Forgive & Forget (Love in the Fleet) (2 page)

But Trixie was wrong. This was no geek. This hottie with the broad shoulders, dark curly hair, and deep brown eyes with lashes any woman would kill for, could pass for a Greek god. Well, if he would just lose the glasses—they smacked of
Geek
god.

What did Trixie say his nickname was? Bill Gates?

“So what exactly do you do?”

“I’m kind of an air conditioning specialist and a glorified plumber.”

No way did Bill Gates have Philip’s sexy smile—and she doubted he had sexy toes either. What was wrong with her? Lusting after a man’s toes?
Officer
toes that fit into expensive, custom-made boots that walked the same decks as her heavy government-issues.

“…And trust me, there’s plenty of sewage on an aircraft carrier.” He huffed out a half laugh like he couldn’t believe he’d just said that.

Great. Hallie had been lusting after his toes and he’d been waxing and waning about sewage. “Well, I guess the only way is up.”

His eyes crinkled with laughter. “Not if you’re the sewage.”

Hallie thought he was adorable. Unaffected and refreshing. He reminded her of Clark Kent and she felt flooded with warmth, imagining Philip throwing his glasses off and turning into Superman.

While they ate dinner and discussed sailing and Hallie’s journalism classes, Philip kicked himself with both feet. He cursed himself for leaving his sunglasses on the sailboat, which—with his regular glasses being repaired—left him trying to pick up a major babe in his BCGs. No wonder his nickname was Bill Gates. And not because of the money either.

He couldn’t believe how stupid he’d sounded after meeting the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, with innocent blue eyes that searched his while he talked about sewage. “Way to go, dumb ass,” was what his best buddy, Sky, would’ve said. “Just keep talking about sewage. That’ll win her over.”

After dinner Philip invited Hallie to walk on the beach. The sun sank in the west, but its fingers reached around and reflected the foam on the waves as they crawled onto the sand. The air was thick and scented with the sea—and the essence of Hallie McCabe. As they walked barefoot through the surf, he mentioned his upcoming deployment to the Persian Gulf in July.

“How do you feel about that?” she asked.

“Excited. I’ll be responsible for the plumbing network of essentially a small city. And I’m charged with keeping the A/C up and running. The temperature gets well over a hundred degrees in the Middle East and I hear it’ll be a daily ordeal keeping all our electronic equipment cool.” He chuckled. “And it’s not like we could just open the windows, because one, the air is filled with blowing sand. And two, there are no windows on an aircraft carrier. But I like a challenge. Plus I’ve never been through the Suez Canal, so hopefully I’ll have some time to get off the ship to explore.”

“But what about the danger? We’re still at war and you’re headed into a hot zone.”

“I worry about my friends who are pilots. I know guys in the boarding parties too. That’s got to be scary, boarding fishing boats and merchant vessels, not knowing if there are pirates or weapons on board.”

Hallie jumped in. “You know what I think is the scariest? This enemy knows the terrain. They watch and wait and strike whenever they choose. And they take advantage of rules designed to prevent casualties. Actually, they don’t even care about casualties, even civilians. I say it’s changed the face of warfare.

“Used to be combatants only took chances up to a certain point, but the bottom line was to stay alive while completing their mission. Now, the terrorists don’t care if they die because it makes them martyrs. Just like the Kamikaze pilots in World War II.”

Philip stopped walking. He stared at her, stunned this insight was coming from her pretty girl mouth.

“So the Middle East is a frightening place, but I guess an aircraft carrier would be safer than any other kind of vessel. I mean, carriers are huge,” she said.

“Its size makes it a bigger target,” Philip responded, finally catching up to her. Like there’s a big, red bullseye painted in the center of the flight deck—or rather on the sides. That’s what we worry about most, floating bombs disguised as fishing boats. We’ll be traveling with five smaller ships as escorts. While they protect us from other ships or, say, a missile attack, it’s the common fishing boats that tend to be the biggest threat. That’s what happened with the USS
Cole
.”

“Surely you have ways of knowing what’s out there so you can protect yourselves.” She gazed at him with trusting eyes, as if he had the answers to all the world’s problems.    

“Yeah, but the Rules of Engagement are tricky. Even if we know there’s a threat, we often can’t fire unless the bad guys fire first. And then it may be too late.”

He thought the rules sucked, but he wasn’t going to say that.

Hallie didn’t miss a beat. “Wasn’t that the problem in the
Cole
bombing? We knew what was happening at the last minute, but had to wait for permission to fire on the terrorists. By then it was too late and seventeen sailors died and…well, it was bad.”

Philip’s jaw dropped. Seventeen was not a number you pulled out of the air. And he was completely blown away she had a clue about Rules of Engagement. If he’d thought she was the woman of his dreams two hours ago, the idea was now locked onto his brain like a heat-seeking missile. “Even though I’m a major rule follower, I’d have trouble waiting for permission in a situation like that.”

His mouth kept talking, but every other cell in his body focused on how to get this woman to marry him, bear his children, and grow old with him. There was way more to her than just being a babe, although the babe part would definitely not be a problem.

Mesmerized by her blue eyes sparkling with intelligence, he said, “You know, I think you’ll go far as a reporter. I can feel your passion for it.”

Hallie sucked in a breath and stepped closer, bringing her face a few inches from his and—as if on impulse—she reached up and removed his glasses. “Sorry, but I’ve wanted to do that all afternoon. You have beautiful eyes, Philip. You should think about contacts or glasses that show them off. You know, eyes are the window to the soul and all that?”

Energy crackled between them. Sky’s voice screamed in his head: “That’s your cue, shit-for-brains. Kiss her.”

But no way was he going to. One kiss was not going to be enough. So there he stood on a beach at sunset with an incredible woman who had removed his glasses and although a major organ was doing his thinking for him, it wasn’t his brain. Even though he had an open invitation to do something—anything—he didn’t take the bait. What if he screwed it up and she canceled their sailing date? So he told Sky’s voice in his head to shut up, played the gentleman card, and did not reach for her.

“What? You thought I wore BCGs all the time? Uh…we call them ‘Birth Control Glasses’ in the Navy, because if you wear—never mind.” Great. Now he was talking about birth control.

Her face lit with amusement. “Nobody would want to…”

“…have sex with you,” he finished for her.

Which was all he could think about. Jesus, she had eyes that could make a man forget to breathe.

“My regular ones are in the shop. I keep these for spares and I wear them when I’m down in the hole.” He could practically hear Sky’s voice bellowing at him now.

Philip scrambled to clarify but the damage was already done. He laughed it off. “That’s the engineering spaces on a ship, where all the snipes work.”

Her lips twitched in amusement as she replaced his glasses. “Snipes.”

There went his window of opportunity. “Engineers and Machinist’s Mates. Connoisseurs of boilers, engines, and turbines. Snipes.” At least she laughed along with him now.

“So,” she took his arm and headed up toward the seawall, which bailed him out. “What time tomorrow?”

“How about eight?”

“Sounds good. I’ll bring lunch and meet you in the parking lot. Today was fun. I can’t wait to go sailing tomorrow.” And as they climbed the steps of the seawall, a sudden luminous smile lit her face as she added, “Shipmate.”                    

“I can’t believe when the chick removed your glasses and said you had beautiful eyes, you didn’t say, ‘The better to see you with, my dear,’ and then fucking kiss her.”

Philip laughed right along with Sky as they debriefed on the phone. “This one’s different, Sky. I wasn’t going to take a chance on messing things up.”

“Okay, okay. But here are some pointers. Never discuss sewage with a chick again, all right? Don’t even say the word. Even if it is your bread and butter. And dude, I don’t care if you work down in the hole of a ship, do not use those words around a female unless she’s one of your snipes. No wonder we named you Bill Gates.” Sky muttered something unintelligible, then continued. “So I’ve been replaced, huh?”

“I prefer my first mate in a bikini, and no offense, but you don’t have the man boobs to pull that look off.”

“Good one, Bill. Listen, I’m proud of you, buddy. And rules are rules. ‘Rule Number Two: If either man can replace the other with a hot babe in a bikini before lines are cast off, then the first man gets the sailboat and the loser is shit out of luck.’ You won, hands down. And it’s not like I haven’t pulled that on you a time or three. So tell me about the chick.”

“Hallie’s not a chick, Sky.”

“They’re all chicks until proven otherwise.”

Philip lay across his unmade bed with his arm thrown across his forehead and a stupid grin on his face. “She’s tall, athletic body, long blond hair, and these blue eyes that look at you like you’re her hero.”

Sky sighed. “Aw, I love it when they do that. Jeez, I can’t believe I’m living vicariously through Bill Gates and his BCGs on a Saturday night. What does she do?”

“She’s a student.”

“Oh, my God, you’re not robbing the cradle are you? Has she reached the age of consent? Did you give her your real name?”

“She’s twenty-four, smart ass. Goes to UNF and she’s smart. Very smart. We talked about real stuff. Not like most of the women we meet. You know, the ones who blabber on with all their friggin’ small talk? She even knows a lot about the Navy.”

“Maybe she’s prior service.”

“Hallie? In the military? No way. She knows a lot because she’s majoring in television broadcast. I mean, she knew details, like, about the
Cole
bombing. She understands the complexity of Rules of Engagement.”

“Let me get this straight. You stood on the beach with a hot chick at sunset and instead of kissing her, you discussed Rules of Engagement? Shit, man, the only rules of engagement you should have been thinking about were the ones that might engage her in your bed. You could have had her screaming, ‘You may fire when ready, Gridley!’ What am I going to do with you, Bill? For an engineer you really are a dumb ass.”

“No, I am the man with a sailboat and a smokin’ hot first  mate in a bikini. That’s what I am. And you are the loser who is shit out of luck tomorrow.”

“Two points for Bill Gates!” Sky called out to no one in particular. “Okay, looks like you won this round, buddy. You want to go out for a beer later this week—if you’re not, like,
married
by then? We could meet halfway.”

“If I don’t have a date. Because, as Rule Number One states: ‘An evening spent with a hot chick trumps a beer with a wingman every time.’ See ya.”

Philip thumbed off his phone and tossed it on the bed. He felt better about the fiasco on the beach after talking with Sky. Surely he’d done the right thing by not trying to kiss Hallie—at least tonight. “Better safe than sorry” had always been his mantra. Probably why he didn’t get girls the way Sky did. But charming women was not Philip’s strength—especially beautiful, self-assured women like Hallie. And there was more to her than just being hot. How many young American women could quote the bombing of the USS
Cole
chapter and verse?

He lay awake thinking about what his mom had told him for years, “Just be yourself, Philip. Be your sweet, wonderful self.” She didn’t get it that guys didn’t want to be thought of as sweet or wonderful. They wanted to be
men
. But when he watched his buddies in action, he realized his mom might be right, because apparently he hadn’t acquired the asshole gene.

“Don’t worry, Philip,” she’d say. “When it’s time to settle down, the smart women will be looking for a man like you. The kind they can count on. And you’ll know when she’s The One. You’ll just know.”

He would spend the entire night lying on his back, hands clasped behind his head, staring at nothing, thinking about Hallie, and figuring out how to keep from fucking this up.

Chapter 2

Rashid clicked send and closed his laptop. He needed to eat before the restaurant closed. Forking up the pancit with one hand, he used the other to dip fried lumpia into the sweet sauce. He glanced around the Filipino Café as he ate his fried rice noodles and spring rolls, and watched the two other customers peruse the shelves of Filipino groceries for sale. The thing he missed the most about Rosie was the food. God, that woman could cook.

He’d been hanging out here in his free time since he’d lost her. The mall had Internet access and the food was to die for. A knowing smile curved his mouth. Never really thought about that saying before. The flavors brought back good memories of Rosie. He took out a photograph that had been taken right before they were married. His family hadn’t approved of her because she was Filipino. He had told them to go to hell. They loved each other and that was all there was to it. Rashid reminded himself he was doing this for her. He tucked Rosie’s photo back into his wallet and looked around his new favorite place, which was perfect for his needs.

Who would suspect a terrorist to hang out in a Filipino restaurant? Filipinos were notoriously good, decent, peaceful, God-fearing people. And security around here seemed to be nonexistent. Anchorage Mall was a ghost town these days. Ever since the upscale super-mall had been built across town, this one had become a dead zone. The few remaining stores all displayed similar signs: “Big Sale! 75% Off” and “Everything Must Go.” Pretty soon they would be giving the shit away. What were they going to do with this hulking mess when every single store had shut its doors?

Not his problem.

While he ate, he watched people sporadically walk by—hopeful sales clerks and retirees getting their exercise. Earlier he’d seen a few young couples with strollers headed to the indoor playground. It was a good place to take kids on a hot June evening. At least the air conditioning in this dump worked. That was a plus.

He and Rosie had planned to have kids someday. Hell, they had had all kinds of plans for their future, plans that weren’t going to happen. His thoughts were interrupted by a couple of teenaged slackers walking by with jeans hanging half off their asses, dragging on the floor, and underwear hanging out. No way would his kids have dressed like that. Where did these losers come from?

A slow smile spread across his face, knowing he was probably the only person here with a direct line to al-Qaeda. Scratch probably. There couldn’t be a hundred people in this entire mall tonight. No competition. How about the city of Jacksonville? Or the state of Florida? He knew there were plenty of sleeper cells in the U.S. and plenty of individual moles like himself, but he was still one of the select few. And one with some really good information.

The mall had provided him with a contact for the ultimate revenge. It had been a merchant at one of the gold kiosks who connected him with his sadiqs—his new buddies—in the Middle East. Ibrahim was the only person who had offered him kindness and understanding after he lost Rosie. He had tried to convince Rashid of the healing power of Islam and initially it did sound promising. But when the merchant asked about his allegiance to the U.S. government and the Navy in particular, Rashid’s eyes had lit up. That’s when he knew the partnership could be beneficial to both parties.

At first al-Qaeda had been hesitant to trust him because he refused to wholeheartedly embrace “the one true faith.” They questioned if he was some kind of double agent who might expose their terror cells in the United States, but once they discovered what he could provide, they had accepted him into their network with open arms.

Rashid was surprised at how little they understood U.S. Navy ships’ movements and he was shocked by their complete ignorance of an aircraft carrier’s vulnerabilities. Stupid Arabs. Didn’t they know a nuclear carrier was essentially a fuel and ammo dump? That with the right kind of explosion as a trigger, the three-and-a-half million gallons of jet fuel plus the bombs, missiles, and bullets on board would make for quite a night of fireworks?

Al-Qaeda told him they would provide a fishing boat laden with explosives and just enough devout “fishermen” willing to die when their boat collided with the ship. Not that one boat could do much damage to something as large as an aircraft carrier. But between the jet fuel and the ordnance, all the tangos needed to do was provide a spark.

He was stunned that his sadiqs did not seem concerned about the deadly aftermath two nuclear reactors could cause. They were too overjoyed about the possibility of taking so many American military lives at one time. By the time the ship deployed, there would be five thousand souls on board. More than had died on 9/11.

And it was all in Rashid’s hands.

He’d been up front with them. He wasn’t going to do that Muslim shit. Well, not in so many words. He’d be respectful and let them think he cared about their cause. But deep down he didn’t give a rat’s ass about western influence infiltrating and corrupting the Middle East or a Palestinian homeland or even oil for that matter. Mostly he just wanted to fuck over the U.S. Navy. And if the bad guys got involved, his actions would be that much sweeter.

But he wasn’t giving up beer—or pork for that matter. Rashid wolfed down the sinigang na baboy, drained his Budweiser, and paid his bill. Then he headed home to his quarters aboard the USS
Blanchard
.