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Excerpt from No Rules of Engagement
by Tracey Richardson
 PART ONE
Kandahar, Afghanistan
CHAPTER ONE
Jesus, don’t tell me I’m going to die before I even get there!
The irony and terribleness of the thought both horrified and amused
Jillian Knight. It would be just her bad luck, she thought with
surprising detachment, to die in a plane crash before her first
experience with war and the people who called themselves warriors. To be
killed before learning their stories and training her camera on them,
her portfolio forever lacking the one thing any award-winning
photojournalist craved—a stint in a war zone.
The descent was so steep and sharp, she had the sensation of her lips
being pulled back to her ears. The skin of her cheeks hurt from the
force of such unforgiving gravity. The plane, a no-frills, cold and
noisy military transport, rattled in perfect synchronization with every
bone in her body as it pitched forward—a seeming nosedive straight into
the desert. There was no emotional detachment now as she prayed hard for
the rivets to hold just a little longer.
The young corporal beside her laughed like it was a joke, and she wanted to pound him with her fists.
“This is nothing,” he said, his nose twitching as though he could smell
her fear. But his words weren’t really meant to comfort. Her agitation
was just another opportunity for him to mock her. “You should have seen
how sharp the landings were before we realized the Taliban don’t have
proper surface to air missiles.” His laugh was evil. “Christ, your balls
would be around your ears.”
She tried to scowl in his direction, but the bump of the landing gave her a final, hard jolt. They’d made it.
“Welcome to Kandahar Air Field,” he mumbled sarcastically as they
unbuckled. She had already introduced herself to him as a
photojournalist—her first mistake—and from that moment on, he had
tormented her with his stories and bluster. “Just remember what I said.
If you hear the high-pitched whine of a rocket, hit the deck.”
“Thanks, but I’m not sure how much I’ll even be going off base,” she
answered, purposely vague. She would have to negotiate any forays off
base, and the prospect of venturing into unpredictably dangerous
territory alternately terrified and thrilled her.
“It’s called ‘outside the wire.’ And it doesn’t matter.” He winked, and
with his words her stomach dropped as if the plane were still in the
air.
The heat, when she finally exited the plane, hit her like a wall. It
sucked out her breath along with every drop of moisture in her body. She
would have cursed except she couldn’t muster the breath to do it. And
then she wanted to curse again at how unaffected the other dozen or so
civilians on the tarmac looked. Mark Kennedy, Jillian’s best friend from
her earliest memories and her trusted assistant, loosely slung his arm
around her shoulders. There was not a single concern showing on his
handsome, unshaven face, and for a moment it was as though they were
back in high school in Michigan, dissecting one of Mark’s football
games, him cocky and totally unconcerned, her fretting over the score or
a missed play. It was astonishing how little they’d changed in twenty
years.
“Relax,” he said indifferently. “We made it.”
“Yeah, but will we make it out?” Jillian brooded quietly. Being in
Afghanistan was a tremendous opportunity for her career. She just hoped
like hell it wouldn’t be her last.
“C’mon. It’s only two weeks, Jill.” He flashed her that toothy, boyish
smile that still made women swoon. Luckily, she was immune. “Besides,
we’re going to shoot the best damn photo essay on war doctors that
anyone’s ever done before. Period.”
“Yeah.” She nodded confidently. “We are.” He was right. There no longer
existed the mobile hospital units that had become popular in Korea and
World War II, where rough surgeries were performed practically right on
the battlefield. War was different now. Permanent base hospitals, with
their elaborate equipment and well-trained staff, provided the primary
treatment. Improved evacuation methods and the fact that there were
seldom “battlefronts” anymore had also changed the work of military
doctors. Jillian’s photo spread, she hoped, would show how much more
advanced war medicine had become and, by extension, how many more lives
were being saved because of it. She also hoped her photos would reveal
something of the true personalities of the doctors and nurses who were
sacrificing so much. They were among the unheralded heroes of war, and
it was time to shine a light on them.
A lieutenant was handing out flak jackets and Kevlar helmets to the
group, along with a stern lecture to wear them—often. As in all the
time. Which was probably good advice, she had to admit as she surveyed
her surroundings. The dusty steel, plywood and even canvas facilities
looked anything but protective. Everything looked flimsy, transient,
hastily constructed and extremely grimy. Her Gucci ankle boots were
already well coated in fine brown dust, which was not unexpected but did
annoy the hell out of her. Somewhere between London and Dubai her heavy
work boots had disappeared into the vortex of lost luggage.
“C’mon,” she said to Mark and fell in with the group. The lieutenant, a
stony-faced middle-aged man, shepherded them toward a large metal
hangar.
Conversing quietly among themselves, the new arrivals went where they
were told. The hangar, hollow and battle-scarred, echoed with their
footsteps and excited whispers. There were twisted bits of sheet metal
every few yards, and bullet holes pockmarked the walls like Swiss
cheese. Jillian wasn’t scared. Not really, and in fact she couldn’t wait
to start taking photos of her surroundings. Her photography had taken
her to many interesting corners of the world and had thrown her into
some dicey situations—a week with the leader of a drug cartel in
Colombia; a few days at one of Florida’s hard-bitten women’s prisons for
a photo essay on women behind bars; her award-winning piece on a
refugee camp in Darfur. It was the unexpected randomness of war,
however, that gave her a slightly sick feeling in the pit of her
stomach. Suicide bombers, improvised explosive devices, land mines,
rocket-propelled grenade attacks, snipers. An enemy you couldn’t see
before it was too late. You could be dead before you even knew what hit
you. That was some scary shit.
The lieutenant approached them. “I’ve got someone taking your equipment
to the hospital.” He glanced around, growing irritable. “Shit. I thought
someone was supposed to meet you here.”
Jill hadn’t been given many advance details of what to expect, other
than that she had pretty much been given wide-ranging permission to
interview and photograph the medical staff at the Multinational Medical
Unit, or “Role 3” hospital at the base. Anything beyond that, she would
have to negotiate herself.
The lieutenant briskly strode to a wall phone and barked into it. She hoped the official welcome wagon was friendlier.
“Someone from the hospital will be along to get you,” he said shortly. “You can wait here.”
The others began to drift away with their soldier escorts. They were new
civilian workers, a handful of print and television journalists, a
couple of government types. They were easy to figure out. The civilian
workers looked anxious, like they were starting their first day of
school. The journalists were trying to look cool, as though they weren’t
worried about anything, while the bureaucrats looked a little jumpy
and…soft. They’d been sitting behind desks too long, if the size of
their guts was any indication.
She wondered how she and Mark must appear to the others—probably like an
odd couple. Mark, the handsome, aging athlete, sandy-haired with the
slightly unkempt look and quick grin of a surfer and the air of someone
heading to the beach for the day. She, a little exotic looking, a little
tense and much too sophisticated for all this dust and the detritus of
war.
She thought of the old Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting
times.” This, for sure, would qualify. She couldn’t honestly say at the
moment whether such a fate was a blessing or a curse, but she had a
funny feeling the answer would become clear soon enough.
***
Colonel Ron Patterson sat back in his chair with his hands clasped
behind his head. He had the presumptuous look of someone who expected
nothing less than full capitulation, which, of course, he had every
right to expect. “It’s your lucky day, Major Sharp.”
Logan Sharp, one of a dozen doctors attached to the hospital of the MMU,
had the distinct feeling it would be anything but. “Sir?”
The colonel looked from her to Captain Meg Atwood, one of the hospital’s
best nurses and also Logan’s best friend. They’d arrived at KAF within
days of each other ten months ago, and the warm connection had been
immediate.
“You, too, Captain Atwood,” he added with a trace of sarcasm.
Oh, shit, thought Logan.
“Two weeks leave, sir?” Meg shot back. She was lucky she’d made it to
captain and would be even luckier if she held onto her rank. She
constantly courted the threat of demotion with her sassy comebacks and
her risky sexual exploits. She played dumb or careless about it, but
Logan cringed every time Meg brought negative attention to herself.
The colonel’s frown was so deep, Logan feared it might become permanent.
“Hardly,” he growled at Meg before his unwelcome attention shifted back
to Logan. “There’s a special photographer arriving later today. You may
have heard the rumors.”
Logan had, but she’d learned to discount rumors—particularly on a
military base of ten thousand people—until they became fact. “What’s
this about, sir?”
“She’s doing a photo spread on us for National Geographic. She and her
assistant will be here for two weeks, and I’ve elected you…and by
extension you”—he flicked a glance at Meg— “to keep them in your pocket
the entire time. They’ll be embedded with us.”
“Sir?” Great, Logan thought irritably, conjuring for herself a mental
image of someone constantly cramming a camera in her face and following
her every move like some eager and obnoxious puppy. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m serious.” His thick hands dropped heavily to his metal desktop. “Do you think you’d be here if I wasn’t?”
“No, sir.” She wanted to roll her eyes but knew Patterson would have her
head if she did. Not only was he in charge of running the hospital, he
was the only neurosurgeon on staff. Working with him was already
difficult at times. Pissing him off would make it just about impossible.
“What exactly would you like me to do, sir?”
“Babysit, for one thing. Work some public relations magic for another.
Christ, Major Sharp, make them feel important. Welcome. National
Geographic is great exposure for our unit, but I also want to make sure
they don’t get in our way, so you’ll need to manage them.”
Fuck. She went through med school and residency and had spent more than
three years in the military so she could babysit? Logan tried to rein in
her exasperation. She cleared her throat and said with all the
neutrality she could muster, “Wouldn’t you rather have Newman or Brown
front and center? Or even Thorson?” They were surgeons, while she,
Logan, was much lower on the food chain as an ER physician. Surgeons
would seem much more exotic, more exciting to an accomplished
photographer. And if it would get these pests out of her hair…
Patterson put a quick end to her diversion tactics. “Major Newman is as
cranky as a bear with a sore ass even on one of his good days.”
Meg let out a snort.
“Major Brown is absolutely phobic about any attention, and Captain
Thorson is too new here. So that brings me to you, Major Sharp.”
The handful of other doctors on base were all civilians, which meant she
was most definitely stuck. The chain of command would want someone in
the Forces keeping a close eye on any embedded journalists. Logan bit
her bottom lip until it stung and she stole a glance at Meg, who seemed
far too happy about it all. Meg was the one who should be squirming on
the hot seat, not Logan. Must be nice to have such a short memory, Meg.
“We want to put our best face forward with this. I don’t have to remind
you that support for the mission is flagging back home. I want someone
for this assignment who’s competent. And nice. Someone who won’t
embarrass us or make us look bad. And you, Major, are nice.”
He said it almost as if it were a bad thing, but she knew her superior had a quiet, if unspoken, respect for her.
“What about me?” Meg interrupted haughtily. Logan nearly fell off her chair at Meg’s brazenness—or stupidity.
The colonel scowled at her, which, of course, had zero effect on Meg.
“Don’t push your luck, Captain Atwood. Consider this assignment a little
test. You’ll be Major Sharp’s backup in the hand-holding department,
and this time you’re going to be a perfect angel.” He leaned menacingly
over his desk. “You fuck up and you’ll be cleaning bed pans for the rest
of your mission.”
Meg tried to look chastened, which was laughable to Logan. She knew Meg
wasn’t the least bit concerned. The military was Meg’s career, but she
was cocky because she knew there was always a shortage of nurses in the
regs.
“Look,” Patterson directed his words at Logan, softening his tone. “What
we do here is not just about the surgeries and all the glory stuff.
They want a full picture of the base hospital. I want you to give them
that, including taking them out to that polio clinic you’ve set up for
tomorrow. It’ll make for some great PR.”
“I can take them off the base, sir?” Logan was a little surprised. She knew the dangers well.
“At your discretion, Major.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
Patterson stood. “Go ahead and make their lodging arrangements and
collect their security passes. Then you can go and collect them. They
should be arriving any minute.” He pushed a few pages across the desk
toward her. “Here’s a debriefing on what they’re trying to accomplish
here, as well as what we want them to accomplish. As far as I can see,
they’re pretty much the same. Just make sure they stick to making us
look like saints.”
Logan stood too. “Yes, sir.” Saints? Okay, he was definitely kidding.
Meg slipped out the door, but the colonel held Logan back with his hand on her arm.
“Major, a word?”
“Of course.” Logan closed the door. They both remained standing, signaling the discussion would be brief.
“It’s about Captain Atwood.” The colonel spoke in low tones, as though
Meg might have her ear glued to the other side of the door, which Logan
actually wouldn’t put past her. “I don’t need to remind you what
happened the last time Atwood was assigned a civilian to keep under her
wing.”
Logan stilled herself, remaining calm. Goddammit, why did she have to
get swept into Meg’s messes? Logan swallowed, wishing not to remember
the minor calamity Meg had brought on herself by getting caught having
sex with a visiting Associated Press news reporter. “Yes, sir,” she said
plainly.
Patterson’s eyes were grave. “This is a little test for her—and for you,
too. Consider yourself not only the keeper of this photographer, but
Captain Atwood’s keeper as well. We’re a team in this hospital. And
we’re professionals. We cannot have Atwood continue to be a blight on
us, particularly where outsiders are concerned. You are to ensure that
doesn’t happen. Is that understood?”
Great, Logan thought. She’d tried to be a big sister to Meg or at least
the voice of reason to her reckless, often cavalier friend. Now she was
officially responsible for her for the remaining two months of their
tour.
Logan nodded curtly, saluted and nearly collided with Meg in the hall.
She frowned at Meg, still feeling pissy about her dual assignment, and
removed the green dress beret of the Canadian Army, tucking it safely
under her arm.
She’d put on her pale green, starched dress shirt and pressed forest
green slacks for the meeting with the colonel. Meg, as usual, was
wearing scrubs, but Logan was a stickler for protocol. Another obvious
difference between them.
“So, were you getting a pep talk from Patterson? Some secret assignment
I’m not ranked enough for?” Meg was grinning, but fishing nevertheless.
“Let me guess, I’m up for nurse of the month!”
Logan frowned, shook her head. She wanted to laugh but didn’t dare.
“Behave yourself, Atwood, and that’s an order.” Boy, is it ever. Logan
felt like adding “please” but didn’t. She didn’t want to be the heavy
with Meg and hoped it didn’t have to come to that.
“Anyway, I know I’m not as nice as you,” Meg said, thankfully moving the
conversation along. “But do you want me to pick these two up and give
them the ten cent tour of the base?”
“I’ll do it,” Logan answered wearily, the thin sheaf of papers from the colonel in her hand.
“Oh, come on, ya grouch.” Meg slapped her lightly on the shoulder. “It’s
kind of exciting, don’t you think? And it’s your big chance to get
famous, after all.”
Logan tried for a withering look. “I’m not looking to be famous. And neither should you.”
Meg grinned as they walked toward the staff lounge. “Being famous could have its upside. Think of all the women after you.”
Logan raised her head and gave her friend another scorching look. The
woman was incorrigible. “I’m not looking for that, either.”
“Your loss.”
Meg was always on the lookout for love—or its facsimile. A career
military nurse, she had been in a long-term relationship that broke up
just before she shipped out, and now she appeared to be making up for
lost time. She’d take it wherever and whenever she could, and not always
discreetly, even though she claimed she tried to be. By law, the
Canadian military wasn’t allowed to discriminate against gays any
longer. There was no “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. As a government
branch, the military was not allowed to deny gays and lesbians entry,
nor deny them promotions or any other rights on the job. In fact, they
had to pay benefits and pensions to their same-sex partners now, but it
didn’t mean they were about to throw them a tea dance. Meg flaunted her
sexuality, or maybe she just didn’t care, since it was her God-given
right, but the military was still a conservative, old-boys institution.
Logan was sensitive to that, along with the strict rules against
fraternizing with people below your rank. Following the written and
unwritten rules was her handy excuse to rebuff Meg’s offers of double
dates. That was easier than explaining that she just could not bring
herself to get involved in meaningless or transient relationships. She
was content with her life of celibacy, but explaining that to Meg would
be like speaking to her in a foreign language.
Logan thrust the papers at Meg. “Why don’t you read these to me while I get ready.”
Meg sighed unhappily but obeyed. The point of the photo essay, the brief
summary said, was to show the work of medical staff at a military base
in a combat zone. The photographer and her assistant had been given
carte blanche permission to stay at KAF for two weeks and to photograph
and write whatever they wanted. There was some fine print, of course,
about protecting the privacy of patients if they were NATO troops—they
would have to blur or crop their faces out if there was anything
graphic—and they had to obey the staff. “Hmm, the obeying part I like,”
Meg quipped.
Logan dialed in the combination of her locker and reached for her
sidearm. She didn’t wear it at the hospital, but the base rules dictated
that all soldiers must carry a weapon on base, and so she did whenever
she left the hospital, even if it was for a cup of coffee. Although she
was a physician by profession, to the military she was a soldier first.
“Anything else?”
“The photographer sounds interesting.” Meg, a few inches shorter, leered
up at Logan, who was snapping her holster onto her belt. “Jillian
Knight. She’s thirty-six, from Michigan. Graduated from Columbia
University. She won a Pulitzer Prize for a photo essay in Darfur three
years ago. It was for Newsweek.” Meg whistled. “She sounds impressive.”
Logan attached her pager to her belt as well. “The name or her
credentials don’t mean squat to me.” She hadn’t expected them to. She
paid little attention to photo essays in glossy magazines. She read
newspapers and books religiously, as well as the never-ending pile of
medical journals that crammed her mail every week. If she had ever
happened to notice a really good photo, she couldn’t remember ever
looking to see who’d taken it.
Meg’s eyebrows shot up suggestively. “Well, with luck, she’ll be good looking at least.”
“Atwood, you’re impossible.” Logan sighed, full of pretend contempt. She
wasn’t truly annoyed; she found Meg amusing and refreshing. They were
opposites in so many ways—Meg the extrovert with a devil-may-care
attitude and a biting wit, Logan much more careful and reserved. Meg was
extremely loyal, though, and a damned good nurse. Logan was grateful
for their friendship. If only Meg would behave for the rest of their
tour, it would make life easier for both of them. She would need to have
a serious chat with Meg—again. She couldn’t begin to count the friendly
warnings and advice she’d already given her to be more careful, to not
draw such attention to herself, but this time she would need to put more
weight behind it. There was just no time to do it right now.
Logan closed her locker before claiming a set of keys for one of the
Jeeps at their disposal. “I could care less what she looks like, as long
as she doesn’t drive us all nuts.”
“You don’t fool me, Major Perfect. You can’t tell me you don’t want
someone good to look at around here—besides me, of course. Fresh eye
candy would be a godsend right about now.”
Logan shook her head, but a smile inevitably escaped. “I’d be immune to it anyway.”
“I know. You’d do well to take a page out of my book once in awhile.”
“Or not. So what’s the assistant’s name? Let’s not leave him out of the admiration society.”
“Oh, Logan.” Meg pinched her cheek affectionately. “You are so damned
nice. Always thinking about others. Were you class president or
something?”
“Shut up, Atwood.”
Meg laughed, calling out as Logan strode off, “Mark Kennedy is his name.”
Logan waved without turning around. “Go pick up their security passes for me, would you?”
***
With one look, Jillian knew the young officer was a major. There were
three bars on her epaulets—the two outside ones wide, the middle one
narrow. Jillian had memorized the rank insignia of both American and
Canadian military personnel, since the base was filled with both, with a
smattering of Dutch, Australian and British troops thrown in. The
Canadians actually ran the hospital, and so she noticed right away the
small red maple leaf embroidered on the shoulders of the major’s crisp
dress shirt.
The major leapt out of the open Jeep and strode briskly to them, looking
neat and fresh, a miracle in this heat. She stuck out her hand after
succinctly introducing herself as Major Logan Sharp. She handed them
their security passes and a little handbook that probably spelled out
the house rules in agonizing detail.
“We get a major as our tour guide?” Mark blurted out. “Cool.”
A tiny frown was there and gone in an instant. The major’s face was
unreadable as she replied, “Tour guide, assistant and keeper, all in
one. I’m also one of the physicians at the hospital here.”
Relief swept through Jillian. She was glad they hadn’t been stuck with a
low ranker—someone with no influence or power and whose head she would
have to constantly go over if she wanted something. Having a senior
officer assigned to her meant the powers-that-be had taken her
assignment seriously. “It’s a pleasure, Major Sharp. I’m Jillian Knight
and this is Mark Kennedy. By the way, do we refer to you as Doctor or
Major?”
Major Sharp smiled dutifully. She certainly had politeness down to a
science. “My pleasure as well, Ms. Knight. The protocol goes either way,
Major or Doctor.” She studied Jillian and Mark, her expression still
perfectly blank, and it occurred to Jillian just how good these military
types were at masking emotion. “By the end of your stay you might even
be calling me Logan. We’ll see how it goes.” She narrowed her eyes a
little, and Jillian guessed it was an attempt to be a little playful,
but she couldn’t be sure. Perhaps she was even daring them to ingratiate
themselves. We’ll see about that, Major Logan Sharp.
Jillian flashed a smile perfected in the course of cajoling her subjects
into all sorts of poses and levels of cooperation over the years. More
than that, enticing them to be open and candid with her. She had melted
much tougher customers than this one. “I’m sure you’ll find us nothing
but cooperative. We want this assignment to really be something
special.” She shot a look at Mark that told him he’d better not make her
eat her words. “Right, Mark?”
“Wouldn’t dream of anything else,” Mark answered automatically.
“Would you care for a tour?”
“Do you have the time?” Jill asked eagerly.
“Sure.” The major’s hazel eyes held no hint of artificiality, and Jill
decided she was a straight shooter—that she could be trusted and would
be honest with them. The gods are on my side here, Jillian thought with
bemusement.
“That sounds perfect, Major Sharp.” Jill decided to use military rank.
Since they were on a base, she would be addressing people by their ranks
for the next two weeks. She might as well get used to it.
Mark tossed the backpacks they’d brought with them into the back of the
Jeep and vaulted into the back seat. Jill climbed in beside the major,
the tiny effort making her sweat more in the crushing heat. Jesus. How
do people here stand it?
“I’m sorry, Major.” Jillian couldn’t help the whiney tone in her voice.
“But this body armor makes it ridiculously hot. Do we really need to
wear it?”
Logan smirked. “You should see it in July around here. It gets past sixty in the day. Even the nights are well above thirty.”
Jill struggled with the mental calculation. Logan, a Canadian, was using
Celsius, and Jill’s metric skills were almost non-existent. If sixty
were hotter than this, she concluded, it must be extremely hot. In which
case, she was very glad it was March and not July.
“Sorry,” the major apologized. “That means about a hundred and forty in Farenheit.”
It was marvelous how Logan Sharp seemed to read exactly what was going
through her mind. Jillian indulged in the fantasy of getting answers
before she even had to pose the questions. Talk about a journalist’s
dream!
“And to answer your question, yes. You need to wear that armor whenever you’re wandering around out here.”
“But you’re not,” Mark noted as the Jeep lurched ahead.
“You’re right, I’m not, Mr. Kennedy.” She gave Jill a sideways glance.
There was surprisingly no air of superiority in her look or her voice.
“When I signed my name on my induction papers almost four years ago, I
consented to these risks. You did not.”
Jillian gave a nod of agreement before checking on Mark, who sat hunched
in the back seat. His defiance was gone—for now. He wasn’t exactly an
angel when it came to respecting authority, and Jill wanted to chuckle.
At KAF, they were absolutely surrounded by authority figures, and their
freedom would be tightly controlled. They were chattels of the military
now, and they would play by their rules, whether they liked it or not.
Major Sharp was probably being nicer about it than she needed to be.
There was gravel and sand everywhere on the flat, endless surface that
was the base. There were mountains in the distance—big, brown, majestic
ones and smaller ones, too, that seemed to sprout out of nowhere. But
the immediate landscape was dotted with rows and rows of ugly
buildings—domed tented ones, others that looked like giant sheds made of
sheet metal, shipping containers, even a few concrete block ones.
Major Sharp pointed to one of the squat, cement buildings. “That’s a
bunker. There’s some every few hundred yards. If you hear a warning
siren, get into one of those as fast as you can.”
“Does it happen often?” Jill swallowed. “The sirens?” What she really meant was attacks.
“Not really. A few times a week.”
The answer was as casual as if Jillian had asked what time dinner was
served, but Logan’s indifference was hardly reassuring. A few times a
week was a few times too many.
“Don’t worry,” Logan added with an enigmatic smile. “They’re usually pretty tame.”
Mark grunted in disbelief in the back seat, and Jill could tell he was
no longer in a buoyant mood about being here. The Boy Scout adventure
had worn off—at least for now.
“How long has this been your home, Major Sharp?” Jillian needed to change the subject.
“Ten months so far.”
That was a long time to live in such ugly surroundings. The absence of
beauty surprised Jill. There were few trees, almost no greenery, no
natural bodies of water. She knew from what she’d read that not all of
Afghanistan was like this, but the base certainly was. Perhaps, she
thought, studying Logan’s profile, the people here were too busy to
notice. They were here to work, after all, and the military didn’t like
distractions. “How much longer are you here?”
Logan smiled fully, and Jillian decided she was both pretty and handsome
in an androgynous way—strong jawed and straight nosed, but with very
much a feminine, sensuous mouth. She had a great face as a photo subject
with those strong, symmetrical lines. Her hair was short and wavy,
light brown. Her eyes were certainly to die for—alternately green and
foggy grey, and Jillian was sure the young major had a full stable of
admiring men…or women.
“Just a couple more months unless I decide to extend it,” Logan
answered. “Most of the Canadian troops are here for six-month rotations,
but at the MMU, it can be anywhere from three months to eighteen
months. My tour right now is for a year.”
Jill turned away from the cloud of dust kicked up by a passing dump
truck. There were loud, smelly, diesel-powered vehicles
everywhere—tractors, front-end loaders, trucks of all types. She
wondered how Logan truly felt about being here so long—the spartan
surroundings, the noise and stink and dust, the threat of attacks, and,
she knew from all she’d read, the too-frequent casualties, both military
and civilian. Maybe, she thought, studying Logan’s profile again, she
would tell her about it some time. But then again, Logan looked a little
on the hard-core military side, with her emotions firmly in check and
her rules unbendable. Jillian would need to gain her trust if she
expected her to reveal much of herself.
“That’s our famous boardwalk.” Logan pointed to a long, U-shaped covered
boardwalk that ringed what looked like a hockey rink, complete with
boards and lights.
Mark perked up immediately. “Is that a hockey rink?”
Logan laughed. “Yes. It’s perfect that it’s right in front of the Canadian compound. It was all our doing, of course.”
Mark beamed, barely able to contain himself. “Do you play, Major?”
“Every chance I can.”
Mark gave Jillian a playful tap on the shoulder. “A woman after my own heart. I like it.”
Logan stopped the Jeep but made no move to get out. “Later, you can
check these places out on your own. But on the boardwalk you’ll find a
pizza joint, a couple of coffee shops, a general store, that kind of
thing. There’s even a sit-down restaurant.”
“Do we eat at the restaurant or with you guys?” Mark asked.
“You can eat here if you want, but as our guests, you have full access to our dining hall. The DFAC is just ahead.”
“DFAC?” Jillian asked, her stomach twisting at the prospect of eating institutional food for the next two weeks.
“Dining facility,” Logan answered patiently. “The food’s actually quite good.”
Jillian smiled her response. There she goes again, reading my mind.
“Is it all you can eat?” Mark asked enthusiastically, his thoughts clearly on his stomach.
“Pretty much, yeah, but you’ll have to fight your way through a line of some very hungry soldiers.”
Mark grinned, his cocky self again. “I’ve played a lot of football and hockey. I can take care of myself.”
Jillian rolled her eyes. She didn’t doubt that within a day or two Mark
would be hanging out with the soldiers, swapping sports stories, talking
about what was going on back home, acting like one of them with all his
swagger and easy humor. He was a guy’s guy, in spite of his long and
intense friendship with Jillian. They’d dated centuries ago, when they
were teenagers, before drifting naturally into friendship. They were far
better friends than lovers.
An explosion, somewhere distant, rang out, followed closely by the piercing wail of the warning siren.
“Ah, shit,” Logan yelled. “Let’s get to that bunker. Follow me.”
She burst out of the Jeep, head down, and dashed off toward one of the
squat, concrete structures a few dozen yards away. Mark easily kept up,
but Jillian struggled a little. She was fit, but she was no athlete.
Just then, a rocket whistled overhead, a short, thin stream of red light
trailing behind it. It was all the incentive Jillian needed to move
faster than she ever had in her life. She heard herself yelling “fuck”
over and over, like a prayer or mantra. It was amusing, she thought a
moment later as she sat breathless in the shelter, how she’d recognized
instantly they were under attack by a rocket launcher, even though she’d
never experienced anything like it before. It reminded her of the time
she’d gotten caught in an earthquake in Central America. She had known
immediately and with helpless clarity exactly what the noise and shaking
meant. It was as though the body was keenly attuned to identifying
immediate physical threats, even without prior experience.
“Hear that?” Logan asked.
Jillian heard the rhythmic thwacking of helicopter blades in the distance.
“That’s the Apaches going out to have a look. They’ll be back in a few minutes, and then we’ll get the all-clear.”
“Do you get used to them?” Jill asked, her heart rate finally returning to normal.
“The attacks? No. You don’t ever want to get used to them,” Logan
answered coolly, and Jillian knew immediately what she meant. Taking
your safety for granted here could get you killed in one hell of a
hurry. But the major seemed so calm, as though she fully expected
everything to turn out just fine. Maybe that’s the key to staying sane.
Be ready, expect its inevitability, but trust you will be okay.
Mark was sitting so close to Jillian, their shoulders touched.
“This place reminds me of that old tree house in my neighbor’s backyard.
Where we first fooled around, remember, Jillsy?” He bumped her
playfully.
Oh, God. Jillian felt her cheeks grow warm with embarrassment. He always
did this sort of branding thing when he felt there was competition.
He’d done it with Steph, too, when she and Steph had first got together.
It was his way of intimating that they had a long and unbreakable
bond—that he was important in her life. That they had history. Her more
cynical side knew it was also his little way of trying to control her,
protect her, even though he knew damned well she could take care of
herself. That he would do this little act in front of Logan Sharp, whom
they barely knew, bewildered her. She raised her eyes to Logan, who held
her gaze with a curious, mildly amused look. She is wondering just what
the hell we are to each other, Jillian realized, and it gave her a tiny
and inexplicable flicker of excitement.
Jillian turned to Mark with a piercing glare. “It’s also where I popped
you in the nose when you tried to go too far. Remember that, Markie?”
“Yeah,” Mark muttered, unconsciously rubbing his nose.
She noticed Logan’s eyes drop to her ring finger in the quickest of
glances, and Jillian suppressed the surprising sensation of wanting to
explain. Christ, she must think I’m married to Mark. Not that it would
be an unreasonable assumption under the circumstances, but she wanted
Logan to know her companion was a woman, that the gold band on her
finger didn’t mean she was married to a man. Jillian was a private
person, but explaining her situation to Logan mattered for a reason she
couldn’t name. The compulsion made no sense, so she resisted.
“Is the hospital ever attacked?” Jillian decided to change the topic.
“Occasionally. Not often.”
“What do you do with the patients?”
“Are you interviewing me, Ms. Knight?” Logan asked mildly, the smallest hint of a smile at the corner of her lips.
“Not at all,” Jillian answered smoothly. She wanted to avoid official
interviews as much as possible, especially early on. She still needed to
get her bearings, to get a feel for the people who would be her
subjects. She knew instinctively that Logan would never be completely
comfortable with her if she thought she was always on the record. “Just
curious, that’s all.”
“It is mostly a photo essay you’re doing, right?”
“I’ll write a few hundred words to accompany the photos. Nothing major,
but I will be interviewing you at some point. Will that be a problem?”
Jill hoped Logan wouldn’t start getting nervous and clam up on her.
Cultivating cooperation would take precious time and effort away from
her photography.
“No, but I expect you to tell me when we’re on the record.”
“Of course, Major Sharp.”
“Thank you.” Logan pointedly studied Mark. “What is your role here, Mr. Kennedy?”
There was the barest hint of a challenge in her tone, and Jillian
cringed, hoping Mark didn’t pick up on it. He was a little sensitive
about Jillian’s accomplishments. He was a news photographer, too, but
far less successful than she was. He was good, but he was not at her
level. And while they’d worked past much of this years ago, she knew his
pride still stung sometimes over being her assistant.
“Well,” Mark said, a touch contemptuously. “I’m her pack mule, gopher,
secretary, good luck charm and bodyguard.” He was purposely being a
prick, marking his territory like a dog.
Crap. If these two were going to be like oil and water, she’d have to
play mediator and be a buffer—again more precious time away from her
work.
Logan stared at him for a long moment with her own brand of
intimidation, then broke into a slow smile that would have melted the
toughest foe. “I could sure use one of those. What are you doing when
she doesn’t need you?”
Jillian felt Mark relax beside her. Thank you, Lord.
“I’m always open to offers,” he supplied quickly, and that pivotal
moment of whether the three could work together or not had passed. For
now.
The all-clear siren pierced the air.
“I’ll let you two do some more exploring of the base later,” the major said. “You’re probably exhausted anyway.”
That was an understatement. First they’d flown from Detroit to Heathrow
and then to Dubai before catching a military transport to Kandahar.
Jillian could use a long nap, but she was also anxious to get a feel for
the base. The sooner she did that, the sooner she could get to work.
“I am pretty tired, Major, but I would love a quick tour of the hospital.”
Logan slipped her beret back on. Jillian hadn’t noticed her slip it off.
Perhaps on the run to the shelter? “You’re sure you’re up to it?”
Jillian glanced briefly at Mark before agreeing to it.
“I’m game for it,” he added. “Besides, I’m starving more than I am tired. When do we eat?”
Logan shook her head and smiled. “Let’s check out the hospital, then
I’ll show you where you’ll be lodged. Then we can have dinner.”
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