Under Fire: The Admiral (4 page)

“What about you?”

“Drink.” She shoved the vine to his mouth.
“Look around.” She flipped a hand over other vines, sending them
swaying. Plenty here.”
Oh.
She got it. He didn’t trust her.
She sliced through another vine. The moment the liquid began to
drip she tipped her head back, holding the cut vine over her open
mouth. It tasted damn good. Walsh did the same.

She was exhausted. Getting a shelter built
would be difficult. Battling with the plane’s yoke to keep them in
the air as long as she could put a world of hurt on her arms. She
sure as hell didn’t want Walsh to know. She wanted him to see her
strong and competent, follow her lead without question or they
would never get to that village. There was five days of survival
food in the packs. Water from vines, coconuts and afternoon rain
would keep them well supplied. If she pushed hard, it was
conceivable they could be upstream at that village in forty-eight
hours. She handed her vine to Walsh and shrugged out of her pack
but didn’t put it down.

“When you’ve had enough, get the coconuts.
Four should be plenty. In a couple of hours,” she said and tipped
her head in the direction of the approaching clouds, “or less,
we’ll be able to collect rainwater.”

Walsh’s gaze went to the ocean and the storm.
They both flinched at the lightning streaking across the sky. He
shrugged out of his pack. “Can I put this down anyplace?”

Gemma smiled. Okay, he was learning. She
removed one of the small tarps from her pack, shook it out like it
was a sheet and she was making a bed, and let it drift to the
jungle floor. “Here.” She put her own pack down. He dropped his and
silently turned to go about his assigned task. “Wait.” She opened a
side pocket of his pack and removed a pair of tactical gloves.
The gloves were designed for combat application.
To provide hand protection without compromising control and finger
dexterity. She tossed them to him.
He examined them and
slipped into them like he was going into surgery. She went back to
the packs, removing what they would use for the night. Utility
knife, her gloves, rain tarps, hammock, water catcher, protein
bars, ibuprofen—they were both going to need more of them—gum,
wipes, and glow sticks. Pausing, she fingered the GPS emergency
beacon in its sealed inner pocket. She glanced at Walsh, who was
crouched inspecting a coconut, moving it with a stick. One push of
the button and the satellite beacon would declare they were in need
of assistance and relay their exact GPS location to rescuers and .
. . with a very high probability it would relay the exact same
information to that boat. Not pushing the button meant they would
have three, maybe four days of discomfort. Go home with scrapes and
cuts. They could go home in a body bag if she depressed the key and
the boat had satellite tracking. Gemma closed the packs. As long as
they were uninjured and healthy, she wasn’t pushing any
buttons.

Walsh dropped two coconuts on the tarp,
returning in seconds with two more. He crouched and reached for the
knife. Gemma grabbed his wrist.

“I was going to open them,” he said.

“No.”

“I know my way around a knife.” He held up
his hands and gave her a grin that showed most of his teeth. “I’ve
got gloves.”

“Agreed. I’ve seen your work, Doc.” She shook
her head. “Even with gloves this is too iffy. A slip and you won’t
be able to help those kids. I’ll do it later. Here.” She slapped a
protein bar in his hand and sat back on her heels, peeling the foil
away from her own bar. They both could use an energy boost.

“Aggh.” He coughed and made a face. “Not the
best I’ve ever tasted.”

“Nope. But packed with protein like those
grilled coconut grubs you told the village elder I would just love
to taste.” She gave him a hard look. The village they’d delivered
medical supplies to yesterday had prepared a feast for them. The
grubs were appetizers on sticks. They live exclusively in coconut
palms and taste like coconut. It was the idea of biting into a worm
the size of her thumb that had given her trouble. She
shuddered.

Walsh squinted and rubbed his cheek. “I
didn’t think you’d actually eat them.”

“Like I was supposed to insult the man and
say no thanks, I don’t eat insects.” She looked at the bar. “I
think the grubs tasted better.” Walsh laughed.

A wind gust swirled leaves and swayed
branches, ending Gemma’s break. She’d already selected a place for
Walsh’s hammock away from palms and their killer falling fronds. He
spread the coconuts around the tarp to hold it down and joined her.
Working together, it took little or no time to secure the hammock.
The air grew heavier, the thick clouds blotted out the afternoon
sun, and thunder rolled. Winds shifted and were sustained, a sure
sign the front was close. She wasn’t going to get any kind of
off-the-ground shelter made before the rain started.

“Change of plans,” she yelled over the
increasing wind. “We’ll have to go with a basic shelter. Storm is
moving too fast.” She flung him the edge of the biggest tarp and
together they shook it open. Using the hammock as a centerline,
they draped the high-tech waterproof material to create a roof. The
wind blew a good twenty knots now and Walsh fought to hold the
lightweight material down as she secured the corners and edges.
Gemma worked quickly to spread the second large tarp underneath,
bringing up the edges on the open sides to create walls. Stinging
rain mixed with a screeching wind as they dragged the cloth with
their items to the shelter.

She pushed Walsh to the opening. “Get
in.”

“What about you?” he called as he scrambled
inside.

“Right behind.” She shoved the bags and tarp
in then secured a water collector, took a last look around and
joined Walsh, drawing up the tarp behind her and sealing the
gap.

She pulled a light stick from her pocket, and
a snap later the space was flooded with a horror movie green
glow.

“Reminds me of home,” Walsh said as she hung
the stick above them on the hammock cord.

“I’d like to see that.”

“Survivor woman, are you fishing for an
invitation?”

Lightning lit the space like day. They both
ducked reflexively and once again a second later when the thunder
reverberated in the dense air. Another flash followed immediately
with a boom that sucked the air from Gemma.

“Holy shit,” Walsh said. “That was
close.”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “Once the leading edge is
through it should get better.” She had a feeling they were in for a
long night.

“Here.” She handed him a protein bar and
jerky package. “Eat another one of these crappy protein bars. I
don’t know about you but I’m shaky coming off my adrenaline
high.”

Walsh grasped her wrist. His fingertips
pressed her pulse point.

“You feeling dizzy? Are you sweating?”

“I’m fine, Doc. Not dizzy, still sweating.
I’m hungry and getting tired. It’s been a long day.”

“Okay.” He released her wrist.

“Well?” she said, tearing open a packet of
jerky with her teeth.

“Well what?”

“Am I going to live?” She cautiously put her
tongue to one of the jerky strips.

“Survivor woman has a strong and steady
pulse.” He used the deep voice again and watched her bite a piece
of jerky off. “Is it safe to assume these things taste better than
the protein bars?” he said and flapped a jerky strip around.

“Mmm,” she said and shook her head as he took
a huge bite.

Rain came hard and the tarp began to take
debris pings. Coconuts and the occasional palm fronds dropped,
sounding like faraway artillery fire between the thunder
boomers.

“We safe from those coconut bombs?” Walsh
asked.

Gemma grinned. “You’re more worried about
coconuts than lightning?”

“Yeah. Way more coconuts than lightning.”

He had her there. “I picked a spot away from
palms.”

“Those ropes going to hold?” he asked after a
strong gust.

“Yes. If I learned anything . . .” She
hesitated and reworked the sentence without
in the Coast
Guard
, “it’s how to tie knots. It’ll hold.” To give him
confidence she crawled the interior edge, inspecting and tightening
the cord in one spot where wind forced in the occasional mist of
rain. “We’re good.” She sat and wiped her hands on the sides of her
thighs. All in all, she was pleased with the shelter considering
the amount of time spent putting it up. They had enough room to lie
down and the center peak allowed head room for them to sit or
kneel. Tomorrow, as soon as dark clouds appeared on the horizon,
she’d stop and set up a proper shelter off the ground.

The waterproofed tarps popped with increasing
ferocity but did their job keeping the wind and water at bay. When
the pelting rain sounded like pebbles hitting, she forced Walsh to
move to the center of the shelter for safety. She retrieved the
rain collector, filled their bottles and returned the collector
outside, the rain stinging her arms each time.

She gave a bottle to Walsh. “Drink.”

They ate and drank silently, growing used to
the intermittent thuds of coconut bombs and rolling thunder.

“What’s next? We play board games,
cards?”

She gave him a sideways look. “
We
sleep.” He opened his mouth to speak. “In survival situations you
sleep and eat when you can. You never know what the next minute
brings.” He squinted at her.

“What?”

“About that smell thing back there.”

Gemma said nothing. If he was going to admit
to some fetish thing, she didn’t want to hear it.

“I’m sorry. Scent is a memory trigger for me.
I’m not trying to excuse it. You smelled . . . familiar.”

Gemma did a mental wince. Walsh was on staff
at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. It was entirely possible they’d met
at some function in the D.C. area but highly improbable. If she’d
ever met him, she’d remember. Still, for him to remember her from
the way she smelled? Just her luck he was part bloodhound. She
reached out and grabbed his wrist, pretending to take his pulse.
“Doc, if salt water, sweaty armpits and rotting vegetation smell
good to you maybe you’re the one that’s not feeling too good.” She
paused dramatically. “Or . . . you could have seen me on that
survivor show.” She let go of his wrist.

“
You
were on that show?” A grin
spread, showing teeth very white in the eerie light against the
dark stubble on his face.

“Yeah. I was the one who made them go north.”
She returned his smile.

Walsh’s grin faded. “For a minute there I
thought you meant it. For the record,
I’m serious
. There’s
something familiar about you and I can’t nail it down. I think
we’ve met.”

“Get comfortable, Doc, and get some
sleep.”

She brought her knees to her chest and Walsh
laid on his side behind her using a pack for a pillow. He squirmed
around until he pressed against her. “You comfy yet?” she said.

He gave her a pat on the back. “I’m
good.”

She pulled up the edge of the ground tarp,
tucking it in around them for added protection.

“Gemma.”

“What?” she said through a yawn and noted the
use of her given name.

“I didn’t thank you for . . . for the way you
handled things today,” he said with a hint of Texas accent coming
through. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” The sincerity in his voice
kept her from saying anything snarky about his safety being her
secondary goal. She folded her arms over her knees and put her head
down.

“Did you learn that trick with the plane
doors in survival school?” Again with sincerity.

“No.”

“Pilot training?”

Oh, what the hell? She might as well tell
him. “TV.”

“Huh?” He raised up on an elbow.

“I was in an airport lounge waiting for a
connecting flight. These guys”—guys she thought were idiots until
this afternoon—“were saying it was possible to stabilize a small
plane that had lost its tail by opening and closing the cabin
doors.”

“So you knew it would work by watching a TV
show.” Walsh laid back down.

“Had no idea if it would work. Was surprised
it did.”

“Don’t know if that makes me feel good or
bad.”

“It’s done. You survived. The only time you
and I will be in a plane together again someone else will be
piloting. No worries.”

He patted her back. “Lay down. There’s
room.”

“I’m fine.” Tonight she was sleeping sitting
up. It was a better offensive position. She didn’t want to be on
the ground if land crabs found their way in. The thought of them
crawling on her caused a shudder.

“You’re going to be uncomfortable.” He tugged
her arm and she shrugged out of his grip.

“I said I’m fine. I can do anything for a few
hours.”

Walsh sucked in a loud breath but didn’t
protest further. She yawned and was asleep in moments.

Chapter 3

Ben carefully edged his body close around her
to give support as she slept. Geezus. She was one stubborn woman
and determined to protect him. From the moment she stepped out of
the Gulfstream looking like she owned the damn jet she’d confused
the hell out of him. She paused at the top of the stairs and gave
him an up-and-down, side-to-side look that he returned. She looked
spec–tac–ular. The pilot uniform was a definite turn-on. At the
bottom of the steps she stopped, raised her sunglasses, looked
straight at him with laser-sharp eyes and a look that said it was
on. He pushed off the truck he leaned against and stood straight to
give her a better look. All the mutual interest came to a
screeching halt when he put a hand out to shake and introduced
himself. Every bit of spark left her eyes. When the medical
supplies were off-loaded from the plane he’d asked her to have
dinner with him. “I don’t do clients,” she’d said very seriously,
then blushed when she realized the double entendre. He pressed,
asking to see her when they were back in the States. He’d fly
anyplace to meet her. She’d blinked and paled. The answer was an
adamant no. And damned if he knew why. There wasn’t a doubt in his
mind she’d been as attracted to him as he was to her. There was
more than the client-employee aspect. In the plane he was on the
verge of flat-out asking her but was rudely interrupted by the
blood-freezing sound of bullets tattooing the plane. Now this weird
feeling of déjà vu had him thinking they’d met before. He was damn
sure if he’d seen her before he’d remember.