Bring On the Dusk (20 page)

Their arrival in the helicopter was a harsh surprise. Claudia winced when she first touched the metal outer hull, and after climbing inside, settling on the lifeless steel decking was a body shock. In a single moment she'd gone from a world where the loudest thing was a breeze or Michael's call from fifty feet away, checking in on her through heavy branches, to thudding helicopters, headsets, and three-meter monkey-lines to secure their climbing harnesses to the inside frame of the bird.

The transition was too fast, and now this was the world that felt foreign. Who had she turned into over these last forty-eight hours?

For the first time ever, she'd gone more than a day without once thinking about her career and her position. And now she was screwing a Delta Force colonel at every chance? In the tops of trees? Where was the Captain Casperson she'd built so carefully?

She considered checking her pockets but didn't, just in case she couldn't find herself when she went looking.

“My crew chief today is Steve Mercer.” Emily's voice was smooth over the intercom. “He's my drone pilot. Steve, these folks are both third contract. Not a word goes out about this.”

“Roger, boss.” A guy with dark hair and an easy smile shook their hands as he helped them get squared away. He carefully didn't ask their names.

“Why you, Emily?” was Michael's greeting. Claudia really needed to talk to him about some basic manners.

“I guess Peter is into something nasty. He wasn't explaining, but I'm guessing that he's trying to keep the circle of knowledge really small. I'm delivering you to a tiny airport up on the coast where a Gulfstream will be waiting for you. Now that I'm on the outside, that's all I know.” After glancing back to make sure everyone was secure and the lines were all in, she slammed the cyclic forward and left, and wrenched up on the collective. The Firehawk responded with a throaty burst of power that jerked them aloft.

Apparently Emily cared as little about manners as Michael did. She was also clearly frustrated at not being on the inside of whatever was happening. Claudia wondered if she herself would be sorry to
be
on the inside by the time this was over, assuming she was. She decided to just keep her mouth shut.

“Our gear—” Michael started.

“Your parents will have to ship you anything at the house or in that truck. I can drop your climbing packs at Corvallis airport for your parents to fetch.”

Michael dropped the headset and waved Claudia to the back of the helicopter's cargo bay. He pulled an empty Mount Hood Aviation gear bag with a flaming logo from a hook. Together, she and Michael began sorting through the packs, pulling out their little bits of personal gear and stuffing them into the sack. Neither of their duffels sitting in the truck had carried much more than an extra change of clothes.

Claudia tried not to read any significance into her and Michael's clothes now being combined in a single bag. She was still breathless from the transition and couldn't seem to get her head working again. Not until her fingers closed around a pair of two-foot-long nylon cases.

The folding bow and the blunt arrows. She held them and tried to remember the woman who just yesterday morning had fired them into the redwood. She hadn't been so focused on the shot that she'd missed the look on Michael's face. No one had ever, not in her whole life, looked on her with awe before. Lust, anger, totally despising her trespass in this man's army, sure. But not awe. She'd felt like Diana, the Roman goddess of the hunt.

Twenty-four hours later she was a woman who had climbed to the top of a redwood and fallen in love with the best man she'd ever met. Whatever Michael was doing to her, it was thorough. She'd had lovers, but definitely never one she loved. Well, she wasn't actually willing to declare it, but a part of her acknowledged that it was true nonetheless.

She held the two slim cases out to Michael and mouthed Dilya's name.

He didn't hesitate or even bother to nod in acknowledgment. He simply took them from her hand and slipped them into the gear bag.

Military service was such that she didn't know if she'd ever see the girl again, but Claudia's guess was that the 5D was too good a team to break up from one assignment to the next. It wouldn't be all that long before she and Dilya ran into each other again.

Once she and Michael were packed, they moved back to the front of the cargo bay and pulled the headsets back on.

“One other thing, Emily,” Michael continued as if they hadn't just been off the intercom for five minutes.

Claudia wondered how to introduce herself to the retired major and thank her for trailblazing the way into SOAR. And do it without sounding like a total fan girl.

Then Michael got that implacable tone in his voice. “You and Steve will erase any and all GPS and flight-path information to do with the location of that tree.”

“Michael, why does it—”

“And you'll do it now!” No drill sergeant had ever mustered such a tone of absolute authority.

Claudia watched between the seats as Emily Beale, without further comment, began punching buttons on her console. Steve Mercer did the same to his drone guidance console. Nobody messed with Colonel Michael Gibson, not when he was in that mode.

Maybe she'd just keep her mouth shut.

She didn't get a chance to talk with Emily Beale until they landed at a tiny airstrip just outside a coastal Oregon town.

“Wow!” Emily sounded impressed. “They sent the 650 for you. They want you two in Washington fast. You're in for a very cozy ride.”

Claudia peered out the cargo bay door at the sleek Gulfstream jet. The G650 was the fastest small passenger jet built, soaring through the sky at just under Mach 1. It looked as if it was at full-tilt boogie just sitting there.

Emily left the Firehawk's rotor ticking over on fast idle and climbed down. She snapped a sharp salute to Michael. Claudia noted that the one he returned was equally sharp. Then she hugged him. By his delayed response it was easy to read his surprise. So, Major Emily Beale (retired) unwound for very few people, but Michael was one of them.

He moved over to the Gulfstream parked on the age-cracked tarmac of the taxiway. At a small hand signal from Emily, Claudia waited. The immaculate blond with steel blue eyes suddenly turned her full attention on Claudia. In that instant, Claudia saw the truth of every story Lola and the others had told about their former commander. Emily was tall, slender, stunning, and in such absolute command of everyone around her that it was hard to believe she wasn't still in the Army.

Beale was studying her just as closely, which didn't bother Claudia in the least. She didn't know Emily Beale from Adam. Except she did. The woman had been the most respected helicopter pilot on the planet, for those who knew of her existence. That set Claudia back on her heels a bit, though she did her best not to show it. Beale had not only the respect of her colleagues but, more tellingly, of Colonel Michael Gibson as well.

“So you're the one, Captain Casperson.”

Claudia was getting tired of people assuming something that she was barely beginning to figure out for herself.

“Claudia. And that means what to you?”

Emily smiled to herself before answering. The smile looked a little sad. “It means that I wish I was still in the service so that I could get to know you, for you must be someone very special, Claudia. I think that Mark and I are the only other people who know about Michael's trees. He's never invited us there.”

Claudia tried not to feel foolish for her initial acerbic manner.

“He's…” She didn't have the words to describe him to herself, so how could she to this woman she didn't know? “Amazing.”

Emily turned and they both looked over to where Michael was waiting patiently by the lowered steps of the sleek jet.

“Also remember, Captain,” Beale said without turning, “that he is a man. Just as unsure of himself as any other when it comes to women. The good ones know how to be a soldier, but they have only the slightest notion of what to do with the woman they love.”

“He…” Claudia attempted to protest, but couldn't. She had only just figured out that she loved him. She'd thought that was a nice addition to a relationship that would be best kept to herself. But the concept that Michael might love her back struck her with a quick succession of emotions as rapid as gunfire on full auto: absurd but not, possible, possibly encouraging, even desired…

She settled on “totally unnerved” and would leave it at that.

“Of course, I doubt if he realizes it yet.” Emily was clearly not aware of the madness that had just been unleashed inside Claudia's brain. Abruptly Claudia no more wanted to climb aboard a jet with Michael for several hours than she wanted to fly with a caged tiger.

She'd been overdosing on Michael and that, she was beginning to understand, was a dangerous drug.

That would explain it.

The Yemeni exfiltration; planning, then executing the mission in Somalia; making love at every chance… She could recall his smell of darkness and safety better than she remembered the smell of gunpowder or Jet A fuel.

Claudia needed to detox.

To get away from him for even a little while to find out what she was really feeling.

“Did they, uh, call us both back to DC?”

Emily looked at her with as absolute an understanding as if Claudia had spoken all of her thoughts aloud. “Both of you.”

Well, so much for that escape.

Emily took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye for a long moment before nodding to herself.

Then, much to Claudia's surprise, the woman hugged her and whispered in her ear. “I suspect that Michael has indeed chosen well. Tell him to call us next time you're both on leave. We'll all go fishing together.”

“But I don't fish…” Claudia pulled back, unable to make sense of what Emily was talking about or the sudden kindness she offered.

The jet's engines grumbled and then whined to life, starting low but climbing the scale rapidly in a long glissando.

“Neither do I, but he and Mark love to fish together. If you stay with him, you'll discover what it means to lie along a stream for a long, lazy afternoon. Day after day.” Her wry smile indicated the woman's humor behind the observation.

“They'll fish and we'll become friends, Claudia. Now go.” With no further acknowledgment, not a handshake or even a look, Emily climbed back aboard her helicopter. Mere seconds later, the rotor's downwash was driving Claudia toward the waiting jet and the waiting man.

By the time she reached the jet, Emily was aloft. A waggle of rotor blades and she was gone over the trees.

Michael let Claudia head first up the stairs.

A huge man in a black suit with the trademark coil of wire to his ear greeted Claudia as she stepped into the Gulfstream jet's cabin.

United States Secret Service. Had to be.

“Captain Casperson. Colonel Gibson. Welcome aboard. You may leave your bag with me.”

There was no question of not obeying. Michael handed over the bag.

“Are either of you armed?”

Michael bent down to untie the hunting knife from around his calf and dropped it into the bag. Then he added a folding knife and a Colt Defender 9 mm that she somehow hadn't noticed.

She didn't even have a Swiss Army knife with her.

“The rest is in the gear bag.”

The rest? A romantic idyll in the tops of the redwoods and Michael came loaded to personally fend off the Taliban. Always ready for anything. A good lesson that she'd have to remember. Always be ready for anything.

How was it that Michael just kept getting better?

“Thank you, sir. You may both take a seat.”

He closed the door behind them and then retreated forward as the engines began to wind up in earnest.

The cabin was beautiful. It was the same size as a Chinook's, six-and-a-half feet high and over eight wide. It looked even longer than the helicopter's thirty-foot bay…and that's where any similarity stopped. Instead of the utilitarian dark gray that could seat fifty troops on hard fold-down seats or carry a Humvee strapped to load points along the steel cargo-bay floor, there were a dozen seats of plush white leather sitting on white, deep-pile carpet.

There was also a forward group of four seats, two to either side, with highly polished fold-out tables of dark burl wood. Then six more grouped around a large table. Beyond that were couches long enough to stretch out and sleep on. That sounded pretty good at the moment.

There were two other passengers, seated with their backs to her approach, three if you counted the baby she could see over of the man's shoulder, asleep in his lap.

In profile, as she came down the aisle and passed alongside the seated couple, she could see that they were elegantly dressed. She wanted to brush at her jeans and T-shirt but was afraid of shedding dirt or stray bits of Nell onto the white carpet. She'd had a bra somewhere in her pack but hadn't thought to put it on. It was probably even now being inspected for hidden weapons by the Secret Service agent.

She moved past the seated couple so that she and Michael could both greet them and then turned.

Ready for anything?

Claudia was absolutely not ready for this.

* * *

“Good morning, Mr. President, ma'am.” Michael saluted President Peter Matthews and First Lady Genevieve Matthews.

Unexpected, but not a total surprise when Frank Adams, the head of the President's personal protection detail, had greeted them at the door. Besides, all of Delta's training was about adapting quickly to changing situations.

The President saluted from his seat. “Pardon me for not getting up, Michael.” He waved at the First Daughter asleep in his lap.

“No problem, sir.”

The President indicated for them to sit across the table.

Michael moved to do so and found Claudia blocking his way. She'd dropped her salute but remained immobile in the aisle.

“I'm sorry I missed Emily,” the President continued, “but my detail wants to keep this excursion as low profile as possible.”

Michael nudged Claudia with his hip, and she as much collapsed as sat in the chair across from the President. Michael sat across from the First Lady and clipped Claudia's seat belt and then his own as the plane began taxiing for takeoff.

“I'm assuming this isn't a social call.” The First Family traveling at large without Air Force One and the normal phalanx of four to five hundred agents probably meant this was about to become the worst kind of operation there was.

“Afraid not, Michael,” the President acknowledged. “This one is strictly black-in-black.”

“Black-in-black.” Claudia was recovering from her initial shock very quickly. He knew Delta operators who didn't recover this quickly. Yet more to admire about her.

“Is that what you call a black op in SOAR?”

Oh no.

Michael reached out to squeeze her hand for a moment in comfort. The poor woman had no idea what was about to happen to them.

* * *

“What am I missing, sir?” She shook off Michael's hand, even if she appreciated it, and it was out of sight below the table that separated them from the First Family. The President appeared to have missed it, but his wife most certainly hadn't.

President Peter Matthews was the youngest President in history, elected shortly after his thirty-fifth birthday. Tall, handsome, and photogenic. He wore his dark hair past his ears and was immensely popular despite having already served a full term. He was considered a shoo-in for the fall.

His wife was a French beauty from Vietnam who had shocked the world two years ago when the President married her. She was also a senior director at UNESCO and a major player at the World Heritage Centre.

“Captain Casperson”—the President offered her one of his million-watt television smiles—“a pleasure to meet you at last.” It was far more potent in person than on any screen; in person you could feel that the smile was completely genuine to the core.

“At last, sir?” How on earth had she gone in under an hour from being a simple SOAR pilot sleeping three hundred and thirty feet aloft in a redwood with the world's number one soldier in her arms to sitting across from her Commander-in-Chief? No escape—the plane roared down the runway and rotated aloft even as the President answered.

“I have very good reports on you. I try to keep an eye on Emily's old unit.”

“Emily?” Wow! She was so out of her depth here. She really needed something to hold on to. Anything. Like her original question.

“Black-in-black, sir?”

Michael sighed.

The President looked chagrined. “I take it you've never flown one.”

“Black ops, a couple. Most that fall to the Marine Corps are dealt with by MARSOC, but I flew a few.”

White ops were secret during planning but typically went public afterward. Grenada, Panama, the taking of bin Laden, and even their recent Somalia strike—though that was wholly attributed to the U.S. Rangers and “other Special Operations Forces assets,” with unconfirmed rumors of SEAL Team Six's involvement, when it made international headlines.

Black ops never went public intentionally. Delta's crossing into the Iraqi desert a week ahead of Desert Storm to find and kill dozens of Scud missile installations long before the invasion ever happened. Those attacks and false radar reports Delta had generated in Western Iraq before the start of the invasion had made Hussein think the allied forces were coming from the west rather than the south. It kept him from escaping into Syria.

“Black-in-black is different.” Michael again reached for her but apparently thought better of it when she scowled at him. “They're very restricted and very tough.”

“What are the differences?”

“Have you ever lied to a commander?”

“Not about anything important.” That won her a quick smile from everyone at the table. She glanced at the President and wished that she'd simply said, “No, sir.” He was her commander, the in-chief one.

“If your commander is not inside a black-in-black operation, you can't speak to them about it—ever. Not during an interview, not when drunk together, not when under oath during your court martial. No one outside the team. Ever. No black-in-black has ever been leaked.”

“Oh.” Claudia wanted to be back in Nell so badly she could taste it. “Okay.”

So
not
okay, but the look on her Commander-in-Chief's face said that she didn't have a lot of choice in the matter.

“I'll bet the 5D gets most of them.”

The awkward silence around the table told her that was a bet she'd win.

* * *

“This will be your operation, Michael.”

Michael nodded and kept his own counsel, knowing the President would have his presentation of the facts neatly planned out.

“We think that this mission will be handled most appropriately by Little Bird assets rather than heavier helicopters, but that will be up to you. Based on that assumption, we are making Captain Casperson your SOAR liaison. We feel this is a safe choice based on her initial successes with SOAR, the reports of her Marine commanders, and the fact that she achieved the highest training scores in SOAR history. With—”

“Wait, I did what?” Claudia jerked upright in her chair, at least as far as her seat belt allowed.

Michael hadn't known that about her, but he wasn't surprised.

The President's smile was radiant. “Yes. You even beat out Em's old records; bet that would tick her off no end if she were still cleared to know. I just might have to tell her anyway.”

“Wouldn't Chief Warrant Maloney be better qualified?”

“You and Michael may choose to add assets to your team that you deem necessary. But I'm guessing this mission will be less a matter of force and more one of finesse.”

She looked at Michael.

He could see it in her eyes. Yes, their Commander-in-Chief was guessing.

She blew out a breath and scrubbed at her face before running her fingers back through her hair.

Neither of them needing to speak, he nodded to answer her unspoken question:
Yes, all black-in-black feels this way.

“And then it gets worse,” she said aloud.

“And then it gets worse,” he agreed.

* * *

Claudia needed a minute to gather her thoughts, but that clearly wasn't going to happen.

The President nodded to his wife, who began.

“I was visiting in Tehran for a checkup on the Golestan Palace, which was recently added to the UNESCO World Heritage List.”

The First Lady, who was also a UNESCO senior director, had traveled to Iran. Claudia wondered what the Secret Service detail on that one had been like.

“It is such a beautiful interconnected series of palaces. We only managed to place it on the list in 2013. I was very glad to finally see it for myself. I met there the President of Iran, Javad Madani, a very pleasant and forward-thinking man, and he asked for our discreet help.”

Claudia considered the geography of that. Iran reached from the Caspian Sea down to the Persian Gulf and Arabian Sea. The
Peleliu
had been less than a thousand miles from southern Iran before she'd started her race north to transit the Suez for a “possible” operation.

“The
Peleliu
,” she whispered it to Michael and saw his eyes widen briefly, then his confirming nod.

What was unique about the
Peleliu
that set it apart from other warships in the Mediterranean? There had to be some reason she was involved. Oh, the shadow assets of the 5D and Delta.

“So, you need us in the Caspian Sea as a favor to Iran.” Claudia hadn't meant it to be a flat statement, but it fit the facts. “Not just SOAR, but Michael's abilities as well. What's the target?”

“How did you do that?” The President leaned forward, which woke his daughter. The First Lady extracted the girl from his lap. She didn't want to settle, so the First Lady began walking up and down the aisle with her, but staying close enough to hear over the well-muted engine noise of the racing jet.

“It”—Claudia clamped down on her tongue—“it just seemed obvious, sir.”

Michael and the President exchanged a look. Michael's nod confirmed something in guy speak. Normally she could follow guy speak—six years in the Marines did that to a girl—but not this time.

The President cleared his throat and continued, “Azerbaijan is an extremely gas- and oil-rich nation. They have numerous pipelines that run through Georgia, Armenia, and Turkey, providing access to the West. Turkmenistan wants to develop a pipeline under the Caspian Sea to facilitate exports of its own massive reserves along a similar route.”

Claudia closed her eyes for a moment to picture the Caspian Sea. Azerbaijan to the west and Turkmenistan to the east. Iran to the south. To the north, Kazakhstan and Russia. With Russia controlling the only waterway, a northern route would mean a difficult passage through the thirteen locks of the Volga-Don Canal system.

“But why would Iran be upset by—” And then she saw it.

Even Michael didn't follow her this time. Oddly, that made sense. He might be the most flexible soldier on the planet, but the man didn't have a devious bone in his body. Of course what did that say about her?

“Russia.” She made it a flat statement.

“Russia,” the President confirmed. “Iran would prefer to have the pipeline loop south of the Caspian, but even more than that…” He left it dangling as a test.

But Claudia didn't find it to be a trick question.

“Even more than wanting it themselves,” she answered, “they don't want Russia having control. Which we would agree with.”

The President sighed. “As odd as it may sound, we are almost on better terms with Iran than Russia at this time.”

“So who is stopping the Trans-Caspian Gas Pipeline?”

“The Russian Navy, specifically the Caspian flotilla. My Chief of Staff and his wife, she's a CIA analyst, will have details for you when you arrive in Washington, DC. You'll be dropping us off in Colorado Springs where we are supposedly in high-level meetings prior to a speech at the Air Force Academy.”

Michael was nodding as if it all somehow made sense.

Claudia was still missing a dozen pieces. She waited until the First Lady was once again walking past their seats and raised a hand to stop her. Mrs. Matthews arched one elegant eyebrow.

“Based on some past association, you, Mr. President, are inclined to believe the message President Madani sent to you through the First Lady.”