19 Headed for Trouble (7 page)

When he actually slept, that is.

“Sam, hang on a sec.” Jules put his hand over the receiver as he spoke to someone else on his end. Usually irreverent and upbeat, he sounded serious. Hell, he was calling Sam
Sam
instead of SpongeBob or Pollyanna or one of those other humiliating nicknames that he usually used.

“What happened?” Sam asked as Jules came back on the phone. He answered his own question. “Another dead woman without teeth in Colorado.”

“This isn’t about the Dentist,” Jules told him as Sam found the remote and aimed it at the TV. “Listen, do yourself a favor and don’t turn on the news.”

Too late. Sam had already flipped to CNN where …

“Oh, shit,” he breathed, sitting down heavily on the sofa.

Peacekeeper Attacked
was the headline that hung over the anchor’s right shoulder, along with a picture of Eugene Ryan. “… in northern Kazbekistan, where the former senator’s helicopter was believed to have been shot down.”

Oh, God, no.

“We just received confirmation,” Jules told him, “that one of Eugene Ryan’s helicopters was hit by a shoulder-fired missile, just north of Ikrimah, which is a city in the northern province of—”

“I know where Ikrimah is,” Sam interrupted him. “
One
of …?” How many helos were transporting Ryan’s delegation? Jesus, he couldn’t breathe.

On the TV, the news anchor was now delivering a fluff piece on a pie-eating contest, a big smile on his face.

“One of two,” Jules delivered the grim news as Sam hit the mute. Which meant there was a fifty/fifty chance Lys was on the helicopter that went down.

In flames.

“Before we lost radio contact,” Jules continued, “the second chopper reported that there were definitely casualties, but we don’t know how many and we don’t know who.”

“Before,” Sam repeated, “you
lost radio contact …
?”

“I am
so
sorry,” Jules started, but Sam cut him off.

“Fuck
sorry
!” Sam winced, looking toward the room where Haley was sleeping. He lowered his voice, but it came out no less intense. “I don’t want
sorry
. I want the information that you’ve—”

“We don’t
have
any information,” Jules raised his
voice to talk over him. “All we have is speculation. Rumors. You know as well as I do what good that—”

“What are the rumors?” Sam asked.

“Sam,” Jules said. “You
know
rumors are just—”

“Did the second helo go down, too?” Sam had to know.

“No,” Jules said, but then added, “Not exactly. What we think happened, and sweetie, breathe. This is mostly guesswork. Even though we have a few people who claim to be eyewitnesses, we have only their word that they were actually there. So yeah, they reported that after the first chopper crashed, the second swung back around to assist the survivors. According to these unreliable sources, it apparently landed, going out of view, behind several buildings. Then, allegedly, there was a second big explosion.”

“And?” Sam asked tightly.

“And nothing,” Jules said. “It’s all speculation. You know as well as I do that this could be nothing more than one of the local warlords planting disinformation—”

“There was an
and
in your voice,” Sam insisted. “God damn it, Jules, tell me all of it.”

Jules exhaled hard. “The attack happened shortly before sunset. There’ve been unconfirmed reports of a fierce firefight in that area pretty much all night.”

Sam was going to be sick. “So, best-case scenario is that my wife is on the ground in a hostile part of Kaz-fucking-bekistan, engaged in a gun battle with people who don’t just want to kill her for being American, but who want to kill her slowly, on camera, broadcast over the Internet.”

Worst case was that Alyssa was already dead—that she had been dead for hours.

“Who’s going in after them?” Sam demanded.

“I don’t know,” Jules said. “Look, I’m going to make
some phone calls, see what I can find out, okay? It may take me a while.”

“Jules,” Sam started, but he didn’t have to say it. Jules said it for him.

“I’ll call you back as soon as I hear anything. Good news
or
bad.”

“Thanks.” As Sam hung up the phone, the news anchor made a joke about a pop star who was getting married. It was absolutely surreal.

How could anyone laugh when Alyssa might be dead?

He turned off the TV, but then turned it back on, flipping to the other news stations and then back, hoping for something, anything that would let him see just what Alyssa was up against.

If there were any way to survive this, Lys would find it. Of that Sam had absolutely no doubt. She was strong, she was skilled, and she had the heart of a warrior.

But if her team was badly outnumbered by their attackers, if it was a handful against several hundred, they would soon be overpowered. And all of the skill, strength, and heart in the world wouldn’t keep her alive.

Sam splashed water on his face, then dried it with his towel. It was one of the blue ones that he and Alyssa had picked out when they’d moved into this little house together, a few weeks before their wedding.

“Blue is all about serenity and tranquility,” she’d told him as they stood in the department store, when he’d suggested they get brown because it would hide the dirt and stains.

But she was serious, which had surprised him. And as they’d decorated their house she’d paid a lot of attention, for someone so down to earth and practical, to the mood created by color, as well as to something called
feng shui. Which was all about furniture placement and good vibes and all kinds of touchy-feelie New Age voodoo.

Of course, maybe there was something to that feng shui crap, because Sam had never been happier and more at peace in his entire life than he had this past year, living here.

Then again, he’d be beyond ecstatic living in a cardboard box, as long as Alyssa was with him.

Please, God, keep her safe.

Sam took a deep breath, then opened the bathroom door.

The phone rang again, and Joan DaCosta, the wife of SEAL Team Sixteen’s Lieutenant Mike Muldoon, picked it up out in the living room.

As the news of the downed choppers spread, friends and relatives were calling him to find out details and offer their support. But it had quickly gotten overwhelming. “I’m sure Alyssa’s all right. I’m sure she’s fine,” they reassured him. But they wanted him to say it back to them, too.

And truthfully, as optimistic as he usually was, in this case, he wasn’t sure about anything. And no one
really
wanted to hear how he was scared shitless, and that this sitting still and waiting for news was driving him freaking nuts.

No one, that is, except for Joan and Savannah and Meg, the long-suffering wives of his three best friends from his days as a Navy SEAL.

Meg Nilsson—Johnny’s wife—had been the first to arrive. She’d just opened his front door and walked inside his house, God bless her, announcing, “Hey, it’s only me. I didn’t ring the bell—I didn’t want you to think I was someone bringing you bad news.”

She’d brought her two daughters—Amy, a teenager
from her first marriage, and four-year-old Robin, who had Johnny’s eyes.

Amy possessed a maturity and sensitivity far beyond her years. She’d ushered both Robin and Haley outside, where she kept them occupied and entertained. Even now, hours later, Sam could hear their laughter from the backyard.

Shortly after Meg arrived, Chief Ken “WildCard” Karmody’s wife, Savannah, pulled into the driveway. Mikey’s Joan was right behind her.

They’d each given him a hug and told him they weren’t going to let him go through this alone.

“Joan’ll let me know if it’s Jules on the phone, right?” Sam asked now, as he went back into the kitchen, where Meg and Savannah were sitting together at the table.

At first glance they seemed to be unlikely friends.

Savannah was a high-powered attorney who had just made partner and opened a law office in San Diego, after years of a bicoastal marriage. She came from money and worked not because she had to, but because she wanted to. Sam suspected that, if and when the time came to start a family with Kenny, she would throw herself into it with the same wholehearted devotion.

Kind of the way Meg did. A brunette to Savannah’s elf-princess blonde, Meg Nilsson worked part-time from a home office. Her standard uniform was very different from Van’s lawyer clothes—T-shirts and shorts, sneakers on her feet—better for chasing after little Robbie.

And yet Savannah and Meg
were
friends. They both loved their husbands—who willingly traveled to war zones and other places that were hazardous to one’s health.

They both knew that their husbands might be injured or even killed in the line of duty at any given moment.

They knew what it felt like to carry around that anxiety, to live for those overseas phone calls that usually
came in the middle of the night:
I’m sorry it’s so late, but I have cell service—it’s weak, but it’s there—and I’m not sure when I’ll get it again …

Four days ago, before the helo crash, he’d gotten a call like that from Alyssa. And for five minutes while he spoke to her, he could breathe again. She had been safe, and he knew it.

For those five minutes.

It ended far too quickly, and as soon as he hung up the phone the anxiety came screaming back.

Alyssa was scheduled to be away for just a short amount of time. SEALs, however, often went out for months. Sam absolutely couldn’t imagine living like this for more than a few weeks.

“Jules said it would be a while before he called again,” Meg gently reminded him.

“Have you tried cleaning the refrigerator?” Savannah suggested. “I’ve found it helps a little if you just keep moving.”

Sam sat down, wearily rubbing his forehead. Jesus, his head ached. “I did the fridge the night Alyssa’s flight left,” he said on an exhale. “Then, in the morning, I took an ax, went out in the yard and removed this old stump we’d been talking about getting rid of.” He’d chopped the crap out of it in about four hours.

“I usually stick to cleaning out closets.” Savannah was impressed. “I’ve never tried anything that involves an ax.”

“I have,” Meg said dryly. “Don’t bother. It doesn’t help.”

Nothing helped.

“If you want,” Savannah suggested, “we could help you organize your closets. It’ll keep you busy. And you’ll also win big bonus points when Alyssa comes back.”

When Alyssa comes back. They were sitting there, all
three of them, pretending that
if Alyssa comes back
wasn’t what she really meant.

God, he hated this. But the alternative was sitting in his kitchen by himself. Or trying to fool Haley into thinking everything was all right, and sneaking into the bedroom every ten minutes to turn on CNN, see if there was any new information that made it to the cable news station first.

So he told Savannah, “I did the closets on the second night. It took a while, but I wasn’t going to sleep, so …”

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Meg asked, clearly working to keep the conversation going. “Just how much junk two people can accumulate in a short amount of time …?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I found this old hat—a baseball cap—that I thought I lost years ago and—” He broke off. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry, I can’t stand it. I’m just sitting here, so freaking helpless—I can’t do a thing to help her. Even if I got on a plane …” It would take him at least forty-eight hours to get to Ikrimah. He closed his eyes. “Right now, she could be dying. Right now. Right
now
. And I can’t help her.”

Meg took his hand. “I know,” she said quietly. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

Sam looked at her, and he knew that
she
knew exactly what he was feeling. “How many times have you done this?” he asked.

“Thought John might not be coming home?” she clarified. She didn’t wait for him to respond. “There’ve been, oh, I guess three or four times somewhat similar to this situation. But, you know, every time he’s out there and there’s some news report about a helicopter crash or a suicide bomber or …” She laughed as she shook her head. “Believe me, there’s a lot of prayer involved when you’re married to a SEAL.”

“And a lot of really clean refrigerators,” Savannah added.

“Pristine closets.”

“Well gardened yards.”

“You see, John knows where he is when he’s on an op,” Meg told Sam. “He knows when he’s safe and when he’s at risk. But all I know is he’s somewhere dangerous and …” She shrugged. “It sucks.”

No kidding. “I had no idea,” Sam admitted. “Before this, I just …” He shook his head. When he’d gone wheels up with the team he’d understood that it was no picnic for the wives, girlfriends, and significant others they left behind. But he’d had no clue just how awful it could be.

Joan appeared in the doorway, cordless phone in her hands. “That was Mike,” she told them. “The team’s training exercise’ll be over in an hour. He and John and Ken’ll bring dinner when they come.”

The phone rang again, and Joan retreated toward the living room. “Starrett and Locke residence,” Sam heard her say. But then she gasped. “Oh, my God!”