FIRING LINE -
ELIZABETH STORM
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE 7,"88, #93
The missile had disappeared into thin air
And First Lieutenant Molly Grant was held responsible. Her mission was to find the huge hidden missile and its tank-sized carrier. But first she had a lot of questions to answer from Captain Hank Bennington, her new commanding officer at Fort Sanderson. With both their careers at stake, Hank did not want excuses, he wanted action.
Their joint effort to find the missing missile led them on a perilous search that put both their lives in danger. Being under fire in the field of battle was one thing, but being shot at, chased by a missile, abducted and targeted for murder was above and beyond the call of duty.
Harlequin Intrigue.
... because romance can be quite an adventure!
For editorial purposes, if you encounter the word "hi" and the sentence doesn't make sense, replace it with "in"
For example, "it was hi the drawer" should read "it was in the drawer"
Also, if you encounter "di" in any part of a word and the sentence and word make no sense, replace it with "th"
For example, "diere were people diat dien went" should read "there were people that then went"
Other possible replacements are "I" for "7" or "1" or "!" or ","" For example "1 am going to the store" should read "I am going to the store"
Other possible replacements are "m" for "th" For example "that should be" for "mat should be"
Unfortunately, it's impossible for me to go through every sentence, so I'll leave it for you to figure out if you run in to them.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
First Lieutenant Molly Grant—She knew her
missiles, and one was missing.
Captain Hank Bennington—Was the easy
answer too easy? He had to find out.
Specialist 4 Royal Johnson—He'd lie to
protect his wife.
First Sergeant Julio Ramos—He'd tried to
warn Molly Grant.
Sergeant Schraub—The men called him
Sergeant Suffer.
Jack Santini—How did he become Sergeant
Satan?
Lobo Wolf—His strength might be his
weakness.
Pearl Winkleman—Could she stop the
publicity?
Chapter One
If First Lieutenant Molly Lee Grant hadn't been looking in the ballroom mirror, eyeing her new commanding officer's reflection impatiently, she wouldn't have noticed the missile.
It was a U.S. Army MGM-52C Lance missile trainer mounted on an M-752 tracked carrier, and that carrier had no business pompously moving its six thousand pounds of metal, diesel engine and high-tech equipment down the driveway of the Fort Sanderson Officers' Club at one o'clock on a Saturday morning.
If she had been a less conscientious officer, Molly might have told herself she had imagined the missile. The outdoor lights were dim, and the pulsing jukebox hid the engine noise. She might have done nothing but continue to look at Captain Hank McC. Bennington II and wonder how she got trapped into accepting a ride home from a guy who was exactly the kind of officer she disliked most.
After all, missiles moved around all the time at Fort Sanderson; it was an artillery post. Another officer might simply have thought it an odd time for a training exercise and gone on home.
But Molly knew her equipment. Even in a mirror, even through a sliding glass door and even with a brief glimpse in the semidarkness, she saw the odd pattern of camou-
Firing Line
flage paint and knew it was Alpha Battery's No. 1 carrier and its Lance trainer, a mock missile used as a stand-in for the actual nuclear weapon.
She stared in the mirror. That carrier and the missile it was transporting were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and she had to do something about it.
Molly whirled around and ran across the room to the glass door that opened to the patio. She had to fumble with the latch, but in a moment she slid the heavy door open. She pulled the long skirt of her dress uniform up to her knees and ran out, her pumps clattering over the flagstones.
The vehicle had been traveling near its top speed of forty miles an hour, and it had disappeared behind a high cedar hedge at the corner of the building. Molly ran across the lawn after it. The music from the ballroom had faded, but she couldn't discern the carrier's motor.
Behind her she heard pounding feet. A deep voice yelled, "Hey! Lieutenant Grant! What's the matter?"
Molly recognized Hank Bennington's voice, but she kept racing for the shrubbery, her heart pounding.
Some cretin had taken one of her vehicles joyriding. How had he gotten the padlock off?
This would have to happen the first day Captain "West-Point-forever" Bennington and his massive class ring were on the job. She was in hot water now, right up over her head.
Molly covered her face with her arms and plunged through a gap in the cedars, hard on the track of the giant vehicle. Then she stopped dead. Hank Bennington followed her through the greenery and knocked into her. The two of them looked at the terrace and the south lawn of the officers' club.
Bright moonlight illuminated the scene. Molly could see the wrought iron tables and chairs on the terrace, the chain link fence that surrounded the pool, the tiny storage shed
beside the wading pool, the second cedar hedge that blocked the view of the street and the curving asphalt drive that led to the golf course. She could pick out the budding branches of every oak, elm and willow that lined the fairway; she could see canvas hoses, the heavy plastic pool cover, a ditcher of some sort, a pile of sand, the diving board and the corkscrew slide, but the No. 1 Lance of Alpha Battery had disappeared.
A stray missile was exactly what she needed to top off a completely awful day, Molly thought.
The day had nosedived at four o'clock, when she had emerged from under a truck to bump heads with her new battery commander, Captain Bennington. They'd been at odds since then, though they hid their animosity with military courtesy and excessive cordiality.
At twenty-six, Molly had been in the army for three years. Her camouflage battle dress uniform, standard workday wear at Fort Sanderson, rested on a trim figure, and her combat boots added a half inch to her five feet six inches. She wore her dark hair long; that way it could be knotted up and tucked under her billed battle dress uniform cap more neatly.
Molly kept her hair in a utilitarian style while on duty, but she was not completely without vanity. She was an expert on how to apply eye makeup so that it met army regulations and her own standards of good taste, yet showed off a pair of brown eyes that were her best feature. Multicolored eye shadow and broad strokes of eyeliner were not her style; Molly depended on subtle shading in natural tones, and she thought it worked.
In her time in the army, Molly had earned her share of commendations. For the past three weeks, since the departure of the previous battery commander, she had been in charge of Alpha Battery's sixty-five officers and soldiers and its million-or-so dollars' worth of equipment. She
10
used a hands-on management style, but she tried to be a dignified executive.
So it had been rather odd for her to be under a truck. Officers didn"t ordinarily craw! under trucks, even to check on the sick transmission of a deuce and a half, army slang for a two and a half ton truck. Checking on the repair work was a job for the sergeant. If First Sergeant Ramos had been around, it would have been a different story, but Sergeant Schraub didn't know a transmission from a T square, so Molly had gotten down on the gravel in the battery's parking area and gone under the truck herself.
She had about decided the repair job was finally right this time, when she heard combat boots scuffing across the gravel. The boots stopped beside the truck, and she recognized the double knots Sergeant Schraub always used. "Lieutenant Grant!" His voice almost squeaked. "What is it, Sergeant?" she answered. Molly began to wriggle out from under the truck feet-first. The camouflage-patterned shirt of her BDUs got pushed up over her midriff and her olive drab T-shirt came untucked.
"There's somebody here to see you, ma'am," Schraub said.
By then Molly was near the edge of the truck, so she simply rolled out from under it. She landed with the bill of her baseball-type cap almost touching the toes of a pair of shiny black oxfords topped by a pair of sharply creased army-green pants.
At Ford Sanderson, the more formal green uniform, the army equivalent of a civilian business suit, was rarely worn. By order of the commanding general, even people who worked in offices wore camouflage-patterned BDUs on duty.
11
Molly did an undignified push-up and rocked back on her heels. She found herself looking at one of the most attractive men she had ever seen.
And he was laughing at her.
"It's the new battery commander, ma'am. Captain Bennington," Schraub said, his voice weak.
Later she was afraid that she had simply stared at the captain openmouthed. It wasn't that he was movie star good-looking. He had a slightly aquiline nose, sandy hair and a trim, muscular build, but a lot of other guys were comparably equipped.
It was the piercing directness of his hazel eyes that kept her gaze glued to his. It was his grin that kept her mouth gaping open—even though the grin was at her expense.
But the grin disappeared with supersonic speed, and Bennington became all business.
"Sorry to catch you so busy, Lieutenant Grant," he said. There was no hint of laughter in his voice. "I just stopped by to introduce myself so we wouldn't be complete strangers when I take over on Monday."
Molly could feel her hair straggling out from under her cap—it was probably full of dirt, too. She must have grease on her hands. And the memory of her wriggling egress from under the truck gave her a moment of anguish.
But she stood up straight, dusted her hands off on her BDUs and shook Bennington's hand. There was no sign of the grin; Bennington was deadpan. Did he think shaking her hand had gotten his beautiful green outfit dirty?
She was in proper uniform, Molly reminded herself. But Captain Bennington's shiny shoes and creased pants made her feel sloppy.
They walked across the gravel parking lot, through the gate in the chain-link fence that surrounded it and into the small frame building that housed the orderly room, or battery office. She reviewed what she had heard about him from mutual acquaintances.
12
Captain Henry McC. Bennington II: known as "Hank" to his friends—would not include her, Molly thought. A West Point graduate. Son of Major General Mac Bennington, who was now assigned to NATO. Had ranked in the top ten percent as a first lieutenant—part of an elite group who had earned early promotion to captain. A former general's aide.
And his West Point nickname had been "Rank." Cadet Rank Bennington—the guy who would kill to move up a spot in class rankings. Former cadets stuck up for one another, but one of his old classmates had let that tidbit slip.
Molly had vowed to keep an open mind, but within ten minutes of listening to him talk she had him pegged. He was a ringknocker,
A ringknocker is a West Point graduate who takes his elite education too seriously and allegedly shows off his status by calling attention to his class ring.
Oh, Captain Bennington didn't actually rap his ring on the equipment as they walked through the battery's missiles, trucks, jeeps and command vehicles. In fact, he wasn't even wearing a class ring. But he had all the other West Point traits. He stood with one arm behind his back in the official U.S. Military Academy pose. He asked her how she got her commission, and nodded coldly when she said she was an ROTC officer. They ran through a list of mutual acquaintances, and all the names Molly recognized belonged to West Pointers.
Molly was proud of Alpha Battery. But none of the accomplishments she listed—top marks at inspection, commendations—seemed to impress Hank Bennington. Yes, he grinned his boyish grin, but tnere was a wariness behind his friendliness. Molly thought she caught an undertone of condescension, and she bristled, ready to stand up for her unit.
She had to admit he was a good-looking guy, she told herself. But she didn't like him, no matter how charming
13
his grin. If the army wanted her to work for him, she would do her duty. But she wouldn't like it.
She and Bennington were looking at a roster of the battery's sixty-five officers and enlisted men and women, when Specialist 4 Royal Johnson came in with coffee.
Bennington was lecturing her in a West Point voice. "We might double up on physical training. PT and marksmanship are particularly important for these highly technical units."
"Sucker," Johnson said.
Molly looked up, shocked, and Hank Bennington whipped his head up, as well.
"Sucker, sir?" Now Johnson's voice was all innocence. He put the two Styrofoam cups of coffee down on the desk and pulled a half-dozen lollipops from his shirt pocket. He extended them to the two officers, an angelic smile on his thin face.
Molly sighed resignedly. Johnson was going to be in trouble with the new battery commander before they had even met.
"Specialist Johnson is the official battery clown, sir," she said. "We got the lollipops when several people were trying to stop smoking, and he takes great pleasure in handing them out—with comments."
Bennington was still scowling. "Well, Johnson," he said sternly. "Do you have a root beer one? That's the only sucker worth a lick." Then he grinned.
She was amazed. Bennington hadn't seemed like the kind of officer who could take a joke unless the colonel told it.
Their whole conversation went that way. First Bennington would act so stiff-necked Molly hated him. Next he'd grin, and she'd find herself grinning back. Then she'd quickly remind herself she wasn't going to like him, even if he was good-looking.
14
Actually, it wasn't a matter of liking or disliking him. It was against army regulations to get personally involved with your commanding officer. It was also stupid. And Molly Lee Grant was not in the habit of acting stupid.
She'd been surprised when Bennington had backed her in the one decision she'd discussed with him that day— concerning the battery clown, Specialist Johnson.
It had started with a hurried entrance by First Sergeant Julio Ramos. As top noncommissioned officer in the battery, Ramos was in charge of the enlisted personnel. Molly Grant was executive officer, the battery commander's second in command. The two of them cooperated to make sure the battery's day-to-day operations ran smoothly.
A short, square man with dark hair, Ramos usually handled unit business calmly. So Molly was surprised when he burst into the battery commander's office, barely pausing to knock on the frame of the open door.
His greeting to Captain Bennington was fast. Then he turned to Molly. "We got a problem, ma'am," he said. "Johnson's the charge-of-quarters tonight."
"Rats!" Molly answered. "How did he get to the top of the list so fast?"
Ramos shrugged. "I don't know, ma'am. But I don't have an answer on his medical records yet.';
Bennington looked up then. A frown clouded his face. "I know I'm not part of the unit until Monday, Lieutenant Grant, but what's going on?"
Molly gestured impatiently. "It's Johnson, sir, the guy I called our battery clown. We were doing a little private investigation work on him. He had some pills in an un-labeled bottle under some rather odd circumstances. When we quizzed him, he said they were for his hay fever. First Sergeant Ramos is running a check on his medical rec...
Januszek66