“Nice to see you again, Lieutenant,” Roc drawled.

“Liar.”

Stunned, Roc stared at Dr. Samantha Andrews. “Excuse me?”

Sam met and held his surprised gaze. “You’re a liar, Captain Gunnison. And don’t try and sweet-talk me, because it won’t work. I call a spade a spade.”

Lips tightening, Roc stared at her. “Okay, Doctor, have it your way. I was just trying to be social.”

“Yeah, right. I saw the look you gave me. I know where I stand with you on this mission.”

He glared down at her. “We need to talk. But not here. And not now. Once we get to Area Five, you and I are going to chat. Alone.”

Giving him a cutting smile, Sam said, “Fine with me, Captain. Because frankly, you’re the last man on earth I’d ever want to have with me on a mission.”

Dear Reader,

Things are cooling down outside—at least here in the Northeast—but inside this month’s six Silhouette Intimate Moments titles the heat is still on high. After too long an absence, bestselling author Dallas Schulze is back to complete her beloved miniseries A FAMILY CIRCLE with Lovers and Other Strangers. Shannon Deveraux has come home to Serenity and lost her heart to travelin’ man Reece Morgan.

Our ROMANCING THE CROWN continuity is almost over, so join award winner Ingrid Weaver in Under the King’s Command. I think you’ll find Navy SEAL hero Sam Coburn irresistible. Ever-exciting Lindsay McKenna concludes her cross-line miniseries, MORGAN’S MERCENARIES: ULTIMATE RESCUE, with Protecting His Own. You’ll be breathless from the first page to the last. Linda Castillo’s A Cry in the Night features another of her “High Country Heroes,” while relative newcomer Catherine Mann presents the second of her WINGMEN WARRIORS, in Taking Cover. Finally, welcome historical author Debra Lee Brown to the line with On Thin Ice, a romantic adventure set against an Alaskan background.

Enjoy them all, and come back again next month, when the roller-coaster ride of love and excitement continues right here in Silhouette Intimate Moments, home of the best romance reading around.

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

Protecting His Own
Lindsay McKenna

MILLS & BOON

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LINDSAY McKENNA

A homeopathic educator, Lindsay teaches at the Desert Institute of Classical Homeopathy in Phoenix, Arizona. When she isn’t teaching alternative medicine, she is writing books about love. She feels love is the single greatest healer in the world and hopes that her books touch her readers’ hearts.

To Lynda Curnyn, my editor, who works so hard

on my behalf and always makes my day.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

Chapter 1

February 2: 0700

“How do you get oil and water to mix?” Morgan Trayhern asked out loud as he stood looking out the window of his office at Camp Reed. The marine base near Los Angeles had been operating twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week since an earthquake registering 8.9 on the Richter scale, had hit the Orange County area on New Year’s Eve. The devastation had left millions of people without food, water or medicine. Only this base had the air facility and personnel to even begin to try and save lives in that destroyed region. As an ex-marine and the head of Perseus, a covert agency that provided top-secret assistance to the government, Morgan had signed on to help with the recovery efforts. It hadn’t been easy. And with this next problem on his plate, his job had gotten a bit tougher.

Tucking his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, Morgan scowled. How was he going to get two very strong, bullheaded people to work as a team out in area 5 without killing one another? Morgan studied the faint pink color along the desert horizon, the sight of the new dawn filling him with hope.

The airport, a mile below the hill where the headquarters and logistics buildings sat, hummed like a stirred-up beehive. Fifty helicopters, mostly Sea Stallions and UH-1N Hueys, were lined up for takeoff—the backbone of the relief fleet. They had all been loaded the night before, and today two pilots would man each one, to fly goods into assigned areas. The flights would continue nonstop all day. Hardworking marine crews were also unloading huge Air Force cargo planes coming in regularly from points east. It was backbreaking work.

Absently, Morgan adjusted the collar on his red Polo shirt. Even though it was winter in Southern California, with temperatures dropping down to the thirties and forties at night, he wore short-sleeved shirts most of the time. His wife, Laura, always teased him about being so warm-blooded.

Turning, Morgan sighed, glancing around the tiny room and taking in the standard-issue green metal desk, the maps tacked to every inch of wall so he could plan and organize the flights. The radio on his desk was connected with each of the supply and rescue camps they’d already established in the devastated area. Each channel was designated for a specific region. It was also connected to the brain of the operation, in HQ, where the generals convened to create workable strategies along with federal and local government officials.

“Knock, knock?”

Morgan lifted his head. He smiled when he saw Dr. Samantha Andrews peek her head around the corner of his partially opened door. Seemed he was going to have that oil and water problem sooner rather than later. “Good morning, Sam. Come on in.” He lifted his hand.

“Thanks, Morgan. How’s Laura? I haven’t seen her since her last official checkup with me, a week ago. How’s her ankle doing?”

“She’s now on crutches. She hated that wheelchair, but she also hated being in bed with her leg suspended. I think the surgery you performed was successful.”

Frowning, Sam muttered, “Yes and no. When she got that blood clot later, that was a bump in the road to her recovery. I’m just glad we were able to fly in the drugs to get rid of it, since drugs of any kind are on short supply around here due to the earthquake crisis.”

Morgan nodded. “Well, like I said, she’s happy being on crutches. She was so elated when you gave them to her last week, and thrilled to be able to send the wheelchair back to Supply.”

“It will be eight weeks total before she can put real pressure on that ankle and the pins in it,” Sam said. “Hopefully, we can get her out of here by that time, back to Montana, and she can begin physical therapy at that point, to bring it back to almost full use.”

Lifting a pot from the coffee dispenser, Morgan held a cup in Sam’s direction as she stepped into the room. “Coffee?”

Laughing huskily, she said, “You need to ask a navy person if they want coffee?”

Chuckling, Morgan poured her a cup. “Right now, Laura is keeping busy by helping the pediatric ward take care of the babies. My wife is especially fond of Baby Jane Fielding, the little girl we found buried in the rubble while I was still out there in the field looking for Laura.”

“Ah yes, that cute little tyke,” Sam murmured, smiling. “Well, at least Laura has something to do. That’s important for her right now.” She came over and extended her long, thin hands toward the white ceramic cup he held out. “Coffee…” she sighed. “Nectar of the gods and goddesses….”

“Marines like java, too.”

“Yeah, marines aren’t far behind on that one,” she said genially as she watched Morgan pour himself a cup.

“Even ex-marines like me never lose the habit. It’s ingrained, I think.”

Laughing, Sam slid her hands around the thick cup and lifted it to her lips. “Understandable. The navy pays marines their checks twice a month, so they’re a part of us whether they like to admit it or not.”

“There’s the rub,” Morgan said. “Marines like to think they’re a stand-alone service, like the army and Air Force.”

Sam took a chair in front of Morgan’s desk, rearranging her white lab coat and the stethoscope hanging around her neck. “Yeah,” she said wryly, “I know. I run into that attitude all the time. Marines are too proud to admit they’re a part of something else. I think they forgot the concept of teamwork a long time ago.”

“Maybe so,” Morgan murmured as he sat down in the squeaky desk chair. “But the esprit de corps of the marines is known around the world and it’s very real.”

Sam sipped the coffee gratefully. She’d just gotten off a twelve-hour tour of duty, and it was 0700. She had twelve hours of rest coming to her before she went back on duty in the emergency room of the base hospital. “No question about that. It’s just that marines have a real problem working with anyone but their own kind. You used to be one. You know that.”

Grunting, Morgan nodded. “No question, at times, that it gets in the way of good teamwork with others,” he said, studying the young woman before him speculatively. Sam’s shoulder-length red hair curled about her thin, proud shoulders, a bright contrast to the white lab coat she wore over her standard navy issue light blue, long-sleeved blouse and dark blue slacks. Despite his concerns about her ability to work with others, Morgan knew Sam was a damn good surgeon. She had saved his wife’s badly injured ankle after Laura had been dug out of the rubble of the hotel they’d been staying in. If not for the doctor’s knowing hands in surgery, Morgan knew his wife might have lost her whole foot.

In fact, Sam, the head of E.R. for the navy hospital on Camp Reed, had insisted upon performing the surgery herself when she’d heard that Laura was married to the famous Morgan Trayhern. Morgan was forever grateful for Sam stepping in. Especially since the M.D. had already put in fourteen hours in E.R. that day, trying to help the hundreds of patients flowing through the doors in the wake of the earthquake. The hospital was on triage standing, and when Morgan had flown in with Laura, he had wondered if they’d get any help at all.

He remembered seeing Sam in the busy passageway just inside the double doors of the hospital when he’d arrived with Laura, who had been carried in on a stretcher by two marines. With her bright red-gold hair, Sam had been hard to miss beneath the fluorescent lights. The hallway was jammed and crowded. Morgan had heard the moans, the cries, had seen the obvious shock on the faces of dozens of people sitting on the floor, lying on gurneys, or standing and holding their bloody wounds, waiting for medical help.

Laura had been in deep shock herself, Morgan knew. Making his way through the crowd, he’d grabbed hold of Sam’s bloody white lab coat to get her attention. Automatically, he’d sensed she was in charge, because of the way she gave orders to the corpswaves and corpsmen, as well as the nurses. Her voice was cool, calm and authoritative. When she spoke, people settled down and listened. It was obvious Sam Andrews knew how to get things done, and that was the type of person Morgan wanted helping his wife.

When he’d grabbed her sleeve, Sam had stopped, turned her head, and then stared at him in surprise. Morgan had introduced himself, though he’d seen recognition in her eyes. For once, his legendary reputation had paid off. To Sam’s credit, she’d dived through the crowd to examine Laura’s mangled extremity, and then had called two orderlies over to take Laura up to an operation theater for immediate surgery prep.

Morgan would never forget the intense look of compassion in Sam’s eyes as she’d turned back to him. Gripping his hand briefly, she’d promised him that she would perform the surgery on Laura herself, and that everything was going to be fine. He’d nearly broken down and cried then. The genuine understanding in her eyes of what he was going through after nearly losing his wife in the hotel collapse had touched him deeply. Sam was a noble person, with such integrity and grit that Morgan had sworn he’d somehow repay her. Right now, he was going to do that, but he wasn’t sure she’d be thankful.

Leaning back in his chair, he said, “Sam, I’m pulling you from the ranks to help me. You’re the head of E.R. for good reason, and I need someone with your brains, moxie and abilities. Right now, we have an epidemic starting to flare up in the L.A. basin.”

Nodding, Sam sobered. “Yeah, I know. It’s inevitable, Morgan. The basin has no good local sources of water. I knew it would happen. A lot of people are gonna die if we can’t get someone in there to help, and soon. I know thousands of people are leaving the affected area and our agencies are trying to take them in, but they’re overwhelmed, too.”

“No disagreement. We have info that roughly a hundred thousand people have walked out of the area seeking help. But there are still those in the area who need medical attention. That’s why you’re here, Sam.”

She sat up and crossed her legs, resting the coffee cup on her knee. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Morgan eased upward and placed his own cup on the desk in front of him. “Starting tomorrow morning I want you to go into area 5 with a Recon team to protect you, and set up three sites for medevacs—medical evacuation areas—where people can get help for the dysentery, typhoid, food poisoning and other acute medical emergencies that are cropping up. Many people can’t walk ten or twenty miles to get out of the area, either because they are injured too badly or ill, elderly, or they are parents with children who might be more at risk on the road. These centers are being put into each area to take care of the people who are left behind. Plus, critically injured people have to be flown out ASAP because our road system is completely destroyed. We need you to formulate a medical system in one area, make it work, refine it if necessary, and then take that model to the other areas. You would be the advance medical team going in, setting up things for the regular teams.” He looked into her narrowing green eyes. Morgan could see she was very interested in the project. That was good. Maybe that would make up for the part he knew she probably wouldn’t like. “You think outside the box, Sam. I saw that when Laura was brought in and we were standing there in the passageway of the E.R., waiting for medical help. I watched as you assessed a lot of different triage situations, set things in motion and catalyzed everyone around you. You’re efficient. You grasp the whole of a problem, but you get the details right, as well.”

“Thanks,” Sam murmured, pleased. “Maybe you could suggest to the higher-ups to write that on my next six-month fitness report,” she said with a chuckle. Twice a year every person in the service was rated. The members on the fitness report determined whether or not a person would get promoted. A good report in one’s personnel jacket guaranteed it. A bad one could keep a person stuck in a job for years. It was a brutal, inflexible system, and many times, politics got involved. In these cases a career could be sandbagged and go to hell in a hurry, just because a superior didn’t like someone.

“Don’t worry,” Morgan promised her fervently, “after I get done talking to your superiors you’re going to get such a glowing report that you’ll jump from lieutenant commander straight to commander.”

Sam grinned mischievously. “That I have to see.” She warmed to the genuine sincerity in Morgan’s eyes. “I’m interested in this mission. That is why you called me in, right? To head up an advance medical team to create medevacs?”

“Yes. But…”

“Uh-oh…”

“Yeah,” Morgan said, trying to soften his expression, “there’s more to this mission than just you going in with key personnel, a map and ideas, Sam. As you know, we have a survivalist group running around out there. You’ve heard about them, right? The Diablos?”

“Yes. They murdered two marine helicopter pilots a couple of weeks ago, didn’t they?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“That puts them on my list.”

“Mine, too.” Opening his hands, he added, “And that’s why I’m sending in a Recon team with you. Things aren’t safe out there, Sam. These survivalists hit and run. We don’t have enough marine personnel available to cover the L.A. basin and hunt them down. They move from one area to another, although it does look as if they have a base of operations. We just haven’t located it yet.”

“Too little manpower to do so,” Sam agreed. She placed her coffee cup on the desk and clasped her hands on her knee. “Okay, so I handpick a small team of people to, first, find good sites for these three medevac tent areas, right?”

“Right.”

“And this Recon team is my big, bad guard dog, protecting me and my people while we reconnoiter the area to find what locations work best for helo landings and takeoffs for patients needing hospital care here at Camp Reed?”

“Yes, but we’re widening our scope of hospitals, since the navy CH-53E Super Stallions we just got on board have a helluva lot longer range and carry more fuel. We’ll be flying patients to hospitals north and east of Los Angeles, as far as San Francisco.”

“Well, that’s good news. We’re totally overwhelmed here and can’t do more than we are presently.”

“You know that more than anyone, Sam,” Morgan said grimly. “I’m surprised you’ve done as much as you have. You’re a magician.”

Sam smiled. “Look, I know this is a picky point, but I am in charge of this new operation, right? All of it?”

Moving uncomfortably, Morgan held her flat stare. He knew what was coming. “Sam…you’ll need to share the power and decision-making process with the captain who heads up the Recon team.”

“What, exactly, does that mean?”

His stomach clenched. From the short time he’d known her, Morgan knew Sam was a gung-ho, take-charge and take-no-prisoners kind of woman. She was a natural leader, a damn fine one. His own experience told him that Sam would balk at the idea of someone of the same rank being “boss” over her. She wouldn’t take kindly to the situation.

“It means,” he said gently, “that there may be times when Captain Gunnison may have the final decision instead of you, Sam. It would be in the area of safety,” he said, trying to reassure her. “I want you and your team safe. He and his men are trained for that. You’re going to have to work with him and vice versa. You might not be happy about it, but you’re going to have to base your decisions about the medevac areas and so on on his perceptions of the dangers.”

Morgan saw her rear back, surprise on her face. Her green eyes widened enormously and then narrowed to slits. Trying to avoid a blowup, he said, “I know this isn’t what you want, Sam. But under the circumstances, I can’t, in all good conscience, turn you loose out in the field with those survivalists roaming around like a pack of wolves. It’s a volatile, dangerous situation. The last thing I need is you to have wounded or dead. I’m looking to you to create the medical model for each of these areas. The epidemic is already flourishing out there. A lot of people are dying. Medevac stations should have been set up weeks ago, but I had to battle the top brass to get this plan in the works.”

“Tell me I heard wrong, Morgan. You said Captain Gunnison?”

“Yes. Why? Do you know one another?” Morgan guessed the answer to that by the look on her face, and his gut clenched.

“Do I know him?” she drawled. She threw her hands upward. “Do I know this arrogant, know-it-all, I’m-right-and-you’re-wrong marine? Oh, brother, do I! One of his men got hurt in a Recon mission here at Camp Reed about six months ago, and he was the biggest pain in the arse in Emergency. I happened to be on duty when the guy was flown in, with Gunnison at his side. Talk about a mother hen, Morgan. Gunnison was in my face, demanding that his man be taken care of immediately, ahead of other emergency cases that were a helluva lot more severe and life-threatening.”

“And he got into an argument with you on it?” Morgan could see where this was going. He’d been right: these two were oil and water, and would never mix. But he was so strapped for personnel. What he couldn’t tell Sam was that Gunnison, the executive officer of the Recon company stationed at Reed, was the last man available to pull for this five-man team. Everyone else was assigned to another area. Morgan was stuck. He hadn’t known about this earlier confrontation between her and Gunnison. He hadn’t anticipated this kind of reaction from Sam. Damn.

“Argument?” Sam said lightly, derision in her husky tone. “Let’s put it this way, Morgan—I was nose-to-nose with this arrogant SOB out in the passageway. I told him I was in charge of E.R., not him. He had the balls to say it didn’t matter, that his man’s injury took priority.” Sam laughed sharply and shook her head. “When Gunnison wants something, he’ll move heaven and hell to get it. When I refused to treat his man right away, he went over my head—stormed out of E.R. and went to my direct superior, Commander Talkins. Fortunately, Talkins didn’t side with him, and put him in his place. But Gunnison called over to his company commander, Major Branson, to raise hell and have pressure put on me to deal with his marine’s injury.”

“Oh, boy…” Morgan murmured.

“Yeah, no kidding. And you’re assigning this guy to me and my team? Morgan, I’m sorry, but I don’t ever want to deal with that dude again. He’s bullheaded. He won’t listen to reason. I can just see the kinds of hell I’ll go through out there with him. Besides, he’ll see it as a way to get even with me for not making his marine’s injury a top priority, and he’ll stick it to me. I know his type. I don’t need the hassle. Just let me go out there and do my job, okay? That I can do. And well.” Besides, the death of her fiancé, Captain Brad Holter, who had been a Marine Cobra helo pilot, was enough for Sam to deal with. Since her loss two years ago, she avoided marines. Having to work closely with Gunnison wasn’t going to be easy, emotionally, for her. He would remind her all over again of the magnitude of her loss.

Rubbing his chin, Morgan sat back, trying to think. The noise outside his door intruded. People rushed up and down the passageway, always in a hurry. Radios crackled and voices spoke in haste. Everyone at Logistics was under pressure; the tension was palpable.

“Okay, Sam, I’m going to level with you,” he said finally, sitting up and pinning her with his gaze. “We have no other Recon teams left. They’re all out in the field, providing protection in the other areas. Area 5 has none. It does have a marine fire team, but that’s not enough, since it looks as if the Diablos, the survivalist gang, are a major problem in that area. For all we know, they may have their base there. There’s no hard evidence of it, but it appears to be a possibility.”

“Okay,” Sam murmured, “so you’re telling me I’m stuck with Gunnison, right? He’s the last man on earth I’d want to deal with on this mission, yet he’s my partner in this?”

“I’m afraid so,” Morgan said apologetically. “If I could, I’d give you another team, Sam. Honest to God, I would. But this is beyond my scope to change. I think, right now, that we need to focus on what’s really important here—setting up medical sites to handle this emerging epidemic. Somehow, you and he are going to have to overlook past insults and injuries, take the higher ground here and get along.”

Quirking her lips, Sam said, “I can do it. But can he? Honestly, Morgan, he’s a trip. He thinks he’s God on earth. His men worship the ground he walks on. Gunnison thinks that everything he says ought to become law and then some. This guy does not know how to compromise or even delegate.”

“I hear you,” Morgan said unhappily. “Look, here’s what I can do, because I have you written in for a helo flight tomorrow morning at 0600 with him and his team. I can call Gunnison in, read him the riot act, give him a paternal talk about getting along with you and letting past history go for the sake of saving people’s lives.”

“Good luck,” Sam murmured. “Oh, hell, Morgan, I understand you’re caught between a rock and a hard place. My E.R. has been in that position since the earthquake occurred. Let me go gather my team, okay? Can I get a delivery of medical supplies, to bring with me to fight the epidemic?”

“Thanks, Sam. You’re special. You really are. I’m going to try and get Captain Gunnison to realize that about you. Sure, get your list of supplies together and bring it over to me. I’ll contact the loadmaster down at the airfield and make sure you get what you want on board that chopper later today. It’ll be a Sea Stallion, by the way, so it can hold extra cargo as well as people.”

“Fine,” she sighed. Shaking her head, she gave him a wry look. “Never a dull moment, is there?”

“Not in an emergency of this magnitude,” Morgan agreed quietly. “But you’re the right person for this mission, which we’re calling Operation Rescue. You access area 5. You find three locations for medevacs. You have Captain Gunnison call in the coordinates to me, and I’ll make them happen within twenty-four hours, to give those poor folks some intervention. Maybe then,” he sighed, “we can nip some of this epidemic before they start raging.”

“Humph,” Sam groused, standing. “Bad water’s the reason for many of these health problems. I know the helos are flying in as many cases of water as they can. But there are too many people out there, Morgan, and not enough clean water. They’re going to drink questionable stuff rather than die, and that brings on cholera, typhus and a whole host of other uglies.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” he said, smiling. Getting up, he thrust his hand across the desk. Sam’s grip was warm and firm. “Thanks. For everything. I’ll talk to Gunnison today.”

Wrinkling her nose, she released his hand and growled, “Oh, yeah, that’s like telling a pit bull not to bite. Good luck, Morgan. You’re gonna need it with that stiff-necked marine.”

Chapter 2

February 2: 1500

Captain Roc Gunnison scowled, opening and closing his right hand as he sat in his executive officer’s cubicle at the Recon company barracks. Morgan Trayhern had just left and Roc still had a bitter taste in his mouth from his meeting with the venerable ex-marine and head of Perseus. Glaring at the bulkheads, which were covered with photos chronicling his four years at Annapolis, his rise through the ranks of the Marine Corps and the awards he’d received for innovation within the reconnaissance arm of it, he quirked his lips.

Before he had time to ponder the situation, Sergeant Buck Simmons entered and came to attention. The twenty-six-year-old redhead was a hell of a noncom and Roc was glad to have him as a member of his five-men Recon unit.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?”

“Yes. At ease, Buck. We’ve got a mission.” Roc saw surprise followed by an almost feral gleam of pleasure in Buck’s eyes.

“Really, sir?”

Smiling grimly, Roc said, “I know you’ve been antsy, Buck, and wanting to take a ride outta this place.”

“Yes, sir, I would!”

“Well, you’re getting your wish, but I don’t know…” He stopped short. As an officer, Roc couldn’t let on to the politics of the situation. The enlisted people under his wing couldn’t know that he was seething with anger over being stuck with Dr. Andrews on this mission. “Anyway,” Roc growled, lifting his head, “get the team prepared to saddle up at 0530. We’re taking a Sea Stallion into area 5.”

“Are we going after Diablo?” Buck leaned forward, his lips curling back to reveal his teeth, like a wolf anticipating jumping a quarry.

“Kind of…” Roc muttered. But not really. He wanted to say, We’re playing baby-sitter to that pain-in-the-arse doctor we had a run-in with six months ago, but he didn’t. “We’re going to be protecting a group of medical people coming in to canvass the area and set up three medevac stations. The epidemic is breaking out all across the basin, as you probably know. We’re going in to make sure the Diablos don’t get to the medevacs before the people can get help.”

Frowning, his thin red brows bunching, Buck rubbed his chin. “Are we going to be baby-sitters, sir?” The words came out with a distinct distaste.

Roc’s grin was twisted. “Now, Sergeant…we do what we’re ordered to do. This is an important logistical step in getting the people of the L.A. basin the help they need. We’ll be playing a key role in makin’ it happen.” Roc saw Buck’s green eyes narrow.

“Well, sir, maybe after baby-sittin’ duties, we can kind of nose around for Diablo on our off-hours?”

Roc’s grin widened. “All things bein’ equal, Sergeant, yeah, we might be able to do that if circumstances dictate. But for now, get the team squared away today and ready to push off at 0530—at pad Bravo at the airport tomorrow.”

Coming to attention, Buck said, “Yes, sir!” He did an about-face and quickly left the cramped office.

Moving to the map of the quake zone, showing the entire southern Los Angeles area divided up into quadrants by Logistics, Roc studied area 5. But his mind wandered back to that redheaded witch of a woman doctor he was going to have to tangle with—again.

“What the hell kind of karma do I have?” he muttered out loud, turning back to his desk.

“Sir?”

Turning with surprise, Roc saw Lance Corporal Ted Barstow, also young and also part of his team, standing expectantly in the doorway. “Yes, Barstow?”

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “Er…Sergeant Simmons sent me up to ask if you want demolitions loaded with our equipment. He said this was a milk run, not a real mission. We’re babysitting?”

Wryly, Roc smiled to himself. He leaned against the edge of his green metal desk. “We’re protecting. And yes, load everything. We’re going in as a Recon team prepared for any and all possibilities.” He saw Barstow’s triangular face light up with enthusiasm. Barstow was their demo expert, the guy who set the claymore mines and anything else he could get his hands on to blow up the enemy. Barstow was like a mad scientist, always fiddling with chemicals to see what would happen. A couple of times he’d had his hair and eyebrows singed, playing around with volatile concoctions. What Barstow should do was go to college and take classes, but the Oregon native didn’t take to schooling. He had grown up in the Cascade Mountains, was an outdoors kid who hunted for food for his family’s table. After barely getting his high school diploma, he’d joined the Marine Corps and had found his niche in the Recon marines.

“That’s great, Cap’n! I’ll get on it, sir!” Barstow turned and trotted down the hall, his boots thunking on the wooden floor and creating a loud echo in the nearly empty barracks.

Roc smiled again, his spirits momentarily lifted by Barstow’s visit. The kid was sharp, and eager. Everyone on his team was like that, and so was he. Gathering up the papers on his desk, he put them in his out basket. It was time to get moving. Roc was glad to be heading into the field at last. He’d been feeling restless and antsy as this earthquake mission got off the ground. All around him, Camp Reed hummed with activity. It was the hub of a great web that stretched in every direction, bringing in supplies to save lives.

Major Carson, his commanding officer, had needed Roc here at the base to help coordinate the Recon teams that were already out in the quake zone. Roc had been in charge of planning and logistics for the teams. Now it was his turn to go out in the field, which was what he lived for. Working in an office wasn’t his idea of fun. It was a special hell.

Stepping into the hall, he headed to his locker, where he kept his M-16 rifle, pack, flak jacket and helmet. He would oversee the preparations for tomorrow morning’s liftoff. All their gear would be brought to a central location to be loaded on a Humvee for transport today. And, he wanted to acquaint himself with the airport facility so there would be no screwups. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was nearly time for them to take the Humvee over to the airport. Buck would make sure their team was at the pickup point, Roc was sure. That’s how eager they all were to cut loose from this place and do what they did best: field operative work.

As he pulled the flak vest over his desert utilities and pressed it shut, Roc felt his heart squeeze in anticipation of the coming confrontation. Dr. Andrews was no weak sister. She was formidable, as he’d found out when Private First Class Louis West, a nineteen-year-old on his team, had injured his leg during an exercise. Roc had never run into such a strong, bullheaded woman. And she hadn’t budged from her position. He’d lost that first battle with her, and his ego still smarted.

“I won’t lose this time,” he growled, settling his helmet on his head. Allowing the straps to hang free, he adjusted the goggles perched atop the camouflage-colored headgear, then reached for his pack. If Andrews thought she was going to tell him what to do in the field, she had another think coming.

The truth was, Roc would much rather send his team out on a scouting and reconnaissance mission, to try and locate the Diablos. There wasn’t a marine on the base who hadn’t heard how the gang had ruthlessly murdered two pilots weeks earlier. In his heart, Roc longed to go after them. No one killed marines and got away with it. No way. Even though his wasn’t designated a hunter-killer team, Roc dreamed of finding the survivalist gang and settling the score once and for all.

As he hoisted his sixty-pound pack onto his shoulders, settling it in place on his rangy frame, a thrill shot through him. Fieldwork. It was something he loved. He’d trade indoor time for outdoor any day of the week. Despite the fact that he’d have to put up with sourpuss Andrews, the day was looking brighter already.

February 3: 0600

Sam gathered her team on the landing pad next to where the Sea Stallion sat ready to go. The two marine pilots were already in the cockpit, going through pre-flight procedures before the blades started to turn. The airport was a noisy cacophony of screams, shrieks and whistles from fixed-wing aircraft, the thump, thump, thumps of rotorcraft. It was 0600. They were slated to take off in fifteen minutes.

“Jonesy, have we got all the supplies on board?” she called to her corpsman, Jones Baker, a twenty-two-year-old African-American.

“Yes, ma’am, we’re good to go!” Jonesy flipped her a thumbs-up.

Sam smiled, noting the excitement and eagerness in Jonesy’s brown eyes. He was one of her best corpsmen, and had worked with her in E.R. for two years. Nothing rattled the Harlem, New York native. Nothing. He’d grown up on the city streets and knew how to survive anything. When things got hot, heavy and intense in E.R., Sam could always count on this young man to keep a cool head and calm presence.

Though a gangly six foot tall, Jones had the hands of a concert pianist. Sam had talked to him early about taking premed classes at a nearby college, and had told him she felt he’d make a great doctor. Jonesy had taken her belief in him to heart. He was now in his second year, a straight-A student. When he wasn’t working in his navy functions, she’d always find him with a book open, studying relentlessly. Often he came to her with questions, and they’d discuss medical points and symptoms. The world needed more people like Jonesy—self-motivated, smart, and hungry to better themselves. Sam was glad he was along on this mission.

“I’ve got all the IVs boxed up, Dr. Andrews,” Lieutenant Lin Shan announced, approaching the open cargo door of the helicopter, near where Sam stood.

“Great, Lin. Think we’ve got enough?” She looked down at the surgical nurse, her right-hand woman in the operating room. Lin was Chinese-American, her parents having escaped from their own country under political duress. Born in San Francisco, the twenty-seven-year-old nurse was five foot two inches tall, thin as a reed and beautiful. Today, her dark, almond-shaped eyes shone with excitement. Like the rest of Sam’s team, Lin was dressed in dark blue slacks, a pale blue, long-sleeved shirt, a flak vest, mandatory protection for the upper body, and wearing a dark blue navy baseball cap with Camp Reed Hospital, USN, embroidered in gold across the front.

“We’ve got three hundred IVs,” Lin said with a grin. “As many as the loadmaster would let me load on board. I tried to get more, but that would make us exceed the weight limit. The head guy told me if I wanted more, some of us would have to stay behind. I didn’t think you’d like that.”

Sam nodded. “Not on this trip, at least,” she said with a laugh. “Good job, Lin. Go ahead and board. I’ll be in shortly.”

Holding her clipboard in her hands, Sam looked around for her other cohorts. Corpswave Ernestine Larrazolo, whose parents came from Nicaragua, hurried around the chopper, an expectant look on her face. “You got all the dressings, antibiotics on board, Ernie?” Sam asked.

“Yes, ma’am, all that they’d let me stow away on this bird.”

Sam smiled. “I hear you, Ernie.” A corpswave first class, Ernie was priceless, in her opinion. She spoke Spanish, which was a big help, and she was quick and efficient in emergencies. Sam knew that Ernie didn’t want to leave her husband, Jose, and their two young children, but she understood the importance of this mission. Five foot three inches tall, with a stocky build, Ernie was not only strong physically, but had a big warm heart, as well. Sam had picked her for several reasons. Ernie had come out of the barrio of Los Angeles and knew the area and its people. Sam suspected that, on this mission, they’d run into many Hispanics who were in the States illegally. She wanted Ernie there as an interpreter as well as a nurturing mother figure. No one was a better mama in the E.R. than Ernie. She was able to put her chunky arms around a crying child, or settle her dark brown hands on a man in pain, and soothe child or adult with her touch and soft voice.

“Climb on board,” Sam said as she checked off the supplies that Ernie had been responsible for getting on the helo.

“You betcha.” Ernie eagerly clambered up the lip of the chopper, with a helping hand from Jonesy, and into the cargo bay.

Sam smiled to herself as she signed off the supply sheet and handed it to the marine loadmaster, Sergeant Dunway. “Thanks,” she told him. It was cold, so she slipped her dark blue wool gloves back onto her chilly fingers. Cold was not something Sam liked. The morning was frosty, near freezing, she guessed, for she could see the white vapor coming out of her mouth as she spoke.

“Thanks, ma’am,” Dunway said, tucking the order into the breast pocket of his desert-colored jacket. “This bird is loaded to the gum stumps.” He turned and looked at an approaching Humvee. “And if I don’t miss my guess, here’s the rest of the weight load—the Recon team.”

Heart pounding briefly, Sam stood at the opening and watched the heavy vehicle approach at high speed. As it drew up to within thirty feet of the Sea Stallion, she could see Captain Roc Gunnison in the passenger seat—the last man on earth she ever wanted to work with. Lips tightening, Sam tried to gird herself as she stared at her through the window of the Humvee. There was no welcome in those hard eyes.

Trying to appear nonchalant, which was tough for Sam, since she usually wore her emotions on her face, she watched as the door to the Hummer opened. Out stepped her nemesis, and her heart thumped again. Only not from dread. What was it, then? Stymied, Sam took a deep breath, studying his hard, unyielding profile as he turned and allowed his team to climb out.

Roc Gunnison was thirty-two years old, a seasoned marine vet. Highly decorated, he had seen action, she understood, not only in Somalia, but in Kosovo. Lanky and broad shouldered, he appeared strong, capable and athletic in his desert cammos. There was something confident and sure about his every movement. His black hair was close cropped and barely visible beneath the helmet on his head. Those eagle-like blue eyes, the color of the Montana sky she’d been born under, always got to her. Once, as a teenager, she’d rescued a bald eagle that had been shot by a hunter, its wing broken, and had carried it back home to her father, who was a veterinarian. Sam had never forgotten the hours she’d spent watching that eagle recuperate in the huge, airy cage outside her father’s office. More than anything, she’d loved the way the eagle looked, the alertness in its eyes, which never missed a thing. Roc Gunnison had that same alert quality.

As he swung his head in her direction, Sam’s heart thundered briefly. Their eyes met and locked. Frozen beneath his assessing gaze, Sam felt naked and vulnerable. Under any other circumstance, she’d find him handsome, with his square face and craggy, good looks made rugged by many hours out in the elements. Sam never liked pretty boys; instead, she was fascinated by faces of experience and character. Unfortunately, Gunnison’s face fit that profile. She found herself staring almost hungrily at him now. Remembering how revealing her face could be when she was entangled in an emotional situation, she did her best to keep her expression deadpan as his gazed raked over her.

Maybe the chaos she felt inside was simply a result of the times. The events. The pressure of the crisis situation she had been living and working in, she thought, as he stared belligerently across the vehicle at her. She saw his mouth thin, the corners turning down as his black, thick brows drew into a V of obvious displeasure. A part of her knew that Gunnison had already formed an opinion about her, and he wasn’t happy with her presence on this mission. Why couldn’t he be more compassionate? More understanding? What had happened in the E.R. six months ago should be over and done with. Somehow, Sam had hoped for a less nasty reception from the captain. Obviously, he wasn’t one to let bygones be bygones. A part of her wanted to cry at that discovery.

Roc couldn’t tear his gaze from Dr. Andrews. She stood near the helicopter in her U.S. Navy regulation clothing, her desert-colored flak jacket hiding the upper part of her five-foot-seven-inch frame. She was large boned, and despite the mannish clothing she had to wear, he could see she was curvy. He glared at her, trying to let her know silently that he wasn’t going to brook any arguments on this mission. Eighty percent of all communication was on a nonverbal level, Roc knew. He hoped that by nailing her with a lethal, I’m-not-going-to-take-any-crap-from-you look, she’d get the message, loud and clear.

The early morning breeze lifted some strands of her red hair, which gleamed with threads of gold. Her thick, shoulder-length locks, framed her oval face, the color emphasizing her large green eyes, which glittered with intelligence. Roc didn’t fool himself; this wasn’t just any woman. She was sharp and articulate, and could be lethal with that cutting mouth of hers. And speaking of mouths…He groaned inwardly. Why did Andrews have to have such a soft, full mouth? Now, as he stared at her across the distance, he saw her lips part slightly. That was his undoing, dammit. He didn’t want to like her, but he couldn’t help but admire her clean, fine-boned features. She looked like a Grecian statue he’d seen in Athens as a kid on a vacation with his well-to-do parents. And with that blanket of copper freckles dotting her high cheekbones and nose, she looked more like a teenager than a medical doctor.

He scowled even more deeply. Andrews was not fashion-model pretty, but she had an arresting and interesting face, Roc had to admit. He saw the gentleness in her mouth, the bear-trap intelligence in those huge green eyes that gave away her every feeling. And that red hair was a warning to anyone not to cross her, because she was a warrior at heart.

Snorting, Roc ordered his men into the helicopter. After thanking the driver for bringing them to the landing pad, he shut the door of the Humvee. Girding himself emotionally, he hefted his pack in his left hand, the M-16 in his right, and stepped around the vehicle. The hum of the Sea Stallion’s engine began. In a few minutes, the rotors would begin to turn. As he walked toward the helo, Roc saw Andrews still standing there, her gloved hands crossed in front of her body. He felt her tension, saw it in those huge green eyes.

As he approached, she looked up, defiance clearly written on her face.

“Nice to meet you again, Lieutenant,” he drawled, as he proceeded to toss his pack into the cargo bay of the helo.

“Liar.”

Stunned, Roc paused and turned to take a second look at her. “Excuse me?”

Sam met and held his surprised gaze. “You’re a liar, Captain Gunnison. Don’t try and sweet-talk me, because it won’t work. I call a spade a spade.”

So much for her soft mouth and eyes. Lips tightening, he stared at her. “Okay, Lieutenant, have it your way. I was just trying to be social.”

“Yeah, right. I saw the look you gave me. It said it all. Fine. I know where I stand with you on this mission.” Sam could get away with being honest because everyone else was in the chopper, unable to hear them. She was glad to see she’d caught Gunnison off guard. She had to keep her wits about her so he wouldn’t box her in. She was just as much in charge of this mission as he was, and she wasn’t about to allow the Recon to intimidate her, as she knew he’d been trying to do with that frosty look he’d given her earlier.

Facing the chopper, Roc hefted his pack up into the hands of his sergeant. Then he turned and, his hands on his hips, glared down at her. “We need to talk. But not here. And not now. Once we get to area 5, you and I are going to have a chat, out of earshot of everyone.”

Giving him a cutting smile, Sam said, “Fine with me, Captain. But you might as well know now that you’re the last man on earth I’d ever want to have with me on a mission.”

With that lob of a grenade, Sam brushed past him and leaped up into the cargo bay of the helicopter. She found her nylon seat against the bulkhead and sat down. Looking up, she watched as Gunnison, frowning now, climbed lithely into the hold and sat on the opposite side with his men. The loadmaster slid the door shut and it locked.

Sam couldn’t steady her fluttering heart. She felt like she’d been in combat, adrenaline was pumping so hard through her veins. If Gunnison thought she was a weakling and he could run over her or intimidate her with just a look, he was badly mistaken. Judging from the frustration she saw on his face as he strapped in, Sam knew he’d gotten her message, loud and clear. She smiled to herself. This was her mission. People needed her and her team’s help. Gunnison was going to play second fiddle—or else.

Chapter 3

February 3: 0615

Once they had taken off from Camp Reed and were en route to area 5, Roc decided to tip the balance of power between Dr. Andrews and himself. After taking off his helmet, he donned a headset, unstrapped his seat belt and stood up. Pinning her with his gaze, he walked across the shaking and rattling green metal deck. Her eyes widened as he reached up, his finger brushing her thick red hair and grabbed the set of earphones that hung nearby.

She wore nothing on her head, so he simply took a step back and lowered the headset over her ears. The noise in the Sea Stallion was so bad no one could hear another without putting on the protective earphones that hooked them up to intercabin communication.

“Get up,” he told her, “and follow me.”

Stunned at his aggressive and unexpected move, Sam stood. Grabbing at the overhead nylon webbing for stability, she followed him as he walked, legs apart for balance, toward the cockpit. Her heart was hammering. The captain’s unexpected move toward her was a surprise. What was he up to? She’d seen him studying her from the other side of the helicopter, his eyes a flat blue color, intent upon her. Sam squirmed inwardly but she was damned if she was going to let him know how uncomfortable he made her feel. When his fingers had accidentally brushed her hair, she’d gasped. Contact with Gunnison wasn’t in the game as far as she was concerned. But at just the right moment, the helo had pitched slightly to port and he’d swayed forward, off balance for a moment. Nevertheless, her scalp tingled.

Sam kept her distance as she followed Gunnison. Even in the cool morning air, there was some turbulence and the helicopter wasn’t all that stable beneath her booted feet. When he reached the open door to the cockpit, he jabbed a finger at the window near the dark green panel behind the pilot’s seat. “Get down on your hands and knees and look out that window,” Gunnison growled. “You need to get a gander of area 5 from the air. If you’re looking for possible sites and locations for your medevac models, it would help to see the terrain from up here first.”

It made sense. Why hadn’t Sam thought of this? Stung by his foresight, his understanding of her mission, she gripped the nylon webbing tightly. She really didn’t want to get that close to Gunnison, but he stood with his back to the bulkhead, only inches from where she’d have to kneel to look out the window. Sam didn’t relish the idea. Dressed in his military camouflage gear, Gunnison appeared even larger and more intimidating than usual. The look on his face was grim.

“Yeah…okay,” she muttered defiantly. She’d just started to step forward when the Sea Stallion pitched unexpectedly. Sam let out a little cry as she found herself knocked off her feet.

Hands, strong and caring, grabbed for her. A second later she found her face pressed against Gunnison’s chest as he planted his feet far apart to take her full weight. Oh! The mortification of it all!

Sam made a strangled sound and instantly pushed away from Gunnison’s chest. He was laughing at her; she saw his blue eyes gleaming with humor. His mouth, however, was still a thin, disapproving slash as he helped her regain her footing. His hand remained firmly on her arm as she quickly knelt down and gripped the metal bars on either side of the window for support and balance. She felt heat flooding her neck and face. Oh, God, she was blushing! Fortunately, Gunnison couldn’t see her schoolgirl reaction.

Or so she hoped. As she looked out the window, her heart pounding, her pulse erratic, she felt his bulk settle directly behind her. Jerking her head to glance over her right shoulder, she saw him kneel down on one leg, his body barely an inch from her back. What was he doing? Intimidating her? She watched as he settled the mike of his headset close to his lips.

“Look to your left. That’s area 5 coming up in a hurry.” Roc leaned over her right shoulder, his left hand brushing her hair again as he pointed. He felt her tense as he loomed over her. The slight turbulence of the helicopter kept both of them off-kilter. Every time the helicopter bobbled, he would accidentally brush her shoulder or back, though he’d immediately compensate and pull away.

The look on her face was one of anger and frustration. Did she think he liked this any more than she did? That he was doing it on purpose? Was she going to be able to rise above personal dislike of him and focus on their real objective? Knowing that both their headsets were tuned to a private intercom channel, he said, “Look, Doc, settle down, will you? Focus on the objective, the sites. Take a look down there instead of staring at me like I’m attacking you.”

Gasping again, Sam glared up at him. Then, jerking her attention to the yellow-brown earth five thousand feet below, she tried to steady her chaotic breathing. Gunnison was so damn male, and very intimidating. He knew it, too, the bastard. He was doing this on purpose. Sam could see the glimmer of laughter in his narrowed eyes as he snapped at her.

“What am I looking at?” she demanded tightly.

Roc pulled a folded map from a jacket pocket and passed it to her so she could study it.

Sam gripped the dirty, well-used map. The chopper was bobbling again. She felt Gunnison tense behind her, straightening his left leg and bracing his boot against the bulkhead. To his credit, he was trying not to brush against her, but the turbulence made it impossible.

His face was so close to hers as he leaned forward and traced his index finger over the map that Sam felt trapped. Suffocated. He was so tall, almost larger than life as he framed her body with his.

She winced as he spoke. “This is area 5. There are a couple visual markers to indicate the boundaries, and I’ll point them out to you. Out there, at three o’clock, is a radio tower. See it?”

Sam tried to concentrate, but she could smell his masculine scent, feel his moist breath near her right cheek. Blinking, she followed his index finger as he pressed it against the window.

“Uh, yeah, I see it.”

“Okay. Good. That’s your northern boundary marker. Once we fly past, you’re in area 5, so everything below is your turf. That’s what you want to eyeball. You want to look at terrain, the possibilities for helicopters getting in and out, how far each potential site is from suburban housing and so on.”

In a perverse way, Roc enjoyed the unexpected closeness to the doctor. She smelled of lilacs, and he wondered if it was from her shampoo or if she wore perfume. At this range he could see every freckle on her cheek. Her nostrils flared and he wondered if that was a sign of her displeasure at him being so close. Her eyes were a beautiful color, he discovered—like an evergreen forest. The pupils were huge and black, and if he read her gaze properly, she didn’t like him bending over her. Tough. He had a job to do.

“Now,” he said, “here’s the south marker, one of the few microwave towers still standing.” He jabbed his finger down at the map she held unsteadily in her left hand. “We’ll see it in a second. I gave the pilot orders to fly on south of the tower so you could see your whole area.”

How smart of him. Sam chided herself for being so immature. In reality, Gunnison was just doing his job—far better than she was at the moment. Trumped by his ability to focus on the task before them instead of the pettiness between them, she felt humiliated. Right now, Gunnison was being a lot more professional than she was. It was Sam holding a grudge from six months ago, not him.

As a trained medical doctor, she had learned a long time ago to disconnect her feelings while working. She had learned not to take things personally. But sometimes, depending upon circumstances, that was hard to do.

Right now, Gunnison was pushing every emotional button she owned. He had taken the high road in all of this and she…well, it wasn’t pretty. She was behaving like a fifteen-year-old girl who had been jilted.

Sam tried not to think what he must think of her. Sending him a swift glance, she saw his eyes thaw for just a moment. In that split second, she glimpsed the man, not the marine on duty. But it happened so fast she thought she was imagining it. Jerking her head back toward the window, she concentrated on finding that microwave tower.

“Yes…I see it,” she muttered finally.

“Good. Now—” Roc swung his finger in an arc “—start checking out this area. The eastern boundary is nothing but desert and sagebrush.” He pulled his left hand back and looked at the dials on his watch. “In two minutes, we’re gonna hit that boundary—I’ll tell you when we fly over it. Then you’ll have three sides of area 5 in view. The pilot is going to fly to the western boundary and then turn back to the landing zone, which basically sits in the middle of it. There’s a destroyed shopping mall there. That’s in the heart of the area you want to consider.”

“Yeah…okay. Thanks…” Sam scowled. She didn’t sound very grateful. It was a good idea to peruse the area from the air. This way, she could get an idea of where she might want her three medevac site models created. Trying to steady her heartbeat, which became faster and more erratic each time Gunnison accidentally brushed against her, she stared out the window.

This was her first chance to look at the actual devastation caused by the giant quake. For the last five weeks she’d been handling the huge number of casualties from it, but she’d had little concept of the massive damage the earthquake had wrought on the L.A. basin. Mother Nature, when she was pissed off, could really stick it to them, Sam thought sadly. Holding the map in her left hand, she focused all her concentration on the job before her. As she spotted the second tower, she heard Gunnison tell her they’d just flown across the eastern boundary.

Below her, Sam saw rolling hills of sagebrush and cactus flowing down toward the first block of red-roofed homes, which seemed to be carved from the land. After that, suburbs spread everywhere, like a colourful quilt covering the earth as far as she could see. As they flew on, Sam could see the utter devastation that the monster quake had wrought. Few homes were standing. Most were flattened totally. Red-tiled roofs were scattered helter-skelter across winter-brown lawns. Fences between homes were broken and splintered, trees knocked down like toothpicks. Sam noticed groups of people huddled around campfires here and there. In the early morning air, the number of thin black plumes of smoke showed her just how many campfires there were. Hundreds of them. Her throat tightened.

“Oh, God…I didn’t realize…I just didn’t know how bad this really was….”

Roc heard the tears in her husky tone and was unexpectedly moved. As he stared over her right shoulder, trying to ignore the strands of her hair tickling the side of his jaw, he growled, “I didn’t, either. This is my first time over the area, too. It looks like all hell has broken loose.”

Nodding jerkily, Sam felt tears come to her eyes. Rapidly, she blinked them away. Roc’s voice was low and filled with emotion. That surprised her. Before, his voice had been hard and flat—sounding like a robot’s. Well, he had feelings after all. Maybe she’d been wrong about him. Maybe he did have a heart.

She focused again on the devastation below, trying to absorb it emotionally. As they flew on toward the western boundary the magnitude of the tragedy became even more painful to her. The poor were obviously suffering the same as the well-heeled; just as many campfires dotted the barrios as the wealthier suburbs, with even more people huddled around them, trying to get warm. How quickly humans could be thrown back into stone-age survival mechanisms, Sam realized.

“Okay, the pilot is going to make his last turn at the western boundary,” Roc told her. He’d watched as Dr. Andrew’s expression had gone from anxiety to obvious pain and suffering while she watched the devastation unfold before them. When she turned, her gaze meeting his when he spoke, he saw tears in her eyes.

It hit him in the heart like nothing ever had. His only experience with her had been when she’d faced him down about his injured man, like a harpy eagle unleashed. Now he was seeing a completely different side to her, and it touched him deeply. Unexpectedly. Scowling, Roc tried to protect himself from her vulnerability. It was impossible.

Sam quickly looked away. She hadn’t wanted Gunnison to see her with tears in her eyes. Dammit! Why couldn’t she be tough and distance herself from this kind of thing? Her professors at medical school certainly would be able to. Blinking again, she jerked her head toward the window once more in hopes that Gunnison wouldn’t say anything. She half expected him to make fun of her, or deride her as he had in the E.R. that day six months ago. Tensing, she felt him shift behind her.

“Okay, you got the picture,” he was telling her in a gruff tone. “Let’s get back to our seats. This chopper is gonna land pretty soon.”

Sam felt him stand up behind her, and she waited until he stepped away.

“I can make it back on my own.” To her own ears her voice sounded brittle and tinny. She swallowed hard, trying desperately to squelch her tears before she had to turn around and face her people and his men. As an officer, Sam couldn’t be seen crying. Not ever. Especially not in front of enlisted people. They had a job to do, and her crying like a baby didn’t exactly instill faith in her leadership. Bowing her head for a moment, she remained on her knees, trying to gather her shattered emotions.

Unexpectedly, she felt Gunnison move to her right side. Looking up, she realized he was creating a physical barrier between her and their crew, most of whom were probably watching them. And then it hit her what he was really doing: protecting her from being seen in this condition by her people and his. As she looked up at him, amazed that he’d do that for her, as a fellow officer, she met and held his gleaming blue gaze. There was curiosity in his expression, and something else Sam couldn’t decipher.

“Take your time, Doc,” he told her, his voice husky. “I’ve seen this level of suffering over in Somalia and Kosovo. It takes some getting used to.” And he managed a twisted one-cornered smile that let her know he understood what she was going through.

Choking, Sam bowed her head and shut her eyes tightly. It took everything she had to force down her unraveling emotions. Afraid to talk for fear of bursting into tears of sympathy for those suffering so badly below them, she simply nodded to let him know she’d heard him.

Finally, after what seemed interminable minutes, Sam took a long, unsteady breath. There. Her emotions were tamped way down deep once more. Giving Gunnison a quick glance, she whispered, “Thanks…I’m okay now. You can step back.”

Roc nodded and did as she instructed, though his protective instincts were running full bore. He knew Dr. Andrews needed a human touch. To be held. To be told everything would be okay. But he knew better than to take her in his arms. Besides, his experience in Kosovo and Somalia had taught him that sometimes things didn’t always turn out okay and that the situation below was truly chaotic.

As he stepped back to give her room to get to her feet, he watched her closely. Even though Andrews was dressed in the mannish navy uniform, her bulky flak jacket hiding her womanly assets, she was incredibly graceful, like a ballerina to him. He wanted to ignore her femininity, but found himself absorbing her into his heart like a starving animal instead. That disgusted him, because Roc knew her to be a red-haired witch of the worst sort and his nemesis on this mission, despite the emotions he had just witnessed.

As Sam carefully made her way back to her seat and sank into it, Roc continued to stand, just in case she lost her footing again. The good doctor wasn’t used to walking on the heaving deck of a helo as he was.

Once she was seated and strapped in, Roc moved forward. “My map?” he said, extending his hand.

“Oh!” Sam quickly held it out to him as he bent over her, one hand on the overhead strap to keep from falling. The instant their fingertips met, she had the crazy urge to jerk away. But she didn’t. That would look childish to her people, who were watching them with curiosity.

“Thanks,” she managed to reply in a strangled tone. As she looked up into his darkened eyes, she saw his mouth twitch wryly.

“You’re welcome, Dr. Andrews.”

Feeling inept and completely out of her league, Sam turned away, looking anywhere other than at Gunnison, who sat down right across from her. She heard the engine change and felt the chopper begin to sink earthward. Swallowing repeatedly, Sam tried to gather her thoughts. What was going on? Was it seeing the awful devastation that had her so shaken up? Was she in shock?

She didn’t want to give Gunnison credit for any sympathy. The man made her feel like an awkward teenage girl who had a crush on the star football player.

How ridiculous! Jerking off the earphones, Sam dropped them in her lap. She didn’t want to talk to Gunnison. He took off his earphones, too, his face once again inscrutable.

He’s just doing his job, Sam told herself. Calm down, will you? He’s got you rattled. He probably did it on purpose, just to keep you off balance. Get your stuff together, woman. Don’t let him intimidate you.

Sam continued to berate herself with that litany until they landed. Outside, dust rose in thick yellow clouds around the helicopter, almost obliterating the marine in the distance who held a pair of orange flags in his hands that signaled where they were to land.

Though it seemed like forever to Sam, a few minutes later the engines were shut off and the rotors stopped turning. When the blades came to a halt, the loadmaster on the flight unlocked the sliding door and hauled it open. As the dust filtered in, Sam saw a small group of people standing well beyond the range of the blades, waiting with anxious looks on their faces. She watched as Gunnison got up and ordered his team to move out. She waited until the five-man Recon team disembarked. Then she unstrapped her seat belt and looked at her own team.

“Okay, we’re here,” she told them. “Let’s go.”

As she stood on the lip of the cargo bay, ready to jump down, a hand appeared: Gunnison’s large, heavily scarred palm and fingers. Mesmerized by the sight, she noted that his fingers were long and strong looking, his nails blunt cut. Under any other circumstances she’d have found his hands beautiful to look at. As she hesitated there, unsure of whether to accept his offer of help as he stood looking up at her, her mind was filled with the sudden unexpected image of his fingers trailing over her flesh.

Discombobulated by her tumbling thoughts, Sam reached out automatically and took his hand, gripping it as she eased down off the lip of the helo to the dusty ground. Quirking her lips, she barely looked at him as she jerked her hand out of his. Moving quickly away from him, she headed toward a male marine lieutenant and a woman in a deputy’s uniform beside him, who looked like the leaders of the group.

“Dr. Andrews?”

Sam halted in front of the marine, who was dressed similarly to Gunnison and his team. “Yes, that’s me.”

He smiled. “I’m Lieutenant Quinn Grayson. Welcome to area 5.” He saluted her.

Sam returned the salute. “Thanks, Lieutenant.” She turned her attention to the woman at his side. “And you must be Deputy Chelton?”

“Yes, I am, Doctor. Call me Kerry. We don’t stand on formality around here,” she replied, as she offered her hand.

Sam instantly liked the young woman. “Me, either. Call me Sam,” she said, shaking her hand warmly.

“Thanks, I will. We’re here to help you all we can.” She looked up at Grayson. “The lieutenant will take you to your tents. They just came in yesterday, and have been erected near ours. We’re looking like a tent city at this point.” Rubbing her hands together, Kerry added, “I’m sure you’re just as cold as we are. Winter mornings can be chilly even in Southern California. We’ve got hot coffee, hot chocolate and a warm stove waiting for you over at our main tent, which is where we plot and plan for area 5.”

“Great!” Sam exclaimed. “I’m freezing. The hot coffee sounds too good to be true.” She turned to her team. “Ready?”

They chorused in agreement, their smiles eager.

Sam saw Gunnison remaining behind with his men and the loadmaster on the flight. Frowning, she said, “Kerry, can you take my team over there? I’ve got to coordinate the off-loading of our supplies.”

“I can help,” Lieutenant Grayson said, stepping forward. “Let me direct them, ma’am. You go get warm with your team. Kerry will show you where you’re going.”

Sam hesitated. It would be a relief to let Grayson deal with Gunnison and his men. “Okay, Lieutenant, you’ve got a deal. Ask Captain Gunnison to join us when he’s done?”

Quinn nodded. “Of course, ma’am. It’ll take only a few minutes to get your supplies into our storage tent, which is guarded twenty-four hours a day against theft. I’ll pass on your request to him.”

Good. Sam turned and smiled at Kerry. She seemed warm and gentle for someone who worked in police enforcement. Noting that Kerry moved slowly and with a limp, Sam came up beside her.

“Are you okay, Kerry? You’re limping.”

“I’m fine. I took a bullet in the thigh a while back. Quinn—I mean, Lieutenant Grayson—saved my life. We got into a shootout with the Diablo gang about two miles from here.” She pointed in a northerly direction.

Sam eyed the younger woman, automatically going into doctor mode. “I see…. Are you in pain?”

Shrugging, Kerry said, “Sometimes. I take aspirin and that helps a lot.” Then she flashed her a smile. “Lieutenant Grayson just rigged up a bathtub he found and brought to our washroom facility.” She pointed to a tent to their right. “He’s a master at finding stuff and putting it together. When my leg starts aching, I get into a hot bath and sit there for ten minutes, and the pain goes away.”

“What a creative guy!” Sam exclaimed. “But if your aches get to be too much, you let me know. I got some pain meds with me in that shipment the guys are unloading right now.”

“I will. Thanks, Doc—I mean, Sam.”

Sam smiled at her before turning her attention to the huge camouflage-colored tent that loomed before them. Fifteen tents had been erected in three rows. A small American flag flew atop the largest tent, and someone had hand scribbled HQ with a black marker over the top flap, which was shut. Kerry stepped forward and unzipped it, holding the flap open.

“Come on in. Welcome to HQ for area 5.” She motioned the group inside.

Sam was the first to duck under the opening and step on to unpainted plywood floor, where her boots thunked hollowly with each footstep. At the opposite end of the tent was a redwood picnic table with a bench on either side. Nearby, an electric heater was throwing out a lot of welcoming warmth. On one side of the tent was a makeshift coffee bar. On top of a half-destroyed buffet counter that someone must have salvaged from the wreckage and brought in was a coffeemaker and a number of ceramic cups, some of them chipped or missing handles. There was a name written in black marker on each one. The coffee smelled fresh and inviting, Sam thought as she stood near the back and watched her team trundle in.

“Have a seat,” she told them, and gestured to the picnic table.

Kerry zipped the tent flap shut and turned around. “Our ace hound dog, Private Orvil Perkins, has located about twelve new coffee mugs. If you each tell me your name I’ll write it on your mug and that will be yours while you’re with us.”

Sam smiled and held her hands toward the electric heater, enjoying the warmth. Outside, she could hear the chugging sound of a generator, which supplied electricity for the heater to work.

“This is really nice of you, Kerry,” Sam said, as the deputy made her way around the table to the coffee area.

“Actually, it was Quinn’s—I mean, Lieutenant Grayson’s idea. He knew a couple of days ago that your teams were coming in, so he set to work on trying to make this transition as easy as possible. The one thing he said you would all need is coffee.”

Applause rose around the table. Sam joined in. There were smiles of delight on every face as Kerry began to ask names and write them on the cups. Sam got into the act by pouring fresh coffee and passing it out to her team. Within minutes, she felt a camaraderie that made her heart swell with pride. Kerry was the epitome of compassion as far as Sam was concerned. She was kind, thoughtful and sensitive—just the sort of person Sam wanted to work with.

As Sam stood there near the stove and watched her team eagerly drink their coffee and chat with the amiable Kerry Chelton, she felt a strong trickle of hope. She also felt pride that the people of area 5, despite all the devastation, could go to this kind of trouble to try and make her and her team feel welcome. Even in hell there was kindness, she was discovering.

All her enthusiasm and good feelings plunged, however, when the tent flap opened and Captain Gunnison came in, standing to the side to allow his grim-faced men to enter. Grayson was the last to come in, zipping the door shut behind him.

At once the energy of the place changed dramatically, making Sam sigh inwardly.

Grayson did the talking, explaining how things worked to the Recon team. When Gunnison looked up, he settled his gaze briefly on Sam. Her hands tightened around her mug as their eyes met.

“Your supplies are off-loaded, safe and sound,” he told her gruffly, heading with Grayson toward the coffee dispenser.

“Good. Thank you, Captain.” Sam cringed inwardly. Her voice was clipped and distant, and hearing it, her entire team lifted their heads as if in unison, collective surprise written on their faces. She sounded so…hard. They never saw this side of her.

Scowling, Sam sipped the scalding coffee, almost burning her tongue. Damn. At all costs, she had to cover up her dislike of Gunnison. But it wasn’t going to be easy…

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