Suzanne Brockmann - Team Ten 07 - The Admiral's Bride Read online

  "Washington, D.C.?" Zoe chewed her lower lip. "Rough guess? Four? Depending on which way the wind was blowing."

  He nodded. Clearly he'd already known that. And six were missing.

  She looked around the room. "Any other questions?"

  Senior Chief Becker lifted his hand. "You said our only option was to find the Triple X and regain possession of it. Is there any way to destroy it?"

  "The two powders can be burned," she told him with a tight smile. "Just don't put the fire out with water."

  Lieutenant O'Donlon raised his hand. "I have a question for Admiral Robinson. After two weeks, sir, you must have some idea who was behind the theft."

  The admiral stood up. He towered over her by a solid six inches. She started toward her seat, but he caught her

  elbow, his fingers warm against her bare skin. "Stay," he commanded softly.

  She nodded. "Of course, sir."

  "We have identified the terrorist group that stole the Trip X," Jake told them, "and we also believe we've found the location of the missing canisters."

  Everyone started talking at once.

  "That's great," Zoe said.

  "Yeah, well, it's not as great as it sounds," the admiral told her in a low voice. "Nothing's ever that easy."

  "When do we ship out?" she asked just as quietly. "I'm guessing our destination is somewhere in the Middle East."

  "Guess again, Doctor. And maybe you should wait for all the facts and details before you agree to sign on. I've got a feeling you're not going to like this assignment very much."

  Zoe met his steady gaze with an equal air of calm. "I don't need to know the details. I'm all yours—if you'll have me."

  It wasn't until the words left her mouth that she realized how dreadfully suggestive they were.

  But then she thought, why not? She was attracted to this man on virtually every level. Why not let him know it?

  But something shifted in his eyes, something unidentifiable flitted across his face, and she realized in another flash that he wore a wedding band on his left hand.

  "I'm sorry, sir," she said swiftly. "I didn't mean for that to sound—"

  His smile was crooked. "It's okay, I know what you meant. It's a juicy assignment. But you won't be going to the Middle East." He turned and knocked on the table to regain the room's attention. "The terrorists who took the Triple X live right here in the United States. We've traced the canisters to their stronghold in Montana. They're U.S. citizens, although they're trying hard to secede from the union. They're led by a man named Christopher Vincent,

  '

  and they call themselves the CRO, or the Chosen Race Organization."

  The CRO.

  The admiral glanced at her, and Zoe nodded. She knew all about the CRO. And this was what he'd meant about waiting to find out the details. The CRO was mysogynistic as well as being neo-Nazi, antigovernment and downright vicious. If Jake Robinson's plan was to send her into the CRO fortress as part of an undercover team assigned to retrieve the Trip X, it wasn't going to be fun. Women were treated little better than slaves in the CRO. They served, silently, tirelessly, unquestioningly. They were treated as possessions by their husbands and fathers. And they frequently were physically abused.

  Jake was passing around satellite photos of the CRO headquarters—a former factory nestled in the hills about two miles outside of the tiny town of Belle, Montana. Zoe was familiar with the pictures, and with the extensive high-tech security the independently wealthy CRO leader, Christopher Vincent, had set up around the place.

  If the lab in Arches had had even half the security of the CRO headquarters, this wouldn't have happened.

  "We don't want to get in by force," the admiral was saying. "That's not even an option worth considering at this point."

  Admiral Stonegate spoke up. "Why not simply evacuate the surrounding towns and bomb the hell out of the bastards?"

  Admiral Forrest rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Jake," he said. "That worked so well at Waco."

  "Surround 'em, then," Stonegate suggested, unthwarted and possibly even unaware of Mac Forrest's sarcasm. "Give our soldiers gas masks and let the CRO use the Triple X to wipe themselves out."

  Admiral Robinson turned to Zoe as if he'd sensed her desire to respond.

  "There are a number of reasons we wouldn't want to

  risk that," Zoe explained. "For one, if they waited for the right weather conditions—strong winds or even rain—the amount of Trip X they've got could take out more than just the immediately surrounding area. And then there's the matter of runoff. We don't know what would happen if that much Trip X got into the groundwater. We don't have enough data to know the dilution point—or, to be perfectly honest, if there even is a dilution point." The room was silent, and Zoe knew they were all imagining a lethal poison spreading through the groundwater of the country, making its way down to the Colorado River.... She took a deep breath. "I'll say it again, gentlemen, our sole option in this situation is to retrieve—or destroy—the six canisters of Triple X in its powder form."

  "My plan is to continue surveillance," Admiral Robinson said. "I've already got teams in place, watching the CRO fort, trailing everyone who goes outside of their gates. We'll continue to do that, but we'll also be sending someone inside to track down the exact whereabouts of the Triple X. That's not going to be easy. Only CRO members are allowed in."

  Senior Chief Becker lifted his hand. "Permission to speak, sir?"

  "Please. If we're going to work together as a team, let's not stand on formality."

  Becker nodded, but when he spoke, it was clear he chose his words carefully. "I think it's obvious that I'm not likely to be accepted as a member of the CRO any time in the near future. Seaman Taylor, here, either. And as for Crash—Lieutenant Hawken—his face may be the right shade of pale, but it's only been a year since he was on the national news. He's got to be too well-known. And while my intent is not to suggest that lieutenants O'Donlon, Jones and Shaw aren't capable of a mission of this magnitude, sir, it seems to me we might want to have a team leader with more experience. I'm sure either Captain Catalanotto

  or Lieutenant Commander McCoy of Alpha Squad would appreciate the chance to be included in this op."

  The admiral listened carefully, waiting courteously until the senior chief had finished, despite the fact that Zoe could tell from his body language that everyone he wanted to be part of this operation was already right here in this room.

  "I appreciate your thoughts, Senior Chief. And I'm aware of both Joe Cat and Blue McCoy's well-deserved reputations." He paused, glancing around the room before he casually dropped his bomb. "But I'll be leading this team, hands-on, from out in the field. And I'll be the one gaining entry into the CRO fort."

  Chapter

  Jake lifted his hands, halting the words of outrage, doubt and concern. He was too old to go into the field. He was too out of touch. It had been years since he'd last been in the real world. It was too dangerous. What if he were killed? What if, what if, what if?

  "Here's the deal," he said. "I know Christopher Vincent. I met him about five years ago—he had a book published by the same company who released my wife's art books. We met at a party in New York, and I talked to him for a very long time. He's extremely dangerous, a complete megalomaniac. And it just so happens that he liked me. I know with a little help and the right cover story, I can get us inside."

  "Admiral, this is highly irregular and—"

  Jake cut Stonegate off. "And six missing canisters of T-X isn't?" He looked around the room. "I didn't call you here to ask your permission. / run the Gray Group. / call the shots. And this is a Gray Group mission. The President gave me this assignment with a direct order not to fail.

  Those of you who haven't worked for the Gray Group before need to know that I don't take that order lightly. What I need right now from the SEALs and from Dr. Lange is to know whether or not you want to be part of my team."

  He hadn't even put the final "m" on
team before Zoe Lange spoke up, her clear alto voice ringing out into the room. "I'm in and I'm behind you one hundred percent, Admiral."

  She was just too cute, standing there in her blue jeans and blue-flowered T-shirt. She looked like a college student, but Jake knew better. She was Pat Sullivan's top operative. She'd come highly recommended. She was bright, she was beautiful and she was so freshly young it almost hurt to look at her.

  Her hair was blond, long and straight. She wore it in classic California-girl style, with no bangs to soften her face. But she had a face that didn't need softening—it was already soft enough. She had baby-smooth skin, a face that was nearly a perfect oval, and equally perfect, delicately shaped features. From her fair skin and her light coloring, he'd expected her eyes to be blue. But they weren't. She had brown eyes. Not a light, hazel shade of brown, but deep, dark chocolate brown.

  Was it possible for someone with eyes that dark to be a natural blonde? He knew exactly how to find out.

  I'm all yours—if you'll have me.

  Don't go there, pal! She hadn't meant it that way.

  Jake focused his attention on his SEAL team. Harvard Becker. He'd never worked with the African-American senior chief, but when it came to electronic surveillance, he was the best. And right now Jake needed the best.

  Seamen First Class Wesley Skelly, short and skinny, and Bobby Taylor, built double-wide, could've been any of the enlisted guys he knew back in Nam. Loyal to the bitter end, they drank too much, played too hard and were always right where you needed them, when you needed them. Right now, their loyalty was to Harvard, though, and they waited

  for their senior chief to nod his acceptance before they, too, agreed to sign on.

  Lieutenant Billy Hawken, nicknamed Crash, was Jake's wife, Daisy's, cousin. Jake had helped raise him from the time the boy was ten. He thought of him as a son, but there was real reservation in the kid's eyes as he gazed at Jake across the table. Are you sure you know what you're doing? He could read the words in Billy's eyes as clearly as if he'd spoken them aloud.

  Jake nodded. Yeah. He knew exactly what he was doing. He'd thought about it long and hard. This was more than just an excuse to get back into the real world. Although— he couldn't kid himself—he did want to do it just a little too much. Still, the timing was right and he trusted himself, trusted his instincts.

  Billy turned to look at Lieutenant Mitchell Shaw, sitting on his right. Mitch and Billy had both worked for Jake's Gray Group more times than any of them could count. Mitch had been there at the conception of the group. He'd been part of the first mission. At five feet ten, he was shorter than most of the other SEALs, lean and compact, with long, dark hair and hazel eyes that gave nothing away.

  Including his doubt.

  His silence broadcast that, though, loud and clear.

  Jake knew how Mitch thought, and he could practically see the progression that led to the lieutenant's short nod. He was in—but only because Mitch believed he and the rest of the SEALs would be able to keep Jake out of harm's way.

  Jake was going to have to set him straight, but not here, not now.

  "I'm in," Lieutenant Luke O'Donlon announced, his words echoed by Lieutenant Harlan Jones. Lucky and Cowboy. Both blond and blue-eyed, Jake had chosen them based on their fair-skinned complexions as well as their reputations. Both were hotshots, that title well-earned, and

  both would be accepted into the CRO as easily as possible, if they had to go that way.

  And that was that. He had his team. The SEALs had all agreed, if not quite as enthusiastically as Zoe Lange.

  "Gather your gear, gentlemen—and Doctor," Jake said, glancing at the young woman. "And prepare to meet at Andrews in two hours. Bring a sweater or two. We're going to Montana."

  Senior Chief Harvard Becker was the first to reach the door. He hit the buzzer that signaled the guards in the outer chambers and the hatch swung open. The SEALs cleared out, none of them uttering another word.

  They probably knew Admiral Stonegate would handle all the uttering necessary.

  "I will be registering my official protest," he told Jake stiffly. "An admiral's place is not in the field. You are far too valuable to the U.S. Navy to put yourself into a position of such high risk that—"

  "Didn't you hear anything Dr. Lange said?" Jake asked the older man. "With die magnitude of this kind of potential disaster, we're all expendable, Ron."

  "It's been years since you've been in the field."

  "I've been keeping up," Jake told him evenly.

  "Mentally, perhaps, but physically, there's just no way—"

  Since he'd gotten out of the hospital, Jake had put himself into the best physical shape he'd been in since Vietnam. "I can keep up physically, too. Ron, you know, fifty-three's just not that old—"

  "Dammit, this is all John Glenn's fault."

  Jake had to laugh. "Excuse me for laughing in your face, pal, but that's ridiculous."

  Stonegate was offended. "I will be registering a protest."

  "You do that, Admiral," Jake said, tired of the noise. "But not until this mission is over. Everything you've heard today in this room is top secret. You leak any of it—

  even in the form of a protest, and I will throw your narrow-minded, pointy ass in jail."

  Well, that did it.

  Stonegate stormed out.

  Mac Forrest followed. "And I'll help," he murmured to Jake with a wink. "Anything I can do, Jake, you just let me know."

  The room was finally empty.

  Jake drew in a deep breath and let it all out in a rush as he collected and organized his notes and papers.

  That had gone far better than he'd hoped. He'd been sure his age was going to be an insurmountable issue, that none of his first choice of SEALs would accept the assignment. He'd gone so far as to have his hair colored for the occasion, covering the silver at his temples with his regular shade of dark brown. He'd figured looking as young as possible couldn't hurt.

  And it had made him look younger, there was no doubt about it.

  He'd liked the way his colored hair looked more than he cared to admit. But he had admitted it. He'd forced himself to confront the issue. He hated the thought of growing old. He'd fought it ever since he'd turned thirty with every breath he took, cutting red meat and high-cholesterol-inducing foods out of his diet. Eating health foods and seaweeds and exercising religiously every day. Aerobics. Weights. Running.

  He hadn't lied to Ron Stonegate. He was in top-notch, near-perfect shape, even for a man fifteen years his junior.

  There was only one type of exercise he no longer participated in regularly and that was—

  Jake closed his briefcase with a snap and turned around and found himself staring directly into Zoe Lange's eyes.

  Sex.

  Yes, it had definitely been nearly three years since he'd last had sex.

  Jake swallowed and forced a smile. "God, I'm sorry,"

  he said. "How long have you been standing there? I didn't realize you were still in the room."

  She shifted her briefcase to her other hand, and Jake realized that she was nervous. He made Pat Sullivan's top operative nervous.

  The feeling was extremely mutual—but for what had to be an entirely different reason. He found her attractive, college-girl getup and all. Much too attractive.

  "I just wanted to thank you again for including me in this assignment," she said, all but stammering. She was trying so hard to be cool, but he knew otherwise.

  "Let's see if you're still thanking me after you get an up-close look at the CRO compound." Jake headed for the door to get away from her subtle, freshly sweet scent. She wasn't wearing perfume. He had to guess it was her hair. Hair that would slip between his fingers like silk. If he were close enough to touch it. Which he wasn't.

  "I've spent years in the Middle East. At least I won't have to walk around wearing a veil in Montana." She followed, almost tripping over her own feet to keep up. "I'm just...I'm thrilled to be working with
you, sir."

  He stopped in the corridor just outside the third door. There was no doubt about it. "You've read Scooter's damn book."

  For seventeen years, that book had been coming back to haunt him. Scoot had written his memoirs about his time in Nam. Who knew the monosyllabic, conversationally challenged SEAL was a budding Hemingway? But he'd written Laughing in the Face of Fire both eloquently and gracefully. It was one of the few books on Nam that Jake had actually almost liked—except for the fact that Scooter had made Jake out to be some kind of demigod.

  Zoe Lange had probably read the damn thing when she was twelve or thirteen—or at some other god-awful impressionable age—and no doubt had been carrying around some crazy idea of Lieutenant Jake Robinson, superhero, ever since.

  "Well, yeah, I've read it," she told him. "Of course I've read it." She was looking at him the way a ten-year-old boy would look at Mark McGwire or Danny Sosa.

  He hated it. Hero worship without a modicum of lust. What the hell had happened to him?

  He'd turned fifty, that's what. And children like Zoe Lange—who hadn't even been born during his first few tours in Vietnam—thought of him as someone's grandpa.

  "Scooter exaggerated," he said shortly, starting down the hall toward the elevators. He was mad at himself for giving a damn. So what if this girl didn't see him as a man? It was better that way, considering they were going to be working together, considering he was not interested in getting involved with her. ' 'Extensively.''

  "Even if only ten percent of the stories he told were true, you would still be a hero."

  "There's no such thing as a Vietnam war hero."

  "You don't really believe that."

  "Yeah? You can't be a hero alone in a room. You need the crowd. The ticker-tape parade. The gorgeous blonde rushing the convertible to kiss you silly. I know—I've seen pictures of U.S. soldiers coming home after the Second World War. They sure as hell didn't get egged by college students."