Next to Die (10 page)

Joe lifted a startled gaze from the magazine he was reading in the clinic’s waiting area. He’d been well aware of the older man standing immediately in front of him, clutching a cane and watching everything Joe did. But he’d assumed the man was either senile or lost in his own thoughts, not that he was pondering Joe’s identity. “Yes, sir,” He set the magazine aside, thinking,
Do I know this guy?

“I’m Admiral Jacobs,” divulged the stranger. He wore civilian clothing and sported sparse silver hair atop his egg-shaped head.

An admiral. Joe rocketed to his feet. “Sir, nice to meet you, sir.” He snapped off a salute, which the admiral half-heartedly returned.

“At ease, there, Commander,” the old man growled. “We’re all in civilian clothes, here.”

“Would you like to sit, sir?” Joe asked, offering his chair, though there were several empty seats in the waiting area.

“Oh, no. Sitting makes me feel confined. Brings back memories of ’Nam.”

“You were a POW, sir?”

“Yes, I was. Spent a hundred and three days in a South Vietnamese jungle camp with two shattered kneecaps. Enemy shot down my parachute,” he added.

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” said Joe, who remained standing. “If you don’t mind my asking, how is it that you know me?”

For several seconds, Admiral Jacobs just looked at him with pale blue eyes. “I’ve done my research, son,” he finally answered. “When any of my boys get lost, I take it personal.”

Joe swallowed against a dry throat. It unsettled him a bit that this man knew him, but he’d never heard of Admiral Jacobs.

The man narrowed his eyes, “You ever ask yourself if someone’s to blame for the hell you’ve been through?”

Joe wavered on his feet. “Yes, sir,” he admitted, realizing with sudden clarity that he blamed himself. If he’d let Harley go in or waited another few days, there might have been no casualties.

“Where was that AC-130 when you needed it?” continued the admiral in a hushed voice. “And who in his right mind would send a Chinook into compromised airspace?” A vein appeared on the man’s wrinkled forehead. “That’s like standing in an open field flailing your arms and yelling, ‘Here I am! Shoot me down!’” A fleck of spittle appeared on one corner of the admiral’s mouth.

The possibility that someone else was to blame left Joe light-headed with mixed shock and relief.

“My only son was a marine with the Third MEF,” the admiral volunteered unexpectedly.

It took Joe a second to remember that the Third Marine Expeditionary Force had been wiped out by friendly fire at the start of the war. “The incident outside of Nasiriyah,” he remembered. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

With a nod and wetness in his eyes, the old man looked away.

An aide leaned out of the door to call the next patient “Admiral Jacobs? Your turn, sir.” Without a glance back at Joe, the admiral hobbled toward her.

Joe waited for him to disappear before sinking back into his seat. Could someone other than himself be blamed for the clusterfuck that had killed so many?

Closing his eyes, he dared to think back. He was belted into the belly of the UH-60, awaiting that fateful jump that would place him and his men on the LZ. The thrumming of the rotors, the thinness of the air, grains of sand stuck in his teeth. He remembered as if it were yesterday.

As operations officer, he’d pored over maps with the original four SEALs and talked with intel operators. They’d assured him that there were no rebels on the mountaintop, and even if there were, the AC-130 would be right there on call to take them out. Nothing should have gone wrong.

Joe’s eyes sprang open. For a second there, he’d teetered toward the trap of cynicism that Admiral Jacobs tried to set in his mind. God, it was tempting to blame someone else for a night gone wrong.

Only Joe couldn’t do that. His colleagues at JSOTF were thorough. His superiors had served in the Gulf War and knew the cost of self-inflicted casualties.

It was bad luck, pure and simple, that those insurgents had been hiding in caves. Bad luck that the AC-130 had been summoned elsewhere, that they couldn’t get a Blackhawk in the air instead of a Chinook.

The only person who could have altered the events of that night was himself. A different day, a different OIC, and the tragedy might have been avoided.

Admiral Jacobs’s cell phone gave a shrill ring. Penny, who was about to remind him that cell phones weren’t permitted in the hospital, kept her mouth shut. Who was she to tell an admiral what to do?

“Jacobs,” he growled, wincing as Penny bent his knee and put her weight into the joint, forcing it to stretch beyond the comfort zone.

As the caller identified himself, Penny felt the admiral stiffen. “What the hell do you want?” he growled.

Mercy,
thought Penny, releasing pressure to extend his leg fully. She’d never seen this gruff side to the admiral, who was always sweetly affable during his biweekly appointments. She moved to his left leg.

“I thought this matter was settled,” the old man blustered.

“Bend your leg, sir,” Penny reminded him.

He did so, distracted by whatever it was that the caller was telling him. The news was bad enough to make him put a death grip on the phone. “Are you certain?” he demanded.

The reply made the admiral’s jowls quiver. “Fine, then. Do whatever it takes,” he acceded. With a sad shake of his head, he severed the call and fell back, clutching a hand to his heart.

Penny sent him a look of concern. “Is everything all right, sir?” she inquired, applying more pressure to his bent leg.

“Oh, as all right as it can be, I suppose,” he replied, his eyes still closed. He sounded so weary.

She felt sorry for him. Poor man, he’d lost his son early in the war and never quite got over it.

Penny couldn’t fathom losing a child to war, let alone to blue-on-blue engagement. “That’s it for today, sir,” she told him gently. “I’ll see you next week at the same time. Keep up the exercises,” she added, placing her hand briefly over his.

His skin felt so cold!

She left the room, dropping off the admiral’s chart, then hurried down the hall to snatch up the chart belonging to her next patient. Recognizing Joe’s name, a flush of anticipation heated her cheeks. All day she’d looked forward to this session.

With a warning knock, she peeked inside. “Good morning.”

She drew up short at the sight of Joe propped against the table, wearing nothing but black boxer briefs. Her gaze skittered over his washboard abs to the bulge below, and her skin seemed to shrink.

“Morning,” he said, clearly unabashed at being caught half-naked.

“Where’s your, um, gown?” she asked, dragging her gaze upward. Heat rose to her face, no doubt turning her complexion bright red.

“There wasn’t one in here.” His green gaze mocked her discomfit.

“I’ll get some more,” she said, fleeing the room.

When she returned, he was lying facedown on the table, weighted with moist heat packs. The corpsman had gotten his session under way. Penny stowed the gown for later use and left the room.

Twenty minutes later, she returned. “Do you, uh, want to put the gown on now?” she asked, removing the cooled heat packs.

“What’s the point?” he asked sleepily.

“Right.” But with the gown on, she could pretend he was dressed and not practically naked—a circumstance that disturbed her sensibilities. “How’s your back been?” she asked, wheeling the ultrasound closer. She rolled his briefs down, squirted warm gel on his back, and spread it, delighting in the texture of his skin.

“It was good for a day, and then the spasms came back.”

“That’s why we need to see you more than once,” she answered, turning the machine on. She applied the wand over the affected muscle group. She gave in to the childish urge to write a cursive L. L for love, lust, and let-me-touch-you-everywhere, lover boy. He couldn’t possibly guess the game she was playing, so why not?

Precisely seven minutes later, she cut the machine off, eager to get to the part she enjoyed most. She climbed her stool and put her hands on him.
Oh, yes
.

The term
soft tissue
was a misnomer on Joe. There wasn’t anything soft about him. He was all fibrous, toned muscle, the density of which left the joints in her fingers aching, yet she would happily have continued for hours.

“You think you could work on my shoulders some?” Joe’s sleepy voice seemed to echo her own reluctance to bring their session to an end. “They’ve been kind of tight lately.”

Her impulse was to say, “I’d love to,” but she focused instead on the fact that Joe hadn’t yet apologized for his behavior the other day. From her perspective, he owed her something first. “I don’t know,” she said, holding out. “You might have to do something for me.”

“Like what?” he countered.

She rolled her eyes at his obvious consternation. What did he think she was going to ask for, sexual favors? “Like carve those two pumpkins I put on your porch.”

“Oh,” he said, silent for a moment. “I figured you put them there.”

“Halloween is a week from today. You carved four jack-o’-lanterns last year. The neighborhood kids will miss it if you don’t make at least two,” she pointed out.

“I’ll think about it,” he said noncommittally.

“Not good enough,” she countered, pressing her thumb into a knot to release the tension.

“Uh!” he groaned, half in pleasure, half in pain.

“You could also keep an eye on my sister, Ophelia, while I’m at work.” It wasn’t so hard to make demands in this position.

“Her?” he countered in accents of horror.

“She’s been getting prank phone calls,” Penny explained, thinking why not give Joe something to do other than brood over what couldn’t be changed. “From a guy who killed our father,” she added.

“When was this?” came the confused question.

“About five years ago. My father worked in a biological warfare lab, where they tested ricin, among other things. That’s a toxic biowaste—”

“I know what it is.”

“Well, several grams of ricin went missing five years back, and not long after that, my father was killed in a hit-and-run. We think his partner sold the ricin to terrorists, who then killed my father for knowing too much.”

Joe craned his neck to look over his shoulder at her. “Have you gone to the cops with this?” he asked incredulously.

“The FBI is looking into it.”

“Well, that’s something.” He lay back down again.

“So . . .” She swept a hand up his spine to play along the ridges of his shoulders. “How much do you want that shoulder massage?”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” he promised grudgingly.

“Thank you.” With a satisfied smile, Penny tackled his shoulders. Never in her life had she gotten to mold shoulders so broad, so powerful, or so tight. She pressed and rolled his muscles, pleased to hear the groans of ecstasy he couldn’t keep to himself.

“God, you’re good at that,” he admitted.

“Too bad I’m not a masseuse,” she countered, reaching for wet wipes to clean the gel off his back. She sprinkled him with powder and briskly spread it out to absorb the gel. “Other patients are waiting for me,” she added, concealing her disappointment.

The face he lifted looked sleepy and satisfied. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. “When do you want to see me next?”

“Let’s say Monday,” she decided, dismissing the thought that he looked like a man who’d just had sex.

“I won’t be back till Monday night.”

“You’re going out of town?”

“Quick trip to Florida,” he said shortly.

“Are you driving or flying?” she wanted to know.

“Why so many questions?” he fired back.

“Because you shouldn’t sit still for more than two hours at a stretch,” she retorted, coolly.

“I’m flying to Orlando and driving to Daytona.”

One of the SEALs who’d died was from Orlando. Penny had read that in one of the articles yesterday. Joe was going to pay his respects to the family, she guessed. “That’ll be good for you,” she said with sympathy.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “What will?”

“Paying your respects.”

A long silence, fraught with tension, passed between them. “Did Admiral Jacobs tell you something?” Joe demanded.

“Admiral Jacobs? No, do you know him?”

“No, I don’t. But he knows me and, apparently, you do, too,” he accused.

She sighed and clutched his chart closer. “Why is that such a threat to you?” she asked, watching in fascination as his expression darkened. “I have no reason to tell anyone that you’re the one survivor of the Special Ops disaster.”

There, she’d said it and he didn’t deny it. But the look that crossed his face nearly broke her heart. “I’m so sorry for what happened,” she added quietly. “I know this has got to be a nightmare for you.”

His eyes glazed over with that horror-filled look she’d seen before. He couldn’t even answer her.

“Be careful in your travels,” she said, wanting to spare him the indignity of losing his composure—again. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”