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Fleet Hospital
Anne Marie Duquette


Fleet Hospital–it's the U.S. Navy's version of M.A.S.H.At Camp Pendleton near San Diego, Fleet Hospital is conducting a simulated emergency under the command of Captain Michael McLowery. This means the place is filled with servicemen and women "moulaged" to resemble the wounded.Also on-site is reporter Lori Sepanik–aka Jo Marche–of tabloid fame. She's looking for journalistic legitimacy in the form of a good story; she thinks reporting on the Fleet exercise will provide this. But the last thing she expects to find is a "dead" body that really is!Michael's in charge of the murder investigation–and he wants Jo involved. As an outsider, she notices things others don't. She also notices the very attractive Captain McLowery….Together, the man in uniform and the woman with a camera make an unbeatable team!









The U.S. Navy’s FLEET HOSPITAL—a world unto itself.


This story takes you into that world and gives you an authentic glimpse of military life.

Meet Lori Sepanik—aka Jo Marche—one of the most memorable characters in recent romance fiction. Join her as she discovers what Fleet Hospital is all about. And meet Captain Michael McLowery, the man in command….

They’re both people with secrets. They’re both stubborn and individual and self-possessed. They’re both working—sometimes at cross-purposes—to solve a murder.

When they fall in love, sit back and watch the excitement!



“Anne Marie Duquette’s romantic thrillers are truly

thrilling, full of exciting action and suspense.”

—Tess Gerritsen, bestselling author of

Harvest, Life Support and The Surgeon


I would like to dedicate this book to all those who offered

medical aid after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I also dedicate it to our best friend, Hospital Corpsman

Second Class (USN Retired) Thomas Anthony Tindall.

Hugs from all of us at Camp Pendleton and Balboa Naval

Hospital who were touched by your life and mourn

your death. You made the world a better place.

We miss you, Tonyota. Love from Ogre and Row-ger.




Fleet Hospital

Anne Marie Duquette





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Dear Reader,

The tragedy of the destruction of the World Trade Center in New York City has led many media commentators to claim that the U.S. just “wasn’t prepared.” Regarding the deaths, injuries and destruction, this is certainly true. However, our country was prepared in one way—in the readiness and heroism of our rescue personnel.

The U.S. Navy maintains hospital ships and containerized field hospitals that can be deployed at a moment’s notice. The unfortunate wounded are fortunate in one sense. These ships have the most state-of-the-art medical technology available and some of the best-trained medical personnel in the world. Two of our country’s leading medical institutions, Bethesda Naval Hospital in Maryland and San Diego Naval Hospital in California, along with their support units, train the finest medical caregivers in the military.

Those who watched the news about 9-11 might remember the U.S. Naval Hospital ship, The Comfort, based out of Maryland, ministering to the New York City wounded. The Navy also maintains The Hope, berthed on the West Coast.

Another facet of field training for the U.S. Navy Medical Department is the Fleet Hospital, located at Camp Pendleton military base in California. Not only is this the largest military base, in actual land area, in the world, but San Diego County, where it’s located, holds the highest concentration of military and support bases. San Diego is an important place when it comes to the training of our military and medical heroes.

My own husband, a retired U.S. Navy Hospital Corpsman, spent his last five years in the military at Fleet Hospital. While the story, the characters and the murder mystery in this book are entirely fictitious, Camp Pendleton itself and the training of students to the very highest level of medical preparedness are not.

Mobile hospitals with skilled staff are a strong tool in the fight against terrorism. Many injured who might have become fatalities owe their lives to the real medical heroes with their caring, compassion and intense training. They save lives under the most harrowing of conditions. I hope you enjoy my portrayal of them.

Best,

Anne Marie Duquette




Contents


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY




CHAPTER ONE


Pearl Harbor, Hawaii

Early October 1967, afternoon

TEN-YEAR-OLD MICHAEL James McLowery yawned, squirmed and scratched at the neckerchief of his Cub Scout uniform. Sweat trickled through his crewcut and down his face, dropping onto the cafeteria table. Where he sat was hot. Hot outside. Hot inside. Hot everywhere. He wished he was at the officers’ pool with his father and baby sister, instead of at school. When they came to pick him up—thank goodness that would be soon—they’d be nice and cool. Not like Michael. Hawaii sure was roasting….

Not like Boston, Dad’s last duty station. Once more Michael checked his black “Glows in the dark!” Seiko watch, a smaller version of his father’s, and groaned. Half of Saturday was already gone, and where was he? At Navy housing’s elementary school, working on his first-aid merit badge. If that wasn’t bad enough, his mother, in her starched white nurse’s uniform, was teaching the badge class. Dutiful boys filled in the blanks on mimeographed handout sheets.

His mother was even more boring than his history teacher. He couldn’t believe it. This day was one big gyp. He’d never wanted to be a Scout. He wanted to go out for Little League and become the next Carl Yastrzemski, but Dad said it was too much driving for a family with only one car. Stupid Navy only shipped one car to Hawaii, instead of their two from Boston. No sense buying another, Dad told him. The same rules worked when leaving Hawaii. Stupid Navy.

The boy sitting next to him, older and looking just as bored, was doodling on his first-aid sheet. Maybe Dennis Klemko was good for a game of hangman or ticktacktoe. Michael, ready to latch on to anything to pass the last ten minutes of the class, leaned over for a quick peek. His breath caught.

On the handout was a surprisingly lifelike sketch of his mother, complete with big pointy titties, rounded thighs—and no clothes but her nurse’s cap, Navy gold-braid rank bands across the brim.

Michael promptly delivered a hard sharp elbow to the artist’s ribs and grabbed the paper with its disgusting picture. The other boy grunted and rubbed his side.

The Scoutmaster’s voice from the front of the room made Michael and Dennis jump. “What’s going on there?”

Neither boy answered. The Scoutmaster waved at the sheet of paper in Michael’s hands.

“Do you have something to share with the rest of the troop, young man?”

Michael’s face burned. “No, sir!” He crumpled the paper into a tiny ball and held both hands behind his back while everyone stopped filling in blanks and stared at him.

“He’s drawing dirty pictures,” Dennis Klemko said. “I caught him doing it, but he wouldn’t give me the paper.”

“You turd! Mom, he’s lying! He’s the one who drew it!”

The older boy’s taunting grin infuriated him even more. Michael searched for and found the worst insult his parents could deliver to family, friend or foe. “You’re a disgrace to your uniform!”

His mother and the Scoutmaster exchanged long-suffering looks, then marched his way, hands outstretched. The matching expressions on their faces promised trouble. They actually believed he could do such a terrible thing? Michael bit his lip. He could defy the Scoutmaster, even kick him in the shins if he had to, but he couldn’t do that to his mom. Nor could he let Mom see that picture—or worse yet, let the Scoutmaster see it. Michael had only one choice.

Retreat!

He bounded from his seat and alternately ran and leapfrogged on and across the other tables until he got close to the door and big exit sign. He jumped; his red sneakers made a loud smack, and he dashed outside. No one could catch him now!

“Stop him, boys,” the Scoutmaster yelled. “Get that paper!” The boys, as bored as Michael and as eager to escape, poured out the door after him.

Michael ran full tilt, looking for a trash can. He had to get rid of the crumpled drawing in his fist. He couldn’t litter—littering was a Bad Thing, a disgrace to the uniform. If the Cubs caught up, they could easily take the paper from him—or from any trash can he’d thrown it in. He had nowhere to hide. This school was the pack’s territory, as well as his own; every boy knew all the good hiding places. And most of them were older, with longer legs. They were catching up.

Michael made the sidewalk. He was off school property now. His legs and arms pumped, his heart pumping even faster in the tropical heat. The boys closed in. It was no longer a game to them. The honor of their pack was at stake. Already Michael’s side was aching.

“Daddy!” he screamed in desperation…and was rewarded. Moving along the opposite side of the street was his father’s car, a 1964 steel-blue Plymouth Deuce, headed toward the school to pick him and his mother up.

Jaywalking was a Bad Thing, too, but his father would understand. Dad said that sometimes a sailor had to break the rules. Dad flew jets where he wasn’t supposed to, drove cars faster than he was supposed to and drank harder than he was supposed to. Dad said it kept lives and sanity intact. He learned that in Vietnam. This was Michael’s day to break the rules. Dennis Klemko, that rat fink who’d started the disaster, was almost upon him—and across the street was a storm drain with bars.

Michael raced toward it to rid himself of the drawing. Arms flailing, he waved his father down. “Daddy, help! Stop the car!”

Lt. Commander Patrick Andrew McLowery took in the scene before him in a fraction of a second. He hadn’t survived two tours of bombing the Ho Chi Minh Trail without damn good reflexes. He slammed on the car’s brakes and whipped the steering wheel to the right. The car fishtailed in the gravel. Its front end missed his son by six inches; the back end missed his son’s pursuer by a whisper and skidded away.

Michael hurled the balled paper at the storm drain even as he avoided the moving car. With reflexes almost as sharp as his father’s, he saw that his aim was true but had no time for a moment’s relief. At the same instant the drawing flew from his hand, his two-year-old sister flew out the open passenger window of his dad’s car.

The brand-new “latest, safest model” child seat, its plastic and aluminum ends hooked over the top of the Plymouth’s front bench seat, had been no match for the car’s centrifugal force. Baby Anna Mary McLowery’s head was no match for the road. Her blood spread over the scorching black asphalt like lava from a volcano.

On that hot summer day, despite the presence of a whole troop of Scouts trained in first aid, the troop’s nurse instructor and the nurse’s husband, Michael James McLowery watched his sister die.



ANNA’S OPEN-CASKET funeral Mass was held in the Navy chapel. On such short notice, none of the relatives from Boston had made it to see Anna for the last time, wearing her new white gown and lacy bonnet. In full dress uniform, Lt. Commander McLowery and his wife, Lieutenant Junior Grade McLowery, sat alone with their son in the front pew. Michael was too scared to look at his sister’s body, although he pretended he wasn’t. He just refused to look. He also refused to pray out loud. A bunch of mumbo-jumbo prayers weren’t going to bring back his dead sister, but Mom said he couldn’t stay home. He was mad at Mom, mad at Dad, mad at Anna, mad at the whole world.

His fury built, but Michael managed to keep it in check—barely—until his entire Scout troop arrived, dressed in formal uniform, just like him. Right behind the Scoutmaster, leading the line of silent boys, was Dennis Klemko, who’d dared—actually dared—to show up.

Michael’s fury exploded. Flying out of the pew, he barreled headlong into the dirty traitor, knocking him over. Michael pinned him to the aisle carpet.

“You killed her! It’s your fault!” Michael screamed again and again, his fists pounding at Klemko before the horrified faces of the chaplain, his parents, the Scoutmaster, even his father’s and mother’s Commanding Officers and Executive Officers.

It took three strong enlisted men to pull Michael off Klemko. Two female Nurse Corps officers supported his mother while Michael screamed, “He drew you naked, Mom! He drew you and said I did it! Ask him! Ask him! Tell everyone what you did, you fink!”

Michael again lunged for Klemko. The enlisted men’s hands tightened on his arms, but Michael scored with a hard kick at Klemko’s face. Nose broken, Klemko screamed and collapsed into a wailing lump of agony.

“He drew it, Mom! Not me! He was going to let the whole troop see you naked! I grabbed the paper so he couldn’t! That’s why I ran away! That’s why Anna got killed! It’s all his fault!”

His mom took a step, went limp and dropped out of Michael’s sight below her pew. More Nurse Corps officers swarmed around her. Others swarmed around Klemko and worked on his bloody nose and cut eyebrow. The CO and XO rallied to his dad’s side.

The Navy chaplain came straight to Michael and said, “Let the boy go.” The enlisted men released him. “Come on, son, let’s talk this over.”

“I’m not your son!” Michael shook off the chaplain’s hand and looked for his mother. “Mom! You believe me, right, Mom? Where are you?”

She rose from behind the pew. Her arms were wide open and shaking. Michael felt dizzy with relief. His mom wanted to hug him! She believed him! He tried to reach her, tried to push aside all the people in the aisle to get to her, but couldn’t. Mom left her pew and staggered toward Anna’s open casket. She lifted the stiff rouged corpse, hugged it tightly to her chest.

Michael froze in place. “Mommy?”

The chaplain left Michael and tried to take Anna from his mother. Mrs. McLowery screamed, whirled away from everyone and ran up onto the altar, the only place where there were no people. Michael broke free and ran for his mother. Anna was so tiny. Surely there was room for him, too, in his mother’s arms.

Up the steps he ran, one, two, three, in between the Stars and Stripes, Navy and Hawaiian flags on the left and the two flags with the Cross of Christ and the Star of David on the right. His mother hunched protectively over Anna, accidentally catching Michael with her hip. Michael fell backward down the steps, three, two, one. Some woman he didn’t recognize caught him.

She took him outside, away from the pandemonium. He’d stopped yelling by then, but Mom and some of the Scouts hadn’t. The lady who’d caught him smelled pleasantly of mint, instead of stinky perfume. She sat down on the curb and pulled his trembling body onto her lap.

“Want a Certs?” she asked. Michael didn’t answer, but she peeled off a “Two! Two! Two Mints in One!” and held it in front of his mouth. “Open up, little bird.”

He opened.

“Close,” she said.

He already had. The candy tasted good. The woman popped a Certs into her own mouth and hummed and rocked him while they both sucked on their bits of sweetness. After a while she asked, “Want another?”

Michael realized he’d broken his communion fast. He shouldn’t have eaten anything. Now he couldn’t offer his communion grace for his sister’s soul. Not that it mattered, since he and Klemko had killed her. According to catechism classes, he was damned, anyway. One more Bad Thing wouldn’t make any difference. He wiped at the tears on his face, then held out his still-trembling hand.

“Here, sweetheart. Take the whole roll.”

When his father came to get him, Michael cried some more, and after the first surreptitious mint, ate the rest of the Certs in the front pew in full view of God and country. He sat between his parents, and they didn’t seem to notice.

Michael saw that Anna’s little coffin was now closed and latched. “Is Anna back in there?” he whispered to his father.

Dad nodded.

“Are you sure Mom didn’t hide her somewhere?”

Dad nodded again.

“Positive? Can I see?”

His wet-cheeked father murmured, “Trust me,” and took his hand. Michael’s dry-eyed mother, watchful nurses on the other side of her, didn’t touch him, didn’t even look at him. Michael swiveled around to check out the pews and saw Klemko was gone. So was the Scoutmaster. Good riddance. They didn’t deserve to be in the same room with Mom and his poor baby sister. He wished he could see Anna one more time. He should’ve looked at her earlier when the coffin was open. Now it was too late. He’d never see her again. It wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair. He started crying again and ate another Certs.

The service didn’t last long. The Navy chaplain rattled off that funeral faster than Michael’s father drove on a Friday-night payday.



THE HEAT CONTINUED the next day and the next and the next. The sun beat down with a fierceness Michael hated. Only one thing made it bearable—he was allowed to sweat at home, instead of in school. His parents were on compassionate leave and home from work. It felt strange. He felt strange.

His mom insisted on going back to the hospital three days after Anna’s funeral. Michael clung to his father when she announced her decision. He didn’t want her to leave. The house was too quiet with Anna gone. His parents were too quiet with Anna gone. It frightened him, especially at night.

He was glad his father said, “Honey, don’t go.”

“You two can finish watching the baseball playoffs on television.”

“But, Mom—”

“Michael, don’t talk back. If I don’t do something, I’ll go crazy,” she said. She wore her white nurse’s uniform with her Navy officer’s cap.

“The last place you need to be is in surgery,” Patrick argued. “You’re in no better shape to be working the OR than I am to be flying.”

Mrs. McLowery shook her head and the Red Sox game continued to play on the television. “I already talked to my CO. She’ll let me have morgue duty. I can’t do any damage there. It’s all paperwork.”

“You hate morgue duty!” Patrick McLowery said. “Every time you work it, you have nightmares about getting trapped in the freezer.”

Michael shivered. He hated nightmares, and he’d been having a lot of them lately.

“You won’t even go near the morgue without a corpsman on the outside and one on the inside.”

“I don’t care!” she shrieked.

Michael winced at the nails-on-chalkboard sound of her voice.

“This heat is killing me! I have to get out of the house!”

“Fine. We’ll take a drive to the Ala Moana Mall for ice cream. We can walk around there and cool off.”

“No. I’m going to work.”

“The hell you are!” Michael’s father rose to his feet, almost tipping over the box fan whirring on the floor. “The last thing you need to be around is a bunch of you-know-whats!”

Bodies. Dead bodies. Like Anna’s.

“I need some quiet, Patrick,” she said. “I made dinner for you and Michael. There’s a chicken potpie in the oven. Listen for the timer. I mixed up some cherry Jell-O and bananas for dessert. It’s on the second shelf in the refrigerator.”

“For God’s sake, sweetheart—”

“I already ate. It’s time for me to leave or I’ll be late.”

“At least let me drive you in!”

“No, Patrick, I’m fine. Really I am. Keep the car. I’ll take the bus.” She bent to grab her purse. She didn’t even kiss Michael or Patrick goodbye. “I may work an extra half shift, so don’t wait up.”

Michael didn’t see his mother again that night.

He didn’t see her in the morning, either. Dad said he could stay home from school once more. Michael was on his hands and knees out front, driving his red Tonka truck full of green plastic Army men through the grass, patiently waiting for the base bus Mom took home. It always stopped at the corner, three houses down.

An official military car, gray with blue lettering on the side and government plates, drove up and stopped at his house. Two men in uniform climbed out. Automatically Michael checked the men’s collar insignias. One of them wore a cross.

Right then he knew. Every military kid knew what it meant when two uniforms came to your house and one of them was a chaplain. Dad was home from Vietnam—safe inside the house. He’d just seen him. Anna was in the ground. That meant…

“Dad!” he screamed. One of the men started toward him. Michael backed away. “Daddy!” Michael screamed even louder.

He dropped the toy truck and the Army men, ran into the house and hid under the kitchen sink, his spine jammed against the hard metal J-pipe. His father called him. He heard the front screen door slam, heard nothing for a while, heard the door again, then his father calling him over and over.

Michael didn’t answer. He couldn’t talk. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. All he could do was shiver amidst the slightly rancid fumes of sacked potatoes and onions, the antiseptic smell of cleanser and dish soap, the commissary grocery bags stored in his hiding place.

His father opened the cupboard doors, found him and pulled him out. He told Michael what he already knew.

“Your mother’s dead, son. The night crew found her.”

“At the hospital?”

“Yes. The chaplain said she was…she got trapped in the refrigeration unit at the morgue.”

“Dad, they’re lying! She’d never get locked in there!”

Michael fought to escape from his father’s arms, his father’s words. He couldn’t escape either.

“Listen to me, Michael! The next shift found her inside. They tried to revive her, but…” His voice cracked.

“Where was everybody? Where was the corpsman?”

“Gone home, I guess. She had her car keys and purse with her.”

“Why was she in there?” Michael sobbed. “She hated that place!”

“She wasn’t in her right mind.”

“It’s because of Anna, right? She didn’t want to come home.”

“Everyone says it was an accident,” his father said.

“It wasn’t an accident, was it?” Michael forced himself to ask.

His father looked away. “At least she had the decency to take off her uniform before she went in. She didn’t disgrace it,” he choked out. Tears rolled down Patrick’s cheeks.

Michael had his answer. Mom was really dead. She’d killed herself. He started to cry, his sobs harsh and violent. Patrick picked him up and, on the kitchen floor amidst potatoes and cleanser, rocked him the way Mom used to rock Anna.



THE SAME CHAPLAIN they’d had for Anna’s funeral droned on and on during his mother’s closed-casket service. With two deaths in the family, Michael thought he’d blab less. Then again, maybe the chaplain wanted to make up for Anna’s short sermon. Whatever the reason, his mother’s took forever.

Michael’s whole Scout pack—minus rat fink Dennis Klemko—wore their uniforms to the second funeral. Michael flatly refused. He hated Scouts. He hated everyone who’d ever been a Scout.

Without a uniform, he had nothing formal to wear. His father said he wasn’t up to taking him shopping and didn’t even know Michael’s new size. Michael had outgrown his old church suit ages ago, and the Scoutmaster’s wife couldn’t get off work to take him shopping, either. So the Certs lady—his Scoutmaster’s single sister-in-law with the silly name of Sunshine Mellow and sillier plastic go-go boots—guessed his size and showed up at the last minute with a new black suit and white shirt from the Navy Exchange. Apparently it was paid for by the Scout troop, which made Michael almost want to reject it.

When the Certs lady dropped off the suit bag, Michael asked her if she’d sit with him at his mother’s funeral. Michael knew Sunshine didn’t meet his father’s standards. She wasn’t Irish, she wasn’t even Catholic and she had a “hippie” name, but Michael liked her, anyway. She said he had to ask his father; she’d wait in the car while he did. Michael ran back inside.

“Please, Dad, can she? She brought me a suit. So can she?”

His father, busy phoning relatives from both sides of the family, phoning Navy staff above and below him at the flight line, planning the second funeral and arranging for Michael’s make-up schoolwork, agreed. Once again Michael sat in the front pew of the Navy chapel, this time flanked by his father and the Certs lady.

All through church, his father held Michael’s right hand, and Sunshine held his left—in between Certs after Certs. She adjusted his old bow tie, which made him itch and scratch. It was too tight for his neck, but the base exchange was out of new ones. Michael didn’t mind, really he didn’t. He wanted to be dressed right for Mom.

At least his tie wasn’t some stupid neckerchief. Michael sucked on his candy, ignored the communion line Dad was in and leaned a salt-wet cheek against Sunshine’s Protestant shoulder. He wondered if Mom was rocking Anna in heaven. Mom had to be there—she was a good mom, and she hadn’t disgraced her uniform. He wondered who’d take care of him and Dad. He knew he’d never see Mom and baby Anna again, not even in heaven. If he hadn’t been such a baby himself and called out for his father when the boys were chasing him, Anna would still be alive. He’d gotten rid of the drawing; he should have taken the beating like a man. Now, he was damned to hellfire and worms forever.

Unless… Michael slowly inserted another Certs into his mouth. Unless he got a new uniform, started over and never disgraced that uniform again. He was the son of uniformed parents. He knew about duty. He was no rotten quitter. Michael sat up a little straighter in the pew. He could wear a new uniform with a new Scout troop, and a Navy uniform later, like his mom’s.

On his honor, Michael vowed to do his best…to do his duty to God and his country…to help other people at all times…and to never do another Bad Thing again. Starting now. He shoved the rest of the Certs into his pants pocket.

On his honor.




CHAPTER TWO


MEMO

TO: All Personnel

FROM: U.S. Naval Training Program Office

SUBJ: FLEET HOSPITAL Mission Description

1) Is a Department of Defense standardized, modular, deployable, rapidly erectable, relocatable shore-based medical facility.

2) Provides Fleet Commander in Chief with fully mission-capable combat medical treatment facilities in support of combat forces at risk.

3) Deployed in three phases: Air Detachment, Advance Party and Main Body.

4) Assembled rapidly at prepared sites in five to ten days with 100-bed or 500-bed combat zone hospital.

5) Unlike Army MASH units, Navy FLEET HOSPITAL units are essentially self-sustaining.

6) Once FLEET HOSPITAL facilities are erected and provided with 60 days of supplies, FLEET HOSPITAL is on its own.

Naval Fleet Hospital Training, FHOTC (Fleet Hospital Operations and Training Command)

Camp Pendleton Marine Corps Base

Day 1

TABLOID WRITER Lori Sepanik, pen name Jo Marche, stepped outside into Southern California’s July sun and the noon heat of the fenced desert compound. It was the day’s second muster. Located directly to the north of the Fleet Hospital Command, the training class within the fenced area offered no frills—or even basic comforts. The assembled students, sweating in heavy green cammies, black boots and starched covers, tried to ignore the humming of Admin’s air-conditioning outside their barbed-wire fences and guarded gates. Judging by the looks on their faces, Jo decided they were failing miserably. She knew she was.

Air conditioning existed for the staff’s administration computers only and the few staff personnel lucky enough to work in the regular buildings. Typewriters were used in the Fleet Hospital’s actual training area, and the frigid air wasn’t needed there. Everyone not in FHOTC’s Admin building, from instructors and students to civilian guests like her, sweated. Their only relief was drinking potable water outside the huge tent “hospital” that served as their classroom. No soda, soft drinks or pop, depending on one’s regional vernacular. In Jo’s case, it was a Midwesterner’s “soda.” She’d kill for one right now. No such luck. She was stuck inside the compound, sweating and waiting for the training exercise’s first “casualties.”

Jo had been admitted onto the marine base as an Associated Press reporter. However, the credentials she had were as phony as her pen name. If she was lucky and able to write a decent story, instead of her usual tabloid trash, she just might get away with what she hoped was the last lie she’d ever have to tell. Face it, tabloid reporters were pretty much professional liars—if you considered the lousy substandard pay she received for her articles “professional.” But so far, she hadn’t found even the hint of a real story at Fleet Hospital.

I’ll never get a decent job with a decent newspaper at this rate. She hadn’t managed to get an interview with the Commanding Officer, a Captain McLowery. Not yet, anyway. AP rarely bought feature stories without a diversity of interviews. In this case, that meant officers and enlisted, high ranks and lower ranks, men and women, and people of varied ethnic backgrounds. Unfortunately, an interview with the high-ranking McLowery wasn’t happening so far, despite a quick conversation with him earlier in the day.

Not needing to worry about the muster, Jo stepped back into the shade and consulted her notes as the roll call droned on in the blinding light. She had to find a story, so she might as well go where it was cooler and start with some of the low-ranking officers.

Luckily for her, the CHC—Chaplain Corps—worked inside the hospital, a huge complex of connected canvas tents, which all the students learned to assemble. The hospital air-conditioning operated only in critical areas— Surgery, Intensive Care and the Expectant area, which was what they called the cordoned-off area for those expected to die. Those three sites, especially the latter two, were chaplain territories, she read. Chaplains would be praying over the dead and dying.

“Nothing like fake blood on bandages to spice up a dull shot,” Jo murmured. She felt for her camera at her side and stayed in the shade as she searched the mustered ranks for the chaplain participating in this exercise. She had a gift for both words and photography—although she rarely needed photos when it came to the tabloids. Celebrity stories used stock shots, and fake stories used computer-generated photos, like those used to show readers supposed alien-human babies born in Roswell basements near Area 51.

She ought to know; she’d written a series of alien-baby stories herself under her Jo Marche byline. They sold almost as well as Elvis sightings and features on the British royals’ latest affairs—whether they’d actually happened or not. Jo had always wanted to be a nonfiction writer, but for some reason only the tabloids bought her stuff, and that sort of writing could hardly be classified as true reporting.

She winced at the thought of some of her past work, although she had more scruples than many of her colleagues. She flatly refused to write tabloid trash about celebrities, royals or any real people. But her aliens, ghosts, vampires, zombies and other weird creatures in the midst of suburbia were pure fiction and so, fair game. Those stories hurt no one—except Lori Sepanik and her professional reputation, even if they did pay the bills.

Hence her pen name, Jo Marche, with the intentionally added “e.” She was an avid reader who’d used books to escape from a poverty-ridden childhood, and Jo March of Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women became Lori’s favorite heroine. The fictional Miss March had escaped the world of lurid fiction to become a famous writer. Even as a child, Lori had pretended she was Josephine March, the famous writer. In her version, Jo married the handsome Laurence, even though the pretty younger sister ended up with him in the book, and she vowed to follow Jo March’s example. Sadly, young Lori’s plans for herself hadn’t panned out, and rather than sully the innocent name of the fictional Miss March with trashy tabloid fiction, the adult Lori had added an “e” to her pseudonym, vowing to drop it when she finally became legitimate—as in publishing an AP or UP story. The name change might be slight, but it made her feel…less guilty.

She’d left her old neighborhood in St. Louis four years ago and moved to Las Vegas, hoping to cover the entertainment news. But not once had she ever been in the right place at the right time with the right “connections” to get to the really big stars. With some college education, a little money and a couple of “you’re almost there” rejection letters to spur her on, she’d moved south from Las Vegas to Southern California. Writing about California’s “four seasons”—earthquakes, droughts, fires and mudslides—helped supplement her income, especially since Hollywood stars tended to be even more guarded than those in Vegas. And San Diego, so close to the border, didn’t make a big deal about people who lived out of their cars in trailer parks, river washes or the interstates’ many “rest areas.” As long as there were no sanitary or trash problems, the police left her—and others living the not-so-glamorous California dream—alone. At least she could shower and keep clean until another sale afforded her enough money to stay at a cheap motel. She hadn’t hit San Diego’s definable rock bottom yet—living on the beaches or in the parks year-round and fishing through trash for redeemable bottles and cans.

Luckily Jo had talent, determination and, at age thirty-three, enough of her youth plus enough maturity to keep reaching for her star. A Fleet Hospital story might provide her with enough money to go legitimate for a real newspaper and find an apartment where she could live and date like a normal person. Maybe even get married eventually and have a kid or two. She refused to consider herself homeless—just struggling—but a 1968 Chevy Impala back-seat bedroom wasn’t exactly a good place for children.

Jo had a game plan. No one knew a thing about Fleet Hospitals. No one had written about them, not even the big papers like the Los Angeles Times. Maybe she could get enough material for a features article in Sunday’s nationally syndicated Parade section. With luck, she might be able to get enough info to write a TV sitcom, too. Everyone loved M.A.S.H., the TV show, which was still going strong in reruns.

So what if the odds were stacked against her? Except for her quick brain, the odds had been lousy since the day she was born. Fleet was better than alien stories; something, anything was needed to feed her creative mind—and her nearly empty bank account.

She intended to write a piece establishing herself once and for all as a woman going somewhere. A woman with a future in legitimate journalism. Either that, or she’d be stuck composing her next tabloid story: “Shape-shifters locked in guarded Fort Knox vaults. Military denies all knowledge.”

Right now Jo had everything on the line. Someone had broken into her car and stolen her used but serviceable laptop and the trash bag holding most of her clothes, leaving behind the few dirty clothes she hadn’t washed yet. Another female resident of the trailer park where Jo stayed had almost been raped in the showers; she’d escaped only because her attacker had slipped on the slimy mildew-covered tile. Still, he’d succeeded in getting away before the police arrived.

Jo now had a limited wardrobe, an empty stomach and a backpack that served as her camera case, suitcase and purse. She discovered that she wasn’t bouncing back from life’s little problems the way she used to. The trailer park was getting too scary, even for a lifelong veteran of trashy neighborhoods, and she didn’t know which felt worse, the lousy mattresses in the lousy motels or the back seat of her Chevy, with its broken springs and torn vinyl upholstery. Being at Camp Pendleton meant a cot, and since she was a reporter—an invited civilian guest—her meals were free.

None too soon. She’d paid almost all her money to a Los Angeles forger for two fake IDs, both in her pen name: one a bogus driver’s license, the other an Associated Press card that had gotten her permission from the Marine Base General to report on Fleet Hospital. All she had now was a stash of about a hundred bucks to hit the thrift shop for some new clothes—if there was anything left after renting a computer to type out her story and then fax it in.

But first she had to find that story. She’d better start interviewing as many people as possible—and that meant she could stay in the shade for a while. Anyone who had any sense would join her after mustering.

“Finally!” she murmured as roll call ended. She scanned the crowd again. She needed to locate the handsome CO, Michael James McLowery, and then that boring-looking chaplain. What was the guy’s name and rank? She checked her notes one more time. Oh, yeah, there it was….



HERE HE WAS, Daniel Preston, Lieutenant, CHC, USN, a chaplain straight out of OIS—Officer Indoctrination School in Newport, Rhode Island—and about to undergo an exercise that would teach him about dealing with the dead and dying. His years in the Navy Reserves hadn’t acquainted him with a chaplain’s most solemn duties, which was why he’d finally made the jump to full-time sailor. Like most of the population in a wealthy country usually at peace, he’d never seen an adult die. In fact, he’d never seen anyone die…

Except for a small child. Anna McLowery. That was back when he was Daniel Klemko, Jr., known as “Dennis.” But his father, Daniel Senior, had died in ’Nam, from friendly fire, no less, and his mother had remarried and let his new stepdad adopt him. He became Daniel Preston, minus the Jr.

The memory of that little girl’s death had stayed with him, made his new name welcome and had later driven him to bars, booze, women’s beds and, finally, to the ministry. He doubted he had any genuine calling as a man of God, but he could certainly identify with other tortured sinners. So here he stood, an honest-to-goodness military chaplain, expected to counsel, pray with—or pray for—moulaged military personnel made up with eerie Hollywood expertise to look like dying patients.

Soon “the enemy,” the instructors and support staff, would quit mustering them and start the attack. He’d been waiting for it since early morning. Two hundred personnel from all over North America were also waiting.

“Back to your stations. Disssssss-missed!”

Everyone except the armed on-duty compound guards at the gate fell out and shuffled back to the two hospital entrances, either Triage and Casualty Receiving or the main hospital entrance to the command center.

An African-American female with an M-16 slung across her back and a radio attached to her shoulder fell out beside Daniel. She reached up to adjust the security earpiece/radio she wore, swiped at the sweat on her face, then stared at her hand.

“Damn heat’s melting my mascara—” She broke off at the sight of Daniel’s subdued black lieutenant’s garrison emblem on the left of his uniform collar and the Cross of Christ emblem on the right. “Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to swear, sir.”

Daniel read her Second Class rank on her collar and her Master-at-Arms rank, rate and name, A. Jackson, by the embroidered badge on her pocket. “I’ve heard worse, MA2.” He reached into his pocket for the ever-present wad of tissues he carried. Prayers and Kleenex, a chaplain’s stock in trade. He gave her a handful and gestured toward another area of mascara on her skin.

“Sorry, sir,” she said again. He noticed—couldn’t help noticing—Jackson’s flawless feminine features and trim but voluptuous body. Her accent was as thick and heavy as her weapon. Thanks to his internship in the South, he’d bet money she was a Bible Belt Baptist.

“People act as ridiculous around chaplains as Friday-night drivers do around MPs,” he said. “I get tired of it—don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. It’s a…pain, sir.”

“You can stop with all the sirs, too.”

She grinned, the smile definitely making her feminine and attractive despite the unflattering uniform and the melted mascara still speckling her cheeks.

“Missed a spot.”

She scrubbed at her face with the wadded tissue. “All gone, Chaplain?”

“It is now, Petty Officer Jackson.”

“Thank you, sir. Duty calls, sir.”

He watched her military-trot toward the guard shack.

From behind Daniel, a pleasant voice commented, “Now that’s an oxymoron—a military chaplain.”

Daniel swiveled around to find another woman. Her face was more pretty than classically beautiful, and there was little delicacy in this sassy lady. A lightly tanned white civilian in scruffy jeans, she didn’t bother with a cap to shade a head of untidy, shoulder-length dark-blond curls. Her gray-eyed gaze met Daniel’s. He noted the two cameras slung over one trim shoulder. A piece of masking tape hand-printed with “Press” was stuck to her shirt below the neck with its two open snaps. He observed she had a very nice bust line, the only part of this woman that didn’t seem to need fattening up.

She caught the quick flick of his eyes. “Judging by that look, I’d say you’re not a Catholic chaplain. Or a married Jewish one.”

She had seen his cross. Jewish chaplains wore the Star of David, not that religious insignias mattered to a dying sailor. As with all military chaplains, Daniel had been trained in the rites and prayers of the three major religions, and was expected to use them.

“Protestant chaplain, right? Single, too.”

“Yep.” Not that he could’ve bypassed that figure even if he had been married. The smiling woman before him was in her early thirties and was as sexy as the MA2 was businesslike. Daniel warmed to this woman’s sensuality as quickly as he’d warmed to Jackson’s honest personality. The cross on his collar didn’t cancel out his masculinity, and as Ms. Reporter had noted, he wasn’t bound by a Catholic priest’s vow of celibacy.

However, as a chaplain, he was bound to marital sex only. He wasn’t married, and his days in strange women’s beds were long over. He was only human, however, and sometimes that human side overcame his spiritual calling. Breasts were breasts, even if he refused to ogle them. But he had no plans for a girlfriend, fiancée or wife.

“Lt. Daniel Preston, CHC.”

She held out a friendly hand, which he shook. “I’m Jo Marche—that’s Marche with an ‘e’—AP. That’s Associated Press.”

Daniel knew what AP meant.

“I’m here to cover the training exercise, starting with you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Everyone does stories on the poor wounded men and the Florence Nightingales who treat them.”

She didn’t sound disparaging in the least, but as a good citizen in uniform he couldn’t help commenting. “That’s what war’s about—death and destruction, wounded men and women.”

“Sadly, yes,” she said with real feeling, apparently not offended by his correction. “However, this is a training exercise, not a real war. I thought I’d get some different angles—a chaplain’s angle, for one, and you’re the only Chaplain Corps personnel assigned. You’re the first person I plan to talk to, since Michael McLowery is unavailable at present. Until I can get near him, I’d appreciate an interview.”

Despite the blow to his pride, Daniel admired her frankness. He still wasn’t eager to volunteer as her subject. His experience as a chaplain wasn’t vast enough for her to report on, and he certainly didn’t consider himself representative of the Navy norm. Ever since he’d graduated from divinity school seven years ago in New York, his experience had been mostly with paperwork, not people. Even his years with Navy Reserves, serving a weekend once a month, plus two weeks in the summer, wasn’t enough to learn his trade…or maybe he just wasn’t very good at it. Best to tread cautiously here.

He also intended to call as little attention to himself as possible. He’d been deeply shocked six weeks earlier, when he’d received his orders for Fleet Hospital. The CO’s name, Michael McLowery, had been printed in big bold letters. So far, McLowery hadn’t recognized him. Daniel had decided not to press his luck. For everyone’s sake, he’d decided not to reveal their childhood connection until the training exercise had concluded—if at all. No sense in rocking the boat.

“My job isn’t that exciting from a media point of view.”

“Oh, but it is. I did my research in the base library right here. I read about those two chaplains who each received our country’s Medal of Honor—Capodanno and O’Callahan, right?”

“They were both Catholics,” he said, impressed at her knowledge. She had brains, as well as looks. “I’m Protestant.”

“So tell me, are you Protestants cowardly? Or just smarter than Catholics? I can’t tell. I’m nondenominational myself.”

Witty, too, it seemed. No way would he touch that remark. “Chaplains don’t earn medals in training exercises.”

“Such an interesting fact. I’d better write it down.”

Was she mocking him or flirting with him? He wasn’t sure. The woman whipped out a notebook and scribbled in it, then slipped it back into her jeans pocket. Maybe forced was a better word. There wasn’t a lot of room between that tightly rounded buttock and the thin denim. Despite her intelligent professional air, he decided it was time to abandon Ms. AP’s ship. Michael McLowery was welcome to her.

“Please accept my apologies, Ms. Marche, but maybe you should find someone else.”

“But it’s so hot out here,” she moaned. “Ordinarily I’m not such a wimp, but I definitely need a break—and an interview. The guard shack and ordnance areas aren’t air-conditioned, so I’m not interested in interviewing their staff until it cools down later on, and I can’t get near the CO. The hospital is air-conditioned, and since you’re assigned there, why don’t you make things easier for me?” She smiled with an easy sensuality.

He had no good answer to that question, either. “I suppose I could walk you through the place this afternoon, if nothing comes up in the line of duty.”

“Great. I’ll stick close for the next few days. I do have the command’s permission to stay for the full two weeks of training.”

“In writing?”

She promptly showed it to him. Damn, she did have it. “How about if I agree to the interview just for today? You won’t need more time with me than that.”

They headed toward the Triage entrance, empty except for stretchers.

“Sounds as if you’re trying to get rid of me.”

He shrugged. “I’m here to work, and you’ll get bored,” he warned her. “I doubt there’ll be much for you to see. Casualties filter through Triage, Surgery and Post-op first. I don’t get them until ICU, Recovery or the Expectant area.” At her look of confusion, he explained, “Expectant—death and dying area.”

“No problem. I can wait.”

Her persistence didn’t bother him as much as his own lack of experience. “I doubt a photo of me reading my Bible is going to win a Pulitzer prize,” he said with undisguised sarcasm.

She leaned his way, her camera brushing his hip. “Tell you a secret, Preacher Man. Heavy casualties will be on the way soon.”

Daniel slowed his pace, unwilling to touch her camera, or anything else. “What makes you say that?”

She winked. “The command gives civilians like me the whole exercise script in advance. This lull is to get everyone off guard before the shit hits the fan. I’ll get you a copy if you want,” she said helpfully.

“No, thanks. It wouldn’t be—”

“Kosher? That’s okay. You’re Christian.” She smiled at her little joke. He didn’t. “Trust me, it’ll be moulage city before you can say ‘hit the deck.’ So, whaddaya say, Preach? Stay and do the interview?”

“Perhaps later, but on two conditions.”

She halted. Her sensuality, healthy or not—he couldn’t tell on so short an acquaintance—continued to flow. “Yes?”

“First, I go by ‘Chaplain’ or ‘Lieutenant.’ Second, snap up that shirt and keep a nice post-Tailhook body space between us. I don’t care if you’re a civilian or not. Professionalism is the order of the day. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Give me a break!” she said, obviously offended. She reached for the open snap at her neck, and her fingers tracked down to the next one just a few inches below. “I could go to church in this! Though it certainly wouldn’t be yours. I’ve never ever seduced anyone on the job, and if I decided to start, it wouldn’t be some self-righteous Arthur Dimmesdale-type, either. That, for your information, was the name of the hypocritical minister in The Scarlet Letter. So you can just take your—”

“I get the point, Ms. Marche. And I do recognize the literary reference. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” He gave Ms. Marche with an “e” his crispest military nod of dismissal. “By the way, the tour is off. You can forget the interview, too.” Even if he’d misjudged her, she seemed a tough nut, obviously a seasoned reporter. Probably a tiger in the sack, as well, but he had no intention of finding out for himself. On a hot Hawaiian day years ago, a pair of pert breasts in a white nurse’s uniform had cost him dearly.

It’d be a cold day in FHOTC—Fleet Hospital Operations and Training Command—Camp Pendleton’s desert hell, if another set of female attributes cost him his Navy uniform, his chaplain’s cross and his immortal, admittedly flawed, excuse for a soul. He fingered the cross on his collar as he watched her saunter off, hips swaying rhythmically.

Sweet Lord, have mercy!



AT TRIAGE AND RECEIVING Jo Marche fiddled with the manual film loader on her old backup camera. Mentally she cursed both the uncooperative tab of plastic and herself.

She hadn’t come on too strong, had she? She wasn’t even trying to be sexy, but watching the CO with the GQ face and trying to catch up to him had its effect. That man and his body had her motor running, and she supposed the chaplain had inadvertently been the recipient of her overspilling hormones. The CO was bedroom-handsome: an officer with a wow body, snapping baby blues, glossy black hair and a higher rank than Lt. Prim Preacher. He could pose for a recruiting poster or TV commercial in a second. He had that look—officer, gentleman, woman’s dream lover, hero—especially hero. Not just the look, either; McLowery seemed like a good man to her because of the way he handled his troops. Nothing like that priggish chaplain.

Jo did a slow burn. She’d never been big on church, but two open snaps over a basic bra did not equal Tailhook, for heaven’s sake! Time to move on.

She pulled out her duty roster. Michael James McLowery. Rank: Capt. Age: 44. Status: Single. And sexy. Not only that, he’s my ticket to the big time. I can’t wait to track this cutie down and speak to him instead of just staring at him from afar. Smile pretty for the camera, McLowery.

No wedding ring on the CO’s hand, she recalled.

When a woman had morals and no money…well, business came first, and dating took money. But after their brief meeting to set up an appointment, this man piqued her interest so much it surprised even her. After she wrote her story and business was concluded, maybe she’d check him out on a more personal level. But first her circumstances had to change. She couldn’t go on a date and then ask the man back to her car for a nightcap. She had to make a life for herself, a normal life. She was thirty-three, a tabloid writer trapped with Elvis and aliens and haunted toilets, and getting older every day. As they said in journalism class, the camera never lies.

Even if the journalist does.




CHAPTER THREE


Naval Fleet Hospital

Camp Pendleton Marine Corps Base

Day 1

CAPTAIN MICHAEL JAMES McLowery, Medical Service Corps, CO, Fleet Hospital Training Command, reluctantly locked up his desk. Time to leave the lovely air-conditioning and make the trek to his car and its air-conditioning. He hated the heat. Always had, especially since Hawaii, but he could function in it. For the command’s sake, Michael hoped this class—officer nurses and doctors, enlisted corpsmen and support personnel—wasn’t as slow in the broiling temperatures as the previous group had been. Class wasn’t over until every job was finished.

For today, Michael was off the hook. He’d already planned to take the afternoon off to attend the funeral of one of his stepmother’s old friends. In long hot polyester dress whites, no less, which were even hotter than the cotton cammies he now wore. How did Sunshine manage to talk him into this one? He spent his whole life trying to stay cool. Damn sun. Damn California. Damn dress whites. The camouflage clothing he wore was hot enough. He could name a hundred guys stationed in the East, from Long Island to Groton to Newport, who would trade snow and ice for the hell of this relentless San Diego sun in a second.

Would the Navy give him a berth home in Boston? Or anywhere on the chilly East Coast? No. God knows why. At least Sunshine’s departed friend had the sense to belong to an air-conditioned church. He finished with his computer program, encrypted it with his lockdown password, then shut down.

“I’m out of here, YN3.”

The little Yeoman Third Class with the pixie haircut and baby face nodded. Mia Gibson was one of many who’d joined the military to escape a life mapped out for them by family. He’d heard that as soon as her brothers had finished high school, they’d jumped right onto the tractors at the family farm—a job they’d been doing since the age of ten. Farming was a noble profession to be sure, but not for Mia. She received her high-school diploma and joined the Navy as soon as she’d turned seventeen three years earlier. She hadn’t been astride a tractor since.

Michael momentarily turned back to her desk. “My pager’s on if you need me. B or B only.”

“Blood or bodies—got it, Captain. Shall I reschedule your interview with that reporter from Associated Press?”

“Jo Marche.” He surprised himself by remembering her name. Ordinarily he didn’t bother with civilian reporters admitted to Navy exercises. But in this case… “Please do. I just haven’t had time for it. Maybe tomorrow during my lunch.”

“You want to eat lunch with her, sir?”

“Affirmative.” He didn’t have to explain himself to anyone, especially his Yeoman. “Eleven hundred will be fine.”

“Will do, Captain. Oh, the staff sent flowers to the funeral home. Tell your mother I’m sorry about her friend.”

“I will.” His smile was warm. “The staff” meant the Chief, but the Yeoman would be the one to pick out the arrangement. She had a pleasant voice and a calm disposition, which made his office a more cheerful place to work than previous duty stations. “Thanks.”

Ten seconds later he was as hot and sweaty as the Chief, who met him outside the Admin building. Michael’s administrative department head and computer systems coordinator, Chief Valmore Bouchard carried a metal clipboard in one hand, his other swinging freely at his side. Naval salutes weren’t required in hospitals or inside buildings except on formal occasions, and the Fleet compound was no exception.

“Leaving, sir?”

“Just about, Chief.” Michael took the proffered clipboard, checked the afternoon schedule and passed it back to the smaller man. “How’s the class shaping up?”

The question covered three areas: physical (would they pass out?), mental (were they stupid?) and morale (did they take the training seriously?).

“The good news, Captain, is most of them are from Jax or Pensacola.”

Michael nodded. That was good news indeed. The two Florida units wouldn’t bitch about the heat, or eat dirt fainting. They knew to keep themselves hydrated. In fact, he’d seen one Jacksonville enlisted with his fatigue jacket on. Some of them actually suffered in air conditioning, something Michael could never understand.

“Not too many boneheaded questions in the classrooms, either, sir, other than the usual computer-clueless.” The Chief snorted, then carefully smoothed his Navy-regulation mustache.

Michael kept silent, knowing that his Chief’s “clueless” category included people with doctorate degrees in computer science. He also knew that NCIS—Naval Criminal Investigative Services—regularly visited the Chief to test computer lockout safeguards or ask advice. They generally left his office with muttered comments such as “Good thing that bastard’s on our side.”

“You’ll handle the clueless just fine, Chief. You whipped me into shape, right?” No comment, nor did Michael expect one. “The bad news?”

“We’ve got a few Air Farce prima donnas enrolled.”

Michael overlooked the Chief’s sarcastic use of Farce for Force. “Flight surgeons?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Those paper-pushers having problems with the heat?” If so, it was the Chief’s problem to solve, not his.

“No, sir. They don’t want to pull their fair share.”

“I’ll have someone talk with them,” Michael promised. That was his job. The officers were usually the first to scream foul when ordered to lift litters. Traditionally litter-bearing was enlisted work in the Air Force. But Fleet wasn’t like military shore hospitals. Fleet was to the Navy what MASH was to the Army. They were fairly identical after the start-up. A Fleet Hospital was initially set down on the beach by ship-based amphibcraft or flown in on cargo jets. MASH was brought on by truck and Army helicopters.

One significant difference existed between Fleet facilities and MASH ones. Incoming supply and personnel runs continually supported MASH. But once a Fleet Hospital was set up, that was it. The hospital became totally self-supporting, so personnel was limited, and as in the MASH units, doctors often had to carry litters. Field-trained Army and Navy doctors might grumble sometimes, but they knew the routine and did their fair share. USAF flight surgeons, who were rarely trained anywhere but permanent hospitals, tended to complain when first confronted with manual labor. They bitched to the Chief, who correctly sent them to the CO. The whole purpose of the Fleet exercise was to bring together a bunch of strangers who could put up and run a wartime-casualty hospital. In the best of circumstances, the unit learned enough in two weeks to avoid being sent back for a second or third session. At worst, the students made the Keystone Cops look capable.

“Have one of my officers give them the standard ‘things are different here’ talk, would you?” Michael said. “I won’t have time.”

“Will do, sir. There’s one more thing.”

Michael didn’t like the devilish twitch at the corners of the Chief’s mouth.

“They’re from Alaska.”

Michael’s lips compressed over the foul expletive he was dying to say. He’d give his eyeteeth for an Alaska station, but no, the Navy hadn’t figured out yet that happy people were productive people.

“Alaska, Chief?” He congratulated himself on his bland tone. The Chief would be all over him if he showed any envy, any weakness.

“Aye, sir. Those snow bunnies have no desert training whatsoever. And it’s going to be another bear today, too.”

You mean another bitchin’ hot afternoon. Not that the Chief would ever say so. His manners were polite, his emotions kept in military-correct check at all times.

This led some fools to assume the Chief was harmless or, worse yet, stupid. Michael never made that mistake. Fleet Hospital was supposedly run by Admin. But Admin was, in effect, the Chief. Treat him and his staff—emphasis on staff—with respect, and he was a benevolent genie in the bottle. Screw with his staff, and you screwed yourself. The Chief had a keen sense of justice, a better sense of honor and a rich wife who made any financial need for promotion nonexistent.

The Chief ran the place like a well-oiled ship’s propeller shaft. Which meant Michael could get out of these cammies and take off early without guilt or worry. The Chief always kept his end of Fleet running smoothly. The man was a credit to his uniform. Always would be.

“Make sure our Alaskan students don’t end up face-down when they’re lifting those litters, Chief.”

“Aye, sir. If that’s all, feel free to bug out, sir. Oh, and I took the liberty of having someone put your dress whites in the men’s locker room. I also had your car started. It should be cool by the time you’ve changed.”

“Thanks, Chief.” Unlike when he’d first reported for duty at Fleet, Michael wasn’t surprised by the nicety. “That’ll save me time.” He returned the clipboard. “I’ll be back at 0630 tomorrow.”

“Aye, sir. My regrets on your loss, sir.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

No further conversation was required.



SHE WAS WAITING for him by the car, Lieutenant Junior Grade Mellow, Supply Officer for Fleet. Sleek sophisticated Selena Mellow, Michael’s cousin. Technically she was his stepcousin once removed, possessing the same blond beauty as her much older first cousin, Sunshine. Michael hadn’t grown up with her, but eight years after he’d lost his mother and sister and left for college, Selena had moved into the house of her aunt Sunshine. She hadn’t wanted to leave her birthplace when her elderly parents moved to Arizona and retirement.

Michael called her his cousin. He would never call Selena his sister, for Anna alone held that place, but Selena was the closest thing to a sibling he had, and he loved her like family. He didn’t see much of her while he was in college, but she made it a point to see him. A “mistake,” an only child who’d never been happy about either fact, she treated him as her big brother. Inspired by Michael, she’d even joined the Navy and requested that she be stationed with him.

Loyal and honest, Selena made him laugh. Just the sight of her waiting by his car put a smile on his face. Although she was lower ranking, she didn’t bother with military protocol when they were alone, nor did he insist on it.

“Something about a man in uniform,” Selena sighed, holding a clipboard with paperwork for him to sign. “God, you look good. If only we weren’t related.”

He glanced up, amused. “Not as good as you,” he said, continuing the banter. “You must drive your fiancé insane with desire.” Although he grinned, he meant every word, despite her moulaged face and leg, the camouflaged fatigues with the ripped pant leg, under which he could see a simulated battle wound.

“Who says we’ve been waiting for the honeymoon?”

Michael held up his hands in mock horror. “Please, loose lips sink ships.”

“I can trust you,” Selena replied. “Now get in the car before you start smelling like the rest of us sailors. I wish I was going.”

He checked his watch. “It’s not too late to make the funeral. Sunshine would rather have us both. Paul will be there, too, I understand.”

Selena beamed at the name of her soon-to-be husband, then the smile faded. “Yeah, I know, but we couldn’t round up enough safe ‘volunteers’ from the brig or stabilized mental patients for ‘wounded.’ Even those detached waiting to be shipped out have been—” she lifted her palms “—well, shipped out. So I’m a volunteer.”

“They can use other staff.”

“It’s not up to me. Besides, I got out of the watch last week when Sunshine wanted me to go to her latest gallery opening, so today is payback. I have to be on my litter near the ambulance in fifteen minutes.”

“Then, cuz, you’d better hit the Porta Potties now. Going by the looks of that leg wound, you’ll be bed-panning it for the next forty-eight hours.”

“I didn’t think of that.”

“Who’d you tick off in Moulage to get the bum leg?”

“No one. I moulaged myself when I relieved the regular artist for lunch. I made up my own injury from the empty slot on his roster.”

“Well, I’m sorry you can’t come. Sunshine will be disappointed.”

“That’s the last time I ask my CO to mess with the watch bill,” she said. “It’s my own fault, but getting last weekend off was worth it. Make my apologies to everyone, would you? Tell Paul I’ll call him later if I can.”

“Will do. I’ll swing back here after the funeral and look in on you. Maybe I can find a last-minute replacement.”

Selena’s grateful smile made him feel like a million dollars. “No, don’t do that. No reason we should both suffer. I have a fiancé to torture now, instead of you. Time to pass the torch-ure,” she quipped, winking at her weak pun. The wink looked ludicrous through the made-up bloody face.

“You should be court-martialed for that one,” he replied, grinning nonetheless. “I’d better warn Paul about your plans—not to mention your fondness for bad puns.”

Her laugh rang out over the compound. “He knows what he’s getting into. Here.” She shoved the clipboard his way. “Sign this and go.”

He scanned it.

“It’s just a couple of supply reqs. Oh, and don’t forget, the wedding rehearsal is two weeks from next Saturday. You’re best man, so make sure you don’t schedule any more classes!”

“Already taken care of.” He initialed two spots, then signed. “Later, Slick,” he said, using his special nickname for her. With no one around, he leaned forward to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“Don’t! You’ll ruin your uniform.” She gave him a little push in the direction of his car. “Go, already. You’ll be late.”

He returned her wave and hurried toward the waiting car, anticipating its cool comfort.



THE CHURCH IN Solana Beach was a good thirty miles down I-5 south. First Presbyterian catered to the affluent crowd in town and in nearby Del Mar, the horsey set who lived where “the surf meets the turf.” The church was made of real granite and marble rather than the usual spray stucco and pressed cheap tile. The cars in the lot were sleek and expensive, as were the people who owned them.

Sunshine, Michael’s stepmother, wasn’t a member of the horsey set. But the high-quality Raku pottery she’d been throwing ever since her go-go-boot days made more money annually than a Del Mar favorite during the Futurity Classic. Her Raku was refined and expensive, just like Solana Beach residents. It was also of outstanding artistry and in hot demand by locals, galleries, L.A. movie moguls and top dealers in Tokyo. Sunshine Mellow McLowery happily lived up to her name. She threw her pots every morning and surfed every afternoon with her board purchased years ago in Hawaii. The rest of the day she tended her flowers, fussed over her retired arthritic husband and doled out both love and food to her stepson, Michael, and her younger cousin, Selena.

Those occasions no longer came as often as Sunshine wished. Before he got involved with FHOTC, Michael’s last duty station had been in New Orleans, and even though he was now stationed close to home, he preferred to live at the furnished Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. Selena lived at the McLowerys’, but she spent her free weekends with her fiancé. They usually met at a hotel halfway between her place and his. Since Selena had become engaged, Michael made an effort to stay over a few nights a month because he knew Sunshine missed Selena more than she’d admit. Sunshine wasn’t looking forward to the end of Michael’s tour at Camp Pendleton. He’d already served more than two-thirds of the usual three-year duty, while Selena would soon resign from the Navy and move north to Silicon Valley, where Paul worked. To all appearances, however, Sunshine gracefully accepted the loss of her “children,” and waited for the day she could indulge her grandchildren.

No brothers or sisters came along after the marriage of Lt. Commander Patrick Andrew McLowery to the much younger, sadly infertile, Sunshine Mellow. He’d retired as a Commander, never making Captain due to hard drinking after the deaths of his wife and daughter. He didn’t seem to care. Patrick’s days of fast cars and hard liquor ended soon after his marriage to Sunshine. He finished his time in the Navy teaching others to fly jets, retired as early as possible and now spent his days running Sunshine’s business and nursing his arthritis. He seemed to accept his change of status with, if not wild passion, contentment in his good fortune.

“Trust a damned Irishman to count his wife’s pennies,” Sunshine often said without rancor.

“Trust a damned hippie not to pay her taxes,” was her husband’s standard comeback.

Michael smiled to himself as he kicked up the A/C in his Acura to high, slid in a rhythm-and-blues CD and gently maneuvered the car through the daily quagmire of traffic that was Southern California’s signature. Sunshine Mellow and the retired jet jockey. What a combination. And whenever he saw them, the scene was always the same.

The two would gently squabble, while Patrick— “Paddy” to Sunshine—made himself busy with paperwork and phone calls and arranging deliveries while she molded her clay. Sunshine never seemed to mind his frequent presence. She was generous with her workshop, her time and, to Patrick, her still-slim body. For that, Michael admired her greatly. Maybe that was why he was so fond of Selena. Both cousins shared their own happiness.

Michael, like all the other men who knew Sunshine, was almost in love with her himself. She’d been half mother, half dream date in his younger years. The adult Michael knew that Sunshine was the only reason Patrick hadn’t drunk himself to death, and the only reason Patrick’s son was still sane. Sunshine and Patrick were a good combination. Sunshine had hoped Michael and Selena—not actual blood relations—would someday pair off, but had accepted that disappointment with her usual grace.

Michael switched lanes smoothly. He’d hit the funeral service, try to cheer up Sunshine and then get back to Selena and see if he couldn’t find relief for her. Maybe he could take her and Paul out for a nice dinner. Surf and turf, maybe, in La Jolla, hopefully with no interruptions. Michael was as protective of his cousin as he was the rest of his family. Paul, a computer tech from Silicon Valley, seemed like a nice guy, nice enough that he didn’t mind sharing his soon-to-be wife with the rest of the family. Michael didn’t mind returning the favor. Family ranked right up there with duty. Hell, family was duty. As soon as the funeral was over, he’d make reservations for four, which would include Sunshine. His father rarely dined out, thanks to his arthritis and the addition of two brand-new sports channels.

As for Michael’s twenty-four-hour-a-day responsibility for Fleet Hospital, he wasn’t worried. He’d flip his pager from tone to vibrate before the funeral. The only B or B he’d see today would be Sunshine’s friend in her rich-bitch customized open casket.



FORTY-SEVEN-YEAR-OLD Commander Coral Puripong, Medical Service Corps, looked over her new command while walking through the canvas-over-concrete tented halls. Fleet Hospital Operations and Training Command, FHOTC, was the last bit of training she needed to be eligible for promotion to Captain. To hell with staying in the cozy Admin section of the tent hospital. All her future plans depended on getting promoted. Everything was budgeted down to the last penny. Nothing must go wrong. She would whip these foolish, lazy, full-bellied Navy personnel at Fleet into a glowing team for her glowing record and glowing new promotion.

Puripong’s eyes glittered with anticipation. She had done everything else she’d set out to do in her life. Getting promoted would be the easiest task imaginable.

She glanced up at the sound of booted feet running inside the Fleet Hospital. It was the Black Guard, the pretty woman with the big rifle and carefully pressed starched uniform. Puripong bit back the sharp reprimand on her lips. The guard had that Hard Look in her eyes; the look that meant she knew about bad times and priorities. Especially priorities. If the Black Guard was running with a rifle in her hands, there was an important reason.

“What is it, Sailor?” Puripong snapped out in her best English.

“Ma’am, there’s a problem in the Expectant area.”

Puripong could barely understand the rushed Southern drawl.

“Slow down, MA2, and start again.”

“Yes, ma’am. I just came from the Expectant area. Some photographer there found a body.”

Puripong refused to acknowledge the possibility her superstitious Filipina gut was hinting at. “Of course she found a body. Moulaged bodies are supposed to be there.”

“No, ma’am. I’m talking about a not-breathing, no-heartbeat body, ma’am. There’s fresh blood all over a corpse that’s ready for six feet under, ma’am. The body’s an officer, and the dog tags say Christian. The chaplain’s in there sayin’ last prayers.”

“Last rites,” Puripong automatically corrected. Son of a whore in a sailor’s bed! A dead body right before promotion review boards! If I screw up, Older Sister will wail loud enough to wake Dead Mother in her grave back home!

“Secure the area!” Puripong snapped the order. “Get me the training command’s CO.”

“I already secured the area, ma’am. Captain McLowery’s off the compound.”

“Where is he?”

“In Solana Beach at a funeral. I had him paged, ma’am.”

Damn, damn, damn! He better not shovel goat shit into my hut! “Get me the Executive Officer, then!”

“The XO’s on leave, but I notified the Officer of the Deck. The OOD said the Captain’s on his way. There’s a problem, ma’am.”

“A problem besides a dead body that shouldn’t be dead?” Puripong asked with heavy sarcasm.

“The deceased is the Captain’s cousin, ma’am. And he doesn’t know yet. Someone’s got to tell him.” The guard’s tone said exactly whose responsibility that unpleasant task would be. “Shall I take you to the victim, ma’am?”

Commander Puripong spoke through clenched teeth. “Lead the way.”




CHAPTER FOUR


Naval Fleet Hospital, Secured Compound, Expectant Area

Day 1, early afternoon

DANIEL PRESTON stared at the dead woman on the cot, the woman identified as the CO’s cousin. Young sailors—kids, really, pretending to be other dying patients—talked and gawked, unsure of what to do. Hell, he didn’t know what to do! He’d prayed over the dead woman, saying the Protestant prayers appropriate to the religious classification on her dog tags.

The only person who seemed to know what actions to take was the photographer in tight jeans—Jo Marche. She’d roped off the area with a length of fresh film, using it like yellow police tape to keep away the shocked and the curious. She’d quickly taken pictures of the scene, the people present and the body itself without moving or touching anything. In the meantime, he sat there like an idiot, trying to decide how to tell the commanding officer that his cousin was dead.

“Who’s in charge here?” Daniel heard Jo Marche ask. “Where’re the MPs? Somebody with rank?”

“That would be me,” Daniel said. “I’ve sent for help. I hope you won’t mind giving up your film. I doubt you’ll be able to keep it.”

“I won’t mind,” she said. To her credit, she spoke in a low hushed voice. “That’s the least of my worries. She doesn’t look much older than I am. How could anyone do this?”

“I can’t answer that. But I will have to tell the CO his cousin is dead.”

“She’s his cousin?” Compassion flooded her face. “That poor man!” Jo bent over and studied the small bullet hole through the vital heart area. “At least you can say she didn’t suffer. It isn’t much consolation, but it’s something.”

To Daniel’s surprise, her hand gently brushed back a lock of hair on Selena’s cheek, then pulled away as a Filipina officer marched into the room, accompanied by a Master-at-Arms, Second Class, and a Master-at-Arms, Third Class. The officer immediately took charge.

“I want everyone out of this room. Witnesses will muster outside the guard shack.” Puripong’s eyes took in the cordoned-off area, the photographer and the chaplain.

“MA2, no one is to enter this room until I say otherwise. Touch nothing.”

“Yes, ma’am,” both MAs chorused as they took their positions, rifles at the ready.

“You two—” she gestured at Daniel and Jo “—follow me. I want your statements and I want them now!”

However, the three weren’t able to leave the Expectant area, for Michael McLowery burst through the open canvas door, then stopped, momentarily frozen at the sight of the armed sailors beside Selena’s body. He started to approach the bed, but Jo and Daniel quickly grabbed his arms.

“She’s…not dead, is she?”

Daniel felt ice-cold prickles descend his spine at the question—the same question he’d heard years earlier from Michael in Hawaii, over Anna’s body. That time, he’d been unable to answer. This time, he couldn’t, either, despite Puripong’s glare that urged him to do his job. She obviously wasn’t about to tell him.

“Yes, she is,” Jo said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

Michael staggered, then stared at her, his eyes wide, shocked, agonized.

“Dear God, what happened?” he asked.

Daniel managed to find his voice. “She was playing the part of a dying patient. I was told to enter the Expectant area, counsel her and keep her company until she…pretended to die. I came in and found her pretty much as you see her now.”

Michael blinked again. “Who? Why?”

“We don’t know, sir,” Puripong answered. “We haven’t gone far with our investigation yet. I’ve provided the guards with real ammunition and ordered an armed lockdown of the hospital compound. The other patients in this area are outside being questioned. And I’ve instructed the press woman here—what’s your name?”

“Jo Marche. With an ‘e,’” Jo answered.

Puripong whipped out her clipboard and located her name on the roster. “Yes. I ordered Ms. Marche here from the Associated Press to act as our medical photographer. The crime scene integrity must be preserved, sir. As I said, all other Expectant patients are outside being questioned by the guards. Once they’re finished interviewing witnesses, I’ve ordered the guards to dust the area for prints. They’ll be here soon, but they told me not to expect anything in this heat. As the deceased is your family, you shouldn’t be in charge of the investigation, sir, but the XO is out of town. Would you like me to head this up in your place?”

The four of them stood in silence, Jo and Daniel still supporting Michael. Finally he straightened, stood alone and took his gaze off Selena to focus on the others.

“Puripong, isn’t it?” Michael asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m in charge of the investigation. You will take command of inquiries inside the compound—and report directly to me. No one, including yourself, is to leave the compound until a suspect or suspects are apprehended. You, Chaplain, will assist. You, Ms. Marche, will document.”

“Yes, sir,” Puripong said briskly. “An autopsy will be required. We’ll need the permission of the next of kin. May I prepare the paperwork for your signature, sir?”

Michael nodded, his face a chalky white.

“Chaplain, he’s all yours,” Puripong ordered.

Daniel reached awkwardly for Michael’s shoulder. “Would you like to pray with me and then say goodbye?” he asked, using words from his counseling textbooks.

“Since she’s dead, that would be pointless, now wouldn’t it?”

Daniel winced at the harshness in the other man’s voice.

“You should still see her,” Jo said quietly, putting her hand on Michael’s shoulder. He didn’t brush it off the way he had Daniel’s, and Jo continued. “She didn’t suffer. You might want to spend a few minutes with your cousin so you can reassure the rest of her family later. She didn’t, you know. She died instantly. And from the peaceful look on her face, she never knew it was coming. Her loved ones will want to hear that from someone they trust—you.”

Damn! Why didn’t I think to say that? Daniel wondered. He felt like hell. Not only had he thought the woman a shallow sexual tease—obviously she wasn’t—but she did a better job of ministering than he did. Jealousy and guilt mingled with admiration and relief.

Jo put an arm around Michael’s waist. “Why don’t you let me remove her effects for you? Then you can tell your family you were present for that, too. Just stay here, and I’ll get them. Preacher, you’re my witness. Write down the inventory.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” He’d forgotten about that job, too—his job—yet this civilian hadn’t.

“Okay. One chain with two dog tags,” Jo said, gently reaching around the dead woman’s neck.

“No, just take one to turn in. The other stays with—” Daniel had been about to say, “the body.”

“Selena,” Michael finished for him. “Selena Mellow.”

“What a pretty name.” Jo unfastened the silver beads of the chain, removed one tag, handed it to Daniel and refastened the chain around Selena’s neck. Next she carefully removed the woman’s hair clip, wristwatch and diamond engagement ring.

“She was getting married next month,” Michael said. “I was to be best man.”

“I’ll bet she was happy about that. Lovely engagement ring. And such an exquisite face,” Jo said. “She would’ve made a beautiful bride. I’ll bet she had a gorgeous gown picked out.”

Michael nodded. Daniel winced.

Damn! Why couldn’t I have thought to say that, either? I’m supposed to be removing the effects, not some photographer. But she’s doing a great job, and there’s nothing rehearsed about it. This is who she is—compassionate, not frightened at all, despite the blood. Despite being in the presence of death. While I’m scared stiff.

Jo finger-combed the woman’s hair and straightened her bangs, then placed the remaining dog tag back inside the shirt.

“Okay, I guess that’s it. I’ll sign, the preacher will sign, then you sign. I can stay with your cousin until the autopsy docs show up. You’ll need to notify family, I guess. I can help with that, too, if you want, okay?”

Both Michael and Daniel nodded this time and signed the paperwork. Daniel kept the items to file later, as was his duty.

“Sure you don’t want to kiss her goodbye?” Jo asked. “I mean, I know it’s not a real goodbye. But just so you can tell your family you did it for them?”

Daniel noticed Michael focus on Jo as herself, no longer simply part of the surroundings. “Perhaps you’re right,” the CO said slowly.

He sat down on the bed. Puripong started to say something, then bit her lip. Michael lightly pressed his lips to Selena’s still-warm cheek as Daniel opened his prayer book and read aloud the Twenty-third Psalm. Not very original, but I don’t know what else to do. How could I? This is my first death since I became a minister. My first “official” death…

As Daniel finished reading the words, Michael straightened, his dress uniform still spotless. Jo reached for his arm and walked him over to Daniel.

“You take it from here, Preacher,” she said.

But both Daniel and Jo accompanied Michael to the guard shack, the whole compound silent and staring. Daniel started through the gate with Michael until the guard stopped him with crossed rifles. Only McLowery and Jo, the lone civilian, were allowed to pass through.

“Sorry, Chaplain. Everyone’s being detained inside the hospital compound until further notice.”

“But, Mac, you need me! I can’t leave you alone!”

Daniel’s use of the nickname just slipped out—although it was against military protocol. McLowery spun around, the use of his childhood name, spoken in such a familiar tone, catching him by surprise. Surprise changed to shock…and then hatred. Even before Daniel saw him mouth the words “Dennis Klemko,” he knew.

Michael remembers. How could I ever hope he’d forget?

Naval Fleet Hospital Operations Training Command

Admin Building, McLowery’s Office

1400 hours

MICHAEL SAT IN HIS CHAIR, barely hearing the two women in his office. The uniformed Mia Gibson, who had a phone to her ear, was a jarring contrast to Jo Marche, the jeans-clad civilian on the second line. She was talking to the military photo lab—Mia had provided the number—making arrangements to get her photos developed ASAP for the investigation. Mia had Paul, Selena’s fiancé, on the phone, just as Sunshine called in to ask if Michael had been delayed.

Michael took both calls himself. He had no choice but to tell Paul by telephone. However, he decided he would inform his mother in person. He briskly told Sunshine he’d been tied up, but would talk to her later back at the house. For the first time since coming to California, Michael felt icy cold, inside and out. He hadn’t felt this chilled since Anna and his mother had died.

And what’s Dennis Klemko doing here? In uniform? In a chaplain’s uniform? What’s with the new name? Did he have anything to do with Selena’s death? My God, I have to work with that man?

One hand tightened into a fist while the other reached for Mia Gibson’s radio. The young woman blinked as he took it.

“Puripong,” he said.

“Puripong here, sir.”

“I want a list of everyone in the Expectant room. When you get their personnel files, start your investigation with them—and put Daniel Preston on the top of that list.”

“The chaplain, sir?”

“You have a hearing problem, Commander?”

“No, sir. Anything else, sir?”

“Not at present.”

Michael saw Mia wince at the violence with which he set down her radio. The photojournalist, to her credit, didn’t wince, but her face was unnaturally still. He felt a sudden softening toward her, remembering her kindness to him, just as Chief Bouchard walked in carrying Michael’s cammies and a clipboard with paperwork acknowledging a death. Only the CO could fill it out.

I never did make it to the funeral. And I can’t leave the compound now—not until this is solved.

“Thanks, Chief. Why don’t you take Ms. Marche and get her a drink? She looks a bit shaken. I’ll catch up to you after I change.”

“Aye, sir. Captain, what the hell happened?”

Michael noted the unmilitary “hell” in the other man’s speech. Even the Chief’s shaken. I’m in this alone.



OUTSIDE THE COMPOUND was the staff’s “break area,” a net-covered space on the tarmac where sodas and snacks were available, and those sailors addicted to nicotine could pause for a smoke. Jo took the soda Chief Bouchard handed her, wishing it was a scotch and soda, and pretended a calm she was far from feeling.

So much for my plan. Mr. Smart-and-Sexy and his training hospital were supposed to be my ticket out of here. How long before he realizes he has no accurate information on me? And I’m tossed in jail for forgery, trespassing on government property and fraud? Could they charge me with treason? It’s still punishable by death—and fake IDs often mean spies or terrorists.

The marines at the rifle ranges over the hills opened fire. Jo jumped and nearly dropped her soda. One of two sailors smoking cigarettes nearby grinned.

“Hey, you’ll get used to it. You’ll be hearing the heavier artillery later on. Nothin’ to worry about.”

“The hell it isn’t,” she muttered. “There’s a body in the compound with a bullet hole through it, so don’t tell me not to worry.”

The two sailors stared at her, then at each other.

“Haven’t you heard?” Jo asked. Incredulously she glanced at her watch and saw that only about twenty minutes had passed since the discovery of Selena’s death. From the way the men reacted, they obviously hadn’t heard.

I’d better keep my big mouth shut, Jo thought as the two reached for their radios and hustled off toward the Admin building. Time for East St. Louis rules now, not civilized rules.

What am I going to do? If I hightail it outta here, they’ll bring me back. I have nothing to run toward, anyway. But if I can help with this investigation, help catch whoever killed McLowery’s cousin, then maybe the man will go easy on me. He’s a nice guy—I like him better than the preacher. In fact, I like him more than any man I’ve met in a long time. Just my luck to meet McLowery at the scene of a family tragedy.

Jo longingly eyed the half-smoked butt still burning in the sand-filled mini oil drum that served as an ashtray. She’d quit years ago, after a three-year high-school addiction, back in the days when she’d copped a tough teen attitude, along with a nagging smoker’s cough, like most of the kids at her eastside high school.

I shouldn’t. But if I’m going to jail, does it really matter? She picked up the butt, then suddenly, firmly, snuffed it out. I need to focus on two things: helping Captain McLowery find his cousin’s killer—and staying out of jail. The first should take care of the second. But if it doesn’t…

She didn’t dare think any further than that.

Naval Fleet Hospital—Morgue

Day 1, night

OUTSIDE THE CANVAS HOSPITAL, the sound of the gas generators filled the air, drowning out most quiet conversation. Inside the hospital, the silence seemed deafening to Michael. The autopsy was in progress and being photographed by Jo Marche. He’d waited outside with Puripong and rat fink Klemko.

Preston, he reminded himself, aghast at his slip into the past and the childhood vocabulary of insults. Chaplain Preston. Puripong said the name had checked out. Preston, formerly Klemko, was legit. Michael sent Puripong back to her tasks, leaving him alone with the chaplain. No one save Jo and himself were allowed out of the compound, the murder scene.

“You’re free to leave, as well, Klem—that is, Chaplain. Return to your training duties.”

“But, sir, perhaps you and I should sit…talk…”

“I neither want nor need your services,” Michael said sharply.

“I understand, Captain. However, that young woman in there is not a combat photographer. She may need my support. Sir.”

Michael felt grudging admiration for the man he would always think of as Klemko. “She handles herself well in difficult circumstances,” he said.

Daniel nodded. “She’s also not all she appears to be, sir. Her clothes look rather worn and her camera equipment is dated. The gear is all pawn shop specials, judging by the numbers scratched onto the sides. And she’s not afraid of death. By her reaction to…the events of today, I’d say she’s been in war zones herself.”

“Quite observant, Chaplain.”

“I may not be much of a minister, sir. But I do have a brain—and I do know that Ms. Marche won’t have a personnel file like the rest of us. She and I were the first people on the scene. I know I didn’t kill your cousin,” Daniel said bluntly. “But I don’t know if she did or not. That worries me more than our sudden…”

“Reunion?” Michael finished.

“I didn’t plan this, sir. I’m probably the last person in the world you want to see right now. However, I know my duty. To you, to your cousin and to this command. That woman and I are probably the only two people in this compound who dare override or disobey your orders—damn dangerous for two suspects. As I said before, I’m not worried about myself. But a woman who claims to be an AP journalist but can’t afford more than threadbare clothes, let alone a decent camera, bears watching.”

“How the hell do you know?”

“I searched her backpack, sir, while she was photographing your cousin. I may not be your favorite person, but I’m not taking the rap for this. I’m no murderer.”

Michael actually managed a smile—a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—a silent gesture that loudly contradicted Daniel’s words.

“Your sister’s death was an accident I set in motion,” Daniel admitted. “I can’t do anything about it. But I can help you get through this, if you’ll let me.”

“Not in this lifetime, sailor. Or the next.”

Michael’s gaze slid over to Jo, who emerged from the surgery section of the canvas hospital.

“They’re finishing up the autopsy,” she answered their silent question, “but they’re done with me. I thought I’d hand-deliver the film to Puripong.”

“No. I’ll deliver it myself,” Michael said. He stood, forcing Daniel to stand, as well. “See the body to the morgue section when they’re done, Chaplain. Have the surgeon contact Puripong with the results when she’s done. Ms. Marche, you’re with me.”

Jo easily kept pace with him, only occasionally watching her step, Michael observed. He knew the placement of all the canvas seams and taped-down running cables; she didn’t but seemed graceful nonetheless. Alert and calm.

Not like a murderer at all. She couldn’t be, the way she acted around Selena, Michael instinctively felt. As always, he trusted his instincts. Few men with bad instincts lasted long in the military.

“Is Jo Marche your real name?” he asked.

The woman at his side shook her head. “It’s my pseudonym. I don’t write under my own name—which is Lori Sepanik, by the way. Too ethnic for the white-bread world of media.”

Klemko was right. One point for him. “Do you always use pawned camera equipment on the job, Ms. Sepanik? And how long have you worked for the Associated Press?”

“Call me Jo, please. Or Ms. Marche, if you want to be formal. Though under the circumstances…I think we’re past polite introductions.”

She swayed on her feet, and Michael caught her arm. “You okay?”

“No,” she murmured as he half-walked, half-supported her to a chair inside the manned Ops room.

There were curious looks from sailors.

“Carry on,” he said. “Someone get her some water.”

Michael sat her down and pushed her head between her knees. “Breathe deeply.”

She breathed. Someone approached with bottled water, the lid already removed. Michael shoved it into Jo’s hand.

“Here, drink this,” he ordered. Michael waited until she’d finished the water, and the color was back in her face. “Feeling better? I imagine you’re not used to taking the kind of photos we’ve requested from you.” Unless the fainting is an act to avoid answering my questions.

“It’s not that. Being cross-examined in this heat’s what did it. I hate the heat.”

“Really?” Surprise distracted him from suspicion. “Everyone loves sunny California.”

“Not me. All I do is sweat. Plus…today…well, never mind about today. This whole place is one oven, isn’t it? How can you stand it?”

“I don’t care for the sunbelt myself.”

“That makes two of us.” Jo sat up and pushed her hair away from her face. “To answer your questions—yes, I’m feeling better. Yes, my equipment is from a pawnshop. No, I’ve never worked for AP before. And even though you haven’t asked me yet, no, I did not kill your cousin. Though I’d like to get my hands on whoever did.”

Michael gestured for another bottle of water and again handed it to Jo, pleased that she’d answered his questions, after all. “You understand you’re a suspect in this murder?”

“I know.” She met his gaze straight on, again confirming Michael’s gut instinct that she wasn’t a killer. “What can I do to prove I’m innocent?”

“I’ll take you to Puripong. Give her your film, then answer her questions.”

“Sure.” Jo started to stand, but Michael shook his head. “Sit down. Not just yet. Are you okay with all this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone here is a trained member of the Navy, and most are in the medical profession. They know how to take care of themselves in extreme conditions.”

“Oh.” A smile brightened her face. “You mean you’re worried about me? Even though I’m a suspect?” Her hand reached out and covered his—an action that shocked him because he found it comforting.

“I’m a survivor. I grew up in the old housing projects of East St. Louis with drug dealers, pimps, hookers and gangs. I didn’t like it, but I dealt with it until I got out of there. Same with this. I don’t go to pieces—ever—until it’s safe to do so. You’re the one I’m worried about.”

Her hand remained on his. Michael let it stay there only a few seconds more before he remembered he was in uniform, and in command, no less. Shows of affection were not allowed in uniform. He withdrew his hand.

“This has to be hard for you,” she said.

He nodded. “It’ll be worse if we don’t find her killer.”

“Why don’t you let the chaplain help?”

“No.”

Jo’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t like him? Yet you listened to him when he told you about my pawned equipment—I overheard your conversation. Who is he?”

She’s got brains. And a streetwise toughness I might need. Not to mention a very nice body… It was the first time he’d really noticed.

“Our parents were stationed together in Pearl once. We never got along.”

“No, it’s more than that. You’re enemies—or, at least, he’s your enemy. Why?” she asked bluntly.

She’s a little too streetwise for my liking. I’ve never talked about Klemko to anyone—until now.

“Let’s just say he’s a childhood ghost.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like him, either.”

“Why not?”

“I flirted with him a bit and he treated me like an Old Testament whore. I shouldn’t have, of course—flirted—but it’s not like I was serious.”

“Then why do it?” Michael asked.

“I wanted an interview. I wanted a big story for AP. I wanted everything except a murder. You know, you should have family here with you. Isn’t there anyone you can call?”

“I already have,” Michael said, conscious of the personnel watching his every move. “Let’s go. Puripong’s waiting. Grab another water on the way. Keep yourself hydrated.”

“I will.” She grabbed two and passed one to Michael.

“So, you still feel that way?” he asked.

“What—faint? Nah, I’m okay.”

“Good, but I meant romantically interested in the chaplain.”

“Never was! He’s not my type. I was just trying to be cute.”

“Don’t. There’s no place for it in a murder investigation.”

“I know. Besides, any flirting notions I might’ve had ended when I saw your cousin.” She uttered a harsh, vulgar oath directed at the killer.

Somehow, her foul language made him feel better. It was exactly what he wanted to say himself, except he couldn’t—not while in uniform.

That would be a Bad Thing.

“Huh? You say something?”

Michael shook his head. I’m losing it. I’ve got to go tell Sunshine. But then I’ll be back…and I’ll find Selena’s killer.




CHAPTER FIVE


Patrick and Sunshine’s home, San Diego

Day 2, 8:00 a.m.

THE SMELL OF THE BEACH and frying sausage—tofu sausage, she later discovered—met Jo as she stepped into the breakfast nook. Michael had refused any escorts last night when leaving Camp Pendleton, but he couldn’t order Jo around. Nor did he wish to forbid her presence. When she’d climbed into his car with him, he’d found her company more than soothing. He’d found it a necessity. Delayed reaction had hit him in the parking lot and he couldn’t insert the shaking key in the ignition slot; Jo had silently traded places with him and driven him home.

All other personnel were to complete the exercise as originally ordered—in the isolation of the camp. Jo had been allowed to exit the compound after turning all her film over to Puripong. Jo’s night in the tastefully furnished guest room and lush bed hadn’t been restful. She’d had nightmares, but not about death. She’d seen her first overdosed druggie at age five in an alley, and her first gunshot victim at age six, right in her own schoolyard.

No, her nightmares had been about failure. Failing to get her story, since her film had been confiscated. Failing to hide that she’d never worked for AP. Still hiding her forged press pass. Being investigated for a murder she didn’t commit. And now she had to sit and eat breakfast cooked by a family member of the deceased. Her nerves were taut with stress. First she’d spent most of the money from her last story on fake ID, then ended up witnessing a crime and photographing the scene. She’d been more or less forced to reveal her true name, which would make it much easier for the military to find out about the ID.

Ordinarily something like this would have sent her scurrying to cover her tracks or even making a quick escape. But she couldn’t, nor was her decision hard to make. She vowed to think of Michael’s welfare, as well as her own, although that hadn’t included staying overnight as a guest of his parents.

I only came along to help him out. She’d seen Michael’s type before. He was every brokenhearted parent whose son or daughter died by bullet or knife or drugs in East St. Louis, every child at a loss for words because of the raw violence at school or home.

He doesn’t know how to tune it out. He can’t, or he wouldn’t be carrying old grudges around. If you don’t take out the trash or at least hide it away, bad memories will eat you alive. People who hold on to the past never make it for long in the present real world. Not that the military is the real world as far as I’m concerned.

So Jo had insisted on going home with Michael to spend an awkward evening. Michael had left her with his father while he comforted his stepmother, Sunshine, and Selena’s fiancé, a civilian named Paul O’Conner. The father hadn’t wanted Jo’s comfort—or presence, for that matter. He’d made her feel like an intruder.

I am an intruder, but only for Michael’s sake. I hope his father isn’t joining us for breakfast, she thought, pulling on another worn but clean pair of jeans, a clean shirt and clean underwear, still slightly damp from being washed in the shower the night before. She hoped they’d dry soon in the heat outside. The Thrift Store or Goodwill couldn’t carry used underwear, a health law Jo had cursed more than once since most of her clothes were stolen—and she’d given up shoplifting along with the cigarettes back in high school. That forged pass was high quality, and she’d paid dearly for it.

As she was paying now, about to sit down with Patrick Andrew McLowery. Everyone except Paul the fiancé, who’d left last night, had appeared at the table for breakfast. Jo didn’t like Patrick. He seemed too sure of himself, too smooth, too charming—especially when he was telling stories the previous night about his youthful self flying jets in ’Nam, even if he was doing it to distract the family from their grief.

If he’s not a heavy drinker now, he used to be. I’ve seen enough of them to know the look. No wonder Sunshine serves him fake eggs and tofu sausage.

Michael’s stepmother was another story. Jo had warmed instantly to Sunshine, who treated her like an honored guest. She was gracious and kind, even in crisis, and Jo found herself wishing her own mother had been so giving. But she couldn’t enjoy Sunshine’s solicitude without guilt.

I should have stayed back at the compound, Jo thought. I’m not family. Michael’s in good hands here, surrounded by all this fancy pottery and stuff. Not only do my clothes clash with the decor, I do, too. I’ll have to remember to keep my mouth clean. I sounded like trailer trash yesterday swearing in front of Michael. Still, my intentions were good.

She sighed once—a poor substitute for a good earthy curse word—slung her denim backpack with her gear and meager wardrobe over her shoulder, then headed for the cooked breakfast Sunshine had insisted she share.

Michael and both parents were waiting as she hurried to the table.

“You’re late,” Patrick remarked.

“This isn’t the military, Patrick,” Sunshine rebuked softly as she turned a welcoming face Jo’s way. “Let’s make some allowances, shall we? Good morning, Jo.”

Jo smiled at Sunshine. “Good morning, all.”

“Morning.” Clad in military cammies, Michael rose from his chair to pull out hers and settle her in before a spread of fresh fruit, eggs—both real and substitute—toast and tofu sausage. “How’d you sleep?”

“The room’s great. Thank you for putting me up, Mrs. McLowery. You really didn’t have to.”

“Please, call me Sunshine,” she murmured, pouring everyone coffee. “And it was my pleasure. I’m so grateful Mac wasn’t alone yesterday.”

Jo didn’t know what to say to that, so she reached for her orange juice and took a sip just as Patrick made the sign of the cross and started to say grace out loud. Nervously she set the glass down again.

“You don’t pray, Miss Marche?” Patrick asked, lifting his coffee with arthritic fingers when the prayer was concluded.

Sanctimonious old man. Jo decided to match his blunt words with her own. “As a kid I did, but our prayers were usually for more food. There was never enough to pray over if I wanted to eat before my brothers beat me to it. I lost the habit.”

“So did Mac. My son stopped going to church a long time ago.” Patrick shook his head.

“Dad, please,” Michael protested. “We have a guest.”

“It’s okay,” Jo said. “Mr. McLowery, I’m not anti-prayer, especially after a day like yesterday. Michael could have used the services of the preacher. But he wouldn’t have anything to do with Reverend Preston—”

“That’s because the bastard killed my daughter.”

Dead silence struck the table.

“What?” Jo said, aware that she’d just triggered some terrible memory, unveiled some painful family history. Michael threw his linen napkin onto his plate of eggs, tipping over his chair with a loud crash in the process. Before Jo’s horrified gaze, Patrick and Sunshine also rose.




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