Fleet Hospital. Anne Duquette Marie

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СКАЧАТЬ did a slow burn. She’d never been big on church, but two open snaps over a basic bra did not equal Tailhook, for heaven’s sake! Time to move on.

      She pulled out her duty roster. Michael James McLowery. Rank: Capt. Age: 44. Status: Single. And sexy. Not only that, he’s my ticket to the big time. I can’t wait to track this cutie down and speak to him instead of just staring at him from afar. Smile pretty for the camera, McLowery.

      No wedding ring on the CO’s hand, she recalled.

      When a woman had morals and no money…well, business came first, and dating took money. But after their brief meeting to set up an appointment, this man piqued her interest so much it surprised even her. After she wrote her story and business was concluded, maybe she’d check him out on a more personal level. But first her circumstances had to change. She couldn’t go on a date and then ask the man back to her car for a nightcap. She had to make a life for herself, a normal life. She was thirty-three, a tabloid writer trapped with Elvis and aliens and haunted toilets, and getting older every day. As they said in journalism class, the camera never lies.

      Even if the journalist does.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Naval Fleet Hospital

       Camp Pendleton Marine Corps Base

       Day 1

      CAPTAIN MICHAEL JAMES McLowery, Medical Service Corps, CO, Fleet Hospital Training Command, reluctantly locked up his desk. Time to leave the lovely air-conditioning and make the trek to his car and its air-conditioning. He hated the heat. Always had, especially since Hawaii, but he could function in it. For the command’s sake, Michael hoped this class—officer nurses and doctors, enlisted corpsmen and support personnel—wasn’t as slow in the broiling temperatures as the previous group had been. Class wasn’t over until every job was finished.

      For today, Michael was off the hook. He’d already planned to take the afternoon off to attend the funeral of one of his stepmother’s old friends. In long hot polyester dress whites, no less, which were even hotter than the cotton cammies he now wore. How did Sunshine manage to talk him into this one? He spent his whole life trying to stay cool. Damn sun. Damn California. Damn dress whites. The camouflage clothing he wore was hot enough. He could name a hundred guys stationed in the East, from Long Island to Groton to Newport, who would trade snow and ice for the hell of this relentless San Diego sun in a second.

      Would the Navy give him a berth home in Boston? Or anywhere on the chilly East Coast? No. God knows why. At least Sunshine’s departed friend had the sense to belong to an air-conditioned church. He finished with his computer program, encrypted it with his lockdown password, then shut down.

      “I’m out of here, YN3.”

      The little Yeoman Third Class with the pixie haircut and baby face nodded. Mia Gibson was one of many who’d joined the military to escape a life mapped out for them by family. He’d heard that as soon as her brothers had finished high school, they’d jumped right onto the tractors at the family farm—a job they’d been doing since the age of ten. Farming was a noble profession to be sure, but not for Mia. She received her high-school diploma and joined the Navy as soon as she’d turned seventeen three years earlier. She hadn’t been astride a tractor since.

      Michael momentarily turned back to her desk. “My pager’s on if you need me. B or B only.”

      “Blood or bodies—got it, Captain. Shall I reschedule your interview with that reporter from Associated Press?”

      “Jo Marche.” He surprised himself by remembering her name. Ordinarily he didn’t bother with civilian reporters admitted to Navy exercises. But in this case… “Please do. I just haven’t had time for it. Maybe tomorrow during my lunch.”

      “You want to eat lunch with her, sir?”

      “Affirmative.” He didn’t have to explain himself to anyone, especially his Yeoman. “Eleven hundred will be fine.”

      “Will do, Captain. Oh, the staff sent flowers to the funeral home. Tell your mother I’m sorry about her friend.”

      “I will.” His smile was warm. “The staff” meant the Chief, but the Yeoman would be the one to pick out the arrangement. She had a pleasant voice and a calm disposition, which made his office a more cheerful place to work than previous duty stations. “Thanks.”

      Ten seconds later he was as hot and sweaty as the Chief, who met him outside the Admin building. Michael’s administrative department head and computer systems coordinator, Chief Valmore Bouchard carried a metal clipboard in one hand, his other swinging freely at his side. Naval salutes weren’t required in hospitals or inside buildings except on formal occasions, and the Fleet compound was no exception.

      “Leaving, sir?”

      “Just about, Chief.” Michael took the proffered clipboard, checked the afternoon schedule and passed it back to the smaller man. “How’s the class shaping up?”

      The question covered three areas: physical (would they pass out?), mental (were they stupid?) and morale (did they take the training seriously?).

      “The good news, Captain, is most of them are from Jax or Pensacola.”

      Michael nodded. That was good news indeed. The two Florida units wouldn’t bitch about the heat, or eat dirt fainting. They knew to keep themselves hydrated. In fact, he’d seen one Jacksonville enlisted with his fatigue jacket on. Some of them actually suffered in air conditioning, something Michael could never understand.

      “Not too many boneheaded questions in the classrooms, either, sir, other than the usual computer-clueless.” The Chief snorted, then carefully smoothed his Navy-regulation mustache.

      Michael kept silent, knowing that his Chief’s “clueless” category included people with doctorate degrees in computer science. He also knew that NCIS—Naval Criminal Investigative Services—regularly visited the Chief to test computer lockout safeguards or ask advice. They generally left his office with muttered comments such as “Good thing that bastard’s on our side.”

      “You’ll handle the clueless just fine, Chief. You whipped me into shape, right?” No comment, nor did Michael expect one. “The bad news?”

      “We’ve got a few Air Farce prima donnas enrolled.”

      Michael overlooked the Chief’s sarcastic use of Farce for Force. “Flight surgeons?”

      “Aye, sir.”

      “Those paper-pushers having problems with the heat?” If so, it was the Chief’s problem to solve, not his.

      “No, sir. They don’t want to pull their fair share.”

      “I’ll have someone talk with them,” Michael promised. That was his job. The officers were usually the first to scream foul when ordered to lift litters. Traditionally litter-bearing was enlisted work in the Air Force. But Fleet wasn’t like military shore hospitals. Fleet was to the Navy what MASH was to the Army. They were fairly identical after the start-up. A Fleet Hospital was initially set down on the beach by ship-based amphibcraft or flown in on cargo jets. MASH was brought on by truck and Army helicopters.

      One significant difference existed between Fleet facilities and MASH ones. Incoming supply and personnel runs continually СКАЧАТЬ