Under Fire: The Admiral (2 page)

“You filled out forms for
the company.”
Forms that listed his age as
fourteen years her junior.
“Each person
who flies with us has an emergency pack made specifically for them.
You know, in case of
emergencies.
”

“
Oooh
. Yeah, I remember,” he said,
examining the contents. “Never had any reason to examine these
packages before.”

“Uh, Doc?” His knees were
spread and she could see
his
package quite clearly through the light fabric of
his pants.

“Yeah?”

“Ya might want to pull your shirt down so I .
. .” She flipped her hand in the general direction of his crotch
but kept her eyes high. “To cover . . .”

He looked down. Then back. He raised and
lowered a shoulder and gave her a smile that had doubtless charmed
every female he’d ever met. “Sorry.” He slowly pulled his shirt
around to cover his crotch. “Better?”

She rolled her eyes and presented her
shoulder. “You going to fix me or not? We need to get moving.”

“Sure. Let me get an idea of what’s in
here.”

Walsh bent his head and
went back to the bag, examining morphine ampoules, meds, a
transfusion kit, and a basic surgical instrument kit, emblazoned
with
sterile
in
white block letters across the green pouches.

“Good stuff,” he said, using the antiseptic
hand wash. “Let’s see that.” He clasped her arm and pushed up the
sleeve of her polo, exposing the now stinging cut.

“There are latex gloves in there.”

“Don’t need them unless you want me to put
them on.” He looked at her, waiting patiently for the answer.

“No,” she said, and he went to work gently
probing the area. She was glad he didn’t want to dig out the
gloves. The faster they did this the better.

“Any sharp pain when I do this?” He pressed
over the length of the slash.

“Nope.”

“Good. Nothing stuck in there, and it’s not
deep enough for stitches. Needs to be cleaned. The Pacific did a
pretty good job but I want to be sure.”

She nodded and looked. It was more scrape
than cut and looked worse than it felt. Walsh freed an adhesive
bandage patch from its sterile wrap, gave it to her and twisted the
cap off a plastic bottle marked
antiseptic
.

“Can’t you use the hand wash stuff?” She
didn’t want them using supplies unnecessarily.

“I went to medical school to learn about
stuff
.” He removed the cap. “I even have a piece of paper
that says
doctor of medicine
,” he said, heavy on the doctor
of medicine. “I know what I’m doing.”

Okay, smart-ass.

“This is going to sting like a
son-of-a-bitch,” he said.

There was an interesting bedside manner. “You
say that to all your patients?” He ignored her. She took a deep
breath and let it go as the cool liquid hit her skin.

“That’s it?” she said, looking at her arm.
“What happened to the hurt part?”

“Yep, tough lady, that’s it.” He sat back on
his heels, palms resting on his thighs, hitting her with the same
lopsided grin he had when she first saw him in Esmeralda three days
ago.
Had it only been three days?
She’d stepped out of the
plane and seen him
casually leaning against the
medical mission truck, wearing
an incredibly old, faded and
holey Judas Priest T-shirt and ratty jeans with almost as much
ventilation as the shirt. She thought he was an expat hired to
unload the plane. As she walked to him, he removed his
mirrored sunglasses
and checked her out as seriously
as she was checking him out. He thrust out a large hand in greeting
and stuck a rusty nail in her fantasy balloon by saying, “I’m Dr.
Ben Walsh.”

Having a relationship with
a client was out of the question on a professional level and was a
personal thumbs-down.
The cougar thing didn’t bother her.
She was perceived as years younger. She’d lucked out and gotten the
best,
hell, the only thing
, her parents had to offer. Their
good genes and looks. HHHer personal bar was set firmly at seven
years younger.

She eyed the antiseptic container. “You were
messing with me. That stuff doesn’t really hurt.”

“Oh, it does,” he said, putting the cap back
on the container. “If you’d been the one pouring it on my cut I’d
still be whining like a little sissy. Gimme the patch.”

She handed it over and watched as he covered
the area, gently smoothing the square, molding it to her skin. His
fingers slid under the sleeve to her shoulder.

“Sore?”

“Hmm.” She nodded.

“Rotate the shoulder.”

She did. His fingers probed. His eyes stayed
on her faceis eyes wereH

.HHHissssasa . This was a bedside manner she
could get used to. She kept up the movement. He kept up the
probing. Having a relationship
with a client and
a much younger man was out of the question, but she had nothing
against enjoying this. And the scenery. He really was a
good-looking man.

“Oh.”

Walsh stopped. “I hurt you?”

“No.” She remembered he’d
been bleeding and touched a finger to a red welt inside his
hairline.
He winced. The doc
was
a whiner. “In the
plane, it was bleeding.” He shoved her hand aside and gingerly
explored the knot.

“Look.” He dipped his head. “Tell me what’s
there.”

“Are you sure you want to trust the person
without a medical diploma?” She couldn’t resist. He squinted up at
her, frowning. Gemma carefully separated his thick hair. “A lump
the size of a quarter, half a centimeter high, with a tiny cut,
like a puncture, next to that scar. No blood now. Want me to put
the stingy stuff on it?”

“Yeah. Can we use your stingy stuff or do I
need to get mine out?”

“Use mine. There’s a signal mirror in here if
you want to see it yourself,” she said, going for her pack.

“I believe you.”

His dark eyes watched as she dripped
antiseptic on a two-by-two gauze.

“Okay?” She waited for a nod of approval then
covered the lump, pressing.

“Ow.” He moved her hand away. “Thanks.” The
word didn’t carry a heartfelt tone. “I can do it now.”

He dabbed it, wincing. “We both need to take
some pain meds.” He dropped the gauze and held up a plastic pill
container, a long generic name on the plain label. “It’s ibuprofen,
can you take these?” She nodded. He handed her two and shook out
two more for himself. “When we come down off the adrenaline rush
we’re going to feel every bump and our muscles will be screaming.
There’s stronger stuff in here. No need to take them unless
these”—he shook the container, rattling the pills—“don’t work.”

Gemma nodded and dry-swallowed the oblong
pills. She stood and left Walsh to gather the litter from the
jungle emergency room. She kicked and examined downed palm fronds,
picking two that were free of critters. “Doc, don’t go digging
through everything. Look, but don’t take things out and put them on
the ground. Don’t want to pick up any travelers.”

“Geesus. Do you always order people around
like this?”

She paused and considered the question. “Yes.
I do.” She headed for the beach.

“Where are you going?” he called.

“Don’t worry.” She turned and walked
backward. “I’m not going to leave you. I’m covering our tracks.”
She waived the fronds. “Stay put.”

Gemma swept over their footprints until they
were nothing more than unidentifiable lumps in the sand. She stood
at the edge of the jungle surveying her work. Even if the men from
the trawler came ashore to search, it would be okay.

She returned to find Walsh slathering himself
with bug repellant, items from his pack spread out on the ground.
He held the green repellant container at arm’s length. “Hope this
crap works. The mosquitoes here are big enough to fuck a duck.”

Gemma snorted and dropped to her knees,
snatching articles up and examining each for things that
moved
.
“I told you not to put anything on the ground.”

“There aren’t any bugs on them.”

“No bugs?” Gemma flicked the centipede-like
thing off a food packet.

“Come on,” he yelled, brushing the thing off
his shirt. “Those things can bite.”

“Eggzackerly.” She dug her repellant out of
the pack, put a quarter-size dollop in her palm and rubbed her
hands together. “Don’t use so much. A little goes a long way.”
And we don’t know how long we’ll be out here.

“Do I need to rub down my pack?” he asked.
“You know, to keep the bugs off.”

“Packs are treated with this,” she said,
ignoring his sarcasm, and smeared the oily substance over her skin,
hair, and clothes. “
Things
may fall on it but they’ll jump
right off. Now, get your stuff back in the pack. Need to move from
this location. We’ve already spent too much time here.”

Walsh said nothing as he returned all the
items, after carefully checking them, inside his pack.

“We’ll stay on the edge of the jungle off the
beach. No tracks.”

Walsh slipped his arms through the straps and
bounced, adjusting the pack. She did the same and they headed off.
She headed north. He headed south.

Gemma halted. “Wrong way, Doc.”

He turned and gave her a quizzical look.
“That’s south,” he said, jerking his head in the direction he’d
been going.

“I know,” Gemma said. “We’re going
north.”

“Nooo.” He shook his head. “North is the
direction the guys with the guns are.
We
are going
south.”

“Nooo.” She mimicked his tone. “
You
may be going south but
I’m
going north. The river leading to
several villages
and help
is a day, maybe two north of here.
South is nothing for five days.” She took a couple of steps and
Walsh grabbed her pack, damn near yanking her off her feet.

“
We
are going south,” he said. She
rounded on him, ready to chew him up and spit him out but stopped.
Losing her temper was not the way to go.

He yanked the pack’s shoulder strap. “What
makes you think you’re the one in charge here?”

Bubba pushed too far. Gemma slammed her
forearm against his, breaking his grip on her pack, then jammed the
heel of her hand into the middle of his chest hard enough to
stagger him. Showing him who was boss was apparently the only way
to go. She closed the space between them and gave his chest a hard
poke. “You’re the client. I’m the company pilot, at your beck and
call
until
. . . those bullets hit the plane. Here, now,”
she said and glanced around at their surroundings, “it’s different
and you need to be real clear on this.
I am in charge here
.
You
doctor.” She poked him again. “
Remember? You
go
medical school,
you
trained to make life-and-death decisions
in a hospital.” She smacked the bandage on her arm. “
You
fix
boo-boos.” She put her hand to her chest. “
Me
pilot.” She
held her arms out like the wings of a plane. “
Me
go survival
school.
Me
trained to make life-and-death decisions in
places like this.
Me
”—she poked her chest—“know how to save
your”—she poked again—“ass.”

The doc said nothing and she took advantage
of his silence.

“I’m a real goal-oriented type of person who
. . .” His lips were twitching. “My number-one goal here is to stay
alive.” She stepped closer and he stepped back. “Why? I like
breathing. My second goal is to keep
you
breathing.” She
advanced a step and he took one back. “If I don’t meet my first
goal, which I’m very interested in, I automatically won’t be
meeting my second goal and presumably a goal you are interested
in.” Walsh started to say something but she held up a hand. “No
comments now. I’ll be taking questions later.” She took in a breath
to rein in her escalating temper. “In my goal-oriented life I’ve
learned the reason many goals aren’t reached is because there’s a
failure to make secondary goals. My secondary goal is to get us to
safety by going
north
, therefore accomplishing my primary
goal.” She paused. “Now here’s where we come up against a problem.
If you want to go
south
that won’t make me happy, but I
can’t stop you. Before you take off you will write a note saying
you knew the risks of heading south
by yourself
. Sort of
like what you doctors do when a patient signs themselves out of the
hospital against medical advice, AMA. Only here it’s APA. Against
pilot advice.” She sucked in a breath and blew it out. “You, sir,
under no circumstances will deter me from meeting my primary goal.
Do. You. Understand?”

“I have permission to speak now?” Walsh
said.

“Go for it.” She flipped a hand in a
circle.

His lips twitched again. “You look pretty
silly doing that pilot-survival-woman thing.”

She gave him a slow up-and-down look. Maybe
the thing
was a little over the top. Ah, hell. There was no
maybe
, it was over the top. “Come. Stay. Go south. I can’t
force you to stay with me. I’m not risking my life going south.”
She headed off. It was a good thirty seconds before she heard him
behind her. She didn’t bother to suppress her smile. It worked. The
good doctor didn’t like being told what to do but he could be
manipulated.

“Okay. Okay. North,” he grumbled, catching up
and passing her. She’d give him the lead. It would make him happy,
keep his
testosterone
balance under
control, and his crashing through the undergrowth would chase the
creepy crawly things out of her way.

In fifteen minutes their faces were red and
they were panting and gasping like they’d just had sex. Walsh’s
hair, which she noted was longer than hers, was plastered to his
skull. Their clothes were as wet and clinging as when they’d
stumbled from the Pacific. Every ten steps she paused, listening
for the boat around Walsh’s crashing and the increasingly annoying
zzzeeeing from angry clouds of insects trying to penetrate the
nuclear-strength bug protection.