Christmas In Whitehorn. Susan Mallery

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      2

      MEANWHILE, and not too far away, on the secretive air force base situated on a spit of land that jutted out into Tampa Bay, Kellan Chance was learning his fate. And he was not a happy SEAL.

      “I just don’t see any help for it, Lieutenant Commander,” General Halter was saying. “Your medical condition requires me to assign you thirty days R and R while we make a further review of the incident. While you’re on the mend, you’re free to come and go as you please. But I’d like you to stay in Tampa and make yourself available to the investigators.”

      “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” No one had to tell Kell what his commanding officer meant by thirty days of rest and relaxation. He had, in essence, just been relieved of his command, wounded or not. Dressed in his battle fatigues in front of General Halter’s desk in the Special Operations Command headquarters building on MacDill Air Force Base, Kell knew he’d messed up. He’d been in charge of a mission in Eastern Europe that had gone sour.

      It was the worst possible outcome. They’d been detected, had a face-to-face with the opposition, and in the ensuing fight, some of his men had suffered injuries. In fact, Jeff Camden, his second-in-command and Kell’s best friend, was still in the hospital in Frankfurt, Germany. Guilt ate at Kell. Still, he refused to blame the bad intelligence he’d received regarding their target. He had no one but him to blame. That was the way it worked. He knew the risks and had always accepted them. With rank came responsibility. He’d danced to the music, and now it was time to pay the piper. Hopefully, the price would not be his career. That loss of honor would be unthinkable.

      “At ease, Commander. This isn’t an inquisition.”

      “Yes, sir.” No less tense, Kell did as ordered. He stood straight, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze riveted to a point on the opposite wall.

      “Look, Kell, why don’t you sit down and let’s talk, man to man?”

      Kell blinked at the general’s familiar use of his name. He cut his gaze over to the tall, lanky man, who suddenly appeared to look a little haggard. “Yes, sir. After you, sir.”

      The general nodded and sat down, gesturing to the upholstered leather chair on the other side of the desk.

      With measured precision and a few sharp moves worthy of a military parade…as if to show the general that the sutured and bandaged cut on his thigh didn’t bother him…Kell sat, holding his Special Ops beret in his hand while he awaited the general’s next words. He tried to convince himself that his heart wasn’t about to thump out of his chest.

      The general sat forward, resting his elbows atop his desk and tenting his fingers together. “All right, here’s the thing. How old are you?”

      Startled, Kell almost dropped his precise military bearing. “I’m thirty-two, sir.”

      “Thirty-two. And you’re a lieutenant commander. I’ve always believed that only in our profession and in professional athletics is thirty-two getting up there in age. Most of our field officers are still in their twenties.”

      Kell knew instantly where this was going. A desk job. His chest tightened around his heart, which felt as if it were expanding. “Begging the general’s pardon, sir, but I’m as fit as any man in my—”

      “Yes, you are, even despite your injury. And you’re a fine commander. Your men are extremely loyal to you, and your superiors sing your praises, me among them. You’re also a highly decorated officer with more successful missions under your belt than anyone else. No one doubts your dedication, son.”

      Until this last mission. It was unspoken between them. As the general talked, Kell’s jaw got tighter and tighter.

      “It’s time for a change, Kell. I know how you feel about a desk job. But you have to admit this isn’t any ordinary office. You know what SOCOM is—a mixed-branch military nerve center where the strategy is done for the four services, where the missions originate. And it’s a tremendous responsibility. I feel we need someone like you in-house. No one knows Special Ops like you. And, of course, there’s a promotion in this.”

      Kell sat rigid. The only thing worse would be to get assigned to the Pentagon—it was considered a graveyard for commanders. However, the one-foot-in-the-grave assignment was the desk job. Which he’d just been handed. A dead end. The last of the line. Kicked off the team for a lack of performance. Total loss of respect, of self-esteem. And there wasn’t one damn thing he could do about it, except say, “Thank you, sir. I’m honored, sir.”

      “Like hell you are, Commander. I wasn’t when I got these stars—” he pointed to the insignia of his rank on his shoulders “—and this corner office. I thought my military life was over, that I was washed up. I couldn’t have been more wrong. And neither can you. This isn’t punishment, Kell. But it will seem like it when you’re sitting here safely, knowing you’re putting young men out in the field in jeopardy. You’re going to fret like you’re their daddy. And you’ll find you’re extremely careful of every detail so none of them gets hurt. That’s what I want from you. In one way, having you here is a way of making sure that what happened to you and your men will never happen again.”

      Kell met his commanding officer’s steel-gray eyes. The general was referring to the intelligence officer who’d been relieved of command after Kell’s latest mission had failed. But Kell couldn’t help thinking that the general also meant that if Kell was sitting here at a desk, he couldn’t lead any other men into a trap. He swallowed, knowing the general was awaiting some comment from him. He stood up, coming again to attention. General Halter followed suit. Kell met the older man’s gaze. “Thank you, sir. Will that be all, sir?”

      The general looked СКАЧАТЬ