Rogenna Brewer - The SEAL's Baby

Forget?

How could he when her last words to him played like the persistent rattle of urgent Intel coming over his headset? No regrets, McCaffrey.

He tossed the invitation to the trash before he conjured up images of soft curves and satin sheets to go along with the voices in his head. As he rounded his desk he dug out the invitation again. He didn’t know what to make of it.

Reservists were being called to active duty by the shipload. Hell, he’d spent the better part of the past twelve months in parts unknown, or at least unspoken. Doing the unspeakable. The Teams were recruiting young blood in record numbers and calling up reserve forces. Activated civilian-sailors were being deployed right along with regular Sea, Air and Land Special Ops. The same would be true for the Wings.

But Hannah? Commander, Helicopter Combat Support (Special) Squadron Nine?

Emphasis on Special Warfare.

A part of him, a very selfish part, was almost glad.

She’d be activated a year or two at least. Which meant they’d be working together, not just training together two weeks a year in the Nevada desert.

Of course that complicated matters. Because the smartest thing she’d ever done was kiss him goodbye.

He shuffled through the rest of his mail and messages while his brain tried to sort out the situation and put it in perspective. She’d be here. They’d be working together. Period.

Too bad that set his pulse into overdrive.

Testing the limits of his self-control, he slammed on the brakes by putting the emphasis back on work. He sat down at his desk, rolled his shoulder to ease the damage done by sleeping on the cold, hard ground, then turned his energies to putting Hannah out of his head.

While processing his mail, he stalled at a message from HCS-9. Had Hannah called after all? That was one possibility. Though in all likelihood, Loring, or someone from Loring’s office, had decided to follow up on the invitation. But Mike had Hannah on the brain and his mind held on to that one possibility.

He looked up from the slip of paper to stare at his Choker Whites still in the dry-cleaning bag hanging on the back of his office door. If he were looking for a sign, his Service Dress Whites would be it. Normally the uniform hung in the back of his closet, worn only on those rare occasions when he dressed to impress.

But he wasn’t looking for a sign.

Was he?

Shaking free of the notion, he reached for the routing envelope containing the daily SOPA messages and got back to work. The Senior Officer Present Afloat coordinated information among the tenant ship and shore commands in and around the San Diego area. The top message read:

CAPT JJ LORING, USN, WILL BE RELIEVED AS COMMANDER, HCS-9 BY LCDR HC STANTON, USNR, IN CHANGE OF COMMAND/RETIREMENT CEREMONIES 1000 25 JUL AT HANGAR 9 NASNI. ALL INTERESTED PERSONNEL AND THEIR SPOUSES ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO ATTEND. UNIFORM FOR ATTENDEES IS AS FOLLOWS: SERVICE DRESS WHITES. REQ SOPA ADMIN PASS TO ALL SHIP AND SHORE ACTIVITIES SAN DIEGO AREA.

The Commander, Naval Special Warfare Command had attached a hand written Post-it. “I’ll save you a seat.”

While not a direct order, one was implied—a sign Mike couldn’t ignore.

“Ah, hell.” He scrubbed a hand over his stubbled, grease-painted kisser. He’d just run out of excuses. Or found the excuse he was looking for.

There’d be no easy out. And no easy day. At least not today. Because today he’d come face-to-face with the woman he’d spent the past three hundred and sixty-five yesterdays trying to forget.

NAVAL AIR STATION NORTH ISLAND

Coronado, California

FROM THE BACK SEAT of her staff car, idling in a line of staff cars, Lieutenant Commander Hannah C. Stanton peeled back a white glove to check her watch. Resigned to her fate, she braced herself with a sigh. These things never started on time, or at least it seemed that way.

In the distance a gull soared above the fleet of gray ladies harbored in San Diego Bay. Following its flight out to sea, Hannah’s gaze drifted in the general direction of San Clemente Island. Once again, she found herself fiddling with the band of her Chase-Durer. She’d indulged after receiving orders to active duty. The jeweler’s Special Forces collection had prompted her to buy another as a gift.

Impulse control was not her strong suit. At least not when it came to jewelry stores and a certain SPECWAR Operator. But with a little luck and a lot of help from the helicopter pilots over at HCS-5, McCaffrey would be a no-show and the case of B. Stefanouris ouzo it cost her would be worth it.

Even though Commander, SEAL Team Eleven hadn’t bothered to RSVP, she couldn’t take the chance he’d come. He had a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Today’s Change of Command Ceremony qualified as both. And if anyone knew two wrongs didn’t make a right, she did.

Banishing McCaffrey from her mind almost as quickly as he’d vanished from her bed, she sat back and tried to relax. An impossible task with the Navy’s Social Usage And Protocol Handbook on the seat beside her. She’d read it cover to cover half a dozen times. For every rule there was an exception. For every exception there was an exception.

In this case she was the exception, a female commander in the male-dominated world of SPECWAR. One misstep and she’d embarrass her entire sex, not to mention her new command. All eyes were on her, waiting for her to stumble, if not flat out fall.

She shuddered as cold air blasted her from the vent. Despite the chill, her palms were sweating through her gloves. The enormity of the situation made her long for civilian life. She had to keep reminding herself she’d trained for this. Well, not this.

She’d trained to fly Seahawks, the Navy’s version of the Hawk Class helicopter, for Combat Search and Rescue and Special Warfare Combat Support. But CSAR and SPECWAR ops were a far cry from all this pomp and circumstance. Further still from her safe little niche in the civilian world. Of course how safe would she feel ignoring the danger to her country? She’d much rather be on the front lines doing her duty, and doing it well enough to bring one more soldier or sailor home.

The driver inched the car forward, then stopped. The door opened. The waiting officer offered his free arm while keeping his sword to his side with the other. She accepted with the lightest touch.

Primly keeping her knees together, she swung her legs around and stepped white heels to the curb in a ladylike gesture that did her mother and the Navy proud.

Almost.

“I can take it from here, Spence.” She dismissed her dashing co-pilot.

“Sure thing.” The younger man winked in understanding as he took a step back.

Billy Idol lyrics in her head, she looked over her own White Wedding—or the closest she’d ever come to the real thing—and hoped she wasn’t committing career suicide. “Calypso, what have you done?”

She’d been tagged Calypso—after the sea nymph—while still flying CH-46 Sea Knights off the aircraft carrier USS Enterprise. On her first SAR mission she’d saved half a dozen stranded Greek fishermen from their sinking boat. Despite the increasing risk from hazardous weather conditions she’d hoisted every last man and the ship’s mutt aboard the helicopter. The grateful sailors had toasted her with a bottle of ouzo they’d salvaged from the wreckage, convinced only one of the Titan’s own could have pulled off the stunt.

They didn’t know how right they were.

At least Calypso had forever replaced Bubbles, the name a less-than-PC instructor had cursed her with in flight school. She hated that it made her sound like a stripper. But more than that she hated that it called attention to her weakest area in training—water.