LITMIR.BIZ

      January 7: 1615

      “You need me!”

      Morgan Trayhern halted instantly as the woman’s strident cry rang throughout the passageway where he’d been walking. Scowling, he turned around, a sheaf of papers in his hand. At the other end of the hall, where two marine guards were posted, a tall, slim woman stood. Her hair, an ebony color with blue highlights, hung around her proud shoulders. Everything about her shouted patrician, from her oval face to her fine, thin Roman nose, high cheekbones and narrowed gray eyes. The look on her face was one of pure frustration as she stood, her hands set defiantly on her hips, confronting the tense sentries. The OOD, Lieutenant Ted Monroe, stood behind the two sentries. He was a shavetail lieutenant, having just recently joined the corps. His square face was as purple as a plum and his large hands were set arrogantly on his own hips. The two guards had their rifles up across their chests, as if warning the woman not to come a step closer, Morgan noted.

      The air seemed to snap and shiver with tension. The whole base was immersed in the earthquake disaster planning, in the wake of the 8.9 quake that had hit the Los Angeles basin area a week ago. Everyone was in a state of high stress, including, obviously, the three marines.

      Frowning, Morgan looked closely at the woman, and decided she looked familiar. Turning, he headed back to where the confrontation was taking place. As he neared the standoff, his lips tugged into a grin.

      “Rhona McGregor!” he thundered, his face breaking into an effusive smile. Morgan stopped beside the flustered young OOD officer. “Ted, this is an old friend of mine. Relax. Let her pass. She’s one of us, okay?”

      Immediately contrite, the officer blinked and then barked at his two tense sentries, “At ease!”

      Rhona sighed and stared across the line of demarcation at Morgan. “I never expected to find you here, Morgan.” She thrust out her long, thin hand in his direction, then smiled kindly at the embarrassed officer and sentries, who stepped aside.

      Gripping her hand, Morgan said, “How are you, Rhona? And what on earth are you doing here? Last time Laura and I saw you was at your cousin, Paige Black’s, wedding to Thane Hamilton in Arizona.”

      The warmth and firm strength of Morgan’s hand made her travails of the last two days worth it. “Yes, that’s right.” She smiled briefly. “I was lucky to be able to wrangle some leave from the navy to be there for my cousin’s wedding. Speaking of family, how’s Laura?”

      Grimacing, Morgan released Rhona’s hand. He looked down the passageway milling with people. “She’s here with me. Let’s take a minute and chat. My makeshift office is right over here.” He flashed Rhona a smile. “It’s mine temporarily—for the duration of this disaster relief phase we’re in.”

      Following him into the small cubicle, Rhona sighed. She saw a pitcher of ice water and some glasses on a walnut sideboard. “Mind if I help myself? I’m a little footsore and thirsty.”

      “No, go ahead,” Morgan murmured as he shut the door. Looking her up and down, he was struck by how long and lean she was. Though her mother was Navajo, Rhona looked decidedly more white than Native American, despite her dark hair and high cheekbones. Maybe she took after her dad, a doctor on the res in Arizona, Morgan mused. With a name like McGregor he must be of Scottish extraction. Thoughtfully, Morgan noted her dusty jeans, nicked and scarred hiking boots, and beat-up blue knapsack that had U.S. Navy written on the back in gold letters.

      Once the cool water sated her thirst, Rhona set the glass down on the sideboard and turned back to the desk where Morgan was sitting. He was frowning at some reports in his hand. Taking a chair, she pulled it to the center of the room, in front of his desk.

      “A lot has happened since I saw you and Laura last. For one thing, I resigned my navy commission six months ago.”

      “What?” Morgan lifted his head and devoted all his attention to the young woman before him. He liked her solid confidence and steadiness. But then, she was a trained combat helicopter pilot and needed that kind of demeanor.

      Shrugging, Rhona muttered, “I got tired of knocking elbows with the Neanderthal guys of my squadron, Morgan. It was pure sexual harassment, and I wasn’t into giving my power and time away to them or the navy anymore. The higher-ups in my squadron were still lookin’ the other way even after Tailhook. I tried to get a transfer to another helo squadron, where half the pilots are women and I’d have some camaraderie, but it was a no go.”

      “I see,” he said sadly. “They’ve lost a helluva good pilot.”

      “Thanks,” Rhona said. She brightened. “But life goes on, doesn’t it? You know, since I’m part Navajo, I have a strong environmental ethic in me. So I decided to start my own crop-dusting business here in Southern California. I got a loan to buy a helicopter, and the rest is history. The big difference is that I’m not using damaging pesticides.” She grinned. “I did some research and found out neem oil, from a tree in India, is a natural pesticide. So I spray crops with it.”

      “Fascinating. Does it work as well as a commercial pesticide?”

      “Yep. And it’s environmentally safe for all concerned. Keeps the pests off the plants, it’s biodegradable, plus safe for Mom Earth.” Rhona opened her hands. “I had the best of all worlds going for me until this earthquake hit.”

      “Didn’t we all,” Morgan murmured. He frowned. “You look worn-out. What have you been doing? Walking? There’re no highways left to drive on.”

      “No kidding. I live over in Bonsall, which is about twenty miles from Camp Reed. When the quake hit, there wasn’t much I could do where I was. I figured that, since I’m very recently out of the navy, and am still qualified to fly a military helicopter, you might need my services here at the base.” Leaning forward, her voice filled with excitement, she said, “Morgan, I’ve come to volunteer

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