Tom Donaldson sat in his squadron office at Ops, going over the flight reports from the pilots in his medevac squadron. When he looked up, he jerked his head, surprised. Master Chief Gil Hunter from the SEALs stood in the open doorway to his office. Scowling, he muttered, “The least you could do is announce yourself.” The son of a bitch.
“We never announce when we’re coming,” Hunter growled. He was dressed in SEAL cammies, a SIG Sauer pistol in a drop holster on his right thigh. He was six feet three inches in height and filled the small, cramped office. In his left hand, he carried a file.
Donaldson eyed him nervously. Ops was busy midafternoon. The helos were winding up outside, some Apache combat helos and some Chinooks. “What do you need?” he snapped, uneasy. The last time this SEAL pushed his weight around, it was because of that bitch, Sarah Benson. He’d never wanted her in his squadron because she was a risk taker, and he had a budget to keep. The Black Hawk she flew inevitably had bullet-hole damage or worse when she returned from a mission. She always cost him money.
Just because Benson was engaged to a SEAL, the master chief who ran the platoon had made it his business to lean on Donaldson. A month ago, the master chief had come to see him, closed the door and they’d had a little heart-to-heart chat. Donaldson knew Hunter was friends with Army Colonel Koch, his immediate superior. And Hunter told him to order his male pilots to stop harassing Benson. Or else. So, he ordered them to stop. But that didn’t mean Donaldson wasn’t going to get even with her.
Hunter turned and closed the door and then sat down in front of Donaldson’s desk. “I’m busy, dammit. What the hell do you want?” Donaldson saw the man’s green eyes glitter. Hunter reminded him of a wolf stalking his victim. Him.
“First,” Hunter murmured, keeping his voice pleasant, “I want to thank you for seeing that the harassment of Chief Warrant Officer Benson stopped.”
“Then why the hell are you here?”
“Just a little thing,” Hunter murmured. He handed the papers to Donaldson from the file he carried. “Something doesn’t make sense to me, Major, and I was hoping you could help me understand it.” He pointed to the August flight schedule for the medevac pilots. “Chief Benson is getting more flights and more standby duty than any other pilot.” Hunter looked up and held Donaldson’s startled gaze. “Is there a reason for this?”
Glaring at Hunter, Donaldson said, “I didn’t notice that.”
“I did.”
The silence thickened in the office. Donaldson ground his teeth, staring at the August schedule. Dammit! He’d done the scheduling on purpose. “It’s just a minor mistake,” he muttered defiantly, throwing the papers on his desk, leaning back in his chair, a smug look on his face.
“Then fix it.”
The growl in Hunter’s voice left nothing to translate. Donaldson stared at him.
“You’re not going to tell me how to schedule,” he snarled. Hunter shrugged in response. Damn him!
“It might be good to revise the last week of that August schedule, Major.” Hunter gestured lazily toward the papers on his desk. “I think Chief Benson deserves two days off. Don’t you? To somewhat balance out the unfairness of her schedule the previous three weeks?”
Nostrils flaring, breathing unevenly, Donaldson took in the iciness in the master chief’s expression. His voice was neutral, nonthreatening, but by God, he could see the rage burning in his eyes. Donaldson gripped the arms of his chair. “I don’t suppose you have the dates of those two days in mind?”
Hunter’s mouth crooked. “I think Wednesday and Thursday of next week would be just fine if it works for you?”
“Done,” Donaldson snapped. “Now get the hell out of my office!”
Hunter rose slowly, unwinding like a snake, his face hard and unreadable. “Thank you, Major.” He turned, opened the door and left as quietly as he’d come.
* * *
When Sarah didn’t have duty, she always stayed in the small room the SEALs had painted and set up for her. They’d found her a real bed to sleep in, not a cot. Even better, there was air conditioning. At her tent, she, like everyone else, bunked in the heat of the night, making for miserable sleeping conditions. As she sat up and rubbed her eyes, she noticed a white envelope beneath the door. A soft smile came to her face. Ethan had written her a poem! Her heart expanded with fierce love for him. When she’d first met him, there would be a card on the plywood floor, just inside the flaps of her tent.
Standing, she picked it up. Her heart suffused with love for Ethan’s thoughtfulness. All her life, she’d had nothing but heartbreak when it came to men. Now, with him walking into her life, she was discovering for the first time what it was like to fall in love and be loved in return.
Sitting on the bed, Sarah opened the envelope. The blue parchment nearly matched the color of her eyes. She opened it up, her heart beating with anticipation. Ethan was teaching her there were many ways to love her. His poems always touched her heart. Her soul.
Do your attentions transform other fossils, causing them to flower
And swell from the desert where they were imprisoned far too long
Under increasingly desperate isolations of deceptive skin
Covering the swollen bloats of emotions which trapped the murderous melancholy of joy
In the soul’s bone and rheumatism of a frayed and staid body?
I assure you that my love is committed and constant
Love you,
Ethan
P.S. Breakfast at chow hall? 0700?
Smiling sleepily, Sarah sighed, pressing the poem against her heart. How did she ever get so lucky as to meet Ethan? His poetry was so beautiful to her, lifting her out of the stench of combat and hurling her into a world of light, hope and happiness. Sarah stood and pulled open the dresser drawer, setting it with the other envelopes.
Looking at her watch, Sarah realized she’d be going back on the schedule at 0800. It was now 0600. Good. She had time to get over to the women’s showers, pull on a clean flight suit and, best of all, meet Ethan for breakfast. So often, he was out on patrol, so this was a treat in itself.
As Sarah left her room, her shower articles in a bag, Trace Fulton, one of the SEAL combat medics, called to her from down the hall. “Hey, Sarah?”
“Morning, Trace,” she murmured, turning and smiling at him. Trace was one of Ethan’s best friends.
“Hey, Master Chief Hunter said to tell you, if I saw you before you left for duty, that he wanted five minutes of your time.” Trace hooked his finger over his broad shoulder. “He’s over at the espresso machine.”
Sarah nodded, turning on her booted foot and heading down to the big room. “Sure, no problem.” Worry automatically inserted itself into her world when it came to Gil Hunter. He was the head honcho of this SEAL platoon, ran it smoothly and quietly, but she was always aware of the mantle of power the man wore. Something had to be wrong.
As Sarah walked toward him, he was
