"This is nice," was Kim Brown's opinion, looking around as her husband tipped the bell boy dropping off their luggage. The room was done in determined beige, with the bed coverings, the curtains, and the rug all dyed to match. Only the gold-rimmed frame on the wall with an innocuous wooded scene tried to stand out, and that not successfully. It blended in with the beige wallpaper. "You sure the Army's paying for this?"
"Colonel Ryan's name is on the bill, not mine," Bob responded absently. He looked around, reminding himself that he didn't have to automatically assess for the best points of egress, the faster way out of the terrain, the… He shook himself. Enjoy this. It was a week of R & R, at the Army's request, with the woman that he loved and didn't spend enough time cherishing, what with one thing and another, especially now with a little one who thought that bounding in to see Mommy and Daddy in the early morning was just dandy and a smaller one that required two AM feedings.
Not overlarge, but still nice. The bed looked long enough to accommodate his tall frame with covers that would keep away the chill of the encroaching fall nights. Midnights got cold this close to the Canadian border, he thought, then remembered that along about those midnights he ought to be snuggling up to a certain warm body, not out on the slopes with a pair of field glasses, watching for whatever spy was taking the ski route across the border.
Bad, Bob, bad! He wasn't here on a mission, not exactly. This was more in the fashion of unwinding, and if he couldn't stop thinking in terms of mission parameters now then some R & R in this manner was exactly what he needed. To punish himself for bad thoughts, he pulled Kim to him. Not bad for punishment. I'll have to get punished a little more often.
"Here, what's this?" Kim was objecting not at all. She wound her hands around the back of his neck, coming in close.
"This," Bob interrupted himself for a long kiss, "is a moment alone," another kiss, "with my wife." One more kiss.
"Mm." Kim slid further into his grasp. "I could keep this up," pause for air, and more, "all night." Ear nibble. "Don't suppose," fall back onto the bed, "we could," was that a few buttons? "skip cocktail hour?"
Damn fine way to forget about work for a while.
Ryan stretched his collar irritably. Damn thing was always too tight. Charlotte kept telling him that he looked fine, to leave it alone, but Thomas P. Ryan was a fighting man, not a politician. Oh, sure, he'd chosen to add these particular battlefields to his sphere of influence, but that didn't mean he had to like the uniform.
Good choice, his wife. She had what he needed for these fights. She moved among the soldiers and their various wives like a shark seeking prey. She could see into them, and through them, and could devise plans like a general on the verge of a successful retirement. The Washington political scene was her playground, and knowing the things that each player was doing both publicly and privately was her stock in trade. A word in her ear, and Ryan could have a full dossier on just about anyone. This wasn't really a battlefield here, though; not here, not now. This was play, or so he had been instructed. Still, it was second nature for Charlotte to assess and evaluate all the personalities present. His wife could no more stop her automatic responses to the people around her than he could on a battlefield.
They were all here, the men of his own unit and the couple dozen or so enlisted folk from the four oh ninety six, the 'other side of the fence' as he thought of it. There was also about a baker's dozen couples here from a corporation, doing the same sort of 'retreat' thing that Ryan and his men were here for, doing the 'team-building' thing. They tended to keep to themselves, handing out a professional smile or two as they passed, but clearly seemed intimidated by the quantity of fighting men in the ballroom.
Not just men, but three or four fighting women as well. Ryan recognized them by sight, if not by name. One was towing a captain along—a husband and wife team, he thought—and another a civilian type who had that computer geek look to him. Probably did his fighting on the fields of Dungeons and Dragons, Ryan mused, or fussing over the mock ups that they used to train pilots on. He covered a smile. Didn't leave too many women for Williams or Grey to go after, not unless they wanted to get their hands slapped. Maybe some corporate types were here without escorts? Ryan wouldn't bet on it. Be interesting to see what his men could make out of this situation.
"Colonel Ryan."
Ryan turned smoothly, bourbon in hand, to face his counterpart from the four oh ninety six. "Colonel Peterson." It was lieutenant colonel, actually, but Ryan wasn't about to get into a pissing war over it. They were here to make nice. "A fine place you picked out for this little get together."
"Glad you like it." Peterson sipped at his own drink, something that looked mixed over ice. "My wife mentioned it to General Burgos, last time we were in Washington. Been here a couple of times before."
"Good choice," Ryan repeated, simply to have something to say. "Haven't had a chance to scope the place out yet. Golf course?"
"Nine holes, and transportation to the one a few miles away that's regulation," Peterson told him. "The tennis courts are nice, good surface to them. You play?"
"I've been known to pick up a racket," Ryan allowed. The Arthur Ashe was sitting in his room. He hadn't played a set in years; he was always too busy, and running an obstacle course seemed a better way to get in an exercise drill. "That an invitation, colonel?"
"It is, colonel. Tomorrow, at nine?"
"Nine, it is." Ryan spotted someone that he recognized. "Excuse me, colonel. I see someone that I want to say hello to."
Peterson followed his gaze, and instantly recognized the same person. "Good idea, colonel. Good luck," he added dryly. "I'll be along myself in a moment."
Ryan wove his way through the crowd, making it seem as though he was ambling aimlessly.
His path was anything but. He eased himself into the small group. "Dr. Ainsley. Pleasure to see you here."
Ainsley could look Ryan eye to eye, but there the resemblance stopped. Where Ryan had muscle, Ainsley was lean to the point to say that little to no physical exercise took place and neither did much in the way of food consumption. The muscles were there but underdeveloped.
Not so the brain. Ainsley was as smart as anyone Ryan knew, and if the psychologist didn't happen to think along the same lines as Ryan or his men, then that was too bad for somebody. Sometimes it was Ainsley, but more often it was someone else.
It was not a pleasure for either of them to see the other, and neither one was about to admit to it. "Colonel." Ainsley lifted his glass of white wine in a token greeting. "Glad you and your men could make it here."
"Wouldn't have missed it for the world, doctor," Ryan lied. General made it a direct order, that's why me and mine didn't head straight for Baghdad. "Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Very much." Ainsley was as good at lying as Ryan, but in this case he didn't need to. I get my jollies watching you sweat, Ryan. Which of your men is going to screw up and let me get my hooks in? Ainsley took a puff on the fat cigar in his other hand."Have you taken the opportunity to look over the lay of the land?"
"Doing so as we speak," Ryan assured him. That cigar of yours is fatter than you, Ainsley. You sure you don't get blown over by a stiff breeze? "I understand that the tennis courts are fine, and Mrs. Peterson has informed her husband that the meals are outstanding. The beds are a trifle soft for an old military dog like me"—not an over-educated pansy like you—"but I'm certain that my men and I will be able to handle the discomfort."
"I'm certain you will," Ainsley replied blandly, taking another puff. He scanned the room. "It appears your men are making themselves at home. Isn't that Sergeant Williams I see, talking with Private Owens?"
"I'm afraid I don't know Private Owens by sight," Ryan admitted. He could see Williams talking to a young female in a cocktail dress, the two of them laughing at something that Gerhardt had said. Bonding; good. Williams was doing his part. The girl couldn't hold a candle to Mrs. Gerhardt, Ryan thought, comparing the two standing next to each other: Tiffy, with her corn silk blonde hair, her laughing blue eyes. Dangerous ground, there, Thomas. He had ended that particular chapter in his life and had no desire to re-kindle it. No one was the wiser, with the exception of his wife. He'd confessed to Charlotte straight away, and she had assured him that Mrs. Gerhardt had understood. He knew better than to try to keep it a secret from his wife. Ryan could withstand a fair amount of torture, but Charlotte Ryan didn't need torture to wriggle out the truth. There had been moments between the two women, moments that Ryan deemed it better not to inquire over. Those moments didn't seem to be particularly rational, and Ryan, a mere man, chose not to leap into the pit of incomprehension.
"Excellent soldier, Owens," Ainsley told him. "Works in the clerical pool. And the blonde next to them?"
"Sergeant Gerhardt's wife," Ryan replied, careful to keep his tone even.
Ainsley picked up on it. "You know her?"
Better than any interrogator that the Army ever turned out. "I know all my men's significant others," Ryan reproved primly. This ain't just any squadron you're messin' with, Ainsley.
"I imagine you do," Ainsley replied blandly. "Lovely woman. Sergeant Gerhardt is a lucky man."
You don't know the half of it, doctor. And you ain't about to learn it from any of me or mine.
Peterson chose that moment to make his own entrance, and Ryan relaxed. Let Peterson wriggle underneath Ainsley's hawk-eyed perusal for a while. They'd both enjoy it; Peterson because he considered it part of his responsibility to keep his people sweating and Ainsley because Peterson was an easier mark than Ryan.
Peterson knew it. Therefore, Peterson didn't wait for an invitation. He threw one of his men to the wolves as fast as he could. "Dr. Ainsley, pleasure to see you here." Half-truth.
"The pleasure is all mine, colonel." Complete truth. I look forward to the opportunity to make fools of fighting men. I'm making up for all the bullying I received as a child, walking to school with my lunch money.
Peterson made a small show of looking around. "I've been looking for Lieutenant Rowe. Have you seen him?" That boy has been riding my ass about something, and I want you to take him down a peg or two.
Ainsley frowned for effect. "I'm not certain that I know Lt. Rowe by sight, colonel. I don't think that he's ever come in to see me."
Probably too well adjusted, Ryan thought to himself, feeling sorry for the lieutenant. And too smart.
"Not surprised," Peterson grunted, laying the groundwork for Ainsley to seek the man out. "The man has a genius for showing up when he's not wanted, and disappearing when he is."
"Quite a talent," Ryan commented blandly. "Know a couple of those types myself." Present company included. He lifted his glass wryly, suddenly weary of listening to all the sub-texts floating between the various parties. "Evening, gentlemen. There are a few more people that I need to say hello to." He excused himself from the grouping, feeling like he'd just escaped from a drug lord's jungle stronghold. He took another swig on his drink, remembering just in time to sip rather than gulp, knowing that Ainsley would be watching from behind Ryan's back.
Time to seek out some friendlies, catch his breath. He joined Sgt. Major Blane and Sgt. and Mrs. Brown.
"Glad to see you could make it, sergeant," Blane was saying to Brown, a twinkle in his eye. Brown had just scored a couple of drinks, a beer for himself and white wine for his wife. It was clear that the young couple had arrived only moments ago.
"Wouldn't have missed this for anything," Brown lied with a straight face, guileless green eyes staring out at his team leader.
Mrs. Brown wasn't quite as devious. Ryan had seen too many women to miss the full lips, the slight dilation of both pupils that said quite clearly that the young couple had debated whether or not to head on down for cocktails or enjoy the quiet privacy of their room. Only military courtesy had kept them from being MIA. Frankly, Ryan himself would have preferred that same option.
"This is really nice," Kim Brown said, trying to both look around the hall and keep her attention on her husband's commanding officer. There was simply too much to take in all at once, from the crowded mass of people to the heavy velvet drapes that curtained not only the windows but the high walls. The chandelier itself, high above them all, was deserving of at least sixty seconds of shock and awe. Ryan couldn't help but think about how much chaos would be caused should that chandelier come loose from its fixture. Perfect m.o. for a bunch of terrorists.
He sighed. He needed to stop thinking of the dangers lurking behind every door—or up on the ceiling. Like his men, he'd been working a little too hard for a few too many months. Maybe it was time for a little R & R. It was time to take a step back, remind himself that not everyone was out to get him and his.
Not everyone, but Dr. Ainsley was. Of that, Ryan was certain. There was no other reason for the psychologist's presence.
Jonas Blane knew it, too. "I see we have some interesting acquaintances here," he offered.
"We do indeed, Sgt. Blane," Ryan agreed, carefully not looking back over his shoulder. "We do, indeed."
"And I suspect we'll need to be on our toes," Blane added. "I'll be certain to advise the rest of my team." He flashed white teeth. "I have been offered an invitation by Master Sergeant Baxter of the Four Oh Ninety Six for a friendly game of soccer tomorrow afternoon. Seeing as how the mission objective is to 'bond' with them, I took the liberty of accepting, sir. A couple of the TOC team have volunteered to make up our numbers."
Ryan lowered his voice. "You do realize, sergeant, that we will need to take a dive on this one?"
Brown nodded his head with complete agreement, couldn't help but toss a glance at Dr. Ainsley. "Yes, sir, I believe we will. After all, we have been spending far too much time working out army logistics to be able to get out to practice ball handling maneuvers."
"I believe that the TOC cadre will more than make up for our lack of skill, sir," Blane added blandly.
"Glad to hear it, men." Ryan lifted his glass in acknowledgement of the plan, wishing that he dared refill it. But he needed a clear head tonight, and for the nights to come. "To the honor of the Unit."
"The Unit," the others echoed.
"Oh, Carlitos," Gerhardt sighed, sliding his own arm around his wife. His left hand held his third beer of the night. Other couples mingled around them. "What kind of trouble are you getting yourself into this time?"
Tiffy Gerhardt nestled her head into his shoulder. She was just the right height to make that maneuver feasible. She looked over at the scene playing out several feet away from them, a scene involving Sgt. Grey and a military female type that Tiffy didn't recognize. "I think it's sweet. Charlie needs someone to look after him."
Gerhardt snorted. "'Bout as much as I do, darlin'," he replied without thinking. "Ow," was the next word out of his mouth, in response to the solid punch that Tiffy put into his bicep. It didn't hurt, but if he didn't pretend that it did, there would be a bigger world of hurt later tonight, upstairs in their room. "Didn't mean it that way, sweetheart. You know that."
"Do I?" Tiffy wasn't about to let him off the hook. "You think you don't need me?"
"Not a chance." Mack knew when it was time to grovel. The army had taught him how to grovel to his commanding officers, and he was more than happy to transfer those lessons learned to other aspects of his life. "I need you more than life itself, baby. I was wrong in what I said. Charlie completely needs a woman in his life. Just not that one."
"Hmph." Not completely mollified, and not taken in, but willing to let it pass for the moment. There would be a better time to remind her husband of his faux pas, and Tiffy was all for storing up those moments and waiting.
Mack hurriedly moved on. "What I mean, baby, is: look at that guy over there."
"PFC Lingenhammer?"
"No, not him. Next to him. The big guy, with the corporal's stripes."
"Benson."
"Whatever his name is. Him."
"Okay, I'll bite. What about him?" Tiffy's curiosity was piqued.
"Didn't you see that way that Benson was looking at that chick? And the way she was looking back at him?"
Tiffy took a second look. "Oh. Oh, yeah. Mack, you're right. You think you ought to warn Charlie?"
But a slow grin slowly spread itself across Mack's craggy face. "Naw. This should be fun to watch."
"I've got to get over to your side of the compound more often," Charlie told the girl in front of him. "Ramona. Nice name, to go with a nice lady." Sweet catch, and he was glad that he'd spotted her before Hector. His team mate was fast and smooth, and could sucker in a chick like reeling in trout from a barrel when he wanted to.
Not this lady. Charlie had gotten there first. Ramona was a tasty package rolled up in civvies; the ladies had been given official permission to avoid military get up for the duration of the retreat, and Charlie was glad of it. Uniforms could look good, but there were certain women who would look even better out of them, and one of those certain women was here with him, looking him eye to eye. That eye contact didn't stop him from letting his gaze wander down to the slowly curving smile on full lips. He had to stop himself from letting that gaze wander a bit further down to admire a few more curves; not yet, boy. Let this play out slow, or as slow as a week-long retreat would let it.
"I haven't seen you around, either," Ramona admitted, easing herself into Charlie's personal space. Liquid brown eyes smoldered. "Been on base long?"
"Long enough," Charlie told her, caution so ingrained that even now he couldn't give a straight answer. "You?"
She rolled those big brown eyes. "Back from a tour in Iraq," she said. "Fun place. The night life keeps you hopping. Literally."
"Bully for night life," he replied, reminded of a certain little café in Baghdad. The place went boom shortly after he left, and he wondered idly if it had been rebuilt. Probably; the Iraqi's weren't the type to let a good location go to waste. Wasn't about to tell that to this girl. Not the time or the place, and probably never would be.
Ramona leaned forward, fully aware of how low cut her blouse was. "How about you and I explore some of the 'night life' around here?" She sipped at her drink.
Charlie fought down the urge to rip her clothes off right here, in front of everyone. This girl wanted it as badly as he did—probably more—and was telling him so in signals that no one could miss if they were blind as a bat and comatose besides.
Ramona sipped again, letting her tongue swirl against the rim of the salt-covered tequila glass. She was being so obvious—
Too obvious. Charlie had almost missed the quick little dart of Ramona's eyes over his shoulder, thinking that the smoldering in her eyes were only for him. Damn. He was being used. He battled down the sigh; he should have guessed. No woman allowed themselves to be seduced this quickly unless they had another agenda. Clearly it was someone standing behind him, watching their every move and probably getting more and more steamed, which was just what Ramona had intended.
All right; how to remedy the situation? This still could work out to his advantage. Charlie wasn't looking for a long term relationship. That worked for Top, and Mack, and newbie Brown, but Charlie was well aware of the strain that his profession could put on a marriage or even a semi-permanent room mate. A week long fling with no regrets at the end could be just what the doctor ordered, and he wasn't talking old Ainsley in the corner over there, watching everything going on with those eagle eyes of his. Charlie had been in enough tight spots that he was reasonably certain that whatever he couldn't talk his way out of, he could fight his way out of.
Uh, maybe not. He was supposed to be a milquetoast logistics clerk, concerned over the quality/cost ratio of printer ink. He could hear Col. Ryan in his head, saying, 'leave it go, sergeant. She's not worth the aggravation.'
Maybe, maybe not. This chick looked hot; hot enough to boil his blood. Hot enough to boil the blood of whoever she was trying to tease. Okay, let's let this play out just a short while longer, see what's going on here…
"Works for me," Charlie said easily, sliding his arm around her waist, hoping that he was mistaken. Mistakes could happen. They had happened in the past, and likely would in the future. "You got anyone waiting for you?"
"Not a soul," Ramona told him earnestly, pupils dilating.
Charlie let his grin stay warm. Damn. He'd read it right. Chick was lying through her teeth.
Okay, salvage time. This place was significantly short of unattached women, which meant that the nights were going to be a trace on the long side, even more so since trying to go AWOL into town was likely to get him into more trouble than even he wanted. So maybe he could spin this out over the entire retreat? He could try. Heck, worst case scenario: cheap entertainment, and clearly a lady this hot, the bozo that was letting her tease him like this had to be an idiot in need of a lesson. If Charlie himself couldn't have her, at least he could help her do the tantalizing.
Decision made: Charlie tightened his arm around Ramona's waist. "You want another tequila, or are you good?"
"Oh, I'm very good," Ramona replied.
Okay, doll, you made your point. You can do the double entendre thing very well. Who's the joe that you're trying to bust on? Charlie eased them around so that he could see out of the corner of his eye Ramona's target.
Uh oh. All I see is large, economy size linebacker types. Maybe I was a little hasty in deciding to play this out. Sure, I can take him—I hope—but it could get ugly in ways that nobody wants it to. And with Ainsley looking on…
Sigh. What I do for my country.
"Pretty place," Molly said. She and Jonas had taken themselves out onto the veranda, wanting a breath of fresh air; air that hadn't been tainted by the need for caution and the need to hide the true purpose of Jonas' unit. For all the Four Oh Ninety Six knew, Jonas was in charge of ordering adequate quantities of toothpaste for use by American troops stationed in Afghanistan and making certain that the manufacturers of same were more than adequately compensated for their efforts. "Nice night."
"It is, indeed," Jonas agreed. The air was a hint on the cool side compared to where in the world he had last been, but it was agreeable. That touch of frost sharpened a man's wits, sharpened his senses instead of dulling them with too much heat. He inhaled, enjoyed the faint scent of pine, looking out over the rolling field outside and the trees beyond. That field, he remembered though he couldn't distinguish it in the darkness, was set up to serve as a baseball diamond, a football field, and a soccer field all in one. The tennis courts were off to the eastern edge of the resort. He almost suggested going over the lay of the land before catching himself. Don't have to scope this one out, Jonas. This is R & R. Mission objective: bond with the other squad to prove that you're ordinary. The only escape route you'll need comes equipped with a roomy four door sedan and an underpowered six cylinder engine.
Damn, couldn't help himself. That forest would make excellent cover for anyone wanting to approach on foot but the playing field in between would turn that advantage to squat. A single man with an automatic would turn any attacking force to mincemeat with a single round. No, if Jonas was looking to take this place down, he'd send in a single suicide bomber, dressed in the same sort of tux that he himself was wearing, armed with a belt full of C-4. That chandelier inside would take out a lot of people with the shrapnel alone.
Jonas suddenly found his attention caught—was that a flicker of light in the forest? No, something bouncing off of a mirror, catching the sliver of moonlight. He peered into the darkness, suddenly intent on discovering what had taken his eye.
Nothing moved in the darkness, not even a last firefly of summer. A few over-age crickets chirped forlornly, an owl hooted, but nothing more.
"What is it, Jonas?" Molly asked, alerted by his stance. 'Going on point' she called it, as if he were a prized hunting dog. In a sense, he was, Jonas realized wryly. Only his master was Uncle Sam and his prey was nothing as straightforward as a forest creature.
He shook his head, as much to clear it as to reassure his wife. "Nothing," he told her. Jonas deliberately put on a smile. "Ready to go back inside?"
"Do we have to?"
She was feeling the strain as much as he did, having to lie to fellow servicemen. This time the smile was more genuine. "Would you really trust Mack not to sign us up for a ten mile hike?"
Molly considered. "No. But I would trust you to get me out of it."
Jonas laughed. "That's an awful lot of trust, Mrs. Blane."
"And that trust has been earned, Master Sergeant Blane."
Colonel Ryan made certain that he was one of the last people to exit the hall, having dined on hors d'oeuvres and over-priced booze. Dr. Ainsley had pleaded exhaustion long ago, although Ryan suspected that the man merely wanted to write up his notes and plan his attack for tomorrow. Peterson too had stayed right with Ryan, with more anxiety attacks over his men and one fight almost breaking out when one of the privates took exception to something that another private had said. Both kids with over-sized egos, and one of the reasons that Ryan enjoyed his own job: he didn't have to put up with stupidity like that. His own men conducted themselves as adults—most of the time.
The reception had gone off without a hitch, as far as his men were concerned. Brown and his wife had even done a bit of dancing, Ryan watching them and wondering where Brown had picked up those light feet. Ryan could feel Charlotte beside him wishing that Ryan himself had taken a few dance lessons. It would be useful at some of those damn Washington affairs that he found himself getting more and more invitations to. Gerhardt had tried with Tiffy, but the man just didn't have the same touch that Brown did. Didn't matter to Tiffy; she seemed pleased to be with her husband. Good; one less problem for Ryan to cope with. Even Grey was behaving himself, and of the Unit men he was the one that Ryan was more concerned about. The man sometimes had trouble keeping his hands to himself. Grey had found himself a looker, Private Suarez if Ryan remembered her name correctly, and they seemed to be hitting it off. Ryan nodded to himself.
"Tom?" Charlotte looked up at him.
Ryan looked down at his wife. "Enjoying yourself?"
"Very much," she assured him. "You?"
"Of course," he lied, knowing that she knew that he lied but would accept the answer anyway.
He was right; there was that little flicker of a moue that told him he was as transparent to her as his men to him. Charlotte moved on to another topic. "Did I hear you making plans for tennis tomorrow morning?"
"You did. Care to join? I'll see if Petersen can get his wife to make up the foursome."
"That would be wonderful, Thomas. But I'll draw the line at playing in your soccer game for the following afternoon."
"Too bad," Ryan lied again. "It should be fun."
"I shall watch," she assured him, "as I understand that Mrs. Petersen will be doing."
Ryan nodded. That too made sense, since Lt. Col. Petersen's wife wouldn't be capable of running more than a yard or two before needing to sit down. The game would be more enjoyable for them all if she too did the cheerleading thing. He relaxed, watching Mrs. Gerhardt grab one last glass before heading out into the resort with her husband.
