nation, about sixty nautical miles off the coast of Nicaragua. Its internal political situation had been steadily worsening for months. The island’s president for life was battling ferociously to hold on to his sinecure. In response to his repressive tactics, rebels had stepped up their action and the fight had turned bloody.
The Joint Chiefs of Staff had alerted Captain Westfall weeks ago about the possibility of using Pegasus to extract U.S. personnel, if necessary. As a result, he’d compressed the test schedule until it was so tight it squeaked. Evidently the deep-water sea trial Cari had just completed would be the final test. From now on, it was for real.
But two hours! That was short notice, even for a military deployment. Westfall made it clear they were to use that time to draw up an op plan.
“The U.S. began evacuation of its personnel this morning,” he advised. “All are accounted for and are in various stages of departure except two missionaries. A squad of marines has gone into the interior after the missionaries and will escort them to a designated extraction site.”
“I’ve flown over Caribe,” Dave Scott commented grimly. “The jungle canopy is two or three hundred feet thick in places. Too thick to permit an extraction by air.”
“And rebel forces now hold the one road in and out of the area,” Captain Westfall confirmed. “The only egress is by river.”
“Pegasus!” Cari breathed. “Now that he’s demonstrated his sea legs, he’s the perfect vehicle to use for an operation like this.”
“Correct. Captain Scott, you’ll fly Pegasus on the over-water leg from Corpus Christi to Nicaragua. Their government is maintaining a strict neutral position with regard to the political situation on Caribe but has given us permission to land at an unimproved airstrip just across the straits from the island.”
Dave gave a quick nod. “I’ll start working the flight plan.”
“Once in Nicaragua, Lieutenant Dunn will pilot Pegasus to Caribe and navigate up the Rio Verde to a designated rendezvous point. Major McIver, your mission is to make contact with the marines and bring out the two stranded missionaries.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll be operating under strict rules of engagement,” Westfall warned. “To avoid entangling the U.S. in the internal political struggle, you’re not to fire lethal weapons unless under fire yourself. Questions?”
Her blood humming at the anticipation of action, Caroline joined the chorus of “No, sir!”
The steel-eyed navy officer turned away, swung back. His glance skimmed from Mac to Cari and back again.
“Things could turn ugly down there. Real ugly. Make sure your next-of-kin notification data is up-to-date. You might also zap off a quick e-mail to your families,” he added after a slight hesitation.
He didn’t need to explain. Since 9/11, Cari had participated in enough short-notice deployments to know this might be her last communication with her folks for a while. Or her last, period.
Cari followed the captain’s orders and zapped off one quick e-mail. Pumping pure adrenaline, she swung back around to find Mac contemplating her with a tight, closed expression.
“You didn’t bat an eye at the prospect of going into Caribe.”
“Neither did you,” she pointed out.
He hooked a thumb toward the now blank screen. “What about Jerry-boy?”
Her shrug made the question irrelevant. This was what she’d trained for. This was what wearing a uniform entailed.
“Jerry isn’t your concern. We’ve got work to do.”
Chapter 2
Mac couldn’t believe it. Here he was, stuffing spare ammo clips into the pockets on his webbed utility belt, less than twenty minutes away from departing on a mission to extract U.S. citizens from a potentially explosive situation.
Yet for the first time in his life Mac couldn’t force his mind to focus solely and exclusively on the task ahead. Every time he thought he’d crowded everything else out, the damned e-mail Cari had received a while ago would pop back into his head.
Marry me, beautiful.
What kind of a jerk proposed to a woman via e-mail? Particularly a woman like Caroline Dunn.
Mac had worked alongside a lot of professionals in the corps, male and female. The small, compact brunette currently frowning over a set of coastal navigational charts left most of them in the dust.
Hell, who was he kidding? Cari left all of them in the dust. He’d never met any woman with her combination of beauty and brains, and he’d tangled with more than his share. Particularly in his wilder days before the United States Marine Corps started him down a different path thirteen…no, fourteen years ago.
Fourteen years! Shaking his head, Mac shoved another spare clip into his belt. Hard to remember now how close he’d come to ending up on the wrong side of anyone in uniform. Harder still to remember the woman who’d almost put him there. He’d had no idea the thrill-seeking blonde who’d climbed on the back of his beat-up Harley was married to a California state senator. And he sure as hell hadn’t known the woman was carrying a stash of Colombian prime in her fanny pack.
When the cops hauled the still underage Mac into her husband’s office, the wealthy politician had given him a choice. A trumped-up possession charge and jail time or the United States Marines. It wasn’t much of a choice. Mac had been staying just one step ahead of the law since flatly refusing to let the state put him in yet another foster home. He figured the marines would kick him out fast enough, just as his series of foster parents had.
Instead, the corps had molded a smart-mouthed punk into a single-minded, razor-edged fighting machine. In the often painful process, Mac found the home he’d never had. He’d also finished high school, earned a college degree, learned to lead as well as follow, and been chosen for Officers’ Candidate School.
He’d never forget that crystal bright April morning at Quantico, when he’d raised his gloved hand to be sworn in as a commissioned officer. He took his oath to protect and defend the United States against all enemies very seriously. So, apparently, did Lieutenant Dunn. She’d served for more than ten years, had several command tours under her belt, and had played a key role in the war against terrorism during the coast guard’s transition from the Treasury Department to the new Department of Homeland Security.
Yet here she was, actually debating whether to give up her career and her uniform to marry a smooth-talking JAG who’d probably never seen the business end of an assault rifle. The idea torqued Mac’s jaws so tight he wasn’t sure he’d ever get them unscrewed. They stayed locked the whole time Kate Hargrave and Cari pored over the charts.
“I’ve updated Pegasus’s onboard computers with Caribe’s tidal patterns, riverine data and predicted climatic and atmospheric conditions,” the weather officer was saying. “You might see some swells from that squall on the way in, but rough weather shouldn’t hit until you’re on your way out.”
“How rough?”
“Better pack some extra barf bags for you and your passengers.”
“Oh,
