Down Range

“That’s true, but when I accidentally got pregnant, I knew I’d want to have the baby,” she muttered defiantly.

“So you would… Would you have kept the baby?”

“In a heartbeat, Jake.” Morgan stared at him. “And if I hadn’t miscarried, that baby would be mine, not yours. You weren’t ready to settle down. You didn’t want to marry me or be responsible for what we created.”

Mouth thinning, Jake tried to absorb her icy anger. “You’re right. I wasn’t ready to settle down.” He would now, but it was far too late.

“Well, things got handled differently,” Morgan said, her voice quavering. “We were both set free to pursue our military careers.”

“Damn,” he whispered, holding her gaze, “I wish…I wish I could go back and change what I did to you. You didn’t deserve it, Morgan.”

She grew quiet. Morgan held on to an even bigger secret. One that Jake would never, ever know about. When they’d had a brief affair two years ago, fate had intervened once again, even with protection. This time, she’d left her team and gone stateside. Emma Boland had been born with black hair and gray eyes, the spitting image of her father. Morgan didn’t dare tell Jake since he might prove twice that he wasn’t ready to be with her. Protectively, she placed her hand across her abdomen. “Don’t try. You cut and run when things get serious relationship-wise.”

“I don’t have a good track record with you, Morgan.” Feeling sad, Jake added, “That was then. This is now.”

Shaking her head, Morgan opened the door and climbed out of the car. “I’ll see you at 0600, Jake. I’m done going over the past with you. Thanks for the apology.” She slammed the door shut and walked off.

Sitting alone in the car, Jake wrestled with so many damned emotions. His SEAL father had died in combat that very evening when Morgan needed him the most. Jake was overwhelmed with paperwork because he was the executor of his father’s will. He’d been at the personnel office wrestling with so many decisions, funeral arrangements and his own grief; he couldn’t handle Morgan’s plea to come to the hospital, too. It wasn’t an excuse. Jake knew he’d been too young, made some bad decisions on that night. If he’d had it to do all over again, he’d have gone to see Morgan, regardless.

As he rubbed his jaw, the prickle of beard against his calloused fingers, his conscience ate at him. In the SEAL community, family, wife and children were just as important as the operators out in the field to the command structure.

SEAL ethos set the family as much of a priority as they did the men going downrange. Studying the light and dark shadows across the parking lot, Jake realized it had been SEAL culture that finally had brought him back into the fold. Made it possible for him to stop running away from relationships. He’d met Amanda and fallen in love with her at twenty-three years old. He’d spent six months in Afghanistan and arrived home just in time to be there for the birth of his son, Joshua.

Jake shut his eyes, remembering the loss of his wife and baby two weeks later to a car accident. He couldn’t share his past with Morgan. It wouldn’t be right under the circumstances. He understood as never before what it was like to lose his child. Just as she’d felt the devastating loss with the miscarriage that he’d run away from. What a mess. All of it his own doing.

As he climbed out of the car, Jake resolved to say no more. He’d done what he could to clear the decks between them. He felt deeply, the past overlaying the present. This was an unresolved situation and he was still trapped within it. God help him, he wanted Morgan. Needed her as never before. But after their long history, he knew she’d never come back to him again.

Jake wasn’t prepared next morning to see Morgan in SEAL gear as he entered Operations. She was in desert cammies, the SIG pistol riding low on her right thigh in a drop holster, a SOG SEAL knife in a sheath in the same position on her left thigh, and wearing dark leather Merrell hiking boots. She looked like a SEAL from a distance. Earlier, he’d found out Morgan had checked out of the BOQ and gotten a separate ride over to Operations.

Her gear sat near the door as she waited to be called out to the C-5 now parked in the revetment area. Setting his gear down next to hers, Jake wore desert cammies, as well. Although dressed similarly, every SEAL liked his gear in certain places. Jake preferred his knife on his left side of his waist.

Still torn up over last night’s conversation, Jake removed his utility cap and walked over to her. Worse, he’d made Morgan cry, and she’d never cried in front of him before. His heart felt like so much pulp, the ache deep and constant.

“How are you doing?” he asked quietly, catching Morgan’s sideward glance. Her profile was beautiful. She was a strong, confident woman.

“I’m fine, Jake. Don’t worry. I’ll hold up my end of this op whether you believe I can or not.”

Okay, the old, defensive Morgan was back. Her eyes were clear, but he could still see remnants of sorrow deep within them. Grief he’d caused. Nodding, he gestured to a sheath on top of her third-line gear, a large desert-camouflaged rucksack with about sixty-five pounds of gear contained in it.

“That’s your AW Magnum?” It was one of the sniper rifles chosen by SEALs to use on certain types of ops. The rifle was covered with a tan nylon fabric sleeve to protect it from weather, dirt and dust.

“Yes.” Still raw, Morgan didn’t want to talk to Jake. She’d barely slept, reliving their conversation all over again. Most humiliating of all, she’d cried in front of him. She wished with all her heart he’d apologized because he cared about her, not because they had to trust each other for this assignment. She pursed her lips, wishing the C-5 would hurry up and allow passengers to load. Then she could get away from him, grab some desperately needed sleep and get her act together.

“You look tired,” he observed, remaining at her side.

“I didn’t sleep much.”

“I didn’t, either.” Jake felt her tension. “Plenty of room on this flight to catch some shut-eye. It will be empty except for the crew of doctors and nurses going over to Bagram to pick up another group of soldiers who are wounded.”

“I hope those guys all make it,” Morgan whispered, thinking of them and their families.

“The U.S. has the best-trained medical teams on the planet,” he told her, resting his hands on the H-gear pockets around his waist. “Those grunts and soldiers have the best chance in the world to survive.”

“When we get on board, I’m finding a hole to bunk into and sleep,” she said. As she searched Jake’s face, Morgan saw the darkness beneath his eyes. He was growing a beard, which was common among the black-ops groups. Without a beard, the men stood out like sore thumbs to the Taliban and al Qaeda.

“Me, too. We have to get rested.”

Jake didn’t want to leave her side. He sensed Morgan’s feelings; he always had whether she shared them with him or not. SEAL sixth sense, he supposed. Or…his heart whispered, it was something more. Something beautiful and profound. And he instantly suppressed those feelings. He’d loved twice in his life, and both times, it had turned into a life-numbing tragedy.

Turning away, Jake ambled over to his equipment sitting on the polished white floor. No, he couldn’t risk his heart a third time. He simply didn’t have the strength to reach out and try to love again. The potential losses were just too great. And no one knew better than he, there was no promise of happily ever after….

He hefted his ruck, swung it easily across his broad shoulders and then belted it up. An M-4 rifle, barrel downward for safety reasons and safed, chamber empty, was strapped on the outside of it.

He watched as Morgan walked over to her gear, not at all surprised she could lift a sixty-five-pound ruck and make it look light as a feather. Yesterday, as she’d walked into the Pacific Ocean in her purple bathing suit, he’d seen just how fit she really was. Maybe a little too thin, he supposed, but she was all firm muscle, not an ounce of fat. He’d winced when he’d seen those recent pink scars on the back of her left thigh.

Jake was sure those were shrapnel wounds she’d received at that village three months earlier. He wanted to touch them, kiss each of them and remove the pain and memory of how she’d received them. Jake knew he could heal Morgan with his touch, his voice and his hands, if she’d give him a chance. He could be tender toward her. She brought out the best in him, made him feel like a man. Leaning down, he grabbed his eighty-pound weapons bag, slipping it into his right hand. An airman opened the glass doors for them, gesturing for them to go to the parked C-5.

The sunlight was bright, the sky a pale blue. A few clouds were in the distance as Jake walked toward the ramp at the rear of the C-5. A number of nurses, doctors and medics were boarding the largest transport aircraft in the U.S. military. Following Morgan, who walked with an incredible confidence, he compared her to the other women ahead of them.

Morgan stood out. Her red hair was caught up in a ponytail, the strands moving between her shoulder blades. There was just something so damned different about Morgan compared to any other woman Jake had ever known. There was no question, she was a combat warrior. It was in her stride, the way she squared her shoulders, her chin tilted slightly up. Despite the bulky cammies, she didn’t look like a man. Not with the sway of those hips of hers and her natural grace.

Once on board, they stowed their gear in a storage locker below the cockpit area of the C-5. The rest of the crew had already boarded. Jake stood near Morgan. Lights went on overhead, revealing three tiers of litters along both sides of the fuselage. Jake wondered what she was thinking as she watched the medical teams prepare to take on newly wounded men once they arrived at Bagram.

“Morgan,” he said quietly, “let’s crash. We need all the sleep we can get.”

Barely turning her head, she absorbed Jake’s calm, steadying presence. His low voice soothed that anguish they’d shared last night. All Morgan wanted to do was turn around, throw her arms around his solid, powerful shoulders and seek solace against him. It wasn’t protection she had ever sought from him. Jake knew how to hold her.

“Yes,” she managed, her voice husky and sounding far away to her. “We’re going downrange….”

Chapter Six

Morgan tried to tame her excitement as the Night Stalker pilots landed the MH-47 helicopter at the Afghan village of Margha. It was barely dawn, and out the window, she spotted thin Reza in his wool cap, baggy pants, vest and coat, waiting near the few mud houses still left standing. Her heart broke for the Afghan. This had been his home. The place he lost his wife and five children to Khogani’s raid. It had to be painful for him to stand where his life had once been.

Within minutes, the helo was down, kicking up clouds of dust, grit and small rocks into the air as they rapidly disembarked with their weapons and gear. Once they cleared the helo, Jake gave the pilot the okay to take off via the radio. The helo powered up, the thunder of the powerful engines heard for miles across the long, fertile valley that was just awakening for the day.

“Reza!” Morgan shouted, hauling her gear to where the Afghan stood. Reza was five foot six, lean, his skin tobacco-brown from thirty-five years spent in these rugged mountains. The Afghan’s face was deeply etched, smile lines deepening around his eyes and mouth as he stepped forward.

“As-Salāmu ’alayki, Wajiha,” he said, bowing to Morgan as she dropped her gear. The ancient greeting meant “Peace be upon you.” He formally hugged her and then chastely kissed each of her cheeks. Long ago, he’d given her the name of Wajiha, which meant “beautiful one” in Pashto.

His greeting was a very warm, loving welcome bestowed upon family members only. Morgan had been injured trying to save his family. A man was never supposed to hug a woman in Islamic culture, but Reza felt strongly she should know how grateful he was for her willingly putting her life on the line to try to save his youngest child from Khogani’s slaughter.

“Wa ’alaykumu s-salāmu wa rahmatu l-lāhi wa barakātuh, Reza.” Morgan returned the ancient greeting in Pashto. It meant “May peace, mercy and blessing of God be upon you.” She hugged him and placed a kiss on each of his bearded cheeks. And then she grinned, threw her arms around him and squeezed the hell out of the wiry Afghan. He pounded her happily on the back of her Kevlar vest, enthusiastically welcoming her.

Jake walked over, watching the warmth between them. He smiled, glad to see Morgan happy. Her face, even in dawn light, was suffused a pink color. It was her eyes, wide with affection for the Afghan guide, that touched him the most. Jake dropped his gear and Reza released Morgan.

“As-Salāmu ’alayka, Lieutenant Ramsey,” Reza greeted him, placing his palm across his thin chest. “Welcome. I am Reza. I will be your guide.”

Jake returned the proper Pashto greeting and then thrust out his hand to the short, wiry man. Reza eagerly took it, pumping it up and down with unbounded earnestness.