumbs with the rebel forces combing the jungle for them.”

“We won’t.”

The calm reply brought his brows snapping together under the brim of his hat. “Are you that sure of yourself or is this the face you put on when you’re in command?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she answered, “and what you see is what you get.”

For the first time since they’d departed Corpus Christi, Mac relaxed into a grin. “From where I’m sitting,” he drawled, “what I see looks pretty good.”

Her hands almost slid off the throttle. “Good grief! Is that a compliment?”

“It is.”

A tiny dart of pleasure made it past the butterflies beating against Cari’s ribs. After all these weeks of butting heads with the stubborn marine, she hadn’t expected any warm fuzzies just moments away from entering a potential hostile fire zone. Her brief pleasure took a back seat to business when she checked the displays and saw they’d entered Caribe’s territorial waters.

“We’re within twelve miles of the island. We’ll hit the coral reef in a few minutes. You’d better get ready for a bumpy ride.”

Bumpy didn’t begin to describe it.

Waves pounded the sunken coral reef. The swells that had kept Mac’s stomach churning became monster waves. The huge walls of green curled and crashed and roared like the hounds of hell. He clamped his jaw shut and tried not to wince at the vicious battering Pegasus took.

Cari, he noted, didn’t so much as break a sweat as she worked the throttle and wheel. Somehow she managed to dodge the worst of the monsters while keeping her craft aimed straight for the calmer waters inside the reef.

Finally, Pegasus broke through the pounding surf. Mac mouthed a silent prayer of relief and swiped the sweat off his forehead with a forearm. Squinting through the canopy, he searched the vegetation fronting the beach for some sign of an opening.

“We’re right on track according to the GPS coordinates,” Cari confirmed after another read of the instruments. “The river mouth should lie dead ahead.”

“Bring us in closer.”

Keeping a wary eye on the depth finder, she took Pegasus into the bay. “The ocean floor’s shelving fast. If we don’t find the mouth soon, I’ll have to switch to track mode and take us…”

“There it is.”

The narrow gap in the tangled vegetation was almost invisible. Mac would have missed it if not for the rippling water surface where the river eddied into the bay.

Getting a lock on the ripples, Cari swung the wheel. Moments later, Pegasus was fighting his way against the powerful current. Before the green gloom of the river swallowed them, Mac needed to advise the recon team they were on their way up the Verde.

“Second Recon, this is Pegasus One.”

He waited for a reply. None came. Frowning, he keyed his mike again.

“Second Recon, this is Pegasus One. Acknowledge please.”

Long, tense seconds of silence passed. Cari pulled her gaze from the instruments. Mac saw his own mounting worry mirrored in her brown eyes. His jaw tightening, he was about to try again when the unmistakable rattle of gunfire came bursting through the radio. The patrol leader came on a second later, his voice sharp-edged but remarkably calm given the stutter of small arms fire in the background.

“Pegasus One, this is Second Recon. Be advised we’ve run smack into a heavily armed rebel patrol.”

“Do you have them in your sights?”

“We do, but our orders are to avoid returning fire unless under extreme duress.”

The sergeant broke off, cursing as another loud burst made extreme duress sound a whole lot closer than it had a few seconds ago. Mac’s fists went white at the knuckles. Those were marines taking fire. He didn’t breathe until the team leader came back on the horn.

“We can give these bastards the slip, but we’ll have to fall back. We’ll try to lead them as far as possible away from the target. Sorry, One. Looks like you’re on your own from here on out.”

“Roger that.”

“Good luck, sir.”

“You, too.”

The transmission cut off. The sudden silence drowned out even the muted whine of Pegasus’s engines. His jaw locked tight, Mac took another GPS reading from the radio signal and noted the team’s position on his map. They were still a good four klicks away from the mission.

“We’ve entered the river channel. I’m going to take us under, then power up to full speed.”

The calm announcement brought Mac’s head snapping around. Cari’s profile was outlined against the dark vegetation lining the riverbank. She kept her attention divided between the instrument panel and the view outside the bubble canopy, now narrowed to a fast-flowing river crowded above and on both sides by jungle.

She had every intention of pushing ahead, with or without fire support from the squad of marines they’d planned to rendezvous with. Evidently, it hadn’t occurred to her to abandon their mission. It hadn’t occurred to Mac, either, until this moment.

“Listen up, Lieutenant. We need to take another look at our operations plan. I…”

“Don’t even think it.”

The flat comeback snapped his brows together, but she didn’t give him time to respond. Slewing around, she raked him with a wire-brush look.

“This is a two-person operation, McIver. If you go in, I go in.”

He bit back the reminder that he was in command of the land phase of this mission. He knew damn well she’d remind him he hadn’t yet set foot on dry land.

Satisfied she’d made her point, Cari prepared to take Pegasus under the river’s green surface.

Twenty-six torturous miles later, she brought her craft up from the murky depths. Cari had seen more than her fill of submerged tree stump, twisting roots, slime-covered boulders and darting water snakes.

Once above the surface, the jungle reached out to envelop them. When the water sluiced off the canopy, Cari got the eerie feeling she and Mac were alone in a dark, still universe. Only an occasional stray sunbeam penetrated the dense overgrowth hundreds of feet above. Strangler vines drooped down like ropes from entwined branches. Giant ferns fanned out to cover the riverbanks.

Carefully, Cari navigated the last few yards to their designated rendezvous point. No one was waiting on the riverbank. No marines. No missionaries. No rebels or government troops.

Mac swept both banks with high-powered Night Vision goggles. The goggles could penetrate the gloom beyond the banks far better than the human eye.

“It looks clear,” he said tersely.

Cari nodded. “Hold tight.”

Repeating the process she’d tested only this morning in the Gulf waters just off Corpus Christi, she switched Pegasus from sea to land mode. The outer engines shut down and tucked against the hull. The propellers folded. The belly doors opened and the wide-track wheels descended.

Like some primeval beast crawling up out of the swamp, Pegasus clawed his way up the riverbank. The wheel tread ate up the giant ferns and spit them out. But even a high-tech, all-terrain, all-weather assault vehicle was no match for the impenetrable jungle.

Mac would have to hoof it from here. Killing the engines, Cari hit the switch to open the rear hatch. Smothering tropical heat instantly rushed in. So did an astonishing variety of flying insects. Swatting at a winged critter in a particularly virulent shade of orange, Cari climbed out of her seat and followed Mac to the hatch.

“I’ll bring out the two Americans,” he told her. “You stay with Pegasus.”

She swallowed her instinctive protest. With her craft secured and on dry land, the baton had passed. She was no longer in command. From now until Mac returned with the missionaries, this was his show.

Feeling a little deflated, she watched as he hunkered down on his heels and dug through his pack. A few, quick smears decorated his face in shades of green and black. Thin black gloves covered his hands. He performed a radio check, chambered a round in his assault rifle, and slung the weapon over his shoulder. His gray-green eyes lasered into her as he confirmed their communications pattern.

“I’ll signal you at half-hour intervals. If I miss one signal, wait another half hour. If I miss two, get the hell out of Dodge. Understand?”

“Yes.”

His gaze speared into her. “I mean it, Dunn. No stupid heroics. They could get us both killed.”

He was right. She knew he was right. Yet her throat closed at the thought of leaving him in this smothering heat and darkness.

“Two missed signals and you’re gone. Got that, Lieutenant?”

She gave a tight nod. He returned it with a jerk of his chin and started off. He took two steps, only two, and swung back.

“What the hell.”

The muttered oath had Cari blinking in surprise. She blinked again when he strode back to her and caught her chin in his hand.

“Mac, what are—?”

His mouth came down on hers, hard and hot and hungry. Stunned, she stood stiff as an engine blade while his lips moved over hers. A moment later, he faded into the jungle. She was left with the tang of camouflage face paint in her nostrils and the taste of Mac on her lips.

Chapter 3

“That was smart, McIver. Really smart.”

Thoroughly disgusted with himself, Mac moved through the dense undergrowth. He’d made some questionable moves in his life. Tangling with the senator’s wife had been one of them. Laying that kiss on Caroline Dunn was another. What was this thing he had for married—or almost married—women?

Calling himself an idiot one more time, Mac forced his thoughts away from the woman, the kiss and the heat that brief contact had sent spearing right through his belly.

The mission lay some three kilometers from the river. Five or six kilometers beyond that Second Recon had run smack into a heavily armed rebel force. The marines had said they’d fall back and draw the rebels away from the mission, but Mac wasn’t taking any chances. He kept his tread light on the damp, spongy earth and his assault weapon at the ready as he pushed through the giant ferns.

Once away from the river, the ferns thinned and the going got easier. The overhead canopy was so thick only the occasional stray sunbeam could penetrate. It was like moving through a dim, cavernous cathedral with tall columns of trees spearing straight up to support the vaulted ceiling. The deep shadows provided excellent concealment for him and, unfortunately, for potential enemies.

He pushed on, using the GPS built into his handheld digital radio to check his position and send Cari a silent signal at the prearranged times. With each step, his jumpy nerves steadied and his concentration narrowed until there was only Mac, his weapon and the gloom ahead.

As swift and stealthy as a panther, he cut through the jungle. Every sense had moved to full alert, every flutter of an orange-winged butterfly and slither of a spotted lizard sent a message. So did the sudden, raucous screech of a parrot.

Mac spun to his right, dropped into a crouch, and caught a flash of scarlet as the bird took wing. Peering into the gloom, Mac tried to see what had spooked it. Nothing else moved. No leafy ferns swayed.

Forcing the knotted muscles at the base of his skull to relax, Mac came out of the crouch. Without warning, something hard and sharp smacked into his forehead just above his right eyebrow.

Cursing, he ignored the blood pouring into his eye and aimed his assault rifle at the base of a hollow-trunked strangler fig. When the shadows moved, his finger went tight on the trigger.

“Whoever’s in there better show yourself. Now!”

He repeated the warning in Spanish and was searching for the few words of Caribe he’d memorized when another missile came zinging at him. This one he managed to dodge. It ricocheted off the tree behind him and landed at his feet.

A rock! Mac saw in disgust. Damned if he’d hadn’t taken a direct hit from a rock.

“You’ve got five seconds to show yourself,” he shouted, blinking away the blood. “Four, three, two…”

The shadow burst out of the tree trunk. With a frightened look at the gun aimed at his chest, the attacker whirled and ran.

With another muttered curse, Mac eased the pressure on the trigger. His assailant was a kid. A scrawny, barefooted kid in a Spider-Man T-shirt, of all things. Judging by his size, the runt couldn’t be more than six or seven.

“Hey! Hold on! I won’t hurt you!”

Fumbling for the Spanish phrases, he hotfooted it after the kid. He couldn’t have him spreading the word that there was an armed Americano roaming loose in the neighborhood. Not until after Mac had departed the scene with the two missionaries, anyway.

His longer legs ate up the ground. He caught the kid by the back of his ragged shirt and swung him around. The little stinker put up a heck of a fight, grunting and kicking and jabbing with his bony elbows. Keeping well clear of those sharp elbows, Mac held him at arm’s length.

“I’m a friend. Amigo.”

The kid twisted frantically. He wasn’t buying the friend bit. Considering the violence now ripping his country apart, Mac couldn’t exactly blame him. He gave the boy a quick little shake.

“Where’s your village? ¿Dónde está su, uh, casa?”

Still the youngster wouldn’t answer. His lower lip jutted out and his black eyes shot daggers at the marine, but he refused to speak so much as a word. Instead, he made some motion with his hand that Mac strongly suspected was the Caribe version of buzz off, pal.

“Stubborn little devil, aren’t you?”

Well, no matter. He had to be from the village where the Americans had set up their mission. It was the only settlement in this vicinity.

Bunching his fist, Mac kept a firm grip on the boy’s shirt with one hand while he slung his weapon over his shoulder and probed the cut above his eye with the other. The skin was tender and already rising to a good-sized lump, but the blood had slowed to a trickle. He’d clean the cut when he got to the village. Unless the navigational finder in his radio was sending faulty signals, it couldn’t be much farther.