Taking Fire Read online

  *

  Juba jungle, Somalia

  The tent flap twitched aside and Amina peered in. “A Skype request came through for you to call back soonest.”

  Rachel frowned, closed her laptop, and tucked it under her arm. She wasn’t scheduled to use the camp’s satellite hookup and wasn’t expecting any communication from Red Cross headquarters. She joined the dark-haired interpreter, who had started out as her liaison with the Somali Red Crescent Society and had soon become a friend, on the walk through camp to the base station. “Who was it, do you know?”

  “It was from America. A pleasant blond woman requested we have you call. She did not say why. Only that you’re to use official channels.”

  “Oh.” Rachel was glad the weak illumination from the solar lights strung at intervals along the perimeter of the encampment hid her blush. She hated having attention drawn to her special status, one she tried very hard to downplay if not erase. Blending in at the field outpost with Somalis from the Red Crescent Society, the multinational delegates from the Red Cross, and the French medical team from Doctors Without Borders would have been a lot simpler if she didn’t have special diplomatic status on top of being one of the few Americans. “I’m sorry I’ll be using up someone else’s airtime.”

  “No one here has anyone at home who can afford to have Internet, or if they do, they’re too busy to use it.”

  Amina’s smile lightened her voice, and the affection in her nut-brown eyes and the teasing expression on her elegant face showed even in the almost-dark. Rachel was thankful for the hundredth time she’d found a friend who didn’t care about her family or her status. “I thought you said your fiancé was a techie.”

  “He is, and he spends all his waking hours working with or playing on his computers—not Skyping me.”

  “Then he’s crazy.”

  Amina slipped her arm through Rachel’s. “Something tells me you could teach him how a betrothed should act.”

  Rachel laughed. Amina had been educated in England and was far worldlier than the other Somali women on the Red Crescent relief team, but she doubted Amina would have made the comment if she’d known Rachel’s preference for partners. The subject had never come up—why would it out here in the jungle where there were so many more important things to think about, like how to stem the measles epidemic that was devastating the nomadic populations, or how to get food and shelter to the displaced herders and farmers in the wake of the famine and devastation brought on by recent tropical storms, widespread flooding, and attacks from marauding rebels.

  Anyone’s sex life or, in her case, lack thereof, was way down on the list of pressing topics. When she and Amina spoke of personal things, she simply said she had no one waiting at home. Technically true. She doubted Christie was pining away and would have plenty of women to entertain her among her rich and powerful friends. Of course, to be fair, Rachel had told Christie not to wait for her, and although Christie had been gracious enough to protest, she was sure Christie had moved on as soon she’d left for Mogadishu. At least she hoped she had.

  If the circumstances had been reversed, Rachel would have done the same. She’d dated Christie Benedict exclusively for six months because she found Christie’s company preferable to the alternatives. Women who moved in her family’s circles—or more specifically her father’s—rapidly lost interest when they discovered she had no desire to swim in the shark-infested waters of Capitol Hill or, worse, pretended they didn’t care while subtly urging her to use her influence to further their personal agendas. At least Christie had her own access to influence and power. She was beautiful, cultured, and good in bed. She should have made a perfect partner, but even in their most intimate moments, Rachel never felt a spark. Not a flicker of true desire, let alone passion. She’d observed her parents’ perfectly serviceable marriage for twenty-five years—far longer than needed to recognize the signs of a union sealed not by love and passion, but by mutual convenience. Her father needed a wife to complete his image, and her mother needed a husband to fulfill her desire for family and status. They probably even loved each other, in some way, but not in the way she wanted for herself. Not with a fire that burned in their hearts. So leaving Christie had been easy and a secret relief. No doubt Christie felt the same.

  “I’m sure you can handle whatever lessons he might need,” Rachel said as they neared the headquarters tent, the largest in the encampment other than the huge hospital tent. The smaller two-person sleeping tents ringed the flat central area where they took their meals and met with villagers and nomads who ventured into the camp for medical care or other assistance. In recent weeks, the stream of Somalis in need of aid had grown into a river of sick, injured, and starving people.

  Amina sighed. “He does not like me doing this work, but I feel I must.” She swept an arm toward the dense jungle, rapidly darkening into a solid wall of blackness. Out there somewhere, thousands of men, women, and children were homeless without food or basic resources. “Who else will help them if not us?”

  “We’re here and we won’t leave them.” Rachel squeezed Amina’s arm. “When you tell him how bad it is out here and how important this work is, he’ll understand.”

  “I hope so.” In the light slanting through the netting covering the door of the tent, Amina’s face brightened. “But you’re right. We won’t abandon them.”

  “No,” Rachel said, lifting the netting aside, “we won’t.”

  “Do you want me to wait and walk back with you?” Amina asked.

  “No, I’m fine.” Rachel wasn’t worried about being alone in the camp—she knew all the team members, and despite constant reports of armed rebels in the surrounding jungle, none had ever been spotted by the guards posted around the encampment. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  “Good night then,” Amina said and slipped into the night.

  Rachel crossed the sparsely furnished sixty-foot square tent to the trio of folding tables that made up the communications center—a few laptop computers, a satellite radio hookup, a shortwave radio for communicating with the ATVs, and three metal camp chairs stationed in a snaggletoothed row. The sidewalls were high enough to accommodate her five feet ten inches without her having to stoop. Squares of netting formed windows at regular intervals and allowed enough air to circulate to counteract the faintly musty smell of well-used canvas. The chairs were empty, as was the rest of the admin center. She was likely the last one up and about other than the sentries on the perimeter and the medical personnel in the hospital tent. Someone was on duty there around the clock.

  Satisfied she was alone, Rachel settled onto a narrow metal chair, plugged her secure laptop into the outlet in the generator under the table, and connected to the sat line. The signal strength was good for once. Low cloud cover. She hurriedly brought up the scrambled video link and typed in her password.

  The screen flickered, and a few seconds later her father’s face rippled into view and settled into the familiar lines of his craggily handsome face, thick dark leonine hair, and bristling brows. He wasn’t at the office—no seal preceded his connection. That might not mean anything—he often called her at odd hours from some place he was traveling. She didn’t know his itinerary. Or he could be calling from an unofficial location because he didn’t want their conversation on record. She’d long ago ceased asking or wondering.

  “Rachel,” he said in his deep baritone.

  “Hi, Dad.” She hoped she didn’t sound as wary as she felt. A call from her father was rare. Usually any contact came from his assistant, and those messages were relayed through Red Cross headquarters in Geneva or the local counterpart in Mogadishu. In the two months she’d been in-country, she’d heard from him once. “Is Mother all right?”

  “Your mother is busy with a fundraiser at the museum at the moment and perfectly well. This concerns you, and I’ll be brief. I’d appreciate it if you’d hear me out before arguing.”

  Rachel’s chest tightened. So it would be
that way, would it? Her father preempting any discussion with an order. That used to work when she was fifteen, but she wasn’t fifteen any longer. They didn’t have much time for the call, and rather than protest and waste more of it, she just nodded.

  “Your location is no longer secure. A team is flying in to evacuate you before morning.”

  “What? What kind of team? From where?”

  Her father sighed audibly. “Navy personnel from Lemonnier. The details aren’t important.”

  Rachel stared at the image of her father, flattened and faded by distance and time. His eyes were still easy to read—hard and certain and unswayable. Some theorized he would be president one day. He would probably be tremendous in the role, but she didn’t even want to imagine what that would mean for her. “Why?”

  “That’s classified.”

  “I think you’re safe in telling me—I’m hardly a security risk out here.”

  His mouth thinned. “You are a security risk by virtue of who you are. I was against you taking a field assignment and this is why.”

  “You’re saying someone wants to kidnap me?” Her voice rose as incredulity won out over anger. She’d used her middle name as a surname in all her professional dealings since college just so she could avoid special treatment or the presumption of privilege. “Oh, come on. No one knows who I am, other than I have diplomatic status like half the other Americans on the continent.”

  “There are no secrets in our line of work, you should know that by now. If you were to be captured—” He shook his head as if annoyed he’d said too much. “There’s no point in having the discussion now. Just be ready at zero five hundred.”

  “What about my team—and the others? Are they—”

  “Plans are still being finalized, and until they are, any discussion with anyone could jeopardize everyone’s safety. You are not to disclose this information to anyone.”

  She glanced at the timer on the lower corner of the screen. Just over two minutes had elapsed. Much longer and they ran the risk of their transmission being picked up by someone randomly monitoring satellite feeds.

  “What do you mean no longer secure? What’s the emergency? I can’t just leave—”

  “This is not negotiable. Your safety comes first. Please don’t argue—the decision has been made. Just be ready. I’ll speak to you again when you’re in a secure location.”

  The screen went blank. Rachel could almost believe she’d imagined the conversation. She was on a humanitarian mission for the Red Cross—they were a neutral delegation protected by the internationally recognized agreements of the Geneva Conventions. She was safe, or as safe as anyone in the jungles of a nation that was ravaged by natural disaster and generations-long civil war could be.

  Her father couldn’t honestly believe she was just going to walk away from her responsibility and her colleagues because he ordered her to, and if he did, he was very wrong.

  Chapter Two

  The bird rocked as the concussive blasts from rocket fire buffeted them like leaves in a windstorm. Flaming red tongues cleaved the night. The air, heavy with soot, tasted of acid and gasoline and terror. The pilot nuanced the lift and thrust and kept the rotors spinning, and they descended through billowing clouds of greasy black smoke into chaos. The armored truck, once tan like the desert sand, lay on its side, a mangled mass of blackened metal half submerged in a huge crater in the center of a narrow dirt road that twisted into the barren mountainside.

  The Black Hawk lurched to the ground and wraithlike shapes raced out of the dark, faceless phantoms silhouetted against the pyre like refugees from a nightmare. Max jumped out and ran past the troops carrying wounded to the Black Hawk. She had to reach the truck, get to the survivors before snipers or fire beat her to them. Thunder roared and the earth shuddered. Max flew through the air and landed hard on her right side. Rocks and metal rained down on her. Head spinning, she picked herself up off the ground and stumbled across what was left of the road, tripping into holes and over smoldering bits of debris. Blood ran wet and warm down her cheek and she blinked the sweat and sticky fluid from her eyes. Automatically she felt for her first aid kit. The canvas IFAK still hugged her shoulders, although her numb hands could only register the bulk of it banging against her back as she half ran, half staggered toward the forms littering the ground around the burning truck.

  The thunder of the IEDs pounding against her eardrums slowly dwindled to a throbbing roar. Screams and shouts floated through her confused mind like words shouted underwater. Her legs wouldn’t move fast enough, her lungs burned from sucking in air so hot her nasal passages cracked and bled. Specters, their features obliterated by grime and blood and smoke, beckoned to her.

  Medic medic medic. Always the same. Medic medic medic.

  They needed her and she couldn’t reach them. Her leg plunged into a blast hole and she fell, pain lancing through her thigh. She caught herself on outstretched hands and muffled a moan. Her pain was nothing compared to theirs. She pulled herself free and tried to stand. Her leg buckled and she fell again. This time she couldn’t smother the cry of agony.

  No matter. Pain was her penance. They depended on her and she was too slow. She had to be strong. She dragged herself forward on her forearms, pushing with her uninjured leg, dragging the other.

  Up ahead, they were dying. Everywhere around her, they were dying. She wasn’t fast enough, she wasn’t strong enough, she wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t good enough. Another crack of thunder and the world exploded. Hell on earth had arrived.

  Max jerked awake in the dark. Breath rushed from her chest as if she’d been punched in the solar plexus. Her olive drab T-shirt clung to her torso, black with the sweat drenching her hair and body. Her fingers cramped, and she forced her fists to loosen their grip on the thin mattress under her. She mercilessly ordered her muscles to relax and ordered herself to lie still when all she wanted was to get up and run. She laughed, and the desperate sound echoed in the metal box like so many mocking voices. Run to where? There was no escaping her dreams. She’d tried tempting fate outside the wire, but exchanging one hell for another never worked.

  She was alive, and the price she paid was guilt. She didn’t need a shrink to tell her that. She pressed her thigh where shrapnel had penetrated when a buried IED exploded on a twisting road in Afghanistan. They’d dug it out in the field hospital, patched her up, and she’d gone back to her unit a few days later. A few inches higher, an inch to the left, and her femoral artery would have been severed and she would have bled out on the road like so many had done before her eyes. She had lived and the man next to her had died. The woman behind her had lost a leg. She descended into hell again and again to atone, but it was never enough.

  No matter what she did, no matter how hard she fought the images, struggled to deafen the screams resounding in her head, she couldn’t escape. She slid her hand under the mattress, found the smooth outline of the small flat glass bottle, and pulled it out. She unscrewed the cap with shaking fingers and took a swallow. The whiskey burned like the air that had scorched her lungs, but the fire in her belly promised to settle her nerves in a minute or two even if it didn’t cleanse her sins. She took another swallow, recapped the bottle, and pushed it back out of sight. She held up her wrist and read almost twenty hundred in the luminescent numbers on her watch. She was due for her last twenty-four-hour shift in another six hours.

  Even though the medevac callouts this far from the hot zones of Iraq and Afghanistan were far fewer than they had been, she couldn’t risk being less than 100 percent functional. Soldiers, marines, airmen, sailors, and allies still got injured and shot and blown up. She still had a job to do. She’d have to tough out the rest of the night without the momentary help of the whiskey.

  She curled on her side, drew her knees up, and closed her eyes. All she had to do was hang on for four more days and she’d be back at NYU, where even the most horrendous cases would seem simple compared to the inhuman carnage of war. She was alo
ne, and thankful no one had witnessed her nightmare. CC, a machinist specialist who shared her CLU, wouldn’t be back until after Max left for her shift. Sharing ten by thirty feet for months on end would be unimaginable to most people, but out here, these accommodations were among the best. They had a window air-conditioning unit, a partition between their sleeping areas, and mattresses that weren’t bug infested or grimy with filth. They had hot showers and decent food. She had it good.

  She and CC weren’t overly personal, but they shared more than either of them did with those they’d left behind. CC would keep Max’s secrets even if she knew, but Max guarded her privacy ferociously. Her demons were her own.

  A sharp rap sounded on the metal door of her CLU, and Max swung upright on the side of her cot.

  A voice called, “Commander de Milles?”

  “Yes.”

  “Captain Inouye wants you.”

  Max pushed her hands through her hair, found a plastic bottle of water and splashed some on her face and neck, and strode to the end of the container. She pulled the door open and stepped out onto the top of the two metal steps leading down to the ground. An ensign saluted and she returned the salute.

  “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. There’s a briefing at twenty thirty hours in the com center.”

  “Right,” Max said, her mouth suddenly as dry as if she were breathing burning air. Never talk about what might happen outside the wire. Never brag about the girl back home. Never count the days until end of tour.

  Anything could happen. Anything was about to.

  *

  Shivering with a ripple of anxiety, Rachel quickly skirted the two large fire pits in the center of the camp they kept burning day and night. They didn’t need the heat, not when the average temperature ranged above 100°F every day and didn’t fall much lower at night, but they conserved their propane for the generators by using the open fires to keep water boiling and coffee, endless coffee, constantly available. The dozen sleeping tents ringing the encampment, forming a barrier between the jungle and their living space, were dark except for one, where a dim light within silhouetted the hunched form of a man sitting on the side of his cot, perhaps reading or composing a letter. The canvas sides glowed like a giant jack-o’-lantern, and Rachel had the uncomfortable thought that the oblivious occupant made an easy target. Pushing the disquieting image firmly aside, she slipped inside the tent she shared with Amina as quietly as she could. Their days were long, starting before sunrise, and if that wasn’t exhausting enough, fighting dehydration was a never-ending battle. By suppertime, everyone was drained, mentally and physically, and bedtime came early. The first few nights after they’d arrived, everyone on the disaster recovery team had stayed up well past dark, sitting around the fires, getting to know one another, eager to undertake the challenge of their mission. After two months, faced with the endless deprivation of the Somalis caught in the crossfire of a war they did not understand or welcome, the diseases that had long been eradicated in more prosperous countries, and the seemingly endless task of restructuring a society devastated by enemies natural and manmade, their enthusiasm had transformed into weary but dogged determination. No one stayed up late imagining great victories. Everyone went to bed early to conserve their strength for another day in the endless battle.