In the Weeds Page 8

  Ivy bit down on her tongue again. That was something else she’d forgotten about Colby, his infinite patience in teaching her how to make models actually look as good as the image on the box. He might tease, but he was smart as hell—even when he’d been lazy about everything else, his mind missed nothing. The details of that nine-inch model built across a couple of stormy afternoons had been cataloged neatly away until he needed it twenty years later.

  “I couldn’t figure out what was up. It looked incredibly close, but looked small at the same time like it was…” He tentatively stretched his arms out until his hands spanned four or five feet. “It still doesn’t make sense.”

  “An RC.” It was the only way that an F-14 could be that small but still have the level of detail Colby was describing.

  The general was now scowling at her.

  “Radio-controlled model—RC. Models come in all sizes. They sell kits that you can fly with a remote. Fly fast. Like a hundred miles an hour.”

  “Some pissed-off golfer with a toy took down one of my helicopters?” General Arnson’s scowl was gone—and had been replaced by a dark fury. “I almost lost five personnel and a helicopter, and scrapped a seventy-year safety record, because of a goddamn toy?”

  “Six personnel,” Colby corrected him, cool as could be.

  Ivy had been eyeing potential escape routes and wondering if there was a bomb shelter big enough to save her from one of the general’s rare but legendary explosions. But Colby was facing straight into the storm.

  “Six?” Arnson ground out.

  Colby pointed down at Rex, who looked up eagerly, knowing he was the sudden center of attention. Probably hoping for a treat.

  Instead of killing Colby on the spot with his bare hands, the general laughed (though it was a grim sound) and leaned down to pet Rex. “Six it is. Glad you made it too, boy.”

  The general raised a hand and a lieutenant appeared at his elbow.

  “Warn the dive teams. They’re looking for the remains of an F-14 model, one to two meters across. Get a team to shut down Hains Point Park and check every damn person for a radio controller or whatever the hell it is they use to fly those things. Tell them not to kill the bastard before I do.”

  “Yes, sir!” The lieutenant saluted.

  The general snarled at him, and the lieutenant broke into a run toward the hangar.

  In unison, the four of them moved forward to inspect the damage to the helicopter that had almost killed three of them.

  7

  Three hours later, they were little wiser.

  Approximately a third of a model F-14 lay spread across three tables in a hundred pieces. The transmitter had been destroyed, so there was no information to be gotten there. The kit manufacturer had confirmed that it sold a model with that serial number five years before. The Secret Service had a field agent at the purchaser’s doorstep within twenty minutes of obtaining his address. He had registered his kit to get the warranty, but sold it for cash at a RC fly-in last October because he’d upgraded to an F-22 Raptor.

  “I don’t know who he was. Just your average white kid with more money than sense. Said he’d never flown an RC, but wanted the F-14. Knew he’d crash it on its first flight, but he had the cash. Figured mine was the good side of a four-hundred-dollar lesson for the kid. Wish I’d kept it, though. F-14 was the last of the truly great pilots’ birds.” That had been in Ohio.

  The opinion of the Washington, DC, RC club president, that to fly the F-14 at full speed to impact a helicopter’s rear rotor was “a fine piece of flying,” almost got him beaten to a pulp by the Marine Corps forensic team. But the only F-14 model he knew about in the whole club was quickly accounted for.

  Ivy definitely considered tracking him down herself and offering him a lesson or two on tact.

  No radio controller had been located in the park. The plane could have been easily operated from a boat and the search was expanded to see if the controller had been dumped in the Potomac, but nothing had been found in the muddy depths.

  Now they were out of time and the Marines of HMX-1 were never late. A VH-60N White Hawk was prepped and waiting for them.

  As she’d grabbed the contents of their recovered go-bags from the big clothes dryer they kept in the hangar, General Arnson stalked up to Colby. She managed to blend into the background by sorting her dry clothes from Colby’s into their respective packs. It was a surprisingly intimate process, unwinding one of her bras from his briefs—he was a briefs man and she’d bet that he looked good in them. In just them. Whoa! Divert all power to the shields!

  It also helped that General Arnson’s whispers were at a level that most officers issued commands. “I got one word for you, Thompson: careful. Be careful that you don’t mess up my best officer and I won’t be forced to make sure you get demoted from dog handler to dogshit cleaner for the rest of your natural born life. We clear?”

  Colby had the good sense to reply, “Clear, sir.”

  Ivy had to puzzle at what the general was talking about as she handed over Colby’s packed bag and they moved toward the waiting White Hawk together. There was no doubt that the general was referring to her—though as his “best officer,” which was far more than he’d ever said to her face. If he’d meant it, the fact that he’d even said it made her feel as if she was in her dress blues again—with the sword this time.

  But how would Colby mess her up? Irritate her to death perhaps, but she was missing something. It bothered her that Colby appeared to have immediately understood what the general had meant.

  Colby settled into a seat—not the one with the President’s seal on it; actually he chose the one at the very rear of the aircraft—and told Rex he was a good boy. Ivy sat next to him in the much smaller helo for the flight from Anacostia over to Andrews Air Force Base. She’d forgotten that the White Hawk seats were narrower and they were practically rubbing shoulders. That, in turn, reminded her of something Colby had said just before they were separated by the debriefing teams.

  “You called me beautiful.”

  Colby burst out laughing loudly enough to attract the pilot’s attention from the duties of preparing for flight. “You always were a tenacious girl, Saint Ives.”

  “You paid me a compliment?”

  “Might have. Took you long enough to notice.”

  If Ivy was any less of a Marine, her jaw would be down.

  Colby Thompson had paid her a compliment? Several? At least two.

  He’d acknowledged that despite his Secret Service training, she was still probably the more capable fighter. Which was true, she was a Marine, but it was unexpected of him to admit it.

  And he’d called her beautiful.

  Not cute. Because of her size, she’d heard that enough to spit fire at any guy who said such a thing.

  But Colby had called her beautiful. Colby. Her.

  This was a time to speculate about the enemy’s intentions and to hell with McKinnon’s Laws.

  If Colby was just messing with her, she’d get him back but good. And why hadn’t she done just that? Well, of course I’m beautiful. But if you and your dog were in a pageant together, guess who’d win? Though Colby had grown up to become some serious eye candy and—

  She needed to make an appointment for a new brain—soon.

  Ivy jolted when the crew chief came aboard and slammed the double door shut. The rotors wound up and in moments they were headed aloft to Andrews Air Force Base.

  On the other hand:

  Query: What if Mr. Oh-I’m-so-cute-while-I-play-with-my-dog-on-the-helicopter had meant it? What if he’d actually meant his compliment?

  Query: What if his teasing joke about marrying her and naming all their kids Reggie hadn’t been completely a joke?

  Conclusion: Then she would have to kill him. Now would be the opportune moment. While she’d been thinking, they’d climbed up to a thousand feet over Maryland. Nobody would think anything of it if his body suddenly plummeted out of the sky. Crew Chief McShea was
a Marine—he’d cover for her. Though maybe not. Colby had done one of his everybody’s-friend things after their plunge in the Potomac.

  Secondary conclusion: It was the coward’s solution anyway, unbecoming of a Marine. No, if he actually had meant what he said, she’d kill him one-on-one with her bare hands, somewhere that she could hide the body. That would be far more fitting for someone like Colby Thompson.

  So, the Marine in her understood the situation.

  But the woman was just a little bit charmed by Colby Thompson calling her beautiful.

  8

  The C-5 Galaxy cargo jet boomed and echoed its way south along the East coast. He and Ivy weren’t the only ones aboard the massive plane. Three VH-60N White Hawks, including theirs, had been loaded aboard the Galaxy after having their rotor blades folded back along the tail. The vertical rear rotor also had to be folded down, but otherwise the massive jet swallowed the three helicopters whole. That hadn’t even begun to fill the cavernous interior. Their crews, plus a ground team with their service truck, plus seven vehicles for the Presidential Motorcade and all of their personnel were aboard as well.

  The upstairs seating, which spanned the rear third of the plane above the cargo deck, wasn’t even full. He could tell the old hands: most of them were asleep before takeoff. He’d heard that about the top soldiers—they could sleep anywhere. It was only the third flight of his life—one of his Georgia training trips, he’d gone by train—so there wasn’t a chance he was going to be sleeping anytime soon. He wished there were windows so that he could see, but there weren’t so he couldn’t.

  Pure willpower had fought off the intense wave of claustrophobia. That, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Ivy.

  Because of Rex, Colby and Ivy had claimed front row seats to get some extra foot space where Rex could lie down. Of course Rex was a dog, which meant he automatically filled every available inch. As a result he and Ivy had no room at all for their own feet. Their front row was actually at the very tail of the plane because all the seating was installed facing backward.

  “They put it this way so that our backs are padded for nose-first crash landings,” Ivy was smiling. Smiling!

  He had to assume it was a joke—hoped to hell it was.

  Then on takeoff someone whooped out, “Hey! A C-5 that’s actually working.” That earned laughter and catcalls from others.

  “Actually working?”

  Ivy leaned in close enough that her scent filled his brain and he could hardly understand her words as she spoke barely louder than the roar of the four massive engines. “The aircrews have nicknamed the Galaxy as FRED—short for Fucking Ridiculous Economic Disaster. C-5s aren’t exactly known for their maintenance and reliability record.”

  Just what he didn’t want to hear.

  Unable to stand it, as soon as they were at cruising altitude Colby unbuckled and descended the steep stairway into the cargo hold. An air pocket almost flipped him off the side of the ladder even though he was clutching both handrails. The South Lawn never did that to him, except when Ivy Hanson was walking across and sending her own shock waves into his world.

  No windows here either, but at least he could pace around the perimeter.

  The helos and other vehicles were chained down to the deck in a double file in the plane’s belly—as tightly packed as a Dupont Circle traffic jam. Down past the three Beasts—as the President’s limos were known. Up the other side past the Halfback, Watchtower, and Roadrunner SUVs—protection detail, electronic countermeasures, and the mobile communications platform that could be used to run a war if necessary. Last in the row was the elite counter-assault-team SUV codenamed Hawkeye Renegade. The CAT guys were sitting in the flip-down seats built into the plane’s side.

  No friendly waves and trades of dog sniffs. Just a terse nod, so expressionless that he didn’t know how to interpret it. They were close beside their vehicle and methodically stripping and cleaning their weapons. They looked more lethal than even the Delta Force snipers who manned the White House roof.

  Finally, he lapped around the three helicopters with their folded-up rotors and then once more past the Beasts.

  The earplugs made all but the simplest conversations impossible. He traded grunts and a wave with the CAT guys on his second lap. By the third lap they were ignoring him as a fixture of the flight. Maybe he’d just walk across the country, one plane length at a time.

  Near the end of his third lap, someone grabbed his arm.

  With little ceremony, he was shoved into one of the parked White Hawks. Unable to focus his eyes on the two facing armchairs to determine which was the President’s, he collapsed across the aisle onto the bench seat that ran the length of one side. Rex hopped up into the open space for the President’s legs. Ivy dropped into one of the armchairs, yanking the doors shut behind her.

  His dog was following her around—just goddamn perfect.

  She pulled her earplugs.

  He did the same. Because of its presidential sound insulation, the inside of the helo was blessedly, almost painfully quiet. His ears rang from the sudden silence after wading through the C-5’s roar.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Colby?”

  “Wrong with me? There’s nothing wrong with me. I’ve been on a plane twice in my life: for the flight down to the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Georgia and back. Twice. My entire life. It would have fit in this cargo hold. It was just a Boeing 737 so it probably would have fit with its wings still on. But that’s not the problem. That makes this all old hat to me. Did you know that the C-5’s hold is longer than the Wright Brothers entire first flight at Kitty Hawk? There’s something really unnatural about that, too—just saying. Though that isn’t my point either.”

  He wasn’t sure what his point was, but he couldn’t seem to stop ranting at Ivy.

  “This morning my life made sense. White House perimeter security. Lead Dog. Keeping it all safe. Now I’m bouncing around the country to protect a President I’ve never actually met. Rex trusts me, but who the hell am I supposed to trust?” He might have been shouting a little by the end of it. It was hard to tell.

  “This is only your third-ever flight? How did you get between states and countries in the past?” Like that was the important question.

  “I fucking walked, Hanson!” Now he was definitely shouting, but was helpless to do anything about it. “I’m not some ultra-decorated super-duper Marine Corps pilot genius who has flown all over the world, okay? I’m not used to sitting backward for when we come crashing down out of the sky.” That just had to be a joke. More likely no one survived if one of these monsters crashed. “I’m just a guy who’s been to Georgia a couple of times. What the hell are we flying toward?” He waved a hand toward the nose of the helicopter. “I don’t know! I’ve never been there! And what the hell am I supposed to be doing when I get there? I don’t know. I’ve never done this. You’re the big hot-shot liaison. Care to explain my job to me in some brilliantly anal retentive administrative detail? Huh? Huh? I’m just a high-paid dog handler. And you are so…” Shit! There was no safe way to finish that sentence as she watched him intently with those lovely blue eyes of hers. Watched him like a bomb with the timer fast running down to zero.

  “That’s the back of the plane. That’s the front,” she pointed toward the tail of the helicopter.

  Right. This helo had been loaded backward to save space, overlapping tails with the White Hawk parked in front of it. Crap! He didn’t even know which way he was going. He had to clench his jaw or he was going to be sick.

  “Who are you, Colby Thompson?” Like he was some sort of total loser.

  “Eat shit, Hanson!”

  Never in a hundred years would the Colby Thompson she knew have admitted a weakness. And whoever this man was sitting across from her, he had just told her he was terrified!

  Actually, Ivy had met so few men who would admit to feeling vulnerable—no matter how out of their depth they actually were—t
hat she couldn’t come up with a single name.

  “Colby?”

  “What?” He snapped out more sharply than his German shepherd.

  “You’re spooking your dog.” Rex was indeed looking at Colby with alarm written clear across his furry face.

  “Aw shit,” he knelt down on the carpet and grabbed Rex’s head, then rested his own forehead against the dog’s. “I’m sorry, boy. This isn’t about you. You’re doing great.” And he kept his forehead there until both he and the dog seemed calmer.

  Which was about the sweetest thing she’d ever seen. It felt as if she should look away because the moment was so private. But she couldn’t.

  After Colby returned to his seat, he rested his foot on Rex’s side. She was about to protest at how crass that was, using his dog as a footstool after the beautiful moment they’d just had, when Rex flopped on his back in the narrow aisle. Colby began rubbing his dog’s belly with his foot.

  Neither of their families had been dog people. By all rights they should have been, growing up in a kid-friendly neighborhood and having side-by-side cabins at the beach. But they hadn’t. Yet Colby had finally found something to care about. And he appeared to be a natural at it.

  Ivy wanted to slap herself. She needed to stop seeing Colby through the lens of the past. She didn’t know what Lead Dog really was, but if what he’d said was true and not just bragging, it meant that he’d become one of the very best at what he did. He was the guy the other Secret Service dog handlers came to with their problems.

  The past didn’t fit the present man at all.

  So, discard the past. Think of the man. Competent, but out past the stretch zone and into a hot-landing-zone type panic.

  “Colby—”