LITMIR.BIZ

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      Major Carson, his commanding officer, had needed Roc here at the base to help coordinate the Recon teams that were already out in the quake zone. Roc had been in charge of planning and logistics for the teams. Now it was his turn to go out in the field, which was what he lived for. Working in an office wasn’t his idea of fun. It was a special hell.

      Stepping into the hall, he headed to his locker, where he kept his M-16 rifle, pack, flak jacket and helmet. He would oversee the preparations for tomorrow morning’s liftoff. All their gear would be brought to a central location to be loaded on a Humvee for transport today. And, he wanted to acquaint himself with the airport facility so there would be no screwups. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was nearly time for them to take the Humvee over to the airport. Buck would make sure their team was at the pickup point, Roc was sure. That’s how eager they all were to cut loose from this place and do what they did best: field operative work.

      As he pulled the flak vest over his desert utilities and pressed it shut, Roc felt his heart squeeze in anticipation of the coming confrontation. Dr. Andrews was no weak sister. She was formidable, as he’d found out when Private First Class Louis West, a nineteen-year-old on his team, had injured his leg during an exercise. Roc had never run into such a strong, bullheaded woman. And she hadn’t budged from her position. He’d lost that first battle with her, and his ego still smarted.

      “I won’t lose this time,” he growled, settling his helmet on his head. Allowing the straps to hang free, he adjusted the goggles perched atop the camouflage-colored headgear, then reached for his pack. If Andrews thought she was going to tell him what to do in the field, she had another think coming.

      The truth was, Roc would much rather send his team out on a scouting and reconnaissance mission, to try and locate the Diablos. There wasn’t a marine on the base who hadn’t heard how the gang had ruthlessly murdered two pilots weeks earlier. In his heart, Roc longed to go after them. No one killed marines and got away with it. No way. Even though his wasn’t designated a hunter-killer team, Roc dreamed of finding the survivalist gang and settling the score once and for all.

      As he hoisted his sixty-pound pack onto his shoulders, settling it in place on his rangy frame, a thrill shot through him. Fieldwork. It was something he loved. He’d trade indoor time for outdoor any day of the week. Despite the fact that he’d have to put up with sourpuss Andrews, the day was looking brighter already.

      February 3: 0600

      Sam gathered her team on the landing pad next to where the Sea Stallion sat ready to go. The two marine pilots were already in the cockpit, going through pre-flight procedures before the blades started to turn. The airport was a noisy cacophony of screams, shrieks and whistles from fixed-wing aircraft, the thump, thump, thumps of rotorcraft. It was 0600. They were slated to take off in fifteen minutes.

      “Jonesy, have we got all the supplies on board?” she called to her corpsman, Jones Baker, a twenty-two-year-old African-American.

      “Yes, ma’am, we’re good to go!” Jonesy flipped her a thumbs-up.

      Sam smiled, noting the excitement and eagerness in Jonesy’s brown eyes. He was one of her best corpsmen, and had worked with her in E.R. for two years. Nothing rattled the Harlem, New York native. Nothing. He’d grown up on the city streets and knew how to survive anything. When things got hot, heavy and intense in E.R., Sam could always count on this young man to keep a cool head and calm presence.

      Though a gangly six foot tall, Jones had the hands of a concert pianist. Sam had talked to him early about taking premed classes at a nearby college, and had told him she felt he’d make a great doctor. Jonesy had taken her belief in him to heart. He was now in his second year, a straight-A student. When he wasn’t working in his navy functions, she’d always find him with a book open, studying relentlessly. Often he came to her with questions, and they’d discuss medical points and symptoms. The world needed more people like Jonesy—self-motivated, smart, and hungry to better themselves. Sam was glad he was along on this mission.

      “I’ve got all the IVs boxed up, Dr. Andrews,” Lieutenant Lin Shan announced, approaching the open cargo door of the helicopter, near where Sam stood.

      “Great, Lin. Think we’ve got enough?” She looked down at the surgical nurse, her right-hand woman in the operating room. Lin was Chinese-American, her parents having escaped from their own country under political duress. Born in San Francisco, the twenty-seven-year-old nurse was five foot two inches tall, thin as a reed and beautiful. Today, her dark, almond-shaped eyes shone with excitement. Like the rest of Sam’s team, Lin was dressed in dark blue slacks, a pale blue, long-sleeved shirt, a flak vest, mandatory protection for the upper body, and wearing a dark blue navy baseball cap with Camp Reed Hospital, USN, embroidered in gold across the front.

      “We’ve got three hundred IVs,” Lin said with a grin. “As many as the loadmaster would let me load on board. I tried to get more, but that would make us exceed the weight limit. The head guy told me if I wanted more, some of us would have to stay behind. I didn’t think you’d like that.”

      Sam nodded. “Not on this trip, at least,” she said with a laugh. “Good job, Lin. Go ahead and board. I’ll be in shortly.”

      Holding her clipboard in her hands, Sam looked around for her other cohorts. Corpswave Ernestine Larrazolo, whose parents came from Nicaragua, hurried around the chopper, an expectant look on her face. “You got all the dressings, antibiotics on board, Ernie?” Sam asked.

      “Yes, ma’am, all that they’d let me stow away on this bird.”

      Sam smiled. “I hear you, Ernie.” A corpswave first class, Ernie was priceless, in her opinion. She spoke Spanish, which was a big help, and she was quick and efficient in emergencies. Sam knew that Ernie didn’t want to leave her husband, Jose, and their two young children, but she understood the importance of this mission. Five foot three inches tall, with a stocky build, Ernie was not only strong physically, but had a big warm heart, as well. Sam had picked her for several reasons. Ernie had come out of the barrio of Los Angeles and knew the area and its people. Sam suspected that, on this mission, they’d run into many Hispanics who were in the States illegally. She wanted Ernie there as an interpreter as well as a nurturing mother figure. No one was a better mama in the E.R. than Ernie. She was able to put her chunky arms around a crying child, or settle her dark brown hands on a man in pain, and soothe child or adult with her touch and soft voice.

      “Climb on board,” Sam said as she checked off the supplies that Ernie had been responsible for getting on the helo.

      “You betcha.” Ernie eagerly clambered up the lip of the chopper, with a helping hand from Jonesy, and into the cargo bay.

      Sam smiled to herself as she signed off the supply sheet and handed it to the marine loadmaster, Sergeant Dunway. “Thanks,” she told him. It was cold, so she slipped her dark blue wool gloves back onto her chilly fingers. Cold was not something Sam liked. The morning was frosty, near freezing, she guessed, for she could see the white vapor coming out of her mouth as she spoke.

      “Thanks, ma’am,” Dunway said, tucking the order into the breast pocket of his desert-colored jacket. “This bird is loaded to the gum stumps.” He turned and looked at an approaching Humvee. “And if I don’t miss my guess, here’s the rest of the weight load—the Recon team.”

      Heart pounding briefly, Sam stood at the opening and watched the heavy vehicle approach at high speed. As it drew up to within thirty feet of the Sea Stallion, she could see Captain Roc Gunnison in the passenger seat—the last man on earth she ever wanted to work with. Lips tightening, Sam tried to gird herself as she stared at her through the window of the Humvee. There was no welcome in those hard eyes.

      Trying to appear nonchalant, which was tough for Sam, since she usually wore her emotions on her face, she watched as the door to the Hummer opened. Out stepped her nemesis, and her heart thumped again. Only not from dread. What was it, then? Stymied, Sam took a deep breath, studying his hard, unyielding profile as he turned and allowed his team to climb out.

      Roc Gunnison was thirty-two years old, a seasoned marine vet. Highly decorated,

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