Under Fire: The Admiral (6 page)

She sat back on her heels, hands resting on
her thighs. “Okay. Wanted to be sure you weren’t hallucinating or
getting delusional with the stress. ’Cause you’re way too funny and
charming this morning.” She looked around. “And it sure as hell
isn’t the accommodations.”

“Go out. I’m fine.”

She pushed her way out, dragging the packs
with her.

“Funny and charming, huh?” he said, following
her out.

Gemma said nothing, standing perfectly still
with a pack in each hand.

“What’s . . . ?” Now he was standing
perfectly still. “Son of a bitch.” Around them looked like World
War II movie, after the Marines have stormed the beach. Coconuts,
large palm branches and downed trees littered the ground as far as
he could see. Gemma turned back to look at the shelter. He did the
same.

“
We were fucking lucky,”
she said, her
voice full of the awe he was feeling.

The tree branch, his gaze climbed the tree,
t
ree branch
hell.
Half the tree was down with
branches resting on the shelter. They’d been five feet away from
being flattened like tortillas by the thickest part of the trunk.
“I’m not overly religious, but to have escaped death twice in a
twenty-four-hour period kinda makes you think the Big Guy upstairs
has plans for you.”
Like guiding me to you.

She didn’t say anything but nodded and
reached for a branch lying on the shelter. He put a hand on her
arm. “Eat and hydrate first. Enjoy this.” He hitched his chin in
the direction of the water. Gentle waves rolled in to the beach,
their white foam a slash across the turquoise water. Birds looking
for breakfast dotted a sky made pink and gold by early morning sun.
“Then we’ll take care of this.”

She gave him the stink-eye and came close,
touching his forehead with the back of her hand.

“Am I being too nice again?”

She made a face and nodded.

“Would you prefer I give you a hard time?”
She scrunched up her nose and shook her head. The reconstructive
surgeon in him flared and he examined her face for signs of
cosmetic surgery. None, and she was his age. He’d bet his medical
license on it.

“Okay. Let’s eat.”

Gemma went to the water catcher and righted
it. She used a small vine to pull several cut ones together,
positioning them over the container. He watched in awe as she
deftly pealed and opened two of the coconuts littering the ground.
They sat on the trunk of a downed palm and had breakfast. Eating
the coconut meat with the foul-tasting bars made them palatable.
“You did take survival training,” he said.

She nodded. “Five times. Tropics. Cold
weather. Desert. Water, and urban survival.”

He titled his head to look at her.
“Urban.”

“When I moved to D.C., I learned the best
places to park, how to get a cab. Find a cheap cup of coffee. Take
the subway.” She didn’t look at him but her cheeks rose and he knew
she was smiling.

Telling him where she lived was no slip. It
was deliberate. He was getting through to her. An opening, and he
took it.

“I live in Baltimore.”

“I know.” She rose. Her expression changed
and she lunged at him, scraping the coconut in her hand across his
shoulder.

“What the fuck?” He shoved her back.

“Spider.” She grabbed his hand, yanking him
to his feet.

He watched it skitter away. “Jesus. It’s
bigger than a mouse.” Most spiders here were venomous and even the
ones that weren’t had painful bites. She circled him searching for
more predators, her hands sweeping over him like a TSA agent
searching for cupcakes. Finished, she presented her back. “Check
me.”

He ran his hands over her back. “Oh. No.” He
brushed frantically and pulled the shirt.

She sucked in a loud breath and went stiff.
“Relax.” He patted her on the back. “I was kidding. There isn’t
anything there.”

She whirled on him. “You’re an asshole.” She
held her arms out from her sides like a gunfighter getting ready to
draw. Flexing her fingers. He could see she was making a decision.
He was going to get chewed out, punched, or shot. She stepped
closer and he prepared for the hit.

“When I was eleven I was in the hills behind
our house,” she said through clenched teeth. Her face was flushed
and inches from his. “I fell through what they call a chimney hole
for a cave. A cave where thousands of bats lived. I was in bat shit
up to my knees. It was five hours before they got me out. In the
bat shit were centipedes, roaches, ants, spiders and other biting
insects. All of which bit me. Many times. I was in the hospital for
three days. I now have sensitivity to insect bites, making me
susceptible to
anaphylactic
shock. There
are meds in my medical pack. As you know, those meds may or may not
work. I’m not afraid of insects. I. Do. Not. Want. To. Be.
Bitten.”

He put a hand on her arm and she shrugged it
off. “I am an asshole,” he said quickly. “I made a mistake. I
apologize.” The last thing he wanted to do was alienate her.

Gemma washed her hands over her face. For a
moment she examined the grime that came away on her palms then
looked back at him. “I’m the one who needs to apologize. I should
have told you right away.” She lowered her gaze. “You’re a doctor.
I don’t know why I didn’t.” She lied. She didn’t tell people
because they’d want to know what she was doing there. Why it took
so long to find her. Ask a hundred other questions she didn’t want
to answer. She didn’t want anyone to know she was running, hiding
from drunk, abusive parents, and she preferred the stings to going
home.

Walsh rubbed her arm sympathetically. “Shit.
You must have been terrified.”

“I was eleven. I
was
afraid.” She sure
as hell was. Afraid if she called out she’d be found and taken home
to her parents before they passed out.

“Let me make it up to you.” He made a
sweeping bow like a knight showing respect to his queen. “I am here
to do your bidding, survivor woman. You have only to tell me what
it is you want.”

Gemma eyed him. There was no question his
attitude had changed. Had he somehow figured out she was Sam and
Olivia’s mother? Olivia did look like her, but with the jungle
doing her makeup and hair, that was a stretch. Besides, Walsh
wasn’t a kiss-ass. If he knew, he’d have come right out and said
it. “Smear bug repellant all over you and put the gloves on. We’ll
break down the shelter.
And
forget that ever happened.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

She froze. He figured out she was Coast
Guard?

“Lighten up, survivor woman.” He gave her a
shoulder bump. “I’m trying to be funny here. I’m apparently off the
mark.”

He
was
trying to be funny
.
She
rolled her shoulders and windmilled her arms. “Sorry, Doc. Your . .
. overnight change put me off balance. I thought I had you figured
out.” More like she thought she’d inoculated herself against his
charm. But, damn him, he found an antidote.

He scratched the stubble on his jaw. “How
about today I tell you all about myself while we hike? You can get
to know the real me.”

“O . . . kay.”
Whatever
. This was a
poorly disguised attempt at getting her to reveal more about
herself. The old “I told you something, now it’s your turn to tell
me something” tactic he pulled on her last night. Which had
inexplicably worked. She’d never uttered a single word about the
accident. It was the night her twins, Olivia and Daniel, graduated
from high school. Her estrangement from her children was so severe
they’d made it clear she wasn’t welcome. She’d gone anyway standing
in the shadows at the back of the auditorium, leaving before she
was seen. If she’d hung around after the accident, her identity
would have become known. That newspaper headline would have read
Local Coast Guard Officer Fails to Save Man in Accident.
Olivia and Daniel would have known she was there
and
. . . a
shiver ran through her. She looked at Walsh, who’d begun to drag
braches away from the shelter. Not a word in all those years and
here, slicker than ice on the deck of a cutter cruising the Bering
Sea, Walsh had gotten her to go all Chatty Cathy and blab. Who was
this man?

Chapter 5

Gemma checked her watch. Seven a.m. and the
temperature was ninety. The humidity had to be as high as it could
go without the air dripping. The lack of any breeze made it worse.
They broke down the shelter, shaking the tarps and carefully
examining them. All with no wisecracks from Walsh.

“How are you at reading maps?” she said when
the last of the gear was stowed in the packs.

“Not bad,” he said as she spread one out.

She planted a finger on the paper. “Here is
our location. Here”—she traced her finger along a blue squiggle—“is
the river I want to follow to this village.” Her finger came to
rest on a tiny dot. “I’m sure villagers travel the river. We
shouldn’t have to walk the whole way. You have a map.” She folded
hers and shook it his direction. “We get separated, use it and keep
moving.”

“I have no intention of getting separated
from the person with the gun and big knife. I’m ready when you
are.”

She smiled and handed him a bottle filled
with vine water. “I think I like this new you. Keep it up.”
Whatever the reason for the change, she didn’t care as long as he
followed her directions.

“You think they started searching for us
yet?” Walsh asked as he slipped his arms through the straps of his
pack.

“Yes. First light this morning. They would’ve
spent the night getting ready.”

“Which route? The old one, or the one I
talked you into taking?”

Gemma shrugged into her pack. “This isn’t
your fault.”

“The hell it isn’t. If I hadn’t talked you
into flying back over the coast we wouldn’t be having this
conversation.”

“I didn’t have to agree,” she said solemnly.
“I could’ve said hell no and flown us straight back. I didn’t. If
anyone takes the heat for this, it’s going to be me.”

“But if—”

“I don’t like playing what-if,” she
interrupted. “It is what it is and we deal with it. Got it?”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

“As for your question where they’re looking,”
she said and shrugged into her pack, “I reported the new flight
plan to the first airport”—she used the term “airport” loosely—“I
made radio contact with. I got no confirmation. I reported it to
the second and received a confirmation. The conversation was in
Spanish. I told you my Spanish isn’t that good.”

“I heard what you said. It sounded good to
me.”

Gemma walked behind him, checking the
compartments of the pack were sealed. “I have to be honest with
you. Small airports are notorious for late reporting and not
reporting at all.” That was one thing she learned from years of
flying search-and-rescue. She decided he needed to hear it all.
“I’m not counting on a rescue. I’m counting on us getting ourselves
to some kind of civilization. The shortest and most difficult route
is the way I’m taking us. The easiest and longest is south. And
it’s potentially the most dangerous. The reason the boat abandoned
the search for us so fast was because of approaching weather.”

Walsh looked out to the ocean. “The men on
that boat could come searching again today.” Not a question, a
statement, showing he understood the situation.

“Yep,” she said, taking a few steps and then
stopping. “We have a lot of things working against us when it comes
to search-and-rescue finding us. The route change being the most
obvious. A plane down in the jungle.” She glanced around. “God
would have trouble finding us.”
Unless of course they used the
emergency beacon
. If they’d gone down in the jungle she’d have
pushed that button in a heartbeat, but they hadn’t. They were here
and their best chance of rescue was that village.

“Ready?”

Walsh lifted his pack. “Got water.” He tapped
the water bottle hanging from his pack. “Food. Put on bug stuff.”
He held up his hands. “Got gloves on. I’m ready as I can be.”

Today Walsh was content to let Gemma lead
them through the ever-thickening jungle as he talked about growing
up in Texas.

“I lived sixty miles away from where Sam and
Olivia Carver did,” he said.

Gemma tensed then relaxed. If he knew she was
their mother he would have said so long before. “Small world, huh?”
She didn’t look back.

“Yeah. We’re sure we never met.”

“Really? How could you be so
sure
?”

“We compared stories,” he said, “and couldn’t
find a single friend in common. Even if we’d been closer in age we
wouldn’t have been friends,” Walsh went on.

“Why’s that?” Gemma stopped and used her
shirt sleeve to wipe away perspiration sliding into her eyes.

“Sam was a good guy. I told you,
I
was
a fuckup.”

A surge of satisfaction lifted the corners of
her mouth into a smile. It was good to hear her son spoken of this
way, even though she couldn’t claim any responsibility for it.

“You think it’s funny I was a fuckup?” Walsh
used the bottom of his shirt to clear his eyes, giving her a nice
view of his belly and that wicked scar on his side. Bandanas would
be on her recommendation for inclusion in the packs and
underwear.

“A fuckup?” She shook her head. “No. You’re
too self-assured, focused.” She paused and took in a few breaths.
The heat and humidity were taking a toll. “I see you as too smart
for your own good. A smart-ass. An instigator.” She’d dealt with
many in the Coast Guard who had the same problem. “In high school
you spent a lot of time in detention. College you skipped most of
your classes and got Bs and Cs with little or no effort.” He said
nothing. “At least until that accident you talk about. Am I
right?”