No Surrender Page 3

  It was game time again. As always. How many times had her male instructors at Pensacola jabbed her with the same question? Aly looked Horner straight in the eye. In the military, they respected an adversary’s strength, not his weakness. “Either is acceptable to me, Commander.”

  Horner lit a match, holding it close to the pipe, puffing on it. Bluish-white smoke rose in a cloud around his head. “I see.” He sat down, flipping the match into a glass ashtray nearby. “Well, welcome to VP 46.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Picking up her file, Horner said, “Your record at Annapolis and Pensacola is outstanding. I’m glad to have someone of your caliber on board.”

  Liar. Her heart was beginning a slow beat of dread. There was coldness in Horner’s eyes. He was saying the right things, but there was no enthusiasm or sincerity in his voice. “I’m planning on at least thirty years in the Navy, sir,” Aly responded. “This is my home, my way of life. I tried to get off on the right foot with good grades.”

  “You certainly did that.” Horner puffed a few more times before continuing. “Now, as to your assignment. Because we’re shorthanded, I’m going to be putting you into intensive Link cockpit training immediately.” He saw the surprise on her face. “You’ve been assigned to one of our best pilots, who is also the Link instructor for our squadron. I have every belief that between his education of you in the cockpit and the ground training, you’ll qualify for copilot status in record time so that we can put your flying skills to work in the P3. I need every able-bodied pilot behind the yoke as soon as possible.”

  Aly blinked once. Usually a new pilot spent at least three months in a ground trainer, flying under the hood with various difficult situations that might be encountered with that particular aircraft in the air.

  After her brother Noah had graduated from the Coast Guard Academy, he’d had two terrible years under a commander who wanted to railroad him out of the service because his name was Trayhern. She slowly closed her right hand into a fist, realizing that Horner was possibly gunning for her, too. There was no way he should be putting a green copilot in a plane in such a short period of time, no matter what the personnel problem with the squadron.

  “Sir, while I respect the fact that VP 46 is short on pilots, don’t you think this is rather—”

  “Lieutenant,” Horner droned, “the manpower situation with VP 46 is critical. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t throw a green pilot into a P3 this soon. But—” he got up, scowling “—in the past quarter we’ve had more Soviet sub activity down in the Baja region of Mexico, and we’ve been pressed to fly twice the missions anticipated. Something’s up.” He turned and buttonholed her with a dark look. “The other new pilot coming on board tomorrow will get the same treatment. I’m not singling you out.”

  Aly had the good grace to blush. Horner wasn’t one to beat around the bush. “I see, sir.”

  “Believe me, you’ve been paired with our best man. He’s a capable pilot, a damn good instructor, and he’s been in on most of the hunts this past year.”

  Her hopes rising, thinking that perhaps she was wrong about Horner’s intention to sandbag her career, Aly said, “I appreciate you putting me with someone like that, sir.”

  “Don’t worry, Clay will help you make up for any deficiencies of learning about this bird of ours in Pensacola. I’ve also assigned him as your liaison officer. He’ll be in charge of helping you get situated on and off station. He’ll show you around, get you set up for Link training and, in general, make your transition here to Moffett as easy as possible.”

  “Clay?” The name rang a definite bell with Aly. He couldn’t possibly mean the Clay she’d met yesterday on the Bayshore, could he?

  Horner came around the desk and faced her. He methodically tapped the pipe against the ashtray. “Lieutenant, there’s one more thing you need to know,” he began heavily. His scowl deepened as he met and held her gaze. “You aren’t going to like this. I don’t, either, but it’s out of my hands.”

  Immediately, Aly went on guard. Her fist tightened until her short nails dug into the palm of her hand. “Sir?”

  “Before I tell you more about your assigned liaison, and your instructor pilot in the cockpit, I’m going to need your understanding.”

  Just what the hell was he going after? Aly wondered bleakly. By the set of Horner’s jaw and the funeral sound of his voice, he was acting as if someone had just died. “Go on, sir.”

  Horner folded his arms against his chest. “I’ve got a situation on my hands, Lieutenant Trayhern. And you can either make it easier or tougher on me, on yourself and on the crew you’ll be flying with—depending on how you handle it.”

  “What’s going on, Commander?” she demanded huskily.

  “Washington, D.C., sent specific orders to pair you with this pilot.”

  Frustration ate at her. “So?”

  “So I want you to realize from the outset that this was out of our hands. I’ve already tried to change the orders or in some ways rectify the situation, but it’s a no-go situation.”

  Aly’s eyes narrowed. What could possibly be such bad news? “Sir, why don’t you just tell me the gist of these orders?”

  Horner smiled briefly. “You’ve got that shoot-from-the-hip Trayhern trait, don’t you?”

  “It’s a family tradition, sir. We’ve served two hundred years with honors in the various military services. My father passed on his endurance and candor to me.”

  “Obviously.” Horner sighed. “Well, you’re going to need both, Lieutenant. Your mentor is a pilot by the name of First Lieutenant Clay Cantrell.” He drilled a look into her widening eyes. “His brother was Stephen Cantrell. One of the men who died on Hill 206 five years ago.”

  Aly started to rise. And then she fell back into the chair, a gasp escaping her. Clay Cantrell! His brother was Stephen! Oh, my God! She sat for frozen seconds, assimilating the news. The man she’d met on the Bayshore was the same man. She’d been so drawn to him. For those precious minutes, he’d eased the coldness that had inhabited her for so many years.

  The sting of reality replaced that wistful memory. Judging by Horner’s reaction, Clay Cantrell was going to make it very tough on her. How could he not dislike her? Morgan had supposedly gotten his brother killed on that infamous hill. She bit down so hard on her lower lip that she tasted blood. And Clay was her IP in the Link trainer. And once she qualified as copilot, she’d be flying with him on every mission. She’d be spending hours at a time every day with him….

  “Oh, God,” Aly whispered, pressing her fingers against her brow.

  “Get hold of yourself, Lieutenant.”

  Her head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. “My reaction is warranted, sir. And don’t worry, I’m not going to faint or get hysterical.”

  Horner nodded and slowly made his way around the desk to sit down. “Glad to hear it, Miss Trayhern.”

  Swallow it, Aly. Swallow everything. Just like you did before. Real anguish flowed through her as she realized that there was never going to be a time or place in her career where she could afford to be her real self or show her true feelings. Horner was watching her closely. She had to shore up and wear that impervious military facade. Internally, Aly girded herself, playing the game, denying so much of herself.

  “Does Lieutenant Cantrell know about this assignment, sir?” Her voice was husky again, but in charge. Emotionless.

  “He does.”

  “His reaction?”

  “Negative.”

  Aly wanted to cry. She wanted to scream out at the unfairness of the situation. She came from a military family that knew the military way of life. It hadn’t escaped her that someone in D.C., probably some admiral, wanted to wash her out of the Navy because she was Morgan’s sister. There was no room for a traitor’s family in the service. God, how many times had she heard that?

  “Can he separate his personal emotions from his duty toward me?” she demanded tightly.

  Horner shrugged. “I told
him he’d better.”

  Great. “And if he can’t, sir?”

  “Come and see me. But,” Horner growled, “I’m expecting both of you to behave maturely about this. After getting cockpit qualified, you’ve got a P3 and a crew of ten other men on board. That’s your focus, your responsibility. I won’t tolerate any bickering, sniping or back-stabbing coming from either one of you. Is that clear, Lieutenant Trayhern?”

  Aly rose unsteadily. She locked her knees, coming to attention. “Yes, sir, it is. Permission to leave, sir? The sooner I meet with Mr. Cantrell and clear the air, the better.”

  Again, Horner gave her an amused smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Bulldog tough. That’s what they said about your father, Chase Trayhern—he was one tough son of a bitch in a fight. I wish you luck, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, sir. Where can I find Mr. Cantrell?”

  “He’s in the Link Trainer office across the way. When he’s not flying, his duties include scheduling continued Link trainer education for all pilots of VP 46.” Glancing at his watch, he said, “It’s 1130. Usually, Clay heads to the chow hall about noon. You’ll probably catch him before he leaves.” Horner got up, extending his hand. “Good luck and welcome aboard, Lieutenant.”

  Aly gripped his hand, her fingers icy cold. She said nothing, coming to attention and making an about-face. Blindly heading out the door, focusing on the worst confrontation she’d ever come up against, she didn’t even say goodbye to the friendly redheaded Chief Prater.

  The day was cloudy, but patches of blue sky could be seen between the fleecy gray and white stratus overhead. Bits of sunlight slanted through, striking the revetment area where the squadron of P3s stood like gallant, silent chargers waiting to be called into battle. But Aly couldn’t enjoy any of it. Her heart hurt, her head ached. Somehow, she had to gird herself for the collision with Clay.

  As she walked around the perimeter of the hangar, Aly wrestled with a gamut of feelings. Clay had been friendly and likable yesterday. Thank God, she’d seen his good side, because it might be the last time. No matter what happened, she would keep reminding herself that he had stopped to help her when no one else had. There was integrity and humanity in his soul and heart. She liked the warm gray smile in his eyes, and that mobile mouth that drew into such a careless, little-boy grin. But yesterday he hadn’t realized that she was Morgan’s sister.

  Taking a deep breath, Aly entered a door that had a sign posted: Link Trainer Officer. The door led to a narrow passageway lined by at least ten offices up and down the east side of the hangar. Straight ahead, through the glass-paned window, she saw Clay sitting at his desk, buried in paperwork. Glancing around, Aly saw no one in the passageway. She took the few seconds of reprieve to put a tight clamp on her feelings. Her father had always counseled her never to allow her emotions to enter the field of any battle. Keeping a clear head was the only way to win, he’d told her time and again. For five years Aly had used his wisdom with success. But could she now?

  Taking a look at Clay, her heart unraveled, heedless of her father’s stern warning. He appeared tired, one hand resting against his head as he scribbled something on a yellow legal pad in front of him. His short black hair shone with blue highlights in the lamplight from overhead. The desk was cluttered, and Aly wondered if the responsibility as Link Trainer Officer combined with his many flights was wearing him down. His mouth was pursed, almost as if he were in pain. And today his skin appeared washed-out, darkness shadowing beneath his eyes.

  Aly released a shaky breath, knowing she couldn’t hate this man—not even remotely. But instinctively she knew he’d hate her. It was just a question of on what level and how much. There was something else, something gossamer and fleeting that had touched Aly’s aching heart. The vulnerability in Clay Cantrell held her captive. She had no explanation, no proof of that; it was simply something she knew. And because of that, she was going to be exposed to him emotionally. That meant he could get to her, hurt her.

  Give me the courage, give me whatever it takes to handle this. Please… And Aly placed her hand with determination on the doorknob.

  Clay heard the door open and close. He looked up. A rush of breath was expelled from his lips as he stared up…up into that angelic face once again. It was her! The woman he’d stopped to help on the Bayshore! The pen dropped from his hand. His eyes narrowed as he took in the uniform she wore. Shock rocketed through Clay. His gaze flew to the gold name tag over her right breast pocket: A. Trayhern. No! The words were almost ripped from him. My God, what kind of fate was stalking him? She couldn’t be Alyssa Trayhern! She just couldn’t be! He sat for almost a minute, wrestling with his violent emotions.

  “You!” The word exploded from him. He rose ominously to his feet, his hands resting in fists against the surface of his desk. No! his heart shouted. Fury tunneled through him like molten lava flowing up from a fissure deep in the earth. She was so damned pretty, her blue eyes wide and pleading. That irresistible mouth was parted, looking incredibly sensual. But it was her name that screamed at him. How could someone so damned fragile-looking be the sister of the man who’d killed Stephen? There had to be a mistake. Some kind of sick, twisted mistake!

  Clay drew himself up, watching her stand before him. Part of him admired her. The other part hated her. “Just what the hell is this?” he snarled.

  Aly wanted to die. She saw the shock, the anguish and then the fury in his burning pewter-gray eyes. That wonderful vulnerability that had drawn her effortlessly to Clay was buried in the mire of old memories and old hate dredged up by the guttural tone of his voice. Her stomach turned with nausea. “I’m sorry,” she began, her voice unsteady. “I didn’t know who you were. I mean, yesterday…”

  Words jammed in Clay’s throat. He glared at her. “You’re sorry?” he whispered hoarsely. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. Sorry that you got assigned to me. Sorry that your traitor of a brother got Stephen killed. Sorry that—”

  “Now you wait just one damn minute!” Aly walked up to the desk, breathing hard, her voice trembling. “Morgan was not a traitor! I know my brother! He’d never leave a company of men exposed!”

  Real hatred raged through Clay. He wanted to wrap his hands around her slender neck and choke the life out of her—just as Stephen’s life had been choked from him. “Your brother—” he breathed harshly, leaning forward, not more than six inches from her face “—was a goddamned traitor! He allowed nearly two hundred men to die that morning on that miserable hill in Vietnam. Your bastard of a brother left with the only radio that could have gotten his men safely out of that situation and disappeared into the jungle. He left Stephen and his Marine company wide open to NVA attack. The only survivor, in case you don’t happen to remember, saw your brother hightail it to the other side.” He punched a finger toward her. “So don’t you come waltzing in here telling me Morgan Trayhern wasn’t a traitor. I know different! The whole damn country does!”

  Agony warred with Aly’s anger. She felt herself unraveling before him. Each word, spit forth with such virulent loathing, plunged through her undefended heart. “My brother is not a traitor, Lieutenant,” she rattled. “And I won’t stand here and be insulted by you.”

  “Oh, yes, you will. Because your brother killed my brother.” Clay smiled savagely. “Do you know how many years I’ve lived with the nightmares? I have dreams about going to your family’s home in Florida and knocking on the door. Your father answers and I’m screaming at him, wanting to kill him the way Morgan killed Stephen.” He leaned forward, his voice flat with disgust. “Five years, Trayhern.”

  Get hold of yourself, Aly. He’s losing it. You’ve got to keep your cool. Aly slowly straightened, deliberately placing her hands at her sides. “All right, Lieutenant Cantrell, now’s your chance.”

  Startled by her sudden composure and the throaty coolness of her voice, he scowled. “What the hell are you talking about?” he grated out.

  As much as it hurt, Aly held his blazing g
ray gaze. “If you’ve still got that much hatred from that many years, it needs to be released. I’m my father’s daughter. You can’t punch him out, but you can me. Go on, take a swing at me if it will help.”

  Her voice was utterly devoid of emotion. Clay was shocked at the change in her. Yesterday…He closed his eyes, remembering her wide, trusting blue eyes and the smile that could steal the heart of the most hardened men. He trained his gaze back on her. Now she was pale, calm and almost detached. Almost. He saw the pain in her eyes.

  “I was taught never to strike a woman,” he whispered.

  Her voice hardened. “Make an exception, Cantrell, because I’m not going to put up with your anger from here on out.”

  He saw her set her jaw, as if braced for a possible blow. The whole thing would have been ridiculous under any other circumstances. Her spine was ramrod straight, her blue eyes challenging, her voice no longer soft. This was the Annapolis graduate. Clay had come up the hard way: through college and then flight school at Pensacola. But Aly was a ring knocker, an Annapolis graduate—one of those elite few who had the “right stuff” to make it through four of the toughest years ever thrown at an individual.

  Her courage tempered his hatred of her just enough. A lazy smile pulled at the hard line of Clay’s mouth. “Lucky for you that you’re in a woman’s body. Otherwise, I would invite you out back.”

  The tension in the room was frantic. Aly was thrown off guard by his amused smile. And when he straightened, throwing back his shoulders, she grew afraid. Really afraid. Her ploy to meet him head-on had defused some of his anger. But not all of it. She saw a flicker in his eyes of some emotion she couldn’t name. But it sent a chill of apprehension through her, knotting her stomach.

  “I think for the good of everyone concerned you’ll forget I’m a woman.”

  Clay threw his hands on his hips, studying her, sizing her up. Impossible, he decided. She filled out the black officer’s uniform to sweet perfection. Alyssa Trayhern was a looker, there was no doubt about it. And he liked the tousled pixie haircut that gave her a girlish quality. She was small breasted and waisted, her hips boyishly slim, but most of all, Clay liked her long, slender thoroughbred legs. His gaze moved deliberately back up to her face, back to those blue eyes that blazed with—what? Hurt? No, that couldn’t be. This woman was as tough as they came. She was from the Trayhern military dynasty, there was no doubt. Her famous relatives had fought in America’s struggle for independence, blazing a two-hundred-year record of prestigious and Congressional Medal-winning service. Until 1970. Sweet angel face and the heart of a pit bull, he thought, seeing the strength in her compressed lips, in her tense stance. Even her hands were wrapped into fists.