LITMIR.BIZ

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case go by on the shoulder of the enlisted man. “Tell Norton I’m going to kick his ass if he pulls a stunt like that again,” Mike called after the kid. The airman stepped up his pace and Mike had no doubt the message would be delivered to HCS-5 along with the B. Stefanouris. “So that’s how she did it.”

      “Which is beside the point. What the hell were you doing on S.C.I. to begin with? I told you to have your team stand down.”

      “We were standing down.”

      Despite Warren’s bluster, the admiral had been kept apprised of Mike’s whereabouts. And Mike had kept up with the more mundane tasks of being a Commanding Officer.

      “I know the demons driving you, Mac. Maybe you don’t want a break, but your men deserve one.”

      “I gave them the option. They volunteered for SCI.”

      Warren set down his drink. “With everything hanging over their heads right now, I guess I can’t blame them.”

      Mike scrubbed a weary hand over his face. “We lost two good men last time out. Then came home and—” he shook his head because he still couldn’t quite believe it “—now Nash is accused of killing his pregnant wife in some posttraumatic-stress-disorder episode.”

      “There was an eyewitness. The sister-in-law—”

      “Nash didn’t kill his wife.” Mike defended his men as hotly as they fought for him in battle. “But he’s being called a monster and looking at life from behind bars while his newborn son fights for his.”

      “Kenneth Nash had his day in court, Mac.”

      And thankfully still had a few appeals to run through. “Nash is—” Mike shrugged off the present tense he’d been about to use and replaced it with the past “—was one of the few married men on my team. The others are scared of the fear they see in their wives’ eyes. And the rest of us don’t even have that much to go home to.” Thank God. Mike swiveled to look at Warren. “Trust me to know what’s best for my team.” And right now that was keeping them busy.

      The eyewitness was wrong. Nash would have come to him if he’d thought he was losing it. Because of their ingrained buddy system, SEALs had a low rate of PTSD. They served as a team. They went into ops together and they came out together. Homecomings were quiet affairs, and while home they were each other’s support system.

      The other services were just now learning this.

      But what if Mike was wrong? What if Nash had lost it?

      Wasn’t he himself on edge? Feeling unsettled?

      “All right, Mac. You win. But since you can’t show up on time and without ants in your pants I’ve decided that instead of Team One, I’m sending your team to Nevada to work with the new Commander of HCS-9.”

      “Are you shittin’ me?”

      “You have a problem with that?”

      “Other than I’d rather donate another pint of blood to the Middle East, none at all.” Telling the admiral his problem with the Commander wasn’t an option. So he sucked it up and polished off his beer.

      Warren stirred his drink, clinking the ice against the glass. “You know her old man was a SEAL.”

      Mike nodded. Rosemary Stanton had said as much. She’d also told him her husband had died on a training op. After ’Nam. But that was all the information she’d volunteered. Maybe that was all she knew.

      Training op was often code for undisclosed mission. Like the Shadow War in Laos that started before and ended after Vietnam.

      It sure as hell wasn’t a two-week boondoggle in Nevada.

      “What was he like?”

      “Van Stanton?” The admiral looked thoughtful as he tapped into his memories. “Wide receiver for the U of Wisconsin-Oshkosh Titans. Nationally ranked player. Good, but not good enough. Instead of being drafted into the NFL he was drafted into the Navy. Though I don’t remember him as being the type to look back on what might have been.”

      “That wasn’t my question.”

      “He was a lot like you, Mac. One hundred and ten percent in the game. Whether that game was football or shadow ops.”

      Mike cursed under his breath. It wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear, but it was what he needed to know. He glanced across the bar and had to do a double take. Hannah was doling out cash to the bartender, probably for the case of B. Stefanouris.

      Calypso’s signature drink. She wanted rid of him that bad, huh? She caught sight of him and returned his bold stare. He raised his beer in salute. She nodded, but without that teasing light in her eyes he’d grown accustomed to seeing over the years. Was he responsible for putting that light out?

      Why had she wanted him in the first place?

      And why was he driving himself crazy wanting her? He’d been the one to walk, or rather run. Coward.

      Warren’s gaze followed. “Trust me to know what’s best for my Teams.” He threw Mike’s words back at him, emphasizing the plural. “You’re going to Nevada. Whatever’s between the two of you, get it worked out. You have two weeks.”

      Mike knew better than to argue with subtle suggestions that passed for bona fide orders. Warren whipped out his wallet and enough bills to cover the tab. “Do the right thing, Mac.”

      “PINCH ME so I know I’m not dreaming,” Sammy said.

      They’d arrived home that evening with a stack of calling cards. Hannah turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. “You’re dreaming.”

      “I don’t know. Mr. and Mrs. Spencer Holden has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Or is that Lieutenant and Mrs. Spencer Holden?”

      “Don’t start sending out the invitations just yet.” Sammy had managed to corner Spence. The pair had danced a couple of times. But she failed to acknowledge that he’d danced with every other female in the room. Except Hannah, who’d politely refused.

      “A girl can window-shop, can’t she?”

      Hannah flipped on the light switch in the entry hall. “That depends. For the dress or the man? With the right shoes a little black number can do wonders. But you don’t need a man to make you whole. You know that, don’t you?”

      “I may not need him, but I want him,” Sammy said, missing the point entirely. “Besides if he doesn’t want me, there’s always one of these guys.” She rattled off a couple names. Then stopped at one card. “That Marine, Hunter, wasn’t half-bad—he really stood out in a room full of sailors. And of course, Parish,” she said with a snort, having reached the bottom of the pile. “Did you notice his receding hairline? I give the guy ten years tops before he’s a total cue ball.”

      “Some men look good bald.”

      “He’s not one of them.”

      “Don’t go screwing with my XO’s head—” Hannah hung her purse on a peg near the door, but stopped in the middle of removing her jacket. The house remained unusually quiet except for the soft sound of someone crying.

      “Mom?” Hannah called out as she ran through the bare living room and up the stairs toward her own bedroom and the baby’s Portacrib. When she entered, Fallon was sound asleep. Her mother sat in a dark corner, rocking the single chair in the room and hugging the flag.

      Hannah knew those private tears too well. She wanted to tell her mother it was okay to cry. But she knew her mother wouldn’t think so.

      “Mom, it’s okay to talk about him.” I want to talk about him. “I know you must miss him.” I miss him, too.

      But I’m afraid I can’t remember him.

      Please, help me remember him.

      “I’m

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