 NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE
Coronado,
California
The only easy day was yesterday. Commander Mike
McCaffrey knew the Navy SEAL motto well. He'd just set
foot inside Naval Special Warfare Command after five weeks
on San Clemente Island, playing bad guy for the BUD/S in
training. He still wore woodland green cammies, complete
with war paint, and toted his gear. The thud of heavy boots
and raised voices bounced off the walls behind him as Bravo
Squad entered to lighten their loads.
"Bravo Eleven, stow it! And blow it!" he called
over his shoulder to seven of the best men he'd ever served
with.
They knew what he meant. Weekend liberty for the enlisted.
Shore leave for the officers. A chance to blow their wads,
paycheck or otherwise.
A collective, "hoo-yah!" followed the order.
"Hoo-yah," Mike responded, unsure of his own
plans for his first duty-free weekend in months. A two-inch
thick T-bone ranked at the top of his list. A baked potato
with all the fixin's and an ice cold beer to wash it down.
It sure as hell beat endless rations of MRE. Uncle Sam's
Meals Ready-to-Eat weren't exactly his idea of home cookin'.
Stopping by the central office to pick up his mail, Mike
glanced at the invitation on top. Noting today's date for
the Change of Command Ceremony, he was about to deep six
it without even breaking his stride when the relieving
officer's name stopped him short.
Hannah.
He backtracked toward the yeoman manning the duty desk. "When
did this come in?"
"Sir?" The yeoman looked up. "A couple
weeks ago, I think."
"Do I have any messages from a Lieutenant Commander
Stanton?" He kept it formal even though any pretense
of formality had been stripped once he'd gotten her naked.
"No, sir." The yeoman shook his head. "The
only messages are with your mail. Except for one or two
and the dailies, they're all from Commander, Naval Special
Warfare."
Mike responded with a curt nod and continued down the
hall. When he reached his office he dumped his gear and
shut the door behind him. Tossing the rest of the bundled
mail to his desk, he held on to the invitation. A quick
check of his watch told him what he already knew, he was
at least a week too late to R.S.V.P., not to mention the
fact that the proceedings had started ten minutes ago.
And these things always started on time.
If the Seahawk had picked them up as scheduled he might
have made it. Hell, he could have swum the sixty-eight
nautical miles in the time they'd spent waiting for the
bird this morning.
But it wasn't Mac-Ass-Saving Time. He couldn't turn the
clock back one hour let alone one year. If he could there'd
be a lot of things he'd change about the past, but Hannah
wouldn't be one of them—except maybe he'd savor the
moment a little longer.
Twisting his watch band, he wondered if it had been her
intention to shackle him with a constant reminder when
she'd sent him the damn thing.
Forget?
How could he when her last words to him played like the
persistent rattle of urgent Intel coming over his headset? No
regrets, McCaffrey.
He tossed the invitation to the trash before he conjured
up images of soft curves and satin sheets to go along with
the voices in his head. As he rounded his desk he dug out
the invitation again. He didn't know what to make of it.
Reservists were being called to active duty by the ship
load. Hell, he'd spent the better part of the past twelve
months in parts unknown, or at least unspoken. Doing the
unspeakable. The Teams were recruiting young blood in record
numbers and calling up reserve forces. Activated civilian-sailors
were being deployed right along with regular Sea, Air and
Land Special Ops. The same would be true for the Wings.
But Hannah? Commander, Helicopter Combat Support (Special)
Squadron Nine?
Emphasis on Special Warfare.
A part of him, a very selfish part, was almost glad.
She'd be activated a year or two at least. Which meant
they'd be working together, not just training together
two weeks a year in the Nevada desert.
Of course that complicated matters. Because the smartest
thing she'd ever done was kiss him good-bye.
He shuffled through the rest of his mail and messages
while his brain tried to sort out the situation and put
it in perspective. She'd be here. They'd be working together.
Period.
Too bad that set his pulse into overdrive.
Testing the limits of his self-control, he slammed on
the brakes by putting the emphasis back on work. He sat
down at his desk, rolled his shoulder to ease the damage
done by sleeping on the cold, hard ground, then turned
his energies to putting Hannah out of his head.
While processing his mail, he stalled at a message from
HCS-9. Had Hannah called after all? That was one possibility.
Though in all likelihood, Loring, or someone from Loring's
office had decided to follow up on the invitation. But
Mike had Hannah-on-the-brain and his mind held on to that
one possibility.
He looked up from the slip of paper to stare at his Choker
Whites still in the dry cleaning bag hanging on the back
of his office door. If he were looking for a sign, his
Service Dress Whites would be it. Normally the uniform
hung in the back of his closet, worn only on those rare
occasions when he dressed to impress.
But he wasn't looking for a sign.
Was he?
Shaking free of the notion, he reached for the routing
envelope containing the daily SOPA messages and got back
to work. The Senior Officer Present Afloat coordinated
information among the tenant ship and shore commands in
and around the San Diego area. The top message read:
CAPT JJ LORING, USN, WILL BE RELIEVED AS COMMANDER, HCS-9
BY LCDR HC STANTON, USNR, IN CHANGE OF COMMAND/RETIREMENT
CEREMONIES 1000 25 JUL AT HANGAR 9 NASNI. ALL INTERESTED
PERSONNEL AND THEIR SPOUSES ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO ATTEND.
UNIFORM FOR ATTENDEES IS AS FOLLOWS: SERVICE DRESS WHITES.
REQ SOPA ADMIN PASS TO ALL SHIP AND SHORE ACTIVITIES SAN
DIEGO AREA.
The Commander, Naval Special Warfare Command had attached
a hand written Post-it. "I'll save you a seat."
While not a direct order, one was implied—a sign
Mike couldn't ignore.
"Ah, hell." He scrubbed a hand over his stubbled,
grease-painted kisser. He'd just run out of excuses. Or
found the excuse he was looking for.
There'd be no easy out. And no easy day. At least not
today. Because today he'd come face to face with the woman
he'd spent the past three hundred and sixty-five yesterdays
trying to forget.
NAVAL AIR STATION NORTH ISLAND
Coronado, California
From the back seat of her staff car, idling in a line
of staff cars, Lieutenant Commander Hannah C. Stanton peeled
back a white glove to check her watch. Resigned to her
fate, she braced herself with a sigh. These things never
started on time, or at least it seemed that way.
In the distance a gull soared above the fleet of gray
ladies harbored in San Diego Bay. Following its flight
out to sea, Hannah's gaze drifted in the general direction
of San Clemente Island. Once again, she found herself fiddling
with the band of her Chase-Durer. She'd indulged after
receiving orders to active duty. The jeweler's Special
Forces collection had prompted her to buy another as a
gift.
Impulse control was not her strong suit. At least not
when it came to jewelry stores and a certain SPECWAR Operator.
But with a little luck and a lot of help from the helicopter
pilots over at HCS-5, McCaffrey would be a no show and
the case of B. Stefanouris ouzo it cost her would be worth
it.
Even though Commander, SEAL Team Eleven hadn't bothered
to R.S.V.P., she couldn't take the chance he'd come. He
had a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Today's Change of Command Ceremony qualified as both. And
if anyone knew two wrongs didn't make a right, she did.
Banishing McCaffrey from her mind almost as quickly as
he'd vanished from her bed, she sat back and tried to relax.
An impossible task with the Navy's Social Usage And
Protocol Handbook on the seat beside her. She'd read
it cover to cover half a dozen times. For every rule there
was an exception. For every exception there was an exception.
In this case she was the exception, a female
commander in the male dominated world of SPECWAR. One misstep
and she'd embarrass her entire sex, not to mention her
new command. All eyes were on her, waiting for her to stumble,
if not flat out fall.
She shuddered as cold air blasted her from the vent. Despite
the chill, her palms were sweating through her gloves.
The enormity of the situation made her long for civilian
life. She had to keep reminding herself she'd trained for
this. Well, not this.
She'd trained to fly Seahawks, the Navy's version of the
Hawk Class helicopter, for Combat Search and Rescue and
Special Warfare Combat Support. But CSAR and SPECWAR ops
were a far cry from all this pomp and circumstance. Further
still from her safe little niche in the civilian world.
Of course how safe would she feel ignoring the danger to
her country? She'd much rather be on the front lines doing
her duty, and doing it well enough to bring one more solider
or sailor home.
The driver inched the car forward, then stopped. The door
opened. The waiting officer offered his free arm while
keeping his sword to his side with the other. She accepted
with the lightest touch.
Primly keeping her knees together, she swung her legs
around and stepped white heels to the curb in a ladylike
gesture that did her mother and the Navy proud.
Almost.
"I can take it from here, Spence." She dismissed
her dashing copilot.
"Sure thing." The younger man winked in understanding
as he took a step back.
Billy Idol lyrics in her head, she looked over her own White
Wedding—or the closest she'd ever come to
the real thing—and hoped she wasn't committing
career suicide. "Calypso, what have you done?"
She'd been tagged Calypso—after the sea nymph—while
still flying CH-46 Seaknights off the aircraft carrier
USS Enterprise. On her first SAR mission she'd saved half
a dozen stranded Greek fishermen from their sinking boat.
Despite the increasing risk from hazardous weather conditions
she'd hoisted every last man and the ship's mutt aboard
the helicopter. The grateful sailors had toasted her with
a bottle of ouzo they'd salvaged from the wreckage, convinced
only one of the Titan's own could have pulled off the stunt.
They didn't know how right they were.
At least Calypso had forever replaced Bubbles, the name
a less-than-PC instructor had cursed her with in flight
school. She hated that it made her sound like a stripper.
But more than that she hated that it called attention to
her weakest area in training to become a Navy pilot—water.
One panic attack while upside down in the Dilbert Dunker
and she'd become infamous for those tiny little oxygen
bubbles that rose to the surface when she hadn't. Worse
than almost drowning, worse than Navy swimmers having to
rescue her from the simulated cockpit, was having to do
it all over again or wash out of the program.
She'd made it out of the harness and to the surface on
her second go round and every time since when she updated
her quals. But not without that feeling of utter panic.
That dunk tank was easy compared to this.
She took a last deep breath before taking her next career
plunge.
Assuming command was very much like a marriage. It required
commitment and in this case compromise. The only thing
missing was her bouquet. And, of course, there was no groom
caught in the cross-hairs of her sights.
And no father of the bride at her side.
Hannah stepped onto the white carpet. Alone.
So much for embarrassing missteps. She'd now committed
a major faux pas. With deliberate pride.
Pride goeth before the fall. So you damn well better
not trip all over it, Stanton.
A pair of sideboys, the appropriate honors for a lieutenant
commander, stood at attention. On the Executive Officer's
command they rendered sharp hand salutes. Two gongs sounded.
Then the XO as Master of Ceremonies announced her arrival.
The handbook said single ladies were to be escorted, but
single female officers fell into a gray area. Because nowhere
in that book did it say single male officers had to be
escorted down the aisle.
First impressions were important. In marriage as in life,
one should start out as one intended to go along. For Hannah
that meant going without leaning on any man.
One last gong followed her march through the white-topped
VIP tent. Despite her bravado she missed her father more
than she had since that day two Naval officers had showed
up at their door. She would have liked to hear him say
he was proud of her today.
Climbing the steps to the red, white and blue swagged
dais, she reached her seat to the left of Captain Loring.
Admiral Riker, the highest ranking official taking part
in the ceremony, sat to Loring's right. The Chaplain sat
to her left and the XO stood at a podium to the far right.
The podium in the center remained open for their use.
"All rise for the National Anthem," the XO requested.
As she rendered honors to the flag, Hannah got her first
good look at the assembled crowd. The squadron stood by
in formation. The guests got to their feet from uniform
rows of folding chairs. Except for a white rose, the first
chair to the left of the aisle remained empty in memory
of Captain Loring's deceased wife. The second chair held
the folded triangle that had adorned the casket of Hannah's
father. Her mother, Rosemary Stanton, pressed a kiss to
the bud she held and placed it on the flag beside her before
covering her heart with her hand.
After that everything became a blur set to band music
as Hannah blinked back tears. Sometimes sacrifices were
made on the battlefield. But just as often they were made
on the home front.
Her younger sister Sammy, bouncing baby in her arms, stood
beside their mother. The three-month-old needing all the
attention was Hannah's own precious daughter.
Fortunately her mother and sister were willing to go above
and beyond the call of duty. If Sammy hadn't been able
to move to California, Hannah as a single mom would have
been forced to leave her daughter behind with her family
in Colorado.
Adventure aside, the United States Navy was a job 24/7.
She had to be deployable.
No excuses. Not even little ones. Like wanting to spend
time with her baby girl.
Or big ones. Like wanting to keep her daughter from knowing
the pain of losing a parent.
The Star Spangled Banner ended, and the XO requested
everyone remain standing for the Chaplain's invocation.
Hannah mouthed the words, "thank you," to her
mother and sister.
She had a two-year obligation to Uncle Sam and the two
hundred men and women of HCS-9. In answering the call to
duty she'd given up more than family time and social ties,
more than a mid-six figure salary in the aerospace industry
and a plot of real estate in the Rocky Mountains, she'd
given up her piece of mind. Because sooner or later she'd
run into McCaffrey and out of excuses.
When she did she'd need her family more than ever.
They'd been there for her when he hadn't.
Seated once again, her gaze shifted to the audience. She
tried hard not to make the comparison between the empty
chair reserved for her father and the empty chair among
the SEAL commanders. McCaffrey wasn't here, but he'd been
safe and sound when the Fire Hawks of HCS-5 picked him
up from San Clemente Island. And as long as he stayed away
so was their daughter.
The baby slept through most of the speeches, but woke
fussy. Already showing signs of independence, like her
mother, a chubby fist found its way to a rosebud mouth
in the time it took Auntie Sammy to dig through the diaper
bag for a bottle. Hannah somehow managed to maintain her
military bearing even as every maternal instinct she possessed
made her want to leap from the platform. But her complement
of uniforms didn't include Wonder Woman or Super Mom costumes,
just a flight suit and the wings of a Naval Special Warfare
Aviator.
Captain Loring stepped center stage, the cue for the participants
on the dais to stand once again.
"The Change of Command Ceremony is a Navy tradition
without equal in the Army or Air Force," he began. "Custom
has established that this observance be both formal and
impressive while at its heart is the reading of official
orders." After a lengthy speech, he got around to
doing just that. Afterward he turned to Hannah. "Ma'am,
I am ready to be relieved."
Hannah stepped forward and read her orders. As courtesy
demanded of the relieving officer she kept her comments
brief. When finished she turned to Loring and executed
a sharp salute. "I relieve you, sir."
Captain Loring returned the salute. "I stand relieved."
The Color Guard marched forward. Loring ordered his command
pennant lowered. Followed by Hannah ordering hers broken,
readying it for unfurling. On command, the color guard
raised her banner. Wind snapped it to attention. Above
the command flag for the North Island Night Hawks of HCS-9,
the simple white pennant bearing the silver eagle of a
captain had been replaced by the silver oak leaf of a lieutenant
commander.
Hannah turned to salute her immediate superior in the
Chain of Command—Admiral Riker, Commander, Helicopter
Wing Reserve. "Lieutenant Commander Hannah C. Stanton
reporting for duty, sir."
Excerpt from THE SEAL'S BABY, copyright 2004
by Rogenna Brewer,
Harlequin Superromance® #1223, August 2004.
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