Captive Of Fate

He stood, a hawk ready to make the kill, and she sensed the anger which up until now had been hidden. She took two steps back, stunned by his implacable determination. His hand shot out quickly, and she gasped as his fingers closed in a viselike grip around her upper arm. He guided her to the door, throwing it open and placing her outside it.

“You stay right there, Miss McIntire. I will be back in exactly five minutes, and then we’ll leave for San Dolega,” he snarled under his breath. “You want to play tough? We’ll play it your way.”

She stood there trembling, huddled against the hut, trying to keep out of the rain. She wasn’t quite sure what was going to happen next, but she tried to convince herself that she could handle it. She closed her eyes, trying to take a steadying breath. She would never understand the military or the minds that ran it! Damn them all!

In exactly five minutes, Matt Breckenridge drove up in a military jeep. It had no protective covering over the top of it to keep the rain out. He was dressed in his poncho, his cap drawn down over his eyes so that she could not see his expression. Perhaps that was a blessing. In the rear was a huge pack with a small shovel attached to the back of it.

“Get in,” he ordered tersely.

She slid onto the wet, slippery seat, gripping the metal siding as he yanked the jeep into gear. The vehicle slewed through the mud as he ground through a series of loud, noisy gears. The base camp disappeared behind them and was replaced with a rutted excuse for a single-lane road which wound beneath the tall tops of the mahogany forest that dominated the landscape. Rain slashed unrelentingly against her face, and she held up her hands to protect her eyes, compressing her lips in anger over his inconsiderate behavior.

It was a nightmarish ride. She had no idea how long they had driven; she was only aware of the continual bumping and jolting of the jeep as it roared through three inches of mud and the hardened ruts that had been created during the dry season. Her hips and thighs were bruised black and blue, and her back ached from the terrific strain placed upon it as the jeep leaped out of one rut and landed heavily in another. Fog swirled chokingly around them, and Alanna was grimly determined not to cry out. Not even once. She knew it would give him a measure of satisfaction. But he was going to get not one ounce of it from her.

Finally, they halted at the end of the road. Alanna’s eyes widened as she saw at least two hundred crates of supplies stacked up before them and military and civilian men carrying them on their backs up a narrow mountain trail that seemed to disappear into the fog. Matt turned the key off, jammed it in his trouser pocket, and got out.

“All right, Miss McIntire, I suggest you roust yourself out of the jeep and hit the deck. We’ve got some walking to do.”

Alanna starred stupidly at the line of porters slowly struggling up the steep grade and then swung her gaze to Matt, who was shrugging into the pack. “But,” she stammered lamely, “you didn’t say we had to walk.”

“You didn’t bother to ask before setting your plan into motion. I believe it was you who stressed the orders meant ‘right now,’” he growled. “If you are really interested in reaching San Dolega, you have to walk, because the orders did not specify that I had to carry you. At your pleasure, Miss McIntire, the road to San Dolega,” he added with a tight smile of triumph. “Come on, we’ve only got five miles and three thousand feet to go.” He studied the thinning fog. “And maybe, if we’re lucky, this fog will keep clearing as we get closer to the village.”

She felt tears gathering in her eyes, a wave of humiliation sweeping across her. Why did she back herself into a corner with him every time? Five miles in her leather shoes? Alanna sighed, taking a grip on her briefcase, and walked carefully around the jeep. Without even a backward glance, he started off toward the mountain trail, and she silently followed, pushing to keep up with his long, fluid strides.

The jungle was forbidding, closing in on all sides as they walked beneath its canopy. Alanna heard him calling out to the porters, giving them words of encouragement as first he and then she passed them at a faster pace. She couldn’t imagine carrying a thirty-pound crate on her shoulders for five miles in any circumstances. At one point, she caught up with him. Or did he slow down for her? She was gasping for air and vaguely remembered that the village was seventy-five hundred feet above sea level. Oxygen became sparse at that altitude. Her throat felt on fire, and she gulped down more air.

“Why are you carrying that pack?” she asked.

“Because it’s a mobile home. It has everything I need to survive out here for seven days.”

She eyed the canteen on the web belt around his waist. “Please,” she whispered, “I need a drink of water.”

“Did you bring any?” he asked coolly, catching her startled look.

“Why—of course not. I thought…I thought you would share.”

“Did you bother to inform me of your actions before you initiated them?” he demanded, slowing.

“I didn’t have to!” she defended hotly, her voice becoming hoarse.

“It’s called chain of command, lady. Something political people seem to ignore constantly. You reduce everything to trading so-called favors when, in essence, you’re blackmailing.”

“Damn jarhead,” she hissed, jerking to a stop.

He turned, grinning. “Now where did you pick up that kind of language? I didn’t think civilians knew any of the technical terms for a Marine.”

“Technical term?” Alanna gasped. “That’s an outright insult.”

“If you had called me an Army dogface, then I might have gotten angry,” he returned blandly. He reached down in his web belt, loosening the canteen and slowly unscrewing the cap before handing it to her. “Only drink a little,” he warned. “At this altitude and with another four miles to go, you don’t want it sloshing around in your stomach.”

Her mouth felt as if it were full of cotton balls, and she eagerly reached for the canteen, putting it to her lips and swallowing a huge gulp. With a cry, she spit it out. “This is horrible,” she wailed.

He gave her an impatient look. “Halizone has been put in it for your protection. If those tablets weren’t dropped in there, you’d probably get dysentery. Now take a swallow and let’s get going. And don’t waste any more of my water.”

She grudgingly took a small sip, wrinkling her nose in utter distaste over the foul-tasting water. Matt, however, seemed hardly to notice the taste when he took a drink of it himself. Turning, he began to walk, only this time at an obviously slower pace for her benefit. Alanna cast a mournful look down at her pants. They were muddied up to her knees. Her feet were cold, and her toes felt numb as she forced herself to keep pace beside him. The jungle looked forbidding and threatening right now, and she felt anything but brave. In a way, she was thankful for his presence, even if it was an irritating one.

“What school did you graduate from?” he asked conversationally.

Alanna peered up at him, taken off guard by his friendly tone. For a moment she considered ignoring him but decided it was an unwise move. She might need to drink more water, and she wouldn’t put it past him to refuse her if he felt so inclined. “Radcliffe.”

“Did you major in political science?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“A logical guess.”

“I suppose I look like all those other politicos up there on the Hill. We all have black, beady, weasel eyes and are out to lie to the public and grovel for our power positions,” she muttered.

He laughed. It was a full, resonant laugh that reverberated within the small cleared area of the jungle, and Alanna found herself warming to it.

“Hardly, lady. You’re a sight for sore eyes under any circumstances, believe me. No, your problem is that you try to replace your intuition with rationalization and end up making the wrong decision. Such as this fiasco we’re on now.”

Alanna smirked. “Thanks for reminding me. But I still value my logic.”

“Women were made to feel out situations,” he commented seriously.

She laughed bitterly. “It goes without saying that you’re a typical male chauvinist.”

“No, you didn’t hear what I said. Women think differently than men. For instance”—he pointed toward the jungle wall to their right—“most men would only see that as a barrier of trees and vines and a path in front of them. But a woman would take in much more—the odors, the sounds, the colors—utilizing all of her five senses to a greater degree than her male counterpart.” He allowed a small grin, watching her closely. “I’m saying that you’re cheating yourself by trying to rule your five senses with logic.”

Alanna mulled it over. What he said did make sense. “How did you stumble onto this little gem of wisdom?”

“I found out the hard way,” he offered. “Two years in a jungle getting hunted by the enemy and you become more aware of the five senses. You learn to depend on your intuition. Most men won’t do that unless they’re under severe stress. And even then, they may not. I’ve watched women react to other less dangerous circumstances and get a better overall impression of the situation. Men tend to take things at face value. The black and white of it. I think most women see through that and are aware of the shades of gray in life.”

“And so you ‘stretched’ your intuitive abilities?”

“It’s saved my life and the lives of others many times. You bet I did.”

Alanna remembered Tim Thornton abruptly, wondering for an instant if the senator was wrong. She quickly dismissed that thought, unable to believe that the senator could feel so strongly about Colonel Breckenridge without due cause.

“So, who canned your five senses and forced you to make all your decisions on the basis of logic?” he asked.

She was beginning to breathe hard again, despite the fact he was slowing down the pace. The trail twisted steeply, with roots and vines now crisscrossing the path. Her heart was pounding in her ears, and she felt a tension headache coming on. How far had they gone? How far was it to the village? The question caught her completely off guard, and she blurted out the answer without stopping first to analyze it. “The man I used to live with, Paul Ramsey. He is a political analyst for a powerful lobby in Washington. I’m afraid we were mismatched from the outset.”

Matt stopped, pulling out the canteen and offering it to her as they rested at a small crest. His face had a sheen of sweat on it, but his eyes were hawklike in intensity, missing nothing. “A computer for a mind and no emotions?” he inquired.

Alanna gratefully drank the water down, the halizone taste seeming less potent this time around. She handed the canteen back to him. “Yes. You sure you aren’t reading my mind?”

He lifted the canteen to his mouth, taking a small swallow and then replacing the cap and snapping it back into the belt. “No. It just comes from experience,” he assured her.