Lieutenant Wes James treated her as if he liked her—a lot.

That was nonsense, of course, Callie knew. She wasn’t pretty in any sense. Just a plain Jane. So why had Wes given her that look?

Oh, Callie recognized the look. She’d seen men give it to women thousands of times—but never to her.

Shaking her head, Callie decided her emotions were skewed by the quake and the awful disaster surrounding them. That was it: she was in shock and completely misreading Wes.

Still, as she disembarked from the Humvee and ran toward the action, her heart thumped hard in her chest. And it wasn’t from fear. It was anticipation at working with Lieutenant Wes James.

He liked her.

And she found that amazing. Impossible…

The Heart Beneath
Lindsay McKenna

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my dear readers

who love Morgan and Laura as much as I do.

LINDSAY McKENNA

A homeopathic educator, Lindsay teaches at the Desert Institute of Classical Homeopathy in Phoenix, Arizona. When she isn’t teaching alternative medicine, she is writing books about love. She feels love is the single greatest healer in the world and hopes that her books touch her readers on those levels.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Prologue

December 31

1600

“Oh, Morgan, this is such an unexpected and beautiful New Year’s gift!” Laura Trayhern whirled around in the sumptuous suite of the Hoyt Hotel. She smiled at her husband who was grinning proudly. “I never expected this!” she exclaimed as she flew to his arms. They had just arrived at the hotel from Los Angeles International Airport. The lavish suite was a surprise—as was Morgan’s plan for them to spend New Year’s Eve there, just the two of them.

Morgan swept his pretty blond wife into his arms, almost dwarfing her petite form. The childlike expression of joy on her face made his heart sing. As she brushed his neck, cheek and finally his mouth with quick, wet kisses, he picked her up and twirled her around. Then, when his masterful Fred Astaire dance routine had made him dizzy, he placed her feet on the thick, white carpet, and murmured, “Happy New Year, darling. I wanted this to be a surprise for you….”

Smoothing her hands over her ankle-length, blue wool skirt, then straightening her pink blazer, Laura looked around. “The Hoyt…a five-star hotel! It’s so old and beautiful, Morgan. Oh, I’ve always wanted to come here. This is where the Hollywood elite from the thirties and forties came to party and be seen by the press. Why, there’s a gorgeous mahogany bar, trimmed with brass, where actors like Clark Gable came to drink. And so did some of the most famous writers from those eras, too!” She gazed up at her husband, who was dressed casually in accordance with California fashion in a bright-red polo shirt, dark-blue blazer and tan chino pants. “This is a dream come true, Morgan,” she said, wandering about the suite, which was the best the hotel had to offer.

Laura knew the Sun King’s suite, situated at the top of the old hotel, was expensive with its elegant white-and-gold Louis XIV furniture. The place looked like a palace. Gliding her fingertips across the sideboy, she gazed out through the open curtains. The Suite faced toward central Los Angeles, visible in the distance. The lurid brownish cloud of pollution that always hung across the wide basin was clearly visible. But the damask curtains, burgundy embossed with gold flowers, made the scene look like a postcard to Laura.

Fourteen stories below them, she saw the old, stately palm trees in front of the Hoyt moving in the breeze. The trees lined the broad avenue in front of the pink hotel like guardians standing at rigid attention. California was wonderfully warm compared to their icy-cold home in Philipsburg, Montana, where they’d just flown in from. Even at the end of December the temperature often reached eighty degrees here.

She felt Morgan come up beside her and slide his arm around her shoulders, drawing her near.

“Merry post Christmas,” he murmured, and pressed a kiss to her mussed gold hair, which always reminded him of Rapunzel’s spun-gold tresses. When Laura lifted her chin and flashed him another excited smile, he felt his heart expand with joy.

“I couldn’t believe it, Morgan! When you handed me that red envelope at the Five Days of Christmas celebration we just held for everyone at Perseus, I had no idea it would contain airline tickets and a voucher for the Hoyt.” She sighed happily and leaned against him, her arm going around his strong body. “What a gift! You know how long I’ve been dying to come here and snoop around this historic mansion, doing some in-depth research.”

Morgan nodded. “I know we’ve been busy. Perseus has taken up a lot more of my time than I envisioned,” he said, referring to the covert team of mercenaries he headed up. Now, as he looked into his wife’s eyes, he found himself drowning in her dancing gaze. Even after all these years, bearing and raising his four children, she managed to retain her childlike enthusiasm and joyful heart. That ability forever astounded him, and over the years had helped heal him from the many massive wounds he’d carried from active service in the Marine Corps during the closing days of the Vietnam War.

When they met, Laura had been working as a research writer and historian, well known for her military articles, and living in Washington, D.C. They had literally run into one another.

Morgan had been at the airport and seen Laura struck down by a car. It was that accident that had brought them together, and changed their lives forever. Over the years, they had had difficult times, but their love for one another had only been strengthened as a result. Even after that terrifying time, when he, Laura, and their oldest son, Jason, had been kidnapped in an act of revenge by drug lords, Laura had emerged with her spirit in tatters, but still intact. It was a miracle, Morgan realized, because his wife had suffered horribly at the hands of their captors. The kidnapping had stolen a piece of her soul, but she battled back from the ordeal with the help of his unquenchable love and support.

Morgan knew well her penchant for research and for history. And since the Hoyt was one of the last of the elite, Gothic-style hotels built in Hollywood during the twenties, he knew she’d get a kick out of staying there. For a long time she had been wanting to depart from the military articles she still wrote upon occasion, even though she was a full-time mother, to do in-depth research on some magnificent landmarks from a bygone era.

“Well, we’re going to mix business with pleasure,” he told her. When he saw the crestfallen look on her face, he quickly added, “More pleasure and less business.”

“Let me guess,” she said impishly, turning and leaning fully against him, her arms around his waist. “Camp Reed, the major Marine Corps base in Southern California, is only a stone’s throw from here—about twenty miles or so. And you’re probably going to nose around over there, right? Talk to the general at the base because you’ve had some of his Marine Recon detachments or individual marines assigned to Perseus black ops missions?”

“Yep.” Morgan breathed in, inhaling the lilac fragrance of her hair. “I have two appointments before we party in the New Year. First I’m going to see General Jeb Wilson on January first.”

“He’s the commanding officer of Camp Reed?”

“Yeah. More a courtesy call than anything, darling. To thank him for all his help, loaning his people out to us over the past year.”

“And you’re not going to be cooking up new missions with him?” Laura raised one eyebrow. She knew Morgan didn’t waste time; he made the most of every trip he went on. And Lord knew, he was constantly flying here and there on the Perseus jet—checking on his mercenaries who, around the world, were involved in life-and-death missions, helping others.

Shaking his head, he kissed the tip of her nose. “Nope, for once we’ll just have a drink over at the O Club—officer’s club—and remember old times. I’ll wish him a belated Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.”

“Okay,” she murmured petulantly, pouting provocatively as she moved her hips suggestively against him. “I know there’s a New Year’s party at the hotel tonight and I don’t want to go to it alone.” She saw his eyes narrow, and slowly smiled. “In the meantime I guess I’ll keep myself busy by talking to the manager of this lovely old hotel, snooping around and taking photos. Maybe I can start building a research file on it. I’ve already got a major magazine that wants my article. Or maybe I’ll just relax a bit. Take a hot bath…”

“Hmm, you make it tough to think about leaving,” Morgan said.

Her mouth drew into a knowing smile. “I sure hope so, Morgan Trayhern. Because after having fifty houseguests milling around during our Five Days of Christmas extravaganza, I think we deserve some quality downtime together. Don’t you?”

Sliding his fingers through her mussed gold hair, he murmured, “Absolutely…” Laura made it tough for him to think when she started that sweet, loving assault upon him. She knew what took his mind off business—her. The years of marriage hadn’t lessened his love or need of her, it had only increased his desire.

“Good, we’ll be partying tonight and will ring in the New Year together. You mentioned you had two appointments. What else are you planning while we’re out here for the next five days?”

Having the good grace to blush, Morgan felt the heat creep into his cheeks as his wife gave him that knowing look. “I can’t keep anything from you at all, can I? I have a very brief meeting to attend here at the hotel, after I get back from Camp Reed.”

Chuckling, Laura eased out of his arms. She knew that Morgan had other demands and duties. She wouldn’t cause him to be late for his appointments, but she did want to know his plans. “No, darling, you can’t. So—” she stood by the window, stroking the thick burgundy drape hanging there “—what else do you have to do?”

Rubbing his jaw, Morgan said, “I see Jeb on New Year’s Day at 1300. He’s sending a Huey helicopter over to the landing pad in back of the hotel to pick me up. We’re planning on spending about an hour together, and then they’ll drop me back here.”

“VIP, red-carpet service,” Laura murmured, impressed. Of course, Morgan had complete access to all military branches, as well as to the highest office in the land, the presidency, if he needed it in order to pull off a mission. Because of Perseus’s success in solving problems globally where governments had failed, Morgan was a military heavyweight in a world that usually closed its doors to civilian outsiders. He was a megastar in some of the most powerful political circles, like a Hollywood actor on the A list. Still, Morgan never threw his weight around, and had always been humble about the power he wielded. Laura loved him for that. He ran Perseus to help people in need around the world, when authorities in those countries were unable to. And many times, the federal government used Perseus as a covert branch of the CIA. Consequently, Morgan was known by presidents and heads of states around the world, but not by the general public or media. Few people knew Perseus existed, which was fine with her.

“Well,” Morgan said, “I managed to get hold of one of my old friends from Vietnam days—Darrel Cummings, a fellow officer I’d gone through school with. He’s the head of a Silicon Valley computer company now, doing software work for the Pentagon and the army. I called him before we left, and I’m going to have a quick drink with him down in the bar about 2100 tonight. After I take my beautiful wife to the Jungle Room of this hotel for a very intimate and expensive dinner. Once I meet with Darrel, I’ll come up here, get you, and we’ll go find that party, which starts at around 2200. Does that meet with your approval?”

Laughing softly, Laura nodded. “Perfectly.” She returned Morgan’s dark, intimate look before he clasped her arm and walked into the main room with her. On the table was a massive bouquet of Hawaiian flowers freshly flown in from the islands. There were red and pink ginger, wild-looking purple-and-orange bird-of-paradise, white blossoms of plumaria, whose fragrance drifted through the suite, and red lobster-claw heliconia at the top. It was a rainbow feast of color for the eyes, Laura decided, as she watched Morgan move to the solid silver champagne bucket and pull a dark-green bottle from the ice.

There were two crystal champagne flutes on the table, and she stepped closer as he uncorked the bottle and slowly poured golden bubbly into each glass. La-lique crystal, she noted, admiring how the base of each glass was shaped like the rounded petals of a flower.

“Here, to celebrate your Hoyt adventure and our New Year together,” Morgan murmured, as he put the champagne bottle back into the ice bucket. Picking up both glasses, he handed one to Laura. “Let’s drink to your great writing project here. I’m sure when the manager lets you into the archives in the basement, you’ll dig up dirt on every Hollywood star that ever came here.” He chuckled and lifted his glass. Clinking it gently against hers, he saw Laura smile wickedly.

“Now, darling, I don’t ‘dig dirt’ on anyone. I’m just interested in some of the wonderful old myths and legends that have drifted out of this hotel. I want to see if they’re really true or not.” She lifted her glass and sipped the champagne. It tasted more like a bubbly fruit juice than wine, and was sweet and delicious as she rolled it around on her tongue.

Morgan had gotten her favorite champagne—from a very small vineyard, Echo Canyon, in Page Springs, Arizona. They knew the owner, John Logan, an attorney who had worked for the federal government at one time. Morgan had brought home some of his wine over a year ago, and Laura had gone bonkers over it. She’d never before tasted such a wonderful Syrah burgundy, or the sparking champagne he’d hand-grown on sixteen acres out in the high desert, near Sedona. Morgan had made sure he had a crate of John’s best flown in for their Five Days of Christmas celebration this year. Laura’s favorite, however, was this incredible-tasting champagne. She closed her eyes, made a humming sound of pleasure and smiled.

“This has to be John’s best year,” she murmured as she opened her eyes and held the glass up, viewing it with a critical eye. “His wine gets better with every season.”

Morgan chuckled. He didn’t have such a sensitive or appreciative pallet for champagne or wine. “John said this was his best champagne since he’s opened the vineyard ten years ago. He sent us two bottles here, to the Hoyt, as a New Year’s gift.”

“Wonderful,” Laura said, sipping the champagne with enthusiasm. “John’s wine goes for hundreds of dollars a bottle. I feel so lucky!”

As he stood near the huge Hawaiian flower arrangement, watching Laura appreciate every sip of her favorite champagne, Morgan’s heart nearly burst with happiness. His wife deserved something special like this, and he didn’t give it to her often enough. His work kept him on the move twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Although his offices were only three miles from their home, he often was so immersed in work he didn’t see her much during the day. As a result, she had borne the brunt of raising their four children.

He tried to come home for lunch every day to be with her and the children. Their oldest, Jason, was now at Annapolis, the U.S. Naval Academy. Katy was seventeen and getting ready to leave for college next year. The fraternal twins, Peter and Kelly were now twelve, a wonderful age, and Morgan was trying to be home with them more often.

He frowned, knowing he’d been working too much. Jason and Katherine especially had grown up without him being there much of the time. He’d been a shadow father in their lives. Because of the mounting problems with Jason, who didn’t have an easy time of it at school, and Katherine’s distance from him, Morgan was trying to correct that problem. Laura was much happier that he was taking weekends off, and sending his second-in-command, Mike Houston, around the world on many Perseus missions in his place. The twins, at least, were much happier and well adjusted as a result.

Guilt ate at Morgan as he stood there sipping champagne with Laura. Nothing mattered more to him than his family. They were a close, tight-knit family. Silently, he promised Laura that he would continue to be there for their children and for her. His life wasn’t all about military objectives and missions. He realized now it was about being around for his family, supporting Laura and helping her to raise their kids.

Laura eased her sensible black shoes off her feet and dug her nylon-clad toes into the plush carpet. Turning, she walked back to the window. The sun was setting.

“Look at the strange color of this sunset, Morgan. Have you ever seen anything like it?” she asked, turning as he came up behind her.

Morgan stared out the huge window toward central Los Angeles, at the needlelike buildings that seemed to be clawing the sky. “Hmm. No, it looks yellow-green, or a dirty yellow color. It is unusual…”

Wrinkling her nose as she sipped the wine, Laura leaned once more against Morgan’s tall, steady frame. His arm came around her waist to keep her solidly in place. “Dirty yellow is a good description. It really is a strange, rather ugly color. We’ve been out to California many times in the past and I can never remember the sky looking like this.” A chill went through her. She felt Morgan’s arm tighten around her reassuringly.

“Cold?” he murmured near her ear.

Shaking her head, she said, “No…just, well, a strange chill just shot through me.” Twisting to look up at him, she said, “Isn’t that odd? Here we are at the top of the world, literally speaking, in a terribly expensive penthouse suite, drinking some of the best champagne on the face of the earth, and I get this awful feeling….”

“About what?” Morgan knew Laura was highly intuitive. With the children, she’d often get a premonition when one of them was in some kind of danger, and it always turned out that she was correct. Morgan didn’t take Laura’s intuition lightly. Frowning, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“I…don’t know, Morgan. Boy, this is strange, you know?” She forced a smile she didn’t feel. “Maybe we should call home and check with the baby-sitter to see if the twins are okay.”

Releasing her, he nodded. “Sure, go ahead….” And he stepped aside so she could go to the flowery couch and sit down near the ornate, antique-style phone there.

Turning to gaze out at the lurid yellow sunset, he listened as Laura dialed home. The cloud of pollution hung like a dirty brown ribbon across the sky. Stretching for a good fifty miles from north to south and roughly thirty miles from east to west, the Los Angeles basin contained millions of people. This was one of the most congested, overpopulated spots in the U.S.A. Everyone wanted California sunshine, the good life, and perfect weather conditions without snow or ice. Morgan couldn’t blame any of them for moving out here, for the Los Angeles area was a powerful draw. And having Hollywood here was just another plus. Disneyland was nearby, and so was Knotsberry Farm. Los Angeles, the City of Angels, had many attractions that drew families.

As he listened to Laura talking to their baby-sitter, Julie Kingston, he didn’t hear any consternation or worry in her voice. Sipping the champagne as he stood there, Morgan slid his free hand into the pocket of his chinos. The sky was a deepening yellow now, one of the oddest colors he’d ever seen. Searching his memory, he could not find a clue to this unusual meteorological event.

“Well,” Laura sighed as she came back to stand with him, “everyone’s okay, thank goodness. Julie said the twins are fine.”

Morgan glanced at her and saw the relief in her eyes. Laura loved her children with the fierceness of a lioness and she was a wonderful mother to them.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I want you to enjoy the vacation.” Pulling his hand from his pocket, he slid his arm across Laura’s slim, proud shoulders and drew her close. She came without resistance, that soft look in her blue eyes once again, replacing the worry.

“Oh, you know me, Morgan. I’m such a worrywart when it comes to the kids. That’s part of being a parent. You and I both know that.”

Nodding, he stood with his wife in his arms, enjoying the warmth of her body against his. “I know,” he whispered huskily, and placed a kiss on her silky hair. “Maybe when we go to dinner tonight, our waitress might know what this dirty yellow sky means.”

Laughter burbled up in Laura’s throat. “Oh, let’s not ask! She’ll probably think we’re backwoods hicks from Montana, and get a good laugh out of it. Let’s not embarrass ourselves that way, okay?”

Smiling good-naturedly, Morgan murmured, “Fair enough, woman of my heart. Now, let’s enjoy the rest of this bottle, laze around a little and enjoy life one minute at a time with one another.”

A glint came to Laura’s eyes as she met her husband’s warm gray gaze, which burned with desire for her. Her lips parted in an elfin smile. “I’d love to take that champagne bottle over to the huge, four-poster Louis XIV bed, lie beneath that incredible burgundy-and-gold canopy, and enjoy it with you.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “I like your idea, Mrs. Trayhern. You’re forever creative about such things…”

Giggling, Laura felt the chill and worry leave her. Slipping out from beneath Morgan’s arm, she skipped across the room and slid the champagne from the silver bucket. Bottle in hand, she moved to the king-size bed and leaped onto it like a gleeful child, her laughter tinkling.

“I have a few more creative ideas we can explore together,” she challenged wickedly.

Chapter One

December 31: 2150

“That sunset was an ugly yellow, wasn’t it, Dusty? I always wonder what’s going to happen when it’s that color. It’s so unusual…” Lieutenant Callie Evans squatted down in front of the cyclone-fenced kennel that housed her golden retriever, a dog specially trained for rescue missions. There were twenty-two such animals in the facility. Overhead, the pale amber glare of a sodium lamp cast deep, running shadows across the enclosed area that housed dogs of various breeds.

The U.S. Marine Corps General Rescue Unit sat a quarter of a mile away from a small lake where marines liked to fish when off-duty. The main building of the unit was on top of a knoll, sitting among rocks, dirt and cactus. The kennel area was at one side of the dark-brown stucco, single-story building. Callie spent three-fourths of her life here, and loved every moment of it. The men and women handlers were like a large, extended family to her.

Even though she was the executive officer of the unit, she considered the enlisted people family, too. In their kind of work, the walls between officers and enlisted personnel dissolved to a great degree, and Callie liked it that way. She might be a Marine Corps officer, but in her book, enlisted Marines deserved every bit as much respect. So often, out at some disaster site, rank distinctions disappeared completely. During those times, they were all just people on a mission to save whoever was trapped or endangered. Finding survivors was the sole focus for both officers and enlisted alike in this rescue unit. Whether she was searching for victims in a skyscraper fire, or after an earthquake, a tidal wave or any other type of trauma that might involve trying to find life in so much death, Callie loved her job with her whole heart and soul.

Dusty whined, his huge, golden-brown eyes looking up at her with unabashed adoration as she stuck her small fingers through the wire to pet his cold nose. Wagging his tail, he whined again plaintively.

Frowning, Callie remained hunched over, one hand on the gate and the other stroking Dusty’s muzzle. For the last three days all the dogs were restless. Some whined. Others barked in a way that usually signalled danger. Danger? What kind? And where was it coming from? She shifted her worried gaze to her five-year-old friend. Giving Dusty a soft smile, she whispered, “Wish I could understand dog language better. I gotta get going, Dust, but I just wanted to stop by one more time before I left to do my rounds of this place. You’ve seemed so upset. What is it, boy? What’s got you and everyone else spooked around here?”

The evening coolness here in the desert always surprised Callie. Camp Reed, a hundred-thousand acre Marine Corps reservation, sat on some of the most expensive real estate in Southern California. It was literally a back door to the Los Angeles basin, about twenty miles to the west. And even though Camp Reed was arid desert, with cactus, and Joshua trees dotting its rocky hills and deep, narrow valleys of ocher-colored soil and sand, it still got cold at night. Because the reservation wasn’t right on the coast, it didn’t benefit from the warm, humid Pacific. Consequently, Camp Reed was either broiling hot, with temperatures soaring to over a hundred degrees in summer, or marine sentries found their teeth chattering as they walked their posts during winter. No snow fell, but it might as well as far as Callie was concerned.

“Of course,” she told Dusty in a conspiratorial tone, “it is late December, and even here in good ole California, it gets close to freezing at night.” She smiled affectionately at her rescue partner and slowly rose to her full five-foot-five-inch height. Pulling her camouflage jacket more tightly around her thin frame, Callie stood on the concrete and looked around.

The dogs were really upset. As she stood there, her hands deep in the pockets of her Marine Corps cammos jacket, the cap drawn down on her head and the bill low enough to stop the glare of the lights overhead from reaching her eyes, she wondered why they were so wound up.

She’d just gotten back from Turkey a week ago. She and Dusty were still recovering from that grueling two weeks of climbing over rubble caused by a devastating earthquake in that country. Pulling her hand out of her pocket, she held up a doggy biscuit, one of Dusty’s favorite treats.

“Hey…look what I got for you.” She leaned down and slipped it between the wires.

Dusty quickly gobbled it up, licked his mouth with his large pink tongue and gave her a beseeching look for another one.

Callie chuckled indulgently. “Don’t look at me like that. You talk with your eyes, guy.” And she grinned and tucked her hands back into her pockets. Looking to the right, she saw that Sergeant Irene Anson had desk duty. The sergeant was thirty years old, married, with a little girl. Callie doted on Annie, who, at age five, just loved to come out to the kennels and pet all her “doggies.” It was a time Callie always looked forward to, for she loved little kids. Irene’s husband, Brad, was a Recon Marine, one of the corps elite.

Camp Reed had its own rescue dog unit, teams of which were utilized around the world in major catastrophes of any kind. Callie had been in many countries during her last two years with the rescue unit. When called to those countries for earthquake duty, it didn’t hurt that she knew Spanish, plus some Turkish and Greek. Callie had taken courses in those languages because many times, earthquakes occurred in countries where those languages were spoken, and she wanted to be able to converse not only with the local authorities, but with survivors they found in the rubble, as well. One of her least-favorite duties was going to South America for the many killer mudslides that occurred during the rainy season. It wasn’t something she looked forward to at all.

Dusty whined, wanting another treat.

“You are a glutton for more goodies,” she told the retriever wryly. “And it isn’t like this hasn’t been a great day for you. We went to the beach today and we played and celebrated New Year’s Eve early. You got to swim in the ocean, go after the sticks I threw, and roll in the sand while I roasted hot dogs over a fire. And then you came back and shook yourself, spraying water all over me and the food. That’s how you got your fair share of the hot dogs. You ain’t no dummy, are you, guy?” Callie laughed under her breath. It had been a good day, one they’d both needed. But she had no one to share this evening with, to welcome in the New Year. Even as Callie held her dog’s worshipful stare, loneliness ate at her.

“Don’t go there,” she told herself in warning. “Don’t do this to yourself, Callie….”

Dusty whined.

“I know, I know,” she said aloud to the golden retriever. “Why do I do this to myself, Dusty? Why can’t I just be fine with how I look? You are. Of course, you’re drop-dead handsome. I mean, what lady dog wouldn’t do a double take, seeing you?” Her mouth curled, but with pain, not humor. Callie hurt inside. She was twenty-five years old and single, and she knew why.

Dusty sat down and thumped his tail eagerly on his concrete slab. Callie had bought a flannel pillow filled with cedar shavings for him to lie on in the kennel. Concrete couldn’t be comfortable in her opinion. Dusty dearly loved his “blankie” and joyfully slept on it every chance he got. Now he tilted his head, his intelligent eyes shining with happiness that she was still there with him.

“Why can’t I just be happy like you over the simple pleasures of life, like your blankie?” Callie asked. She moved back to the kennel, rested her shoulder against it and hung her head. Staring down at her booted feet, she sighed. “Why do I always have to torture myself, Dusty? So I’m plain looking. “Board ugly,” as I heard some jerk of a jarhead say a week ago. Dude, that hurts. You know?”

Dusty whined.

“Darn it all…” Callie whispered achingly. “I wish I wasn’t so softhearted, Dusty. I need a thicker skin. I wish I could let those words roll off me like water off a duck’s back, but I can’t….”

Maybe if she let her short, sandy-blond hair grow out more it would make her look more feminine. Callie had thought of that often, but in her line of work, long hair was not at all practical. She’d be filthy dirty climbing up and over buildings that had been destroyed by a killer earthquake. Or it would rain or snow and she’d be sopping wet and muddy. No, long hair was out. Well, how about some makeup? She had a square face, with wide-set eyes, a nose that was too big and a mouth that was even bigger. She looked…well, plain. Maybe even ugly…No man even gazed at her with the look. Callie had wished all her life for a man to show her some interest. She saw other women marines getting that special attention, but she never did. Sighing, Callie knew she never would.

Her hair was straight and hung limp as a dishrag around her face, even when she wasn’t climbing around on rubble all day in all sorts of weather. Setting it to make it look halfway decent or using hair spray was out of the question. Hers was a brutal outdoor job. With people trapped and dying, as often was the case in a disaster situation, it didn’t matter whether she wore makeup or if her hair looked feminine or not. No, the victims only wanted to know that Dusty had found them and that Callie was there to help them in any way she could, to escape and live to tell about it. To them, she was an angel of mercy.

Callie smiled a little, remembering how one man had whispered that to her as the medics had extricated him from some rubble. He’d been trapped in there for five days, and Dusty had found him. More dead than alive, the old, silver-haired man had reached out with a shaking hand and fiercely gripped hers as they carried him by on a stretcher.

“You’re an angel,” he’d rasped, tears streaming down his face. “An angel sent by God himself. Thank you…. You’ve got the face of an angel, and I’ll never forget you…not ever….” And he’d choked and sobbed as they’d carried him away to the ambulance.

She wouldn’t ever forget his words, either. Callie liked the idea of looking like an angel. God didn’t make any ugly angels. Nope, not a chance. Smiling a little, she cast a glance at Dusty, who watched her every expression.

“Do I look like an angel to you?”

Dusty whined and thumped his tail heartily.

“You’d say yes to anything, guy.” And Callie laughed. “No ugly angels in heaven, Dust.” She rolled her eyes and looked up at the low ceiling of the kennel complex, made from corrugated aluminum. “Maybe that’s when I’ll feel beautiful. When I die.”

A deep, growling roar caught Callie’s ears. The dogs started baying. Where was that horrendous sound coming from? She looked around. Eyes widening, Callie hunched slightly, feeling as if she were being attacked. By what, she had no idea. The dogs’ unified voices raised the hair on the back of her neck. Their baying was sharp and filled with terror. Feeling the earth shiver, Callie caught her breath in fear, and spread her arms outward. In a flash, she realized what was happening: an earthquake!

Callie didn’t have time to react. One moment she was standing, the next she was knocked off her feet, slamming onto the hard concrete floor with an “oofff!” The ground bucked and heaved. As she rolled onto her back, she was thrown from one side of the kennel area to the other. The roof cracked, metal was shrieking and bending. She suddenly saw stars, like white pinpoints of lights on black velvet, where the tin had opened up.

The dogs were crying and wailing.

Callie gasped and tried to get to her feet. Run! She heard Sergeant Anson screaming for help. The earth still convulsed violently, its roar deafening, like a freight train bearing down on her. Callie scraped her hand badly as she tried to head for the nearest exit door. No good! A second undulating wave hit, and again Callie was knocked off her feet. She rolled heavily into the kennel’s fence. Fear vomited through her.

This was no ordinary earthquake. No. It was a killer of incredible magnitude. Callie had been in too many earthquake-torn countries and experienced too many aftershocks not to know what was going on here. As she rolled helplessly from side to side, the earth moving like waves in an ocean, she realized that this one was off the Richter scale—completely.

December 31: 2150

Lieutenant Wes James was getting dressed for the New Year’s Eve party at the O Club at Camp Reed when the earthquake struck. Although he lived in Oceanside, the nearest civilian town to the front gates of Reed, he’d taken a room at the B.O.Q.—bachelor officer’s quarters—so that he wouldn’t have to drive after drinking. He had just finished putting on a buttoned down white shirt, a camel-colored wool blazer and black jeans and had been sitting on the couch, tying the laces on his dark-brown Italian leather shoes, when the quake began.

Within seconds, Wes was clinging in surprise to the couch as it moved five feet in one direction, and then five feet the other way, across the cedar floor of the bedroom. As adrenaline shot through his bloodstream in response, he didn’t have time to realize what was happening. But it didn’t take him long to figure it out. And he only had to glance toward the darkened view out his window to realize that. The B.O.Q. was four stories tall. All the streetlights outside the military hotel had been suddenly snuffed out, along with lights inside. In the darkness, he heard his friend, Russell Burk, yelp in fright outside in the hall. Russ had the adjoining room, and they were planning on meeting to go to the O Club. The quake must have caught Russ out in the hallway.

Everything vibrated. The roar was frightening, making Wes’s eardrums hurt. The furniture and floor were shivering and shaking as if someone had put the whole room—him included—into a blender at high speed. Wes pushed himself up into a sitting position and gripped the couch. As his eyes adjusted to the inky darkness around him, he watched in amazement. It blew his mind that the couch was sliding like a toy back and forth across the floor as each rhythmic wave of the earthquake rolled through the building. He heard a loud “Crack!” and jerked his gaze upward. For a moment, he feared the fourth story was coming down upon him. The B.O.Q. groaned, wobbled and swayed. The joists and timbers of this old, 1930s-built architectural wonder were not earthquake proof.

Escape! He had to get outside! But how? Wes leaped to his feet and was instantly knocked off of them. Another wave of heaving tore through the building. In seconds, he was sliding into the careening redwood coffee table. Pain arced up his shoulder as he slammed into it. The glass on top slid off, cracked and shattered on the floor. Splinters of glass glittered for a moment and then scattered wildly as the floor danced and bucked all around him.

Wes kept his gaze glued to the ceiling rocking and undulating above him. It didn’t take his civil engineering degree for him to realize that if that ceiling caved in, it could kill him. He scrambled to his hands and knees and decided to head out to the hall to Russ. No good. Lurching drunkenly to his feet, Wes went for the door. His hand closed around the brass knob. There! Tumbling out into the hall, Wes slammed into Russ, who was rolling wildly, his arms and legs outstretched to try and stop himself.

The quake seemed to go on and on. Russ lay on the floor outside his room, his eyes wide with terror. Wes reached out, gripped his friend’s hand and dragged him toward the wall. Every piece of furniture was on the move, many sliding through the opened doors of their rooms. The sound of cracking glass filled the hall. Some of the windows were shattering inward.

It was impossible to stand up. All Wes could do was crawl forward on his belly alongside Russ and try to make it down the carpeted hall.

“The emergency exit!” Wes shouted. “Get to the door! We gotta get outta here or we’re dead!”

Russ nodded, his brown eyes huge as they crawled toward the exit.

A grating sound started. Wes jerked a look over his shoulder. Whatever was making that noise, it wasn’t the B.O.Q. There were a lot of single- and double-story stucco buildings around the huge grassy square. It could have been any—or all—of them.

“Damn,” Russ shouted. He got up and scrambled wildly for the door. Launching himself at it, he clung to the doorknob as he twisted it open.

Seconds later, the two men threw themselves out the exit door and tumbled down the metal stairs.

Badly bruised, Wes managed to leap against the last door that led to the first-floor entry. It gave way and Wes tumbled through. He was out! Russ stumbled to the ground beside him.

The grass was damp with dew. As another wave of the quake hit, Russ rolled on top of him, then was swung to the left. A loud crash sounded behind them scaring Wes. As he got to his hands and knees, his fingers digging frantically into the damp grass and dirt for purchase, he saw half of the red brick building across the plaza buckle and collapse inward. Breathing hard, he gasped.

Finally, the quake stopped its deadly undulations. Silence pulsed around Wes for a moment as he sat up, his hands on his thighs. Russ slowly got off his belly, his mouth hanging open, white vapor coming out of it in sharp spurts. Then, as he looked around, Wes heard a series of explosions, too numerous to count, begin off in the distance. Fire vomited upward into the dark night somewhere off the base. The growl of the quake began again. Wes hunkered down, his arms outstretched, his fingers digging into the ground for stability.

“Oh, hell!” Russ shouted. “I don’t friggin’ believe this!” And he flopped on his belly again, arms spread outward.

The second wave hit, worse than the first. For the next thirty seconds, Wes was flung around on the damp lawn. More marine officers came out of the exit door of the B.O.Q., tumbling and tripping over one another to get clear of the building. In that second wave, Wes saw two of the stucco buildings in the square buckle and crash into heaps. Numerous smaller buildings caved in. Yet, half of them still remained standing including the B.O.Q. There were flashes of fire and explosions as gas lines were broken, showers of sparks from the electrical lines setting them off. Water lines broke, sending water gushing in the square like geysers. Luckily, most of the marines who had been in the B.O.Q. and surrounding buildings were now out. Anyone who lived in Southern California was used to low-grade quakes and knew the drill: get outside as soon as possible. Get into an open area where nothing could fall on you.

Breathing hard, Wes was flung savagely onto his back once again. His mind began to churn with terrifying possibilities. He’d been in California quakes before; the worst was a 6.0 on the Richter scale a year ago, shortly after he’d been transferred to Camp Reed to build highways and bridges for the Corps. But this one…hell, it was a monster in comparison. The damage it had done already was mind-blowing.

He had no idea how this quake registered on the Richter scale, but he knew as he lay there gasping with terror, while looking up at the eerie beauty of the stars in the black sky, that this one was a killer of unknown proportions. And somewhere in his colliding thoughts, Wes realized this was the earthquake that they always talked about, but no one really thought would happen: the Big One that would gut Southern California and cause hundreds of thousands of deaths and billions of dollars in damage, just as the 1906 San Francisco earthquake had totaled that city and population.

As the ground continued to shiver and shake like a horse wrinkling its skin to get rid of pesky flies, Wes slowly rolled over and got to his feet. All around him, people were crying and shouting in panic. There weren’t many buildings left standing on the plaza except for the old, solidly built B.O.Q. and about five others around the plaza. On the horizon, fires were lighting up the sky with frightening speed no matter which direction he looked. Most of them seemed to be beyond the base and for that he breathed a small sigh of relief. He hoped the damage at Camp Reed would be minimal compared to the destruction he saw before him. Wes knew there was a nuclear power plant located at San Onofre, at the western edge of Camp Reed and right on the Pacific Ocean. How badly had it been damaged? From an engineering standpoint, there wasn’t a question in Wes’s mind that it had been. The real question was had the concrete withstood the shattering impact of this killer quake, or was it leaking radiation?

“We gotta get to H.Q.,” he told Russ, who was a lieutenant in the motor pool, which was their transportation department.

Russ slowly got to his feet. He looked around, shock written on his face. “Yeah…. God, what’s happened, Wes? Was this the Big One?”

Grimly, Wes wiped his freshly shaved jaw, which was smudged with dirt and grass stains. “Yeah, I think it was. Let’s get over there. It’s only a couple blocks away. I hope it’s still standing.” He looked around the square. The asphalt was buckled and crumbled every few feet, from what he could tell. Without light, he couldn’t see that far.

Russ looked at the B.O.Q., awe written on his face. “Look at that, will you?” And he pointed up at it.

Wes turned. “I’m glad it’s still standing. We’re going to need a place to get some rest after putting in fourteen-hour days of rescue and recovery after this quake.”

Russ nodded. Pushing his thick fingers through his mussed blond hair, he muttered, “They’re gonna want every available officer over at H.Q. I know General Wilson will put the disaster plan into action.”

Grimly, Wes nodded, his gaze roaming over the devastation before him. It was gonna be one helluva long night….

January 1: 0030

Callie stood among the hundreds of Marine Corps officers who had been squeezed into one of the largest rooms at Camp Reed Headquarters. Fortunately, the building had sustained only minimal damage. There was a crack running up one of the stucco walls, but otherwise, the room looked fine. At least the lights were on, courtesy of the gasoline generator outside the building.

Callie saw General Jeb Wilson, the base commanding officer, standing up at the podium. A tall, gaunt-looking man in his midfifties with short black hair peppered with gray at his temples, the general was known around the base as “Bulldog Wilson” because his face was square, his jowls set and his thin mouth always drawn in a tight, downward curve. Tonight he looked even more grim than usual.

The officers milling around in desert cammos or civilian clothes were like tall trees around her and because she was so short, Callie was jostled often. The murmuring voices were strained, and she saw stress and shock in the face of every man and woman in attendance. They were crowded together so tightly that Callie felt suffocated. Either her feet were being stepped on accidentally or someone’s elbow was jamming into her back, or she was being pushed because some officer wasn’t looking where he was going.

It was now 0030, just a little past midnight, almost three hours after the killer earthquake had struck. The call for all officers to meet at H.Q. had gone out an hour ago over battery-fueled radios and cell phones. Because there was no electricity available at the moment, radios, the normal means of communication, weren’t available. Luckily, in this day and age, Callie thought, nearly everyone carried a cell phone.

Many of the officers were in civilian clothes. Their faces were grim, strain and shock clearly etched in their expressions, their voices low and emotional. Callie was the only one in the room from the rescue dog unit, that she could see. Standing on tiptoes, she tried to see if she recognized anyone else in the milling assemblage. There were twenty-two dogs and handlers in her unit, but most of the personnel lived off base. She lived off base, too, but had been on duty along with Sergeant Irene Anson, who was manning their facility right now. Luckily, the quake had not harmed them and had only opened a crack in the corrugated roof above the kennels. They had checked every dog to make sure it was okay, and thankfully, they were all fine. As Callie craned her neck to get a better view, she saw an officer with short black hair, his eyes grim looking, hold up a set of blueprints before the general at the podium.

Instantly, Callie was drawn to him and instantly she told herself he was far too handsome and would never even take a second look at her. She tried to ignore the officer’s gaze as it settled momentarily on hers.

Talk surrounded Callie like the sound of bees buzzing, and she longed to know what was happening. When she heard General Wilson’s voice boom out, everyone stopped moving and talking. The room seemed to freeze, every officer’s breathing suspended in anticipation of what he might say.

“At ease,” Wilson commanded in his deep, rolling tone. He gazed across the crowded room, his brow wrinkling deeply. “I’ve just gotten off sat com—satellite communications—with the Pentagon. According to the experts, we have just been hit with a massive earthquake here in Southern California—8.9 on the Richter scale. According to the experts, they’re calling it the Big One.” Grimly, he continued in a rasp, “It has knocked out all electricity, all water and all amenities—pretty much all modern conveniences that civilian communities from central Los Angeles, southward to San Juan Capistrano and west as far as Redlands. The San Andreas Fault has moved six feet in an easterly direction.” He rubbed his brow. “Ladies and gentlemen, for whatever reasons, Camp Reed has been relatively untouched, spared by this killer earthquake. As I understand it from my discussion with experts, a minor fault runs in a north-south direction under us. It saved us from major damage as a result. The Los Angeles International Airport is inoperable. All their runways have been destroyed. Nearly every airport, minor or major around it, has also been destroyed. According to the Pentagon, Camp Reed’s ten-thousand-foot runways are the only ones available to start bringing in cargo planes with supplies and help. We’re still receiving information via cell phone and battery-operated radios from local police and fire departments, but it looks like the entire southern Los Angeles area has been left without any way to get help to its citizens. We are sitting on top of a disaster of untold proportions.

“Luckily, the Marine Corps has worked with the Disaster Preparedness Center, an extension of FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Agency, whose function is to restore order during just such an event.” Wilson held up a thick blue book. “Our S.O.P.—standard operating procedure—is clear. If we are operable, and we are, then what it boils down to in this worst-case scenario is that Camp Reed becomes the only entrance-exit point for medical, fuel, water and food resources for this region.”

Callie gasped, as did several others. The magnitude of the general’s comments sent a cold chill through her. Camp Reed would become the focus point for all relief and emergency help.

“General,” one officer called, raising his hand, “sir, what about the highways? The freeways? Can we—”

Wilson shook his head tiredly. “Captain, every major road has been destroyed. Every freeway. Every bridge has buckled. There is no way for any vehicle to go very far. As soon as dawn arrives, we’re looking at going up in Huey helicopters to start assessing the damage. Right now, what I want to do is to break everyone into teams. Colonel Gray, here, has the disaster preparedness plan. Colonel?”

Callie waited as the silver-haired colonel came up to the podium. The urgency of the situation, the shock and terror of the picture being painted, washed like a tidal wave through the room. She stood there knowing that her team of quake rescue dogs would be on the front lines of the military’s efforts.

“First off, is there anyone here from our General Rescue?” the colonel asked, craning his neck and looking over the assemblage.

Callie raised her hand. No one could see it because she was five foot five inches tall and surrounded by mostly male marines much taller than she was. Squeezing between the tightly packed officers, Callie called, “Here, sir! I’m here!”

Colonel Gray’s eyes narrowed across the crowded room. “Who is here?” he boomed. “I hear a voice. Let her through, gentlemen.”

Callie moved forward, twisting and slithering between officers who stepped aside to create a path for her. She approached the podium. “Lieutenant Callie Evans, sir. I’m the X.O. of the dog rescue unit. How can I help?”

Gray smiled thinly. “Lieutenant, I want you to work with Lieutenant Wes James here.” He pointed to the man in civilian attire directly to the right of him. “He’s a trained civil engineer. We’re getting calls for help from fire and police departments all over the L.A. basin. He’s in charge of blocking off specific areas into grid coordinates. In each of these areas, I want one of your dogs and a handler. We’re going to be putting you on the front lines, Lieutenant Evans. Your people know how to find victims buried in rubble. You go with Lieutenant James now, and create a workable plan. We’ll then fly you and your teams out by helicopter to specific trouble zones to hunt for survivors. Any questions?”

Callie gulped. Lieutenant James was the man she was drawn to earlier. Focusing back on the general, she shook her head. “No, sir.”

“Good, get going—and be careful out there. Our people are a precious resource and there’s no way to replace any one of you if we lose you in this unmitigated disaster….”

“Yes, sir.” Callie turned and looked up into the narrowed green eyes of the officer, Wes James. He stood at least six foot tall, and was wearing a pair of black jeans, plus a white shirt that was streaked with grass stains. His black hair was short and uncombed and his face smudged with dirt. She saw the darkness beneath his eyes. As her gaze dropped to his mouth, Callie realized it was set in a thin line against a lot of emotions he was trying to hold back.

She offered him a slight smile of welcome. “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant James. Just call me Callie.”

Wes nodded. He hitched a thumb across his shoulder. “Thanks for being here, Callie. Let’s go into this side room. I’ve got my engineers and blueprints set up in there. I’m going to need your help in understanding just what you can do for us.”

Despite the urgency of the situation, Wes found himself staring at Callie Evans. She was tiny, built like a bird. She was wearing the standard camouflage, desert-colored cammos, a cap over her short, sandy-colored hair. Her eyes were beautiful, large and intelligent looking. She didn’t miss much, Wes guessed as he created a path through the crowd and led her toward his makeshift office. Callie followed him, almost tripping on his heels. She was too small in this sea of men, he thought. A delicate flower among a bunch of tall redwood trees.

Once they got into the smaller room, Callie saw at least ten other officers standing around a huge square table covered with blueprint maps. Most were dressed in civilian clothes, and it was obvious they had gone out to party the night away—until the earthquake occurred. They all stopped talking when Wes reentered the room. He looked around to find her.

“I’m right behind you,” Callie assured him in an amused tone. She knew she was short and could easily get lost. He managed a slight smile as he looked down at her, his green eyes growing warm as they perused her. And then Callie saw them become stern and professional once again. For that brief moment, though, she’d felt the warmth flow straight to her heart, which pounded briefly in response. What was going on? A wild giddiness thrummed through Callie, catching her completely off guard.

“Good, Lieutenant. Stand over there,” he ordered, pointing to one end of the table.

Callie nodded a silent hello to the other officers, who gave her a deferential nod back. Everyone looked grim, and the stress was palpable in the room. Her gaze shifted to Wes James, the officer in charge. As he spread a roll of maps on the table with his large, square hands, she found herself liking him even more than when she’d seen him at the colonel’s side. There was a brisk efficiency to his motions; and she liked his low-key approach to this situation. He wasn’t a drama king like some of the officers she’d seen out in the main room. No, he was quiet, all-business, and had that eaglelike look in his eyes that told her he was capable of handling this assignment. And he was handsome with his oval face, strong chin, and full mouth. When she noticed the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, she smiled to herself. Obviously he had a sense of humor, and that was good in her book.

After Wes went over the grid scheme for the L.A. basin, pinpointing the largest skyscrapers that had been destroyed according to earlier reports, he began handing out assignments. Callie was able to give him one handler and dog for each of the twenty-two grid areas. He seemed pleased with her efficiency and ideas. Finally, at the end of the process, he wrapped up one roll of blueprints and tucked it beneath his arm.

“Okay, Lieutenant Evans, I’m assigning you to me. We’re going to the Hoyt Hotel in southern Los Angeles. It’s a fourteen-story structure that, according to the best intel we have, has completely collapsed. It was built in the 1920s, long before earthquake codes were in place, so I know it’s going to be one helluva hot spot. According to the local fire department in that area, that hotel was filled to the gills with party goers. It was one of the ‘in’ spots.” He searched her wide, flawless eyes. Her pupils were large and black, her lashes thick and long. Despite her height, or lack of it, he liked the set of her square jaw and the confidence in her demeanor. “You think you can handle it?”

Callie grinned back, once again receiving that green-eyed warmth from him. “No question about it, Lieutenant James. My dog and I can handle anything you throw at us. We’re vets of Turkey, Greece, Colombia and Mexico. This isn’t going to be any worse than that.” Or maybe it was and Callie just didn’t want to believe it.

Satisfied, Wes gestured for her to step ahead of him. “Good enough, Callie. I’ve got a Humvee outside. I want you to ride over to your H.Q., grab your dog and meet me at the airport. We have a Huey at our disposal to take me and my crew—and you—to our assigned grid area. Make it back as fast as you can?”

Callie nodded. “Yes, sir, I will.”

Before she hurried out, she saw Wes give her a slight, tired smile, concern burning in his eyes. This was a man who cared deeply, and that made her feel glad to be working with him. The urgency to help the thousands of victims out there thrummed through both of them, as well as the rest of the officer corps. This was worse than a war: no shots had been fired, but the death toll was going to be horrific, Callie thought.

She moved briskly toward the door at the rear of the room. Her hands were shaking. Her heart was beating hard in her chest as she trotted down the concrete steps to a dark brown and tan desert-camouflaged Humvee that waited for her at the bottom. The sky was just beginning to turn a turgid gray color. Soon, dawn would come. And soon they would all see the devastation that this quake of the century had caused.

As she rode over in the Humvee, down an asphalt road that was buckled in some places, but still functional, she clasped her hands together. Her attention seesawed from details of her duty to thoughts of the green-eyed officer with the warm, caring smile. He treated her as if he liked her—a lot. That was nonsense, of course. She was no looker. She wasn’t pretty in any sense. Just a plain Jane. So why had he given her that look? Oh, Callie recognized it well. She’d seen men give it to women thousands of times before—but never to her. Rubbing her hot cheek, Callie wondered if she were dreaming. But with the quake and all, it felt more like she was in the middle of a very bad nightmare, with Wes in the role of the hero she’d always dreamed about meeting. Shaking her head, Callie decided her emotions were skewed because of the quake and the awful disaster that surrounded them. That was it: she was in mild shock and completely misreading him.

Still, as she disembarked at her unit’s H.Q. and ran toward the kennel to retrieve Dusty, Callie’s heart thumped hard in her chest—and it wasn’t from fear. No, it was in anticipation of working with Lieutenant Wes James. He liked her and she knew it. And she found that amazing.

Chapter Two

January 1: 0700

As the Huey helicopter landed and Wes saw what was left of the Hoyt Hotel, he couldn’t contain his shock. Once a proud, prestigious structure of world renown, the hotel had enjoyed a five-star rating since the twenties. Now all fourteen stories had collapsed in on one another like a house of cards. The asphalt at the intersection where it once stood had been lifted, tossed around and completely destroyed.

Wes opened the door and lifted his hand to tell his team to disembark. Leaping down, he felt the wind blast from the rotors strike him forcefully. He kept one hand on his camouflaged-patterned utility cap and gripped a large case carrying the planning essentials he needed. Head bowed slightly, he turned and saw Lieutenant Callie Evans release her dog from the travel cage that sat in the crowded area behind the pilots. The golden retriever acted as if nothing were wrong as he leaped off the lip and onto the churned asphalt that had once been a street. Callie had him on a leash as she hurried by Wes and out of the way of the turning rotors.

Next came the supplies that they’d need to set up shop for this grid coordinate. Wes’s four enlisted marines climbed out and formed a line to bring box after box out of the bird. The boxes contained tents, food, a first-aid kit, water and latrine supplies. They hurried, for time was of the essence. The door gunner handed out the last of their goods, lifted a hand toward Wes, saluted him and then shut the door. Wes returned the crisp salute and stepped away from the rotor wash.

The engine began to shriek as the pilot powered up the helicopter for takeoff. As the chopper lifted off, Wes held his utility cap on his head until the buffeting stopped. His team—the four enlisted marines, trained in the use of heavy equipment, and Lieutenant Callie Evans and her golden retriever—all looked to him expectantly for orders. Having a woman in the group was soothing to Wes. For whatever reason, he liked having women as part of his team. They seemed to lend a gentler and quieter energy that served to calm him. Right now, however, his stomach was in knots. The destruction was simply beyond anything he could have imagined. Standing with his team, Wes surveyed the area. At six lanes wide, Palm Boulevard had once been one of the busiest streets in southern Los Angeles. Now, the asphalt was so broken up it resembled rocks and pebbles. The once proud palm trees that had lined the route were lying like scattered toothpicks in every direction. Cars had been tossed into one another. Wes saw a policeman and policewoman, on foot, going from car to car in the gray dawn light, their flashlights on as they searched each car for victims.

The city blocks around Palm Boulevard contained upscale one- and two-story suburban houses. This had been a very rich enclave in what was considered the poorer section of L.A. Computer people who had plenty of money had moved in around the Hoyt, and the grid under Wes’s direction, a five-mile-square area, included this wealthy suburb.

Looking at the city blocks from the air as they’d come in to land, Wes had noticed only a few houses still standing. He’d seen a lot of people wandering around the chewed up streets, clearly in shock, or standing in small groups looking at the devastation. Very few buildings of any kind still stood; most had collapsed in a shambles. The palm trees that had once inspired the proud moniker of this pricey neighborhood were uprooted and lay everywhere. Expensive foreign cars that had once sat curbside in front of these million-dollar homes were useless. To Wes, it looked as if all the cars had come from an auto graveyard, they were so damaged by the killer quake. Few appeared to be salvageable or drivable.

Grimly, he surveyed his awaiting team as they huddled with him in the cool dawn light. As he lifted his gaze, he saw that the entire L.A. basin was covered with a thick layer of black, greasy smoke. Thousands of fires were burning, the flicker of red-and-yellow flames standing out against the approaching sunrise. The air was choked with dust, debris and throat-clogging smoke from the thousands of burning buildings. Everything was on fire, including one-third of the houses surrounding the Hoyt.

There was no water available to fight the fires because the pipes had been broken by the quake. Fire departments couldn’t respond because there were no roads on which to travel. No matter where Wes looked, something was flattened. A posh restaurant on the corner of Palm and Miranda Boulevard was so much debris, with part of the once-proud Spanish tile roof visible on the ground next to it. Red tiles had been shattered into marble-size pieces, mixed within gray-and-black asphalt that had been churned up by the undulating shocks.

Wes forced himself to concentrate on what they had to do. Luckily for the team, there was a construction company less than a quarter mile away, down a small side street. Turning to blond-haired Sergeant Barry Cove, who was in his late twenties, Wes said, “Sergeant, you and Lance Corporal Stevens go down to that construction company and see what you can find. Find the owner, if he’s around. If he’s not, break into the office and locate keys for whatever equipment he’s got inside that cyclone-fence area. Get the following, if you can find it—a cherry picker, because we’re going to need a crane and hook to start lifting off the top debris on the Hoyt to try and find survivors. A front-end loader with a bucket would also be useful to us. I want a list of everything he has. If you do locate him, send him to me. Right now, martial law is imposed, and we’re the law. What we need, we get. Be diplomatic with him, if he’s there. If not, take what we need and leave a note. Bring that equipment up here to the Hoyt.” Wes pointed to the wrecked hotel, the ruins of which stood on the corner opposite them.

Sergeant Cove nodded. “Yes, sir!” And the two men started off at a trot down the pulverized street.

Wes glanced at Callie. Though he was feeling shocked by all of this, one quick look at her calm features soothed him somewhat. She was gazing toward the collapsed hotel, her full lips parted, the pain very real in her huge blue eyes. His gaze settled on his other two men, Corporal Felipe Orlando and Private Hugh Bertram.

“Corporal, take Private Bertram with you and canvass the hotel with this map.” Wes handed the corporal one of the tightly rolled blueprints from beneath his arm. Orlando had worked with him for nearly a year helping to build roads and bridges at Camp Reed, which was why he and Wes had been specially assigned to the base. Orlando was in his late twenties, married, and the father of three beautiful little girls. At Wes’s words, his round coppery face lit up and he nodded briskly and took the map.

“Yes, sir. Where are we putting the H.Q.?”

Wes grinned slightly and nodded to Orlando. They needed a central location to erect tents and store food before they could get busy with the rescue effort. Looking around, Wes saw a car that had been knocked around and smashed by several falling palm trees right in front of the collapsed Hoyt. With a little cleaning, the broad hood of the car could be used as a table.

“Near that blue SUV, Corporal. Once you finish canvassing the hotel, you two can get the tents up, store our supplies and get us operational. That will be our ops center until we can get reinforcement in here.” There was a convoy starting out of Camp Reed, heavy trucks and Humvees bringing more tents, MREs—Meals Ready to Eat—and anything else they might need for their stay. This was a field operation, and everyone knew it was going to be a long, arduous one. Supplies that were coming to each grid area would help the local people survive.

“Yes, sir, that looks like a real good area.” Orlando turned to Hugh Bertram, a soft-spoken, red-haired Southerner from Georgia. “Come on, Bertram. We got work to do.”

The private nodded and saluted and, turning on his heel, followed the corporal, who was trotting toward the hotel.

“That leaves me,” Callie said as Wes’s warm green gaze settled on her. She offered him a slight smile, feeling as if the sun were shining around her. Throughout the trip in the Huey, she’d sat beside Wes. And she had been privileged to wear a set of headphones hooked up to the intercom. For the entire trip, she was able to converse easily with Wes without having to shout over the roar of the helo.

He hadn’t known much about quake rescue dogs or what she did for a living. Callie had filled him in as quickly as possible. Every time he settled his full attention on her, her heart beat harder in her chest. She couldn’t explain her reaction. Never had a man’s look affected her as much as his did. When his mouth crooked slightly upward at the corners, she felt a little breathless because he was smiling at her. The look that lingered in his sharply assessing eyes made her feel giddy and unsettled at the same time.

Callie decided crazy things happened during disasters and her feelings could only be attributed to her skewed, unreliable emotional state. During times of trauma, most people were in shock and nothing made sense to them. Even though she was a trained rescuer, that didn’t mean she could just shut off her emotions and do her job; far from it. Callie had lost count of how many times she’d cried while out on a grid search for victims. Whenever she thought about what the families of the victims went through, she was ripped apart inside. No matter how difficult it made her job, Callie didn’t ever want to lose her capacity for sympathy and empathy with others; she would rather suffer the consequences. She knew herself well enough to know that her reaction to Wes was not normal, and probably a symptom of what she called “earthquake mode” emotions.

Maybe Wes was in the same mode; she wasn’t sure. As he stood there, tall and straight, his broad shoulders thrown back as he assessed the Hoyt, he seemed rock solid emotionally. Callie was grateful for his quiet, unobtrusive style of command. Right now, with panic rampant, a calm voice and clear thinking were hard to find. She was glad he was in charge of this operation.

“Let’s get over to the hood of our H.Q.,” he told her wryly. “You need to commence a grid search in that mess, right?” he asked, hooking a thumb toward the pulverized Hoyt Hotel.

Callie nodded and fell into step with Wes. Dusty got to his feet and walked obediently at her side, his body swinging comfortingly against her leg. “Yes, the search grid has to be overlaid on your blueprint of the hotel, and then I’ll search each square foot with Dusty. Hopefully, he’ll locate someone who’s still alive. He’ll also pick up the scent of those who have died. He’s been trained to whine if the person is dead and to bark if he finds someone alive. If they’re dead, I’ll put a bright-red plastic square in that place so everyone knows there’s a body under the rubble. If we find someone alive—” she gave him a hopeful look “—I’ll be radioing down to you and asking you to bring the construction equipment to try and help us unearth the person ASAP.”

Wes nodded, absorbing the information. “I hope you find a lot of live people. Our number-one priority here is to recover survivors. Secondly, we’re charged with getting tents, food and water to the people of this area, as we get supplies delivered here.”

“You’ve got a tough job ahead of you,” Callie admitted. Their arms brushed together as they walked. She moved away slightly to ensure that didn’t happen again. Though she liked touching him, Callie knew it wasn’t appropriate. Still, her heart had pounded a little harder in her breast when she’d made contact with Wes. And he didn’t seem to mind the accidental touch. In fact, he’d slanted a glance down at her, a slight hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

He snorted softly now. “I’m a construction guy, not a rescue trained military officer. I hope I can do justice to this mess, but I’m not sure.” He held her gaze. “And I’m looking to you for help, Callie. You’re the real disaster expert here. I hope you don’t mind if I call you often on the radio and ask for help and guidance when I need it?”

What a delightful surprise, Callie thought, happy that Wes didn’t have trouble relying on her. Usually that was the case when she was paired up with a man. “Sure, I’ll try to be of help to you in any way possible, Wes. No one is ever trained well enough for something like this….” She looked around, sadness entering her voice. “No one could ever imagine the scope of this disaster. I mean…I’ve been in some pretty awful places, especially Turkey, but this is even worse because it has affected such a large region—not just one city, a few square miles. No, this is a horse of a different color, Wes, and frankly, I don’t think General Wilson at the base realizes how bad it is—yet. He will.” Lifting her arm, she gestured toward the suburbs surrounding the Hoyt. “This is a nightmare come true. And we’re in it as it’s unfolding. All we can do is help each other, hold one another, do a lot of crying when people aren’t looking, and pray we make the right decisions.”

Wes slowed as they approached the vehicle. “I know,” he told her worriedly. “Being a civil engineer, I’ve worked in a lot of rough environments, and the one thing that strikes me more than any other with this quake is that the people of this basin are not going to have enough water to sustain them.”

“Right,” Callie murmured unhappily. “Within the week, water is going to be the number one factor in who lives and who dies here. If we can’t get enough water in, people are going to start dropping like flies. It will be babies and the elderly first.”

“You’ve seen situations like this before, haven’t you?” Wes found himself fascinated with Callie. She seemed easygoing, soft-spoken and very responsible. That told him of the steely emotional strength she must have within her heart. And it drew him. She was a woman of incredible compassion and substance, and he’d never met anyone quite like her in his life.

“Yes,” Callie admitted haltingly. “In Turkey, in the major cities we’ve been in to help locate survivors, the pipes carrying water from the reservoirs were all broken up. At first, we saw people working together to collect water and food. But later they began to steal from one another. The fabric of society comes undone real fast in a life-and-death situation like that, Wes, and we’re going to have the same thing happen here. I hope you’re prepared for it. People will turn on one another. They’ll steal, lie and cheat to get water. And if that doesn’t do the trick, then they’ll resort to any means to take what they want.” Her mouth quirked as they stopped at the vehicle. “Later, they’ll start killing for it. That’s when the situation turns ugly and dangerous.”

“You carry food and water on you when you search. Were you a target then, too?” Wes turned and studied her saddened face. For a moment, her eyes glimmered with what he was sure were tears. But she forced them back.

“Oh, yes…we had to have Turkish troops, armed to the teeth, accompany us over the search areas to make sure we didn’t get robbed of the canteen we carried…or the food we had in the pockets of our cammies. We didn’t have much, but when parents see their children dying of dehydration or lack of food, they’ll do anything they have to do to save them.” She saw his eyes flicker with surprise. “Earthquakes bring out the best and worst of humanity, Wes. Sometimes you find that, if you scratch the surface of most human beings caught in such a situation, they’re savages underneath.”

Tilting her head, she added, “And then, when you think humans really are mere savages who have no regard for law, order or society, you’ll run into a man or woman who is positively saintly. I’ve seen miracles happen…and it restores my belief in humanity. I’m sure we’ll see it here, too.”

“Well, whatever happens, this rescue is not something I’m looking forward to.” With a grimace, he added, “I usually work with concrete and steel and it’s pretty unemotional.”

“Yeah…” Callie answered, seeing the pain in his eyes. “Now you’ll be dealing with flesh and blood. A whole ’nother ball game.”

Wes wanted to talk more, but their mission was desperately urgent. Every person buried in the Hoyt Hotel rubble must have a mother, father, brother or sister—some relative frantic with worry. His conscience ate at him. What if someone he loved was buried in that heap of debris behind them? How would he be feeling? Pretty awful, especially if he couldn’t determine if that person was dead or alive. All lines of communication were down, with the exception of battery-operated radios and cell phones. And cell phones were only as good as their batteries. There was no electricity to recharge any batteries once they died.

Wes scanned the area, noting a number of people sitting on the edge of the chewed-up boulevard near the Hoyt. They had to be survivors from the hotel. One man was up on the heap of rubble, calling a name repeatedly and looking for someone. “This is bad. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life. I just hope I can do a good job of leading this detachment. Do the right thing at the right time, with all the limitations we face.”

Hearing the edge in his deep voice, Callie gave him a compassionate look. His eyes were alive with feelings as he surveyed the Hoyt. “Yes, it’s terrible. But I know in my heart you can do this, Wes. I think you’re perfect for it. You’re calm, cool and collected.”

Chuckling dryly, he said, “Bane of the engineer breed, you know? We’re numbers and figures people, not very glamorous, exciting or dazzling on a scale of one to ten.”

“You’re all those things in my eyes,” Callie declared, then stopped abruptly, shocked at what she’d just said. Where had that come from? Feeling heat crawl into her face, she stammered, “I—I believe in you. You’re a Marine Corps officer and we get the best training in the world, especially for difficult and changing situational operations.” She saw his eyes glimmer at her praise, and it made her feel good.

They continued toward the hotel, and silence fell between them as they surveyed the devastation. Dozens of palm trees lay scattered all around them. The once beautiful Spanish-tile entrance to the Hoyt was gone; there was nothing more than concrete, shattered glass and twisted steel visible now. Though neither of them said it, Callie knew many lives had been lost here. Because the Hoyt was a landmark building, once a gathering place for Hollywood stars, it was always filled to capacity, especially on New Year’s Eve. The Hoyt threw one of the grandest, most publicized New Year’s parties in California. Anyone who was famous was here for it. Callie stopped herself from thinking any further than that.

When Wes reached the blue, dusty SUV, he used the arm of his coat to wipe off the hood. Dust and rubble flew in all directions. He laid the maps down and unrolled them. Dawn was upon them and the growing light made it easier to read the blueprints.

Looking around him, Wes picked up small pieces of asphalt and placed them on the corners of his maps to keep them flat on the hood of the vehicle. Only then did he notice that Callie was too short to read them.

“Hop up on the bumper here,” he said to her, half in jest, “so you can draw your grid. This is the blueprint of the hotel. It doesn’t look like it used to, but you can still work out the parameters so you can begin your search.” He handed her a black felt-tip pen.

“Okay, hold on. Let me get my safety gear on.” She gave Dusty a hand gesture and the dog sat down. Then she placed a bright-red vest that said RESCUE in bold yellow letters on the front and back. It was actually a flak jacket. If she fell on sharpened objects in the rubble, the jacket would protect her from being pierced and possibly killed. The familiar chafing and weight actually felt good to her as she used the Velcro tabs to close it snugly around her torso.

The bright-orange helmet that hung from a hook on her olive-green web belt was next. She settled it over her camouflage-colored utility cover, which was shaped like a baseball cap, and strapped it into place beneath her chin. Last came the hard leather knee protectors in case she fell in the rubble or had to get down and crawl into tight places. Her knees would take a beating, and the leather absorbed the shock that would be guaranteed if she started poking around between slabs of concrete.

She’d already placed a bright-red cotton garment over Dusty. It held four large pockets, two on each side, holding small bottles of water, as well as human and dog food. Dusty carried roughly ten pounds in the specially made Marine Corps vest. His uniform was edged in bright yellow, with RESCUE DOG printed in large letters on each side. A leather harness was then fitted over it. Callie had also placed thick, soft leather “booties” on his feet held on by Velcro. Dusty was just as susceptible to cuts, gouges and scratches on the sensitive pads of his feet as she was.

Taking off her thick leather gloves, Callie took the pen Wes held out to her. When their fingers met, she felt a brief flash of warmth. Wes was amazingly calm and matter-of-fact, despite all the carnage around them.

Looking up, she saw a group of civilians, some with children in their arms, straggling toward the hotel rubble where Corporal Orlando and Private Bertram were waiting. Wes saw them, too. He knew they would be asking for help. The other part to his mission was to bring order to this chaos. He had a lot of responsibilities to carry out. Engaging the help of the survivors, all of whom were dazed looking, their faces drawn with shock and strain, would be his next order of business. By using the construction equipment, Wes could help locate other victims. But there were many things he couldn’t supply the survivors with yet, such as medical help, water and food. All he could do at this point was murmur empty platitudes.

His stomach tightened at that realization. He was an engineer, used to ordering people and equipment around to get things done. But in this situation, everything was difficult. He had neither the people nor the supplies to help survivors as he wanted to. Would they understand that? The expressions on some of their faces were heartbreaking. Some people were bloody, others simply disheveled and dirty. Two children had dust-covered faces, and even from this distance, Wes could see the tracks of their tears through the filth.

Right now, everyone in this neighborhood would be drawn to Wes’s camp, for he and his teams were the only authority around. Feeling helplessly overwhelmed with the magnitude of his mission, he looked down at Callie. Wes needed her serenity, gazed almost desperately at those guileless blue eyes that held the hope of the world in them. She was so strong right now; he felt it and sensed it in how she held herself.

As Callie hoisted herself up on the bumper so she could study the map and draw a quick sketch of the Hoyt’s rubble, Wes stood back, studying the group approaching. He counted at least ten people, very dirty and dusty, heading slowly toward Orlando and Bertram. The silver-haired man leading them, picked up his pace as Corporal Orlando waved him closer. Wes saw the man’s face light up with hope. Standing there, Wes didn’t feel the least bit hopeful. The pressure of people’s expectations weighed heavily upon him.

He lowered his eyes and watched Callie, hungrily absorbing her profile as she worked over the blueprint. She was like a breath of fresh air compared to the hell surrounding them. A wisp of her sandy hair had slipped free and was lying across her rosy cheek. Although she was no raving beauty, Wes found her face intriguing, especially her wide, soft mouth and those very deep, dark-blue eyes that he didn’t think missed a thing.

He found his heart opening, and that shocked him. Every time Callie was near him, or he thought of her or pictured her face, the same feeling overcame him. That scared Wes. The only other time he’d felt like this was when Allison, his fiancée, had been with him. Sadness overwhelmed him momentarily at the thought. She had been a firefighter. She’d died in a ten-story building fire, and his love for her had gone up in those flames, in that black smoke.

Wes had sworn he’d never again be drawn to a woman who did dangerous work for a living…yet here he was once more, with the same kind of tantalizing joy creeping through his heart. It told him he was powerfully drawn to Callie. But she had a dangerous job, dammit, and he simply couldn’t love her as he’d loved Allison. No, his heart couldn’t stand such a risk again.

Wes found himself wrestling with the past. Looking at Callie, he wanted to forget the stern promise he’d made to find a woman in a safe job. Callie was so beautiful in his eyes. That outgoing warmth she’d automatically established with him seemed to ease all his burdens, made him want to reach out, pull her into his arms and hold her tight until the air rushed from her lungs. That was the effect she had on him.

Trying to shake off the desire and need he felt for her, Wes tried to focus on what she was doing. She’d quickly drawn her grid with expert strokes and was now numbering each area.

“Okay, Lieutenant…” She laughed apologetically. “I mean, Wes…”

“I’d like to use first names when we’re alone,” he told her in a gritty, intimate voice, stepping close to her. “We’re both the same rank. I don’t have a problem with it—unless you do?” Sexual harassment was something today’s military was working hard to eradicate. The U.S. Navy had a color-coded warning system in place, and since the Marines Corps was technically a part of this service, they employed the same criteria.

“Green” meant that the person receiving the comment felt it was appropriate. “Yellow” meant that the comment or choice of words made the recipient uneasy and unsure of the sender’s intentions. “Red” meant that the sender had crossed over the line and the receiver considered the comment or gesture sexual harassment. Ever since the Tailhook 2 scandal in the early nineties, the navy used this three-color system to help everyone understand what was and was not sexual harassment.

Callie glanced over at Wes. She wanted to simply stare at him. His face was strong, and she liked the life that glimmered in his forest-green eyes. “Sure. Callie is fine. It’s a green, Wes.” Pleasantly surprised by his intimacy and friendliness, Callie knew he was questioning whether she felt his demeanor toward her was harassment. It wasn’t; his warmth was welcome under the circumstances. Saying it was a green situation told him that. It also meant she was leaving the door open for a much more potentially intimate relationship with him, but that had yet to be verbalized.

Her heart pounded briefly at her boldness. Could she say it to his face? What a coward she was! Callie felt incredibly drawn to him and unable to stop the energy that seemed to pulse between them when they were together.

She handed Wes the pen and leaped down off the bumper. As she picked up the leather leash, Dusty instantly stood up, his tail wagging. He was ready to go to work.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.