Alpha Squad. Suzanne Brockmann
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came up.
The truth was, Joe had been lucky—he’d never fallen in love. And he was hoping his luck would hold. It would be just fine with him if he went through life without that particular experience, thank you very much.
Joe pushed the top off the cooler with one bare toe. He reached into the icy water to pull out a beer, then froze.
He straightened, ears straining, eyes scanning the horizon to the east.
Then he heard it again.
The sound of a distant chopper. He shaded his eyes, looking out toward the California coastline, to where the sound was coming from.
Silently, Harvard and Blue got to their feet, moving to stand next to him. Silently, Harvard handed Joe the binoculars that had been stowed in one of the equipment lockers.
One swift turn of the dial brought the powerful lenses into focus.
The chopper was only a small black dot, but it was growing larger with each passing second. It was undeniably heading directly toward them.
“You guys wearing your pagers?” Joe asked, breaking the silence. He’d taken his own beeper off after it—and he—had gotten doused by a pailful of bait and briny seawater.
Harvard nodded. “Yes, sir.” He glanced down at the beeper he wore attached to his belt. “But I’m clear.”
“Mine didn’t go off, either, Cat,” Blue said.
In the binoculars, the black dot took on a distinct outline. It was an army bird, a Black Hawk, UH-60A. Its cruising speed was about one hundred and seventy miles per hour. It was closing in on them, and fast.
“Either of you in any trouble I should know about?” Joe asked.
“No, sir,” Harvard said.
“Negative.” Blue glanced at Joe. “How ’bout you, Lieutenant?”
Joe shook his head, still watching the helicopter through the binoculars.
“This is weird,” Harvard said. “What kind of hurry are they in, they can’t page us and have us motor back to the harbor?”
“One damn big hurry,” Joe said. God, that Black Hawk could really move. He pulled the binoculars away from his face as the chopper continued to grow larger.
“It’s not World War Three,” Blue commented, his troubles with Jenny Lee temporarily forgotten. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the approaching helicopter. “If it was World War Three, they wouldn’t waste a Hawk on three lousy SEALs.”
The chopper circled and then hovered directly above them. The sound of the blades was deafening, and the force of the wind made the little boat pitch and toss. All three men grabbed the railing to keep their footing.
Then a scaling rope was thrown out the open door of the helicopter’s cabin. It, too, swayed in the wind from the chopper blades, smacking Joe directly in the chest.
“Lieutenant Joseph P. Catalanotto,” a distorted voice announced over a loudspeaker. “Your shore leave is over.”
Veronica St. John went into her hotel suite, then leaned wearily back against the closed door.
It was only nine o’clock—early by diplomatic standards. In fact, if things had gone according to schedule today, she would still have been at a reception for Prince Tedric over at the Ustanzian Embassy. But things had gone very much not according to schedule, starting with the assassination attempt at the airport.
She’d gotten a call from the president of the United States, officially thanking her, on behalf of the American people, for saving Prince Tedric’s life. She hadn’t expected that. Too bad. If she’d been expecting the man in the White House to call, she might have been prepared to ask for his assistance in locating the personnel records of this mysterious navy lieutenant who looked so much like the crown prince of Ustanzia.
Nobody, repeat nobody she had spoken to had been able to help her find the files she wanted. The Department of Defense sent her to the Navy. The Navy representatives told her that all SEAL records were in the Special Operations Division. The clerk from Special Operations was as clandestine and unhelpful as James Bond’s personal assistant might have been. The woman wouldn’t even verify that Joseph Catalanotto existed, let alone if the man’s personnel files were in the U.S. Special Operations Office.
Frustrated, Veronica had gone back to Senator McKinley, hoping that he could use his clout to get a fax of Catalanotto’s files. But even the powerful senator was told that, for security reasons, personnel records for Navy SEALs were never, repeat never, sent via facsimile. It had been a major feat just getting them to fax a picture of the lieutenant. If McKinley wanted to see Joseph P. Catalanotto’s personnel file, he would need to make a formal request, in writing. After the request was received, it would take a mandatory three days for the files to be censored for his—and Ms. St. John’s—level of clearance.
Three days.
Veronica wasn’t looking to find Lieutenant Catalanotto’s deepest, darkest military secrets. All she wanted to know was where the man came from—in which part of the country he’d grown up. She wanted to know his family background, his level of education, his IQ scores and the results of personality and psychological tests done by the armed forces.
She wanted to know, quite frankly, how big an obstacle this Navy SEAL himself was going to be in getting the job done.
So far, she only knew his name, that he looked like a rougher, wilder version of Tedric Cortere, that his shoulders were very broad, that he carried an M60 machine gun as if it were a large loaf of bread, and that he had a nice smile.
She didn’t have a clue as to whether she’d be able to fool the American public into thinking he was a European prince. Until she met this man, she couldn’t even guess how much work transforming him was going to take. It would be better to try not to think about it.
But if she didn’t think about this job looming over her, she would end up thinking about the girl at Saint Mary’s Hospital, a little girl named Cindy who had sent the prince a letter nearly four months ago—a letter Veronica had fished out of Tedric’s royal wastebasket. In the letter, Cindy—barely even ten years old—had told Prince Tedric that she’d heard he was planning a trip to the United States. She had asked him, if he was going to be in the Washington, D.C., area, to please come and visit her since she was not able to come to see him.
Veronica had ended up going above the prince—directly to King Derrick—and had gotten the visit to Saint Mary’s on the official tour calendar.
But now what?
The entire tour would have to be rescheduled and re-planned, and Saint Mary’s and little Cindy were likely to fall, ignored, between the cracks.
Veronica smiled tightly. Not if she had anything to say about it.
With a sigh, she kicked off her shoes.
Lord, but she ached.
Tackling royalty could really wear a person out, she thought, allowing herself a rueful smile. After the assassination attempt, she had run on sheer adrenaline for about six hours straight. After that had worn off, she’d kept herself fueled with coffee—hot, black and strong.
Right now what she needed was a shower and a two-hour nap.
She pulled her nightgown and robe out of the suitcase that she hadn’t yet found time to unpack, and tossed them onto the bed as she all but staggered into the bathroom. She closed the door and turned on the shower as she peeled off her suit and the cream-colored blouse she wore underneath. She put a hole in her hose as she took them off, and threw them directly into the wastebasket. It had been a bona fide two-pairs-of-panty-hose day. Her first pair, the ones she’d been wearing at the airport, had been totally destroyed.
Veronica washed herself quickly, knowing that every minute she spent in the shower was a minute less that she’d be able to