~ Drango Gap ~
by Elizabeth Carroll AKA RangerLiz

---

Prelude

Colorado, 1971

His father called it The Learning Place. It was the place where he made his only child sit to contemplate his most recent punishment, a chance to understand the importance of such harsh lessons a father imparted to his son.

The boy sat inside the dark crawl space beneath the stairs of the log house, his tiny hands bloody and torn from the hazel switch his father had applied to his hands and buttocks. Each time the muscular, hazel-eyed man brought the switch down, he told his son how much he loved him. He was trying to teach his son good, Christian values in a world gone mad.

Ten lashes were given to each hand and each cheek, the prescribed number of blows his father's father had used. Once he had been disciplined, his father had guided his son into the crawl space.

Outside the Learning Place he could hear his father's voice telling his Momma that boys do not play with girl's toys. Especially, his father said in the flat, cold tones delivered with the cadence of a machine-gun, dolls were girl toys, not boy toys. The boy heard his Momma stammer that she was sorry that she had broken another RULE.

It seemed even Momma after ten years did not know all the RULES that his father enforced upon his small family out of pure love and concern. He heard Momma promising she would never let him play with her childhood dolls again, imploring her husband not to teach her baby anymore lessons today.

There was the sudden, hard sound of the impact of an open hand hitting flesh, and the boy heard his Momma cry out in pain. The boy's bit his lower lip, containing the urge to cry out of his Momma's sake. It would only make his father more determined to teach his errant wife a proper lesson.

The boy blamed himself for Momma having to learn his lesson. Momma loved him so much, sometimes she forget that father was never one to miss things. The boy wanted nothing more than run to his Momma's side, to tell his father it was his fault, not Momma's. But he knew if he opened the door and stepped outside, his father would only have to teach Momma more lessons.

Father was telling Momma he did not want his son becoming one of those longhaired, girlie men that had not done their duty. Father had done his duty In-Country, in a strange, distant land where people named Gooks and Slant Eyes lived. It had been a perilous thing his father had done, serving alongside colored folks that had forgotten their place in the world.

But he knew if he opened the door and stepped out, his father would only have to teach Momma more. He squared his small jaw, resolving that she would not suffer because he had made a mistake. And his father did love him.

He did not want his boy becoming a long haired, man-girl like so many boys were wont to become these days. He squared his shoulders, determined he would prove to his father that he could be a man.

He studied the object that had gotten him and Momma taught their lesson. Momma had let him play with it, since he been stuck inside during the long, cold winter with a bad cough. The porcelain face of the girl doll had been cracked when his father had found him laying the baby doll inside the small, toy crib his Momma had let him take to his tiny room.

He could remember looking up from the crib, where he had been talking about how much he wanted to be outside playing with his friends. He had been humming a song, pretending he was finishing feeding and changing the baby. His father's huge, calloused hands had clamped hard around his son's small, narrow shoulders and squeezed hard.

It hurt when he tried to raise his arms over his shoulders, and he could clearly see the finger marks his father's grip had left. He wiped his snub nose free of the snot that had been running freely for days. The small shaft of light, illuminating the reason for his punishment, came from the crack in the door.

His father had told him he would teach him how to hunt once he was better. Hunting, playing football and being a Trooper where things that men and boys did. Dolls and baby raising were things women and girls did, not boys. He told his son that he wanted him to be able to handle himself not matter what happened in his life.

The boy felt along the ground with his hands, finding a small box which rattled. It was a box of matches. He held them in his raw, bloody hands, and glanced at the doll. He would make things right. His father said fire burned away sin and filth, and the world needed to be purified so white men and women could take their rightful place above all others.

His father was teaching him how race mixing, the women's movement to become men, and shadowy creatures he called Fags and Dykes were trying to kill America. He wanted his son able to defend the nation his father had fought for during the Vietnam War. His father still had his sniper rifle from his days as a Marine Sniper.

He let his son help him oil and tend the weapon that men used. His father loved him and his Momma. He just was trying real hard to keep them on the Path of Righteousness. The Learning Place and beatings were part of what he had to do.

It was his duty as a Man and Father. He did not like what he had to do, but he did it all out of love. Like his own father had done.

The boy promised himself he would become the same man his father was. He would carry on the tradition of being a man.


Chapter One:

Persian Gulf, July 20 1995

There was a certain clarity to the moment: a sense of what her entire life had been geared towards as the alarm rose. Seven bandits, coming in hot and fast, and definitely not friendly. Lt. Dianthe "Breakneck" Xavier listened to the steady flow of information being fed to her by her Radio Intercept Officer, or RIO.

But the rules of engagement bound them to hold their fire until given justification. Dianthe drew a deep breath, centering herself.

Michael "Dusty" Rhoades had been her RIO since she had come aboard the carrier. He never missed a beat, no matter how bad things got. Dusty had volunteered to be the back seat officer for the freshly trained fighter pilot. Dianthe had flown electronic warfare training planes for the Navy most of her career, until Les Aspin gave women aviators the right to join combat wings.

She had been assigned to the best duty a female aviator could pull: a composite squadron based on land to help train Navy and Marine pilots in mock engagements. Dianthe had been fast tracked: she had been one of the first women given fighter pilot training because of recommendations from her commanding officers. She had aced her training. She was a natural fighter jock.

She had served almost a full year as a F-14 Tomcat fighter pilot on board the carrier and on land. Her wing man Kendra "Tinker" Bell asked what she should do. Dianthe told her to stay close, and braced herself. Seven MiG-29s drove down toward the four Tomcats, intent on proving themselves. Lt. CDR. Thomas "Tommyboy" O'Connell radioed the USS Abraham Lincoln about the MiG-29s. after ordering evasive maneuvers.

"Break right, break right, Tommyboy," Lieutenant Bud "Bull" Durham warned his wing man. Dianthe saw a MiG sliding up behind Bull's Tomcat even as she shook one trying to get tone lock on her.

"Bull, watch your six!" Dianthe shouted, rolling over and diving hard. She was out of position to help him. He tried breaking free, but there was no escape.

Lieutenant Bud "Bull" Durham and Lieutenant Sally "Killer Cartington's Tomcat became a fireball in the space of a heartbeat.

Dianthe cursed, and Michael "Dusty" Rhoades hissed, "Shit, they are gone."

"Get it together," Dianthe snapped, cobalt blue eyes diamond hard. Bull may have been an arrogant SOB, but he had been a fellow fighter pilot. Sally had been scheduled for shore rotation, since she was being sent to the War College.

Tinker whispered something: a prayer. Dianthe split her attention between the MiGs streaking around her plane like angry wasps, and her wingman. She saw "Tommyboy" trying to shake the MiG that been stalking him.

"I'm in a world of hurt here, Breakneck. Lost one engine; debris got sucked into it."

"Hang on, Tommyboy. I'm coming," Dianthe made one of those seemingly impossible moves that had earned her call sign. Call signs were either earned by something stupid a nugget pilot had done, or were based on a play of words. They were used to prevent confusion during the frantic moments of an engagement, and part of the tradition and lore of naval aviation. Dusty gave out a whoop of delight. He purely loved the way she could make a Tomcat do things that most considered impossible.

Dusty continued supplying important information on the position of the other Bandits, and her wingman's current position. Dianthe grinned. She dropped directly behind the MiG that had been hunting Tommyboy. She snarled, "Tommyboy, break hard left.now!"

"We have tone lock! Your shot," Dusty commanded his pilot.

Tommyboy trusted her. He had no choice: he was shit out of luck. Dianthe acquired tone lock, and thumbed the firing button. The Tomcat lurched, and watched the sidewinder missile spring forward. The hunter had become the prey.

The MiG broke apart like a cheap child's toy.

"We've got trouble," Dusty warned, the alarms sounding. One of the MiGs was trying to get a solid lock on her. She heeled over sharply, and dove. The MiG tried copying her moves, and found himself drawn right into the sights of Tommyboy.

Scratch another MiG. Two down, five left. Tinker evaded being shot down with some impressive stick work of her own. The kid had talent. Dianthe hurtled upwards, targeting the surprised Iraqi before he knew what was happening. She went to guns, firing at the midsection of the plane since she was too close for a missile launch.

His plane tumbled out of the sky, broken in half. No chute. Another kill. The remaining four MiGs did not like their odds, especially when two Marine F/A-18 Hornets streaked out of the sun. The Hornets commander told them they would make sure the MiGs did not decide to come back.

Tommyboy thanked them. Dianthe and Tinker slid alongside their commander's plane. The damaged engine was worse then he had indicated. The housing was torn up, and Dianthe knew the engine was beyond repair.

"Can you make it, Tommyboy?" Dianthe inquired.

"Hell, this is nothing. Remind me to tell you about the time I really got my nuts kicked," Tommyboy quipped.

Halston "Cowboy" Dallas chuckled, and said, "Breakneck, you are shit-hot! Two kills." Tommyboy's Radio Intercept Officer saluted her, then turned his full attention back to keeping his bird alive.

"I see medals in your future, guys," Tommyboy pronounced, then sobered. "Thanks, Breakneck. Those medals apply to you, too, Dusty."

"Ditto," Dianthe relaxed marginally. "Good flying, Tinker."

"Yeah..but we lost Bull and Killer," the young woman whispered, the reality hitting her suddenly.

"It's part of the game. A bad part, but part of it," Sammy "Hawkeye" Bryce told his pilot. The RIO had kept his nugget on track, but her flying had kept them alive. "If it helps, they most likely never felt it."

Dianthe listened absently to the banter between the others. She recalled a time when Tommyboy had been dead set against women becoming fighter pilots. She had come out of Annapolis with an aerospace engineering degree, gotten into the flight training, and had been given strike-fighter-training. But she could not use it in a real world situation.

Women were not permitted in combat situations, so during Desert Storm she watched from her California based composite squadron. She had desperately wanted to fly the fast, pointy, lethal fighters that were the reserved domain of male pilots aboard the boats and do what the boys did.

Dianthe Xavier had naval aviation in her blood. Her father and grandfather had been naval aviators, fighter pilots, during the wars of their generations. Her father had been a sierra-hotel Tomcat fighter pilot in Vietnam, and had spent ten years in the Navy. Tired of uprooting his family, he joined NYPD as an aviation officer. Some of his old Navy buddies were distressed to learn Greg "Tiger" Xavier had become a helo jockey.

During reunions, he would merely smile and remind them he could still kick their asses. He bought a very sweet two engine Cessna that he used to fly his family around the country. He taught his ten-year-old daughter how to fly, though she did not get her official license until years later.

He had taught his daughter to dream, too. Greg knew his daughter's talents would eventually outstrip his own. Rather than be upset by it, he loved it. Jessie and Dianthe were his world. He had almost lost his beloved wife when she had been carrying their son.

She had lost the baby, and her uterus due to the damage done. Greg Xavier had bargained with God. Dianthe remembered him saying all he needed was his wife and daughter.

God must have listened, or so her father insisted. When Dianthe secured a slot in the Navy Academy, her father had been proud. In her third year when she was a second-class midshipmen, her world came apart when a drunken trucker killed her parents.

They had been coming down to visit their daughter for a long weekend, intending to visit the Maryland shore and spend the Thanksgiving holiday together. They had rented a beach house for the weekend.

Dianthe had been waiting for them in her room in Bancroft Hall. Her roomies had gone for the weekend, and Dianthe had been studying following a vigorous workout in the gym. A knock on the door, and solemn midshipmen first class informed her the Superintendent needed to speak with her.

Fearing she had done something to destroy her future career, Dianthe had mustered herself and flanked the man once she got dressed in class A uniform. The Superintendent had signaled her to sit down, his eyes full of compassion as a chaplain came forward. They told her the New Jersey Highway patrol had called them. Told him that the Xavier's' had been hit by a drunk eighteen-wheeler approaching the state line.

Greg Xavier had his shield and credentials on his person. Calls had been made. The Commissioner's deputy had contacted the Academy. The Superintendent had been sent word, and left his family celebration to handle the matter. He had known Greg Xavier in Nam.

They had been squadron mates. Friends. They exchanged Christmas cards, and met at occasional reunions of the Squadron. The Superintendent told the daughter of the man that had saved his ass more than once in Nam that her parents were dead. He watched the words penetrate, saw the agony that would diminish, but never leave her soul.

He had broken all military protocol, and simply held her as wept. The Superintendent had been the one that had kept her on-track, reminding her what her goal was. She had used the deaths of her parents to become the best midshipmen she could. She had aced her tests, had pushed herself harder than the Academy ever could have.

Her graduation ceremony lacked family to witness her becoming an active member of the naval aviation community. She had been proud. She had promised her dead parents she would make them proud of her.

It had taken her level best to complete that year's studies, struggling to maintain her grade point average and meet the rigors of academy life. Since her father was known to some of the instructors, she had sounding boards. Greg Xavier had been an academy man, as his father had been.

Dianthe touched her chest, where a delicate and simple small gold cross rested. It lay safely tucked under her flight-suit, the cross reminding her of their love for her. Greg had given the precious symbol of love to his daughter when Dianthe entered the Academy. He had claimed it had kept him safe over the years, and reminded him how much he was loved by his wife.

His passing on to her symbolized the bonds of love the small family shared, and Dianthe had wept when he had placed it around her neck. Her parents had been so proud of her, no matter what.

She never removed the cross. Nothing would make her take it off. She missed them with all her heart and soul. Several of the Academy instructors had been Greg Xavier's Vietnam buddies, and they had pushed Dianthe. They had been hard on her out of love for their lost friend and his wife, knowing it was what the couple would want and expect. Driving her to achieve the potential they knew the daughter of Greg Xavier possessed.

It had been the same in both flight training schools. What she could do with a Tomcat had made her instructors grant her grudging respect. She might be a female, but she was one hell of a fighter pilot. Dianthe ignored those negative voices opposed to women in combat air wings, forging her way ahead.

Dianthe knew the men were worried about how women fighter pilots would affect their changes in an insanely competitive field. They were not against women for being women, but against the narrowing of an already narrow field. There were some men who believed women simply could not fly like they could, let alone kill. And some of the male pilots had very low opinion of women as anything other than sexual playthings to be used and abused; they were few in number, but hard to miss.

Others had said different standards would be applied to women then men. When Kara Hultgreen died trying to bring in her Tomcat, some said it was because women could not fly. Her tragic death had been used by both sides, forgetting that a fine, brave officer had died, leaving behind grieving friends and family.

Dianthe had met the woman once. She had been almost as tall as Dianthe's lofty six foot one inch frame, golden haired rather than Dianthe's dark brown hair. She had been a warm, fierce woman whose love of life had been obvious. Kara's death had become a flash point in the Naval Aviation community, and the women who were her contemporaries found their path that much harder.

It was ironic that she and Tinker ended up in the same carrier, the same Air Wing and squadron that the woman had flown briefly with. Kara had been slated for the first historic Wespac deployment of female naval aviators, but her death had resulted in reshuffling the Airing 11 ratio. Three more female naval aviators had been added, including Dianthe and Kendra joining the Black Lions. Terri "Hellcat" Pierce had joined the VFA-94 Mighty Shrikes F/A-18 squadron when one of the male pilots broke both his legs two days before deployment, the Navy deciding adding several more women might put out the firestorm Kara's death had caused.

Air wing 11 and the Blacklions had been put under a microscope by the media and public, so Washington and the Navy opted for showing a post-Tailhook Navy. Dianthe could not help but feel so many forgot the death of a fine officer and good aviator because of the politics, nor how sad it was. Kara had fought for the chance to be on the cruise that Dianthe was on. She had taken hits for so many of her sister pilots, laying it all on the line to set her hair on fire flying a jet in the real world.

Numerous opinions, some mean spirited at best, suggested what had happened to bring down the Tomcat. In the end, what mattered was the loss of a vibrant woman's life. She and Tinker were slowly winning over their male companions that had believed the entire thing had been overblown by the media.

Dianthe held her own opinion. Kara had been flying the earliest model of the famed fighter, the F-14A. The original planes were well known for engine failures, and only really experienced fighter pilots could handle engine failure under the condition Kara may have encountered: power loss on approach to trap. A few of pilots had told Dianthe they were not sure if they could have handled the problem during those vulnerable moments.

The F-14 Tomcats were unforgiving planes that not every Navy pilot could fly. An otherwise good pilot could be a poor Tomcatter, and poor Tomcat pilots had a bad habit of dying.

Dianthe believed it was a tragic combination of a solid pilot whose relative newness to the moody plane, and engine failure that resulted in a fatal outcome. The only fault she could see was that Kara had ejected a few nanoseconds later than she should have.

Dianthe and the other female pilots and specialized weapons systems operators were the first women onboard a Pacific fleet carrier with twenty-two women in Air Wing 11. She and Sally had drawn one of the rare two person berths, and had become solid friends during the following months.

"Hey, Breakneck..."

"Hey, Dusty," Dianthe blinked, quirking a grin. She had become used to dividing her attention between multiple tasks.

"You did really good," Dusty said softly. Dianthe laughed. Dusty had been very open to the concept of women fighter jocks, having grown up in a very large family with lots of girls. He knew women were stronger than most men thought. And being a rear seater naval flight officer in the Tomcat made some of the male pilots think they were better than their back-seaters. Good pilots, male or female, knew the their RIOs kept them both alive monitoring the complex weapons system.

"Wouldn't have been able to do it without you, Dusty," Dianthe responded honestly. "We did it, together."

"Well, Mom will be happy you got her little baby boy home alive!"

Dusty loved his mother and four sisters. His father had died two years after Dusty had been born, killed when he slipped and fell off the high steel construction site. His mother had raised her family on a nurse's salary, working hard.

"Wouldn't want to disappoint Agatha..." Dianthe had never met the august women in person, but she had written Dianthe when she learned the woman was an orphan. She had adopted her son's current pilot, and Dianthe wrote Agatha whenever she could. She had taught her kids to dream. Dusty loved and respected the women in his life.

Dusty chuckled. Dianthe turned her attention back the Landing Signal Officer's landing instructions. She would be the last one to land. She watched Tommyboy bring his wounded bird home safely, then Tinker brought hers home.

Once she was given clearance, she glided in and aligned her fast, pointy fighter with cold precision. The tail hook snagged the number three arresting wire even as Dianthe jammed the throttle to full power. Should the arresting wire not hold firm, she would have enough power to take off.

The arresting wire snagged, jerking the Tomcat to an abrupt halt. Dianthe's waited for the tail hook to be released, then taxied to the location that had been indicated. Rainbow clad forms scuttled around the flat top performing hazardous duties that made it possible for fighter jocks to shine. It amazed her to think most of those rainbow-clad forms were really kids, kids responsible for multimillion-dollar war birds that projected America's military presence where it was needed.

They were her heroes, especially her plane captain. He let her borrow his bird, keeping it fit and trim for prolonged patrols she loved. Granted, the only down side was women pilots learned to limit their intake of fluids against medical advices, since full bladders could not be voided in midair. It was still a system the Navy and Marines were puzzling out. How could female pilots address this most basic of bodily functions without wetting their flight suits and speed jeans?

Dianthe fortunately had great bladder control, and could go for hours if need be without peeing. But she did limit her water intake, avoided caffeine before flying, and hit the head before leaving the deck. Not all the women could make the same claim, and the women's head proved to be too far away on several occasions for some the women. If anyone found it amusing, they did not voice it.

The canopy opened, and fresh air tinged with salt and jet fuel fumes filled her nostrils. She inhaled deeply, grateful to be alive another day. This was the third real sortie she had flown since she had become a fighter pilot. The last two had ended without violence.

Not this one. She stretched her leanly muscled form and threw an arm around her RIO. Dusty returned the embrace. He stood four inches shorter than her towering height, but had the build of a body builder. His dark brown eyes were fixed on the distance, where two brave souls had died.

He was a handsome man, his light cocoa brown skin and lush black hair bespeaking of his mixed African American, Cherokee, and Celtic bloodlines.

"CAG wants to see you in the Ready Room," the Landing Signal Officer or LSO shouted above the din. Dianthe nodded. Tommyboy, Cowboy, Hawkeye and Tinker were already bound for the mission debriefing. Dianthe sighed.

They made their way through the narrow passageways, enlisted and junior officers touching metal as they passed. Twice they touched metal for higher-ranking officers.

The CAG paced inside the Blacklions squadron Ready Room, awaiting their arrival. He was chomping the hell of his ever-present cigar, looking both exhausted and angry. Captain Bennett "Burner" Thompson gestured towards the seats. The Commander of the Abe Lincoln air wing studied the six men and women under his command, visibly upset that he did not have all eight. Losing planes and aircrew was one part of the job no CAG took lightly, and he wanted answers." What the hell happened up there?" he growled.

For the next four hours they related the details, the film from their on-board cameras showed what had transpired. They answered repeated questions concerning the last moments of Bull and Killer's lives. They filed reports, and answered more questions. The CAG released them, ordering them to relax. "Xavier..."

"Yes, sir?" Dianthe met the man's eye.

"Damned good flying and fighting. Your father would be proud of you. I'm putting you and Dusty in for the Air Medal and combat ribbons. And I'm sorry about Killer. She was your bunkmate, wasn't she?"

"Yes, sir. She was..." Dianthe cleared her throat. She had not permitted herself to feel the loss of her friend. They had been tight. They had kept each other sane. "Thank you, sir."

"You're excused, Xavier. You're off duty for the next forty-eight. The whole Squadron is. At six hundred hours tomorrow morning there will be a memorial service."

Dianthe nodded. She saluted the CAG. He returned it. Dianthe left. Dusty was waiting outside. He fell into step behind her. They wove their way back to the staterooms where the Air Wing 11's quarters were located.

Other Air Wing members murmured words of comfort mingled with congratulations. Tommyboy stood outside her stateroom. He had six glasses, and what seemed to be a bottle of very good Irish whiskey. "Share some Irish whiskey with us?"

Dianthe studied her Squadron mates. She smiled. "Where?"

"The 'Dirty Shirt' wardroom, where else?" Tommyboy inclined his head. "Consider it an order, if you need to."

Dianthe snagged one of the glasses, and flanked Tommyboy. The Air Wing 11 members not on patrol where gathered inside the place that they ruled. Here, flight suits and grousing were permitted by the command staff. It was an outlet, a place where fighters could vent; share war stories, and just be.

Silence descended when the survivors entered the room where heated debates where being held. There were many that still held the opinion women were not suited to be fighter pilots. Chairs scrapped along the deck, and those gathered, rose.

Applause rose, and some of those that had been the most vocal opponents chanted Dianthe's call sign. It seemed she had proven herself. Tommyboy inclined his head, and lead his remaining team toward a table. They sat; he poured a good amount in each glass, saying "To Bull and Killer! May they rest in peace."

Murmurs of agreement rose. The six downed the fine Irish Whisky with a single swallow. Tinker lowered her glass, trying to look like she was used to drinking hard liquor. She began coughing, despite her best efforts, and the men hooted.

Tommyboy slapped her on the back, "Good flying today, kiddo."

"Thanks....sir," Tinker managed a weak smile. Those gathered laughed, teasing the Black Lion's newest nugget. Tinker endured the good nature ribbing with ease. She had three older brothers, so she was used to male behavior, and knew how to zap them back.

At one table a lone figure sat watching the celebration, and pushed himself to his feet. Hound Dog strode forward, his hazel eyes narrowed with menace. Brandon "Hound Dog" Franklin came from a long, distinguished line of Navy men, and carried himself with self-importance.

"So, while you were busy showboating, you left Bull and Killer wide open?" Hound Dog drawled in his southern accent, arms folded across his chest.

Dianthe met his cold eyes, and felt her jaw muscles bunching. She began to make a comment, but Tommyboy stepped between them. He fixed the Hornet pilot with hard eyes. "Hound Dog, you are a horse's ass. Bull was my wingman, not hers. Breakneck did what she could: she warned them, and kept the rest of us alive."

Hound Dog found the eyes of his fellow aviators locked on him, none of them friendly. He squared his shoulders, and gave his patented smile. "Hey, I'm playing the Devil's Advocate..."

"Go play it elsewhere," Tommyboy growled. Hound Dog shrugged his shoulders, and left the gathering. The unpleasant moment forgotten, the flyers began asking questions again.

She had nursed her second whisky, listening to Tommyboy relating what had happened, how the Migs flew. What they had observed might keep the other fighter pilots alive.

Dianthe remained for an hour, then rose and headed back to her stateroom. She had to start packing Sally's belongings, but first she really needed to hit the head. Again, the voices dropped off, and Dianthe knew they were all thinking about the loss of their comrades.


**************

Dianthe entered her stateroom. She squared her powerful shoulders and began the painful task of packing up Killer's gear. She kept a photograph of herself, Killer, Hellcat and Tinker taken on the deck of the USS Abraham Lincoln. It had been taken following another patrol, the idea of one of the Landing Signal Officers. Reggie "Mad Dog" Goldman, the short, burly man resembled a bulldog, and had a spicy sense of humor.

He got a kick out of women aviators, since one of his grandmother's dear friends had been a W.A.S.P. in World War II. Bred on a farm in the Midwest, the red haired, freckled man had a love of life that made him fun to be around. But he was strictly business when on duty, and a real hard ass on ratings.

He snapped the photograph, daring anyone to say these women were not good pilots. No one dared removed, or deface the photo. Mad dog had temper when it came to certain things, though his wife claimed he was a real pussycat with her and his two daughters.

He wanted to show that the Lincoln had women that could, and did, do the job. He had given them all copies, and placed them in the Dirty Shirt Wardroom and Galley on a photo board. Terri "Hellcat" Pierce, a member of the Mighty Shrikes VFA-94, had let him take a candid shot of her beside her plane. A flame haired, green-eyed beauty whose very soft-spoken and sweet nature belied the fierce fighter pilot lurking inside; she was as lethal as any of her male counterparts when she climbed into the cockpit of an F/A-18 Hornet.

When Terri "Hellcat" Price climbed inside a F/A-18 Hornet, she became an ice cold killer. Sally had been part of the elite group of women that called the USS Abraham Lincoln home.

Dianthe wondered if her husband and daughter had been told what had happened. Sally's husband was instructor at Miramar. They had met through mutual friends. He had been very proud of his wife. When she became an RIO, he had backed her one hundred percent on her new career path. Their daughter wanted to be a Marine Biologist, not a fighter pilot.

Dale and Sally were happy their child wanted to be something other than a fighter pilot or RIO. They both knew how very dangerous their lives could be.

She had half of Sally's gear packed when there was a soft rap on the hatch. Dianthe laid aside the duffel bag and answered the door, thinking it might be Tinker. A very beautiful, tall blonde, cornflower blue-eyed woman wearing the tan uniform with nurse insignia met her eyes.

Dianthe swallowed hard. She motioned the willowy woman inside, and closed the hatch. For a moment neither of them moved or spoke, then the nurse stepped forward and hugged Dianthe. Dianthe shut her eyes, fighting her body's response to the embrace, "Ellie--we have to be careful."

"I heard that a Black Lion had been shot down. They said a pilot and RIO had been killed. God, Dianthe, I thought it was you," Ellie Lunden sobbed, shaking inside the sheltering arms of her towering lover.

Dianthe soothed the trembling woman. "I'm fine, Ellie. It was Sal and Bull," Dianthe voice cracked as the reality of her friend's death hit her. Sal was a damned fine woman, and she had figured out Dianthe half way through the cruise. She could have turned in her roommate for being a lesbian, but Sal had a very open mind and big heart.

They had talked about it. Sal had a very close cousin that was a lesbian, more like a sister, and she hoped someday the ban would be lifted entirely. In her opinion the DoD arguments had been proven time and time again wrong-headed and ignorant, since it supported some men's fears about gays in their ranks. "You should go back to your quarters, Ellie..."

Ellie raised tear filled eyes, "I love you so damned much. Don't send me away, Dianthe. Not if you really love me. I need you."

Dianthe quirked a smile to reassure her lover she would not send her away. She leaned down and claimed her lover's lips for a brief, hot kiss. Ellie returned it, demanding more than a stolen kiss. An alarm sounded inside Dianthe's mind, but it had been weeks since they had made love. The combination of adrenaline, alcohol and stress made her disregard the caution that was second nature to gays and lesbians in the military.

Ellie pulled her lover to the lower berth that Sally had used. Garments were loosened and shed, flesh touched, explored with reverent fingers. Dianthe arched over her lover, claiming what was hers. She held Ellie's gaze as she reached down, gliding her hands down the length of her lover's lush body.

Ellie was biting the back of her hand, containing her cries of mounting urgency as Dianthe drew out the moment. Ellie had the softest skin, firm muscles and endless legs that made Dianthe's mouth water. Dianthe thanked God for having found this love.

Her desire would have to wait...she had work to do.

******************

October 8, 1995 Approaching the West Coast of California

The USS Abraham Lincoln battle group was homeward bound. They had remained in the region longer than anticipated, since the Iraqis were acting up. A planned stop in Australia had been laid aside because of those tensions.

Dianthe strode towards the CAG's office, uncertain why she had been summoned. She had just landed following a hard night patrol, and was told the CAG wanted to see her ASAP. Dusty and she made their way across the pitching deck of the rain swept carrier.

She had not yet received a new bunkmate, so she wondered if they had decided to give her one. Though they would be hitting the States soon, the CAG might want to assign her a temporary bunkmate to relieve a stressful situation. It had dismayed some women that not all the women had bonded like they thought they should. Dianthe had not expected them, too. She made her way through the narrow companionways until she stood outside of the CAG's office. She knocked on the door.

"Enter."

Dianthe opened the door and stepped inside the walnut paneled office, helmet tucked beneath her right arm. Captain Bennett "Burner" Thompson looked like a man that wished someone would shoot him. In the last few months Dianthe had come to recognize this man's moods.

"Lieutenant Xavier..." Captain Thompson inclined his head. His hazel eyes were somber, and there were two other officers seated in the office, and a civilian. The CAG motioned for her to take a seat.

Dianthe slowly lowered herself into the indicated chair, her heartbeat and pulse spiking. She did not permit herself to display the growing panic she felt. "CAG."

"These are Lieutenant Commander Richard Murphy, and Lieutenant Arian McCormick of J.A.G.," the CAG said softly, mauling the hell out his cigar. In the time Dianthe had known the man, he never lit the damned the thing. He just chomped it. His wife, a lovely, delicate woman who taught kindergarten told him she wanted him around. War and flying fighters' jets were dangerous enough, and smoking was a slow form of suicide." And this is Wade Jackson of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service.

The CAG loved his wife, so he chomped, rather than smoked, cigars. There were two chewed up cigars already in the ash trash on his desk. Dianthe met the cool eyes of the bland man who she had seen on the boat dressed a seaman, and remembered he came onboard a few weeks ago. His pale blue eyes gave away nothing, but there were files in front of the man with names written on them.

A cold wash of dread churned her gut, and Dianthe fought not to show what she felt. Witch-hunt, Dianthe thought, knowing the Navy and military hunted lesbians and gays with a vengeance. She knew how these things took on a life force of their own, shattering the lives of all the Witch-hunters marked.

Dianthe felt like she was pulling an inverted 10 Gs dive beyond the tolerance of her Tomcat. She met the eyes of the Lieutenant Commander to glimpse genuine regret behind those dark gray eyes. He was a very handsome man, in a Brad Pitt/Robert Redford kind of way, part of her mind observed with an odd sense of detachment.

The Lieutenant had cold brown eyes the color of rich coffee and dark blonde hair streaked with golden highlights. Her features were regular enough, but the pinched expression made her unattractive. Whatever business brought them here, and it clearly sickened her. Dianthe noticed that none of the men seemed very pleased with the female J.A.G. officer at the moment. Her cheeks bore hints of color, indicating she had engaged in a heated exchange, and was now trying to get her bearings again. Men vented, women threw fits, Dianthe thought humorlessly, recalling how expressions of anger were perceived so differently.

"Lieutenant Xavier, the reason we are here is due to allegations regarding yourself and a certain Lieutenant Eleanor Luden," Lieutenant Commander Murphy stated without rancor. "The charges were brought forth by a Lieutenant Brandon Franklin, and investigated by Agent Jackson."

Dianthe closed her eyes. Hound Dog. He had promised her would teach her a lesson. He harassed his female shipmates whenever possible. His called sign was "Hound Dog" for his views on women, and most other minorities that he deemed unworthy of living in his world. They had a bad run in recently.

She and Brandon had a very heated exchange several weeks ago that had been witnessed by more than a few pilots. Hound Dog had been harassing the shit out of Kendra. Tinker told him to take a hike off the flight deck, to the hooted approval of some of the male pilots. Hound Dog had been furious, since the shoot down happened in the 'Dirty Shirt' Galley. Kendra found the man's company utterly disagreeable, as did most women on the Abe Lincoln.

Actually, the majority of the male pilots did not have much use for him, since he was not the best pilot that could get his wingman killed. He had a bad habit of doing stupid things, not enough to loose his wings of gold, but he had been before the board twice in his short career. His father was a highly respected Admiral, so action against him was deemed career suicide by the board members.

None of them were the suicidal type, so Brandon walked both times.

Dianthe had entered the Dirty Shirt Gallery as Brandon's dark side showed itself when he grabbed Kendra. She had broken free, but only for an instant before he shoved her backwards towards a table. Other male pilots rose, ready to end the exchange, but Dianthe reached him first. He had a fist cocked back as he held the front of Tinker's flight suit, ready to teach her a good lesson.

Dianthe had grabbed his fist, and spun him away from his would-be target. "Want to try that shit with me, little man?" Dianthe had snarled, using her slight height advantage to make the man reconsider his position. For a brief moment it looked like he would love to pound the shit out the towering female Tomcatter, but Tommyboy and Dusty intervened.

Dusty stood in front of his pilot, and Tommyboy shoved Hound Dog hard against the bulkhead. "Back off, you piece of shit. You do not hit women, ever. Especially women in my Squadron, dick weed," Tommyboy snarled in soft menace. "Or I will see your ass fry, even if it means my wings."

Several other masculine voices joined in Tommyboy's promise, and Hound Dog knew he had gone too far. There was being wild, and then there was being wrong. Some of the other female aviators had witnessed the mini-drama, and closed ranks around Kendra and Dianthe. Brandon raised his hands, trying to make light of the situation, but no one bought his act.

Hound Dog had beat a hasty retreat, and the charged atmosphere of the Dirty Shirt Gallery made most of the participants twitchy. Then Lieutenant Commander Thomas "Tommyboy" O'Connell turned towards Dianthe, "Breakneck, next time let me know when you want to beat the snot of the that turd, since we can place bets on how long it will take him to cry for his Mommy."

The tension broke as the remaining pilots, male and female alike, laughed at the image Tommyboy had conjured. Dianthe had grinned, thinking Tommyboy's anger had a lot to do with the fact he had become very fond of a certain junior officer. From what Dianthe could gauge, Kendra had become very fond of older pilot, especially when the younger woman smiled at Tommyboy. The wattage of the smile light up both pilots' faces, and Dianthe had left them to sort it out.
Dusty flanked his pilot, teasing her about how he thought Hound Dog most likely needed to change his shorts. Dianthe had laughed so hard, she had been forced to dash for the head.

It had ended. Dianthe thought nothing of it. Hound Dog created more trouble than his worthless hide was worth in the opinion of most of Air Wing 11. CAG had limited patience for the man, as did the Captain of the Abraham Lincoln. He would be rotated out of their Air Wing 11 upon reaching San Diego, and none of his squadron would miss him.

Hound Dog had been in three Air Wings in as many years. Soon, he would be out of carriers and Air Wings. Hound Dog knew he would never rise above the rank he currently held. His evaluations were too low. His father would be retiring in another few years, and Dianthe knew the moment he did, Brandon "Hound Dog" Franklin would be following his father in short order.

Brandon's father was a good man. His youngest son was not. Admiral Adam "Thumper" Franklin had another son, but he was sub man whose reputation was golden in the Navy. Hank and his father were cut from the same bolt of cloth; both were good officers and fine leaders in their chosen fields. Commander Hank Franklin was highly regarded within the silent service of the submariners, having earned the trust of his men and his fellow officers.

Dianthe had met Brandon's older brother years ago at a mixer, and found him a very interesting person with good insights on military matters. They had discussed their respective career paths at a banquet the Admiral was hosting, and Dianthe had been surprised by the sub commander's support of women fighter pilots.

The commander and his brother were clearly very different men, and Dianthe wondered what the admiral thought about his youngest son sorry reputation. Dianthe had met the Admiral. She sensed he had begun to come around on the issue of women in air wings, though they had discussed the subject with careful military decorum.

"Lieutenant Xavier, you are not compelled to answer the questions of this inquiry, but the issue has been raised. Lieutenant Luden has been interviewed, and her answers were very frank," Wade Jackson interjected with a cool smile. The man enjoyed hunting lesbians and gays; it showed in his pale eyes.

Dianthe snapped back into the present, shivering inwardly at the man's words. Ellie had been acting odd these last few weeks. Nervous, Ellie had been avoiding Dianthe in the few venues where they could mix without raising undue suspicion about their relationship. Ellie had been the one that had turned their relationship sexual. Dianthe had met the nurse soon after coming on board the Boat for treatment of a nasty gash gotten when her forehead collided with a low section of bulkhead.

Ellie had been the nurse on duty, and had tended the gash that required seven stitches, and took Dianthe off flight status for two weeks at the order of the Flight Surgeon. During those weeks she and the nurse saw each other for checkups, and in the quarters for female officers. They found they had mutual interests, and Dianthe had heard that the beautiful woman had recently lost her fiancé, Lieutenant Teddy "Harley" Davison. He had been the Mighty Shrikes F/A-18 pilot replaced by the pilot Terri had replaced when the first replacement broke both his legs.

It happened during the critical seconds before the pilot could regain control of his plane. His Hornet rose twenty feet above the deck, rolled over and plunged deep into the ocean. He and his plane were never found. There had been dark rumors about what caused the inexplicable failure of the power plant that led to loss of both the pilot and the bird. The investigation had declared the loss mechanical when records revealed the bird had been undergoing overhaul for power problems, but had somehow ended up on the line.

The blame had been placed on the Plane Captain, and he had been removed from duty. He had hung himself awaiting court-martial proceedings, and the matter had been dropped. With the death of her fiancée, Eleanor replaced one the nurses that had become very ill before the cruise on the Boat Teddy called home. The pilots of his Squadron made sure she was not harassed, out of respect for their dead buddy.

When Ellie had told Dianthe she was a lesbian, Dianthe had been blown away, especially when Ellie told her she had feelings for the tall pilot. Dianthe knew had developed a deep attachment for the beautiful woman, but she had kept their relations strictly on the level. Sally had told Dianthe to watch her six with Ellie Luden. Sal sensed Ellie had a really strong sense of self-preservation that made her dangerous to the towering pilot.

Ellie had the touch of an angel. She would not betray her lover.

"And what did Lieutenant Luden state?" Dianthe asked softly.

"She says you compelled her to become her lover," Lieutenant McCormick snapped, clearly sickened by the concept.

Dianthe felt like she had been punched in the solar plexus. She gasped. Her vision blurred. For the first time in her life, she thought she would pass out. She closed her eyes, trying to wrap her mind around the concept of Ellie's betrayal.

Dianthe opened her eyes. She had had other lovers. She had had discreet affairs when ashore, and away from her naval air station. Ellie had gotten to her. She had really loved Ellie. Had dreamed of having a home, a life with the woman.

"She has also named some others..." Wade Jackson smiled, reminding her of a house cat tormenting a trapped mouse.

Dianthe listens in mounting horror. It was bad enough Ellie had betrayed her, but their friends? Terri Pierce, two other nurses, a young female Plane Captain Dianthe had spotted, and one of the fuel handlers whose broad sense of humor made him popular with his mates. Michael had come out to Dianthe after they had been flying together for six weeks, having recognized fellow Tribe member.

"Till the investigation is concluded, you will be grounded," the CAG said sadly. "And your slot at Miramar will be going to Lieutenant Franklin."

Dianthe's stomach clenched. Hound Dog was being given a shot his flying did not warrant. Tommyboy had recommended Dianthe for Miramar. Having gone through the course himself, he and the CAG thought she was best candidate for the program. There were a host of other very good pilots that should have been given the slot. Burner Thompson's face told her he had been forced to reward Franklin's efforts.

Hound Dog had been given his thirty gold pieces for his part in this horror show. Dianthe knew once the witch-hunt began, it would ensnare her friends and other innocents. Terri, Michael and the others would just be the beginning, if this got out of hand.

If Bud "Bull" Durham had been alive, this thing would not be happening. Bull had confronted the "Admiral's Brat" about something he had done, something bad enough it could cost him his wings, his career and his freedom. Whatever he had, it had kept Hound Dog on a short leash until Bull got himself killed.

Bud's death made Hound Dog a free operator, and his behavior had become worse following the death of Tomcat pilot and his RIO. Dianthe knew how far the military would go to rid itself of homosexuals, real and imagined. She shut her eyes. Her career had been fragged, no doubt about that. Once your were marked, men like Agent Wade Jackson became your shadow if you beat the first charge. Her odds of promotion were nil, meaning her career was dead when she did not reach the next tier of rank.

She could deny the charges, but she knew the odds were against her. Honor, duty, country, they had meant something to her. Soul deep. She had hoped Clinton would lift the ban, had kept beneath the radar out of instinct that had been developed during her years in the Academy. The policy against homosexuals made gays and lesbians criminals for loving their country enough to serve it.

She knew there was no way out for her, but maybe she could save the others if she acted now. Dianthe cleared her throat, squaring her shoulders and said softly, "I waive the right to legal counsel, and wish to give my statement now."

The CAG bit through his cigar, knowing what she was about to do. His hazel eyes held her shimmering blue ones with compassion and respect. Dianthe began speaking, telling the how her and Ellie's relationship had changed during the course of the cruise. She told the truth about herself and Ellie, leaving the others out of it. She would not take them down with her. She denied knowledge of the others, hating the lie she was forced to construct for good reasons.

She did not spare herself or Ellie. Ellie had started this firestorm that would impact homosexuals and heterosexuals unfortunate enough to be the in the cross hairs of this nightmare. It would be the Norton Sound all over again.

Maybe, she prayed, the others would not lose everything. Lieutenant Commander Murphy listened, recording the painful details of a life shattered. Burner Thompson looked like her wanted beat the tar out the smug N.C.I.S. agent. Dianthe realized he suspected she was a lesbian, but he had never hinted that he believed it. Don't Ask, Don't Tell, Don't Pursue did not explain it.

Agent Jackson grinned as she told her story, entertained by her visible distress and anguish. Captain Thompson shot the bastard a murderous look that made the agent stop grinning and gulp hard. Not all Naval Criminal Investigative Service agents took such delight in hunting down homosexuals, but this man clearly believed it was a holy cause. Thompson's icy gaze had the agent shifting uncomfortably, and Dianthe knew she had powerful ally in the CAG.

"Agent Jackson, I see no reason for your obvious enjoyment of this tragic loss to the Navy and my command. Lieutenant Xavier is one of the best fighter pilots I have had the honor of passing through my command, and it is only because of the current policy this farce is occurring. If you were really interested in serving your nation, you would best focus on the dubious actions of Lieutenant Brandon Franklin

I want it clearly understood his receiving a shot at Miramar goes against my recommendations and that of the Captain of the Abraham Lincoln. How you managed to contrive his obtaining the slot, I will make my personal business. And if I find a hint of professional misconduct on your part, I will contact your superiors and make sure they know it. Do you read me, Agent Jackson?"

"Yes, but then you really can not do anything to me," Jackson stammered with false bravado.

Dianthe felt a stirring of pride for the way the CAG had defended her. He was putting his ass on the line for her, in front of two officers of the J.A.G. corp. Burner Thompson had a reputation for fighting hard for his people; especially what he deemed fine fighter pilots and good officers. He was one of those rare commanders that did not give a rat's ass about how someone slept with, if they were good officers and pilots.

The CAG had been almost glowing five days ago when he informed her she and Dusty were up for some really impressive medals, especially her. He and Tommyboy had recommended her the Aid Medal, combat ribbons, and several senior senators wanted her to get the Navy Cross.

They had heard about the female fighter that saved two of her companions, risking her own life. Dianthe had been amazed. She had said Tommyboy and Cowboy deserved medals, too. Captain Thompson informed her she was right, and they would get some medals for their role in the dogfight. But she had done something no other female fighter pilot had done.

She had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt women could be fighter pilots in the truest sense. Captain Thompson had beamed like a proud father when he told her the news. And the Captain of the Abe Lincoln had been squarely behind his CAG's efforts.

History had been made. Now, it would be swept under the carpet. The Navy would not want this matter becoming public. No doubt there was a lot of maneuvering occurring back in Washington, D.C.. It was done.

Gone. Vapor. Dianthe continued her statement, watching how Lieutenant McCormick's demeanor altered. She recognized the truth when she heard it, and the input of the CAG had won her over. Dianthe sensed the woman had an issue with sexual harassment and coercion, not with gays and lesbians. She would have a field day with Hound Dog, if there ever would be a case against him.

"Lieutenant Xavier, thank you for your cooperation in this investigation," Lieutenant Commander Richard Murphy said, rising when she finished her two hour-long statement. He snapped her a smart salute that she immediately returned. The CAG had mauled his seventh cigar beyond recognition. "Agent Jackson, your services are not longer required, so you will be leaving the Lincoln tomorrow morning. And the files will be surrendered to us to finish this matter," Captain Thompson snapped out.

"But--" Jackson protest was cut off with a curt gesture from the CAG. Lieutenant Commander Murphy had passed a piece of paper to him. The agent scanned the document with clear annoyance. No doubt his superiors had sent it. His involvement in the matter had been officially ended, and Jackson resented it. He slid the files towards Lieutenant McCormick, then smiled towards Dianthe. "Have a good life, Lieutenant Xavier."

"Xavier, you are excused. Jackson, you stow the attitude now," Captain Thompson said softly, and indication of how very angry the CAG was with the agent.

Dianthe exited the CAG's office, feeling unreal and utterly disoriented. She made her way through the winding passages of the super carrier. She kept her head up, her shoulders squared, but made it clear she was in no mood for questions. Tommyboy, Tinker, Cowboy and other Squadron members lined the passage as she approached her quarters,

Without a word, they gave her a smart salute that she returned with glinting eyes. Tommyboy fought back tears as he hissed, "Blacklions, dismissed." Dianthe blearily registered the back thumps and awkward hugs some of the male pilots gave her as they filed past her. Tinker hugged her hard, then stepped back. Tommyboy met her eyes, "We got you six, Breakneck."

Dianthe nodded, not trusting her voice as she moved passed Tommyboy and Tinker. Tinker was openly weeping, and Tommyboy laid a comforting hand upon Kendra's shoulder. Dianthe wrenched open the hatch to her stateroom, stepped through it, shutting it behind her before she slid to her knees and hugged her midsection. She reached out, snagging the waste paper basket, and promptly emptied the contents of her twisted belly into it.

Sliding the waste paper basket aside, she hauled her exhausted frame up onto Sally's berth, and began weeping silently. She rolled onto her belly, quaking with each breath. "Why. why did you do this, Ellie? I loved you so much.." she sobbed, anger and grief swirling inside her mind. She barely cleared the berth as she vomited again.

She never heard the hatch open. Kendra silently stepped past the foul mess, and sat on the edge of the berth. Heedless of the insane risk she was taking, Tinker gathered the woman she proudly called a friend and rocked her like a mother would a sick child.

Dianthe clung to the other woman's warmth like a drowning man would a life preserver until sleep claimed her.


**************

4 November 1995, San Diego, California


"It is the recommendation of the CAG, the Captain of the Abraham Lincoln and the J.A.G. corps that Lieutenant Dianthe Xavier be given an honorable discharge with full benefits," Lieutenant Commander Richard Murphy submitted to the grim faced officers comprising the Board of Special Inquiry.

The officers conferred for several minutes while the subject of their inquest stood before them in her dress whites. The last three weeks had been sheer hell, and Dianthe had lost twelve pounds during those terrible days . She waited another forty minutes before the assembly made their decision.

"Lieutenant Xavier, it is the finding of this court that you have engaged in illegal acts of a sexual nature in a manner unbecoming an officer. This is clear reason for dismissal according to the Military Uniform Code of Justice. But your record has been one of the finest ones that has ever come before this court.

It is a great tragedy that we are forced to release such a fine officer and fighter pilot as yourself. Not to mention you are the first female naval aviator that engaged in real combat with enemy pilots, scoring two kills in the history of the United States Navy. These achievements cannot be ignored despite the nature of the charges that has brought you to point in your career. It is the finding of this court that your behavior is diametrically opposed to the very nature of this organization.

Let the record reflect on this day, 4 November 1995 that Lieutenant Dianthe Xavier has been relieved of her commission and rank. You will receive an honorable discharge with full benefits, though you will not receive the medals your actions warranted. This, we regret, but this matter has the potential do damage to the Navy and female fighter pilots, so the records have been amended to prevent the chance of public disclosure of this proceeding."

Dianthe did not hear the rest of the formal pronouncement. She saw Lieutenant Commander Thomas O'Connell and Lieutenant Kendra Bell murmuring in protest, but the CAG signaled them to remain quiet. Kendra would be joining another Squadron, since she and Tommyboy had informed the CAG they were formally engaged.

So were some other interesting couples. Dianthe understood why. Not everyone had the chance to take such cover. She snapped a final, smart salute when she was dismissed for the last time, then pivoted on her heel and strode past the gallery. Outside were other victims of Hurricane Ellie, most would not fair as well as she had.

Michael and Terri had been cleared, but seven others were not as fortunate. Wearing engagement rings, they saluted Dianthe as she strode past them. They could not risk more than that right now. Agent Wade Jackson had been a very effective weapon in the hands of his star witness, Lieutenant Brandon Franklin. Hound Dog had escaped the entire mess unscathed once again.

Lieutenant Eleanor Mary Luden had not lost her commission or rank because she had convinced the powers that be she had lost her way when Teddy died. And since she had admitted she had turned to Brandon Franklin for help, she admitted she had released she had been misguided. She stated she regretted what had happened between herself and Dianthe, noting it was not something she would have ever thought herself capable of. Ellie had been convincing, making even Dianthe question what they had shared.

Hound Dog had hinted he had shown Ellie the error of her ways, though he never admitted they were now lovers. In his testimony in the proceedings he had made his role sound as though he had comforted in distraught nurse, and convinced her to come forward. He had made sure word got back to Dianthe that he had shown the beautiful nurse what a real man he was.

If Ellie's betrayal had not been enough, Dianthe had been devastated to learn the woman she had loved was sleeping with Brandon Franklin.

Dianthe strode out of the building where her fate had been decreed, emerging into the golden sunshine of the Southern California. Wondering what she would do with the rest of her life, Dianthe kept her head up and her shoulders square as she headed for the parking lot. A solitary figure stood outside the building, watching her departure from beneath the shade of a majestic oak tree.

Ellie. Dianthe had not spoken with the woman since the nightmare began. Ellie had begun walking towards her former lover, her lush lips forming the woman's name. Dianthe strode past the woman if she did not exist, donning her sunglasses as she continued towards her red sports car that held three large duffle bags, her music collection and a high-end stereo unit. She had said her farewells to those that counted. She drove off the naval air station property, and into whatever life held for her now.



Chapter Two:

December 15, 1998


The crunch of fresh snow beneath her backcountry snowshoes was the only other sound than the occasional, mournful howl of wolves. She cocked her head, listening to gauge where the howls where coming from. Keeping close to the timberline, she moved with the ease and grace of one long accustomed to such exertions.

It was bone chillingly cold outside, but the woman had selected her gear for such weather conditions. Snow shoeing kept her very warm, too. She adjusted the straps of the raging red REI Talus 30 pack she carried whenever venturing into the field. Its design permitted her to carry her snowshoes and poles should she not require them, though that had yet to happen.

Despite its weight, she covered the rough terrain easily. The poles she used helped her keep her balance, and distribute her body weight. She dug the adjustable poles deep into the snow, and continued on.

A roguish grin etched across her thin lips when she reflected on how much she loved this. The research cabin lay four miles behind her, snuggled in a groove of trees that abutted Spirit Lake. The mountain lake's pristine waters were frozen and snow covered, making the scene resemble a Christmas card. Meredith Murphy raised the pair of binoculars to her eyes, scanning the area for the wolves she was tracking.

She had been studying the behavior of the two main wolf packs for four and a half winters now. She had spent the last three months living up in the remote wilderness cabin. She had kept low, using a snow shrouded boulder and trees for a blind.

Meredith was thankful she was downwind of the pair of female wolves. Most likely littermates, the two female wolves had arrived during the past summer, and neither pack had chased them out. She lowered herself onto her belly, fishing inside her backpack to bring out her Nikon camera. She focused on the black wolves. She snapped a photograph of the beautiful animals, then the elk they were approaching.

She frowned. How had the two wolves brought down such a big animal? No doubt the animal was a winterkill. She snapped another photo. If it were not for the depth of winter, the wolves might find their claim to the elk challenged.

A young male Grizzly bear called this area part of his home range. But Ironclaw and an aging sow with what would most likely be her last cubs she had identified were denning. She had seen Ironclaw outside of his den during a brief thaw last month. He had been sluggish, almost comical laying outside his den.

She had been very careful to keep a very good distance, and barrier of trees and boulders between them. She had been on the opposite side of the valley where he had made his den, and uphill. She had been prepared to scale the towering tree behind should he become agitated.

Ironclaw was a young, powerful male just approaching his prime. She called him Ironclaw for the apparent ease of his rolling impressive boulders and trees out of his way when digging for marmots and rabbits. She had not dared to take his photo, fearing the whirling noise would annoy him. An annoyed Grizzly bear was something she did not want to encounter.

She had gotten some good distance between them, then observed his behavior for two solid hours. He had investigated the area directly around his den, not eating or passing waste. Denning bears did not eat, urinate or defecate during the harsh winter months.

If it were not winter and denning season for bears, the pair of wolves would most likely have Ironclaw seeking the rich meat. Meredith had witnessed such encounters before. Depending on the mood of the pack and bear, it could go either way.

Two lone females wolves would loose to the young Grizzly bear, if he had been out and about. Where, Meredith wondered, was the Spirit Lake pack? They should have been here, investigating the elk's remains, and chasing away the two females.

She had witnessed an encounter between the ten-member pack and two females five days ago. It had involved lots of posturing and snarling, and the two females had shown proper respect. The Alpha male and female were quick to assert their dominance, and the pair had crept off.

They had lain down a good distance from the elk the pack had brought down. Their whines and postures assured the pack they understood their situation. Meredith sensed the Spirit Lake pack might adopt the two females within the next few weeks.

The Spirit Lake pack had lost two members this past summer, and the Fire Mountain pack had lost a member. She had found none of the remains; no hint at what had happened to the three animals. What happened had been a mystery. True, Ironclaw was active in the Spirit Lake pack's home range, but she doubted he had done it.

She shook her head, and focused her full attention on the feasting pair of black wolves. Meredith used her teeth to pull off her gloves and fished inside the slash pocket of her royal blue fleece jacket. The Gortex shell she wore above the warm jacket, combined with her black turtleneck and expedition weight thermals kept her warm and dry.

But reaching her field notebook could be daunting. She glanced at the men's Swiss Army watch she wore, jotting down the time, weather conditions and other important information. Having jotted down the necessary notes, she slipped her field journal back inside the zip lock lunch bag and slid back into her jacket pocket.

She focused her binoculars on the feasting pair of wolves and settled down to observe them. The sharp crack of a high-powered rifle shattered the serenity of the moment, and Meredith watched the smaller of two female wolves drop.

For a brief moment the surviving female whined and nudged her lifeless companion, uncertain what had happened. A bullet whizzed past her, exploding into the carcass she had been feeding on. The female raced towards the low laying glen Meredith had chosen for her observation point. Snow erupted around the running wolf, and Meredith hoped the animal would not bolt backwards when she caught wind of her.

The female wolf passed within two arm lengths of the wildlife biologist's position, and vanished into the woods. Meredith had felt one bullet pass mere inches above her own head to hit a tree directly behind her.

Meredith prayed the poachers would not pursue the path taken by the fleeing wolf. She slid back down, gaining more cover behind the boulder and fallen tree. She said another pray that she would not be spotted.

If they saw her, she was dead.

She cautiously peered through her binoculars and watched the timberline. Her heart began hammering when three figures wearing military issued white camouflage emerged from the woods. Each man carried high-powered, expensive rifles, and the two of men were laughing and talking loudly.

Snatches of conversation drifted towards her. German. They were speaking German. Meredith scanned the surrounding area for other white clad forms. Had they spotted her? She swallowed hard. She had her Leather man, a sharp, folding skinning knife, a Petzel headlamp and her avalanche beacon. Her bear mace canisters were inside the research cabin, since it was denning season she felt they were not needed.

Jason and Annie Hendricks, the Chief Ranger and Chief of Visitor Services respectively, believed having a powerful base station and bear mace were good measures any time of the year. National Park Service policy forbade anyone but law enforcement rangers using rifle, shotguns or pistols within park boundaries, except under very special circumstances, otherwise she would have had the bolt action rifle Jason had considered giving her.

The dual career couple had debated about altering the rule, but Meredith had never seen a need for a rifle until this moment. But she would only get off maybe two shots before they spotted her position, and that would definitely be a bad thing.

In terms of accidents in the field, Meredith never worried herself too much about such things. She carried enough survival gear to last three days if needed, kept a concise log of her field activities that included her planned route and travel times, not to mention checking in via radio whenever weather conditions permitted. She did what she could to mitigate certain risks, and accepted that things could happen even with good planning.

It was part of life.

But the radio had very limited range in the mountains, unlike the small substation inside the research cabin. If she lived, she would report the incident to Annie and Jason. Right now, she doubted she would be around to make that call.

Poachers were notorious for killing witnesses, especially feds, and these were high-end poachers. This was a professional operation, not someone hunting out of sheer need.

The Burntmountain District of Drango Gap National Wildlife Corridor was a sprawling park created six years ago. It combined National Park Service, Bureau of Land Management, Fish and Wildlife Service, National Forest Service, state and local lands into a unique biosphere park that wound through several states, and bordered Canadian wilderness. The nearest town was seventy miles away, and park headquarters a ten-day hike out under good conditions.

The only way help could reach her was via plane or helicopter. She lowered her binoculars and raised her Nikon camera. She focused the telephoto lens on three poachers. The third man she recognized instantly: William Dawson, owner/ operator of Eco-Adventures International based out of Hayden Lake, Idaho.

He had a warehouse outside of the resort town of Burntmountain. His hazel eyes scanned the frozen expanse for possible trouble while his clients celebrated their good fortune.

Meredith snapped three photographs of the men standing beside their kills. She made sure she got another two clear photos of the guide. The Germans were posing for pictures, slapping each other on the back and talking loudly.

Sweat beaded Meredith's brow. They could not hear the whirl of camera's automatic re-winder above the wind and their own voices. She heard the telltale thudding of a helicopter's blades approaching from behind her. She stiffened. Would they spot her position?

She rolled onto her back, and waited. The large helicopter passed over position, and she snapped a picture of its numbers. It hovered for a moment, and Meredith tensed. The helicopter continued forward.

Her stomach lurched. They may not have spotted her, but her snowshoe tracks were fresh, and lead to the glen. Meredith pondered her limited options. Breaking cover was certain death. But remaining meant discovery and death.

Strangely, she heard no sounds indicating that they were headed her way. She peered around the boulder. The helicopter had settled down, and another figure jumped out of the large helicopter. It looked like an old military helicopter converted to private use.

The pilot was still inside the helicopter. He was busy powering down the helicopter. The white clad new comer did not remove his white ski mask as he gestured towards Meredith's position. He was rubbing his lower back through his thick winter garments, obviously in pain. The Germans became excited, shouting and no doubt demanding something be done.

Whatever Dawson said made the men relax. Meredith ventured another look. They were busy hauling the wolf up into the helicopter. Her stomach lurched. Both sliding doors were open, and inside the center of the helicopter was the familiar bulk of Ironclaw.

She lowered her binoculars, blinking back tears of remorse and helpless rage. In all of Washington state there were estimated to be no more than fourteen to twenty odd Grizzly bears, ten within the boundaries of the Burntmountain District. Most of the bears were inside the combination of several National Forests and Drango Gap's National Wildlife Corridor ecosystem, though the number was not deemed solid by many wildlife biologists.

Ironclaw had finally reached sexual maturity this past season. His death was a tragedy of immense magnitude to the Grizzly bear population. He had mated with the sow, but whether or not she would be able to keep her cubs alive depended on numerous variables. She steeled herself and risked a few more photographs.

Dawson stared in her direction, but made no effort to eliminate her. He waved, a gesture utterly out of place under the circumstances. Meredith swallowed hard. Something was very wrong with this picture. She leaned back against the boulder, shrugging out of her backpack. She fished inside the upper portion of her pack, removing a clean plastic Tupperware container she used for gathering frozen urine and scat specimens of the game animals.

Yanking off her gloves, she carefully made sure the film was rewound. She removed the film and slipped it back inside its round canister. She sealed the film canister inside the small Tupperware container with a hastily scrawled note about the photos.

She used another large zip lock bag and placed the Tupperware container inside it. Digging a hole beneath the boulder she placed the package underneath it. She carefully buried the package, snapping off an evergreen branch that she used to sweep away evidence of a disturbance.

Next, she put another roll inside the camera and took two more photographs. The helicopter lifted off, passing over her position and hovering. Dawson leaned out and waved again. He seemed to be very content with the situation. Meredith tensed, waiting for a bullet to end her life.

Instead, the helicopter made a circle and flew back in the direction of Burntmountain. Meredith kept her position for another thirty minutes, then ventured forth. She scanned the horizon.

Dark smoke billowed high above the rugged terrain, and Meredith knew why Dawson had not shot her. He had set the research cabin on fire, leaving her without shelter. There was the smell of snow in the air, and she recalled the weather report she had heard this morning. It had said a big blizzard was expected in two days.

Meredith cursed. The blizzard apparently had not heard the report. She studied the sky. She estimated she had maybe sixteen hours before the storm hit. She hunkered low, checking the contents of her backpack.

She removed the six small containers of frozen urine from the elk and other game animals, placing them far away from the boulder. She had three military issue ready to eat meal pouches, six Cliff bars, a water bottle with filtering system, a large, light weight mylar tarp, a Northface mummy sleeping bag rated for below zero, two pairs of clean wool hiking socks in a plastic bag, a folding military shovel, solid medical kit, two dozen water proof matches inside a water tight plastic container, a avalanche beacon, and a combination digital watch/ altimeter/barometer/ thermometer/compass that had a carabineer like clip.

Meredith wrote down the location of the buried film inside her journal. Drew a picture of the location, with reference points, then put the journal back inside her jacket. She squared her shoulders.

She knew something Dawson did not know. There was a USGS research cabin on the other side of the mountain, bigger than the one she used for the winter months. The cabin was used during the summer by graduate students working for the USGS, studying the uplifting of the crust through the state. It had seismic sensors, GPS stations, and an emergency generator. And the USGS cabin had a powerful substation radio setup that could reach further than her lost research cabin had.

She had helped them set it up, since they were working inside the park studying the evidence of magma build up in the Cascade Mountain chain. Walking there would take her close sixteen to twenty hours, if she left now.

It would be a race. Meredith shook her head. She might not like Dawson, but he was a smart, cold cocked bastard. Why bother shooting her? Let her freeze to death. No wonder he had been waving to her. She would be a victim of a tragic accident, left without shelter as a major, full-blown blizzard raged in the high country. No doubt Dawson would express his remorse publicly, reminding folks that city folk ought not be allowed in real backcountry.

Never mind that Meredith had spent much of her life outdoors, and could track humans and animals alike with ease. She had hiked thousands of miles of backcountry, and could live off the land if need be. Meredith grinned. She would not let the bastard win, not if she could help it.

She began the arduous trek, determined she would survive.

If all else failed, she could make herself a snow cave, and hunker down there for the duration. But the cabin had a fireplace where she could keep herself warm and dry. She coughed, and grimaced. She had been fighting a cold for the last week, and this journey would not help it.

A twinge of guilt assailed her. She had promised Annie that she would let them know if her cold had not improved, since Annie had not liked the sound of her friend's voice.

Meredith had not called, since Annie would hear how the cold had not lifted. She would grounded Meredith to the cabin, if need be she would have the wildlife biologist picked up by helicopter. She was the unit's full time resource management ranger and wildlife biologist, meaning her time here was limited enough by her regular duties, not to mention her collateral ones, and she had been resolute not lose a day of her winter study time.

********************

Tracy Spencer had sat beside the base station for hours, keeping a solemn vigil. It had been four days since Meredith Murphy had last checked in. Radio transmissions were never great between the main Ranger Station and the remote research cabin where the woman was spending the entire winter.

The lanky woman could not comprehend the shorter woman's eagerness for the project. But Meredith loved being outdoors. Tracy enjoyed the great outdoors, too, but to a point. She did back country horse patrols like some of the other law enforcement rangers, but she also enjoyed civilization.

The National Forest Service maintained the horses for the backcountry patrol duties the two agencies shared. Horse patrols were interesting, but done only during the warmer months. Winter meant air patrols and snowmobiles.

Civilization meant hot baths, warm, clean sheets, clean clothes and strong, handsome men. Especially strong, handsome, well-endowed men not threatened by strong, independent women, she mused.

Besides, months alone collecting frozen urine samples of the game animals to study the health of the herds did nothing for her. Meredith had explained how she monitored the health of an elk, deer or moose by its urine, and how it correlated to the health of the predators that consumed said game animals.

Tracy shook her head. Wintertime was great in civilization. There were lots of things to do, especially around the towns of Blackstone and Burntmountain. Burntmountain was the next Jackson's Hole and Telluride. She loved the very handsome men that spent their winter months up here teaching skiing and leading helicopter ski and boarding trips to pristine areas beyond the reach of the huddled masses yearning for untouched, wild powder.

She sighed, wishing she were out with one of them right now. If she were, it would mean everything was okay. It would mean Meredith was safely snuggled down inside the rustic cabin where she had spent the last few months.

She willed Meredith to call. Willed her to be all right. She bargained in her mind with whatever force had created everything for the woman, her friend, to be fine.

Dottie Hagen, their usual dispatcher, was visiting her sister in Florida. Dottie knew how these things went. No one would dare disappoint Dottie; she would not tolerate it.

"Come on, Meri, call us," Tracy rose from the chair she had been sitting slouched in for the last five hours. She stretched her lower back with a grimace. She had used the small gym for over two hours this morning, using the stair climber and weights until she was exhausted.

She dashed to the toilet, hand held ready. She came out moment's later, thinking about the reports that had come in a few days ago. Four separate pilots, two commercial, two private, had reported seeing smoke.

Smoke where the research cabin was located. One of the private pilots had said it was a cabin burning. He had dropped low, estimated the location, and then radioed it in.

Tracy shut her eyes. There were several cabins up in the area, all old hunting cabins or substations for the park. What if it had been the research cabin? Meredith could not survive the blizzard that been raging for the past three days without shelter.

Ryan Smith, the park's pilot, had said he would not be able to take off for another day or two. The storm winds were still too dangerous for flying.

Help could not reach Meredith for another two or three days, if they were lucky. Tracy used the counter to do some push-ups, trying to keep her mind focused. Jason Hendricks strode into main office.

He was a tall, powerfully knit man with warm dark brown eyes, a ready smile and soft-spoken manner. He had grown his winter whiskers, an annual event that began with the first deep frost.

Tracy raised her pale blue eyes and shook her head. Jason exhaled, cursing under his breath. His dark brown eyes showed the stress of the last 96 hours. He hitched a thumb towards the bunkroom door. "Go sack out, Tracy."

"But..."

"Tomorrow morning have your winter SAR gear packed and ready. I have an Air National Guard Huey on standby. We just got confirmation of the coordinators by thermal imaging satellites taken the day of the fire. It was the research cabin."

Tracy shut her eyes, blinking back tears. Jason's eyes met hers. There were unshed tears behind his expressive eyes. Jason and Annie Hendricks had handpicked each of their employees, save for Charlie Fenton. Charlie Fenton had been recommended by of good friend of the couple's, so they had trusted his word. A former Colorado state trooper, the man worked for the park as a career seasonal.

A very private man, he lived outside the park in the town of Broken Rock. He spent the winter months running the Ski Patrol for the town of Burntmountain, and the rest of the year working for the park.

She had tried contacting him to let him know about Meredith, but his message machine said he was out leading a prolonged boarding trip in the mountains. Charlie would be very upset if anything had happened to the woman he carried a not-so-secret torch for.

Meredith had never felt the same about the man, though, and was not as close to him as she was other staff members.

"Where's Annie?" Tracy whispered thickly.

"She went home, but she'll be back later. She'll stay here to run the recovery operation, and make the necessary arrangements," Jason said wearily. "I need to contact Meredith's parents about the situation."

The man's choice of words left no doubt: they thought Meredith was dead. Meredith could not survive seven or more days without shelter and food. There were not many that could endure it. Jason lowered himself into the oak, slated backed office chair and reached for the phone. He looked far older than his youthful forty-six years, the stress having taken a toll on the normally vigorous man.

Tracy leaned her hip against the waist high counter, tugging a hand through her wild chestnut mane. She watched her boss dial the number Meredith had left in case of such dire circumstances: it was her father's personal line in the family law firm. "This Jason Hendricks, I must speak directly with Dennis Murphy. It's an urgent matter, and I would rather speak directly to him," Jason informed the person answering the man's personal line, no doubt used to screening calls even on this line. "Dennis? It's Jason Hendricks. I have some bad news about Meredith.."

Tears blurring her vision, Tracy silently left the office and pushed her way into the small office turned bunkroom during emergency conditions such as blizzards. She removed her hiking boots, remembering when she bought them last fall. She, Annie and Meredith had gone down to Seattle for a weekend, and Tracy had decided she needed to replace her old boots.

They had so much fun during that weekend that the men called a Hen's weekend. Of course, they had wanted to come along, but Meredith pointed out it was girls only weekend. Tracy remembered how they had tried their level best to get Meredith to chuck the battered L.L. Bean backpack she used for running around town.

Meredith would never get rid of the backpack that had seen better eons because of sentimental reasons. Annie had playfully kidnapped the backpack, teasing Meredith she had tossed it in bay. Meredith had looked like she was going to dive right into the bay to find the missing bag.

Poor Annie had swiftly produced the bag, and Meredith had snatched the once navy blue and tan backpack back. She had hugged it like a teddy bear, and the other women had cracked up. The rest of the ferry ride had been spent simply enjoying each other's company, knowing in a few hours they would drive back home.

Tracy dropped back on the folding cot, drawing the wool blanket over herself as she began letting the tears fall. Turning onto her belly, she silently wept for the woman she was proud to call a good friend.

It was the first time she had lost a good friend and coworker on the job. And it sucked, she thought angrily, wishing she had taken up Meredith's offer to spend part of the winter really learning about what made her love her job so much. Maybe, if she had been there, things would have been different.

**************

"There's the cabin," the helicopter pilot shouted above the rotors of the huge helicopter. She glanced towards the solemn members of the Search and Rescue, or SAR, team.

It must have been a terrible fire. She flinched when she thought about what they might find. Fire was a nasty way to die. The woman may not have gotten clear of the collapsing cabin, and might be inside the snow-covered ruins. The four SAR workers wore bright orange jackets, each bore a backpack with emergency medical and survival equipment as well as snowshoes.

There were two men, and two women. One of the women was not a National Park Service Ranger, but a National Forest Service Ranger who worked closely with the others. She had dark hair, intense, dark gray eyes and bore a striking resemblance to the lean, handsome man whose eye patch gave him a roguish air.

He was a retired Forest Service Ranger, but active in training wildland fire fighting and search and rescue techniques to the feds and locals. He had taught advanced fire fighting on her base.

The other two were National Park Service Rangers. One was the superintendent of the park, the other one his law enforcement rangers. The young female law enforcement ranger looked pale and drained.

They all did.

The park's fixed wing pilot/law enforcement ranger was flying a grid pattern over the area, searching for clues. The Guard's woman hoped they would find the woman alive, but the blizzard had been severe.

She had been on enough search and rescue missions to know the odds were set against human survival. She and her aircrew would assist in the recovery effort.

"Sam, you and Morgan take this sector. Tracy and I will cover the northeastern quadrant. Captain, if you and your air crew will cover the remaining sections," Jason tapped the map. "If her remains are not in the cabin, then most likely she was either out doing her field work, or got out during the fire. Depending on the winds, and her condition, she may within a few yards of the cabin. Especially if she was burned, she most likely would not get very far. "

The female Forest Ranger flinched. All of them fought wildland fires, and most of them recalled the tragic events of Stormking Mountain. So many of their brothers and sisters lost in the flames of a wildfire.

"SAR One, SAR Four..." Ryan Smith's voice crackled over the handheld the team members wore. The man was shouting.

Jason keyed his mike, braced for bad news. "Go, Ryan."

"I just got a weak transmission," Ryan Smith's excitement was obvious. "But it's Meredith!"

Shock rippled through the assembled team members, then joy. Jason blinked, then grinned. "Where?"

"At the USGS research station on the other side of the mountain. She say's she's a bit cold and hungry, but otherwise fine. She sounds like she has one hell of a cold, but she is alive!"

Cheers rose, and hugs were exchanged. Jason waved for the others to quiet down when Ryan said, "Said she needs you to pick something up. Here's the coordinates."

Jason used the pilot's pen, writing down the location. Whatever it was, it was important enough Meredith wanted it retrieved. Why she had hidden it told him the fire was no mere accident, and there were dark looks exchanged while they absorbed that information, Even with the jolt of joy he felt knowing the woman was alive, a cold anger filled him when he knew the fire had been no accident, and he would make sure whoever had a hand in the matter paid big time.

Jason glanced at the map. Meredith had tromped this country for the last few years, and he tapped the map. He glanced at the smiling pilot. "Can we get a lift?"

"You got it. I assume we will making two stops?"

Jason beamed, and gave the usually reserved helicopter pilot a bear hug that left her winded and wide eyed. Her aircrew laughed, relishing the sight of the dazed officer's bewildered expression and loss of words at the impulsive action of the big man.

They piled back into the helicopter and headed for the map location. Meredith radioed further instructions once they had landed. Morgan found the area, and dug. She handed Jason a carefully wrapped bundle.

"Meredith says, 'Merry Christmas...'", Ryan announced, and the crew froze. They exchanged looks. It was December 25.

Jason tucked the precious film inside his parka's deep pocket, securing it there. He churned his way back through the deep snowdrifts. "Let's go get her."

It took twenty-five minutes to fly around the mountain, and another twenty minutes to find a safe landing spot. A figure came out of the research cabin, waving its arms. The four SAR team members bounded out of the helicopter's belly with shouts of unfettered joy as they charged through the deep snow.

The Air National Guard team watched the short, tawny haired woman being hugged and kissed by the others. Twice, the Chief Ranger hugged the wildlife biologist close, hefting her off the ground. The pilot sniffed, claiming it was the remains of a head cold, daring her crew to say otherwise as she observed the joyous reunion. To be honest, some of them found their eyes were mysteriously misty, too.

Jason held Meredith inside the circle of his arms, dismayed how worn and thin she looked. She coughed violently, and he pressed a hand against her forehead. "Dammit! You're running a high temperature, Meri."

Meredith coughed, trying to say something. Morgan handed her a clean cloth. Meredith coughed, wiping her mouth with mild distaste. Morgan opened the wadded up cloth, and studied the thick, green mucous. Morgan and Jason crossed glances. "Pneumonia would be my guess. First stop for you, kiddo, is the hospital."

"I'm fine..." Meredith insisted, coughing violently again. She was trembling and barely able to stand upright.

"Yeah; right," Morgan hugged the woman close. She mussed her friend's hair affectionately. "You have to see a doctor. Period, end, exclamation point."

Meredith frowned. "Did you find the film?"

"Yes; what's so important about it, Meri?" Jason inclined his head when Tracy reappeared with Meredith's meager gear.

"You know how you and Morgan have been wanting to nail Dawson for poaching?"

Jason and Morgan stared intently at their friend. Meredith inclined her head, shivering despite the warm layers of clothing she wore. "Got ten pictures showing him and his hunting party bagging a female wolf, and they killed Ironclaw, too."

Jason squeezed Meredith's shoulder, knowing how painful the loss of the animals was to her. "Meredith, it will take time, but this should be what we need to get him."

Meredith nodded, watching Tracy and Sam secure the cabin. Jason glanced down at the short woman he was supporting. "Kelly was worried sick about her favorite Ranger."

Meredith smiled. Sam Griffin's daughter Kelly was seventeen. Meredith had met her when Kelly had been twelve, and curious about nature and wildlife. She had been a 'junior ranger' that worked alongside the young wildlife biologist after school.

Born into a family of Forest Service Rangers and outdoor lovers', Kelly had found a friend in the newest member of the Drango Gap team. It was through Sam and Kelly that Meredith had become very close friends with Morgan and life partner, Karen Winslow, a Forest Service wildlife biologist.

"I was worried for a little bit, too," Meredith accepted help up onto the helicopter. A very young Guardsman slipped a warm blanket around her shoulders, then rejoined his crew.

Meredith leaned back against the interior of the helicopter, eyes sliding shut despite her best efforts. She awoke about forty-five minutes later outside the Blackstone General Hospital. She found herself being greeted by a group of very serious looking Federal Agents working several agencies, and saw Jason hand the package to one of the men.

It seemed the clock was ticking. Meredith found herself being hustled inside the hospital, being bombarded with questions and giving a statement. The doctor protested the treatment his patient was receiving, but Meredith assured him she was fine.

He insisted she was not, as she began shivering and sweating. The alphabet soup of federal agencies became jumbled in Meredith's mind as she got colder. But she gave her statement three times until the doctor ordered the agents to leave.

Meredith heard one of the men murmuring an apology to the beautiful, golden haired woman with keen gray eyes who strode into the treatment room. Her father was fast on her mother's heels, his deep voice telling the federal law enforcement agents to leave his daughter alone for the time being. Her mother took her pulse, then listened to the rasping, crackling breathing of her youngest child with worried eyes with a stethoscope.

"Mom?" Meredith asked, not believing her eyes. Her mother smiled, and swept back a greasy curl from her damp forehead. "Easy, sweetie. Your father and I are here, and you need to rest now. You will be very sick for awhile, so we are going to stay here to help you regain your strength."

"Jason called us. We came immediately. Richard is in Japan, and Katherine is in New Zealand. We will call them once you are settled in. Granddad and Grandma will come as soon as they can," Dennis Murphy murmured, leaning down to kiss his daughter's temple. "Jessie will be a winter break soon, so she will be coming out once she is done with her finals at NYU."

Meredith noticed how anxious the other doctors were around her mother, and Meredith managed a painful chuckle. Christine Murphy was one of the best heart surgeons in the United States, and had a formidable reputation. But right now, she was just a mother happy to be reunited with her youngest child. "But you both have so many responsibilities...." Meredith stammered, knowing how much juggling they must have done to be here.

One of the doctors showed the august woman x-rays Meredith did not recall having taken, and her mother's lips compressed into a thin line. She and the ER doctors conferred, and Meredith heard mention of a private room being prepared.

"Hush, Meri . Nothing is more important right now than you to us, and you will need help for sometime. You have a bad case of pneumonia, both lungs are involved," her mother told her softly. "Considering what you have been through, you are were lucky. Annie told us you had a bad cold, but it was not a regular cold, Rest now. We'll be here."

Her father's light green eyes held hers as she fought her sluggish mind to focus on the events she had been swept up in. Her body ached now that she had let herself rest, and she shivered violently. Her father suddenly appeared with another blanket someone must have given him, and he tucked it around her while humming softly. Meredith recognized the Irish lullaby he had sang and hummed to her since she could remember.

It made her feel safe, though she found herself becoming more confused about where she was. A silver haired nurse leaned over her, giving her several injections while she heard her mother conferring with the ER doctors. She felt her father's strong hand soothing her feverish brow as the world began fading.

Meredith surrendered herself to the gathering darkness, and would not awaken for many hours. If she dreamed, she did not recall.

*********************


William Dawson had been celebrating a successful hunt when the combined team of federal and local law enforcement officers descended on his warehouse. His German clients had left an hour ago, trusting he would send them the properly treated hides.

It had been a very good hunt: one young adult male Grizzly bear, two elks and the black female wolf. The fire he had had set burned down the research cabin utilized by the wildlife biologist. He sipped his Dewar's Scotch with a sigh of appreciation. Inside the huge warehouse styled structure where he stored his guide company's legitimate gear, not to mention other merchandise.

He sat inside his oak paneled office, checking on the stock market investments he had made when there was commotion downstairs. Rising, he figured it was an argument between his underlings, not an uncommon thing.

Laying aside his drink, he strode towards the office door that flew open. AFT agents piled inside, flanked by two local law enforcement officers. He found himself being spun against the wall by the dark haired, green-eyed sheriffs deputy wearing tailored dark brown pants and a tan shirt.

"Get this fag's hands off me..." Dawson grumbled, trying to break free of the muscular man.

"Now, is that anyway to speak to a law enforcement officer arresting you for attempted murder, poaching, gun running and drug trafficking," the officer asked sweetly as he cuffed Dawson's wrists. His partner was reading the man his Miranda rights while one of the AFT agents showed him the search warrant.

"Dawson, you are going down..." the deputy hissed.

"I haven't done anything wrong; I am an honest businessman being harassed by the Zionist led government that permits faggots and people of color human rights," Dawson replied.

"Jon, why don't you take this upstanding citizen down to the station with his other upstanding citizens," Sheriff William Gunnerson murmured, disgusted. He was a lean, grizzled man whose tolerance for this type of stuff was limited.

Jason Hendricks entered the office before Jon could lead him outside. The normally soft-spoken superintendent of the Burntmountain District planted himself in front of Dawson.

"Just thought I let you know Meredith says you take really good photographs. So does the Federal government."

Dawson's eyes widened.

"Yup; she survived, you piece of shit. The photographs gave us the right to search all your warehouses. Fish and Wildlife found your trophies..."

Dawson heard agents below announcing they had found the shipment of Kalashnikov AK47s bound for Idaho. Dawson saw DEA agents, Fish and Wildlife Service, National Forest Service Special Agents and local authorities.

Several of his employees began chanting antigovernment slogans as they received their Miranda rights. Dawson found himself being hustled to the waiting school bus that would take them to the station. On the corner stood a throng of onlookers including one dark haired man whose eyes met Dawson.

"Is there a problem, mister?" one of the AFT agents demanded of a man glaring darkly towards the gathered law enforcement officers.

"Sorry; Charles Fenton, sir," he flashed his credentials bearing his law enforcement ranger badge. "Heard we caught the prick that tried to kill one of my friends."

"Your boss is inside," the agent said in a less hostile tone, realizing the glare had been directed towards Dawson. "Glad to know your friend made it."

"Thanks. I'm going to check in with my boss," Charlie Fenton smiled, heading for the warehouse. Dawson met the Arctic cold glare of the newcomer whose fists clenched down by his side. "If she had died, you would be dead, Dawson."

"Fuck off, fed... You haven't got the guts to get your hands dirty. Real men do hard things when necessary," Dawson hissed, glancing around the gathering crowd. "Wake up, America, before the Zionist controlled media and government take away your basic rights."

Dawson smiled when some of the crowd began chanting antigovernment slogans. He held his head high and headed for the van. Things were looking up.

********************

Jason Hendricks pager went off inside the waiting lounge where he and Annie were busy talking with Dennis Murphy. The last few hours had been hectic ones for the man, but his youngest child was alive. His hazel green eyes showed the strain he had endured since the phone call about the research cabin burning down, and reputed death of his youngest child.

He and his wife had flown out in one of the family law firm's private Lear jets. Sipping a tepid coffee, wearing faded Lee jeans and a comfortable, teal canvass shirt, he did not look like one of the best international corporate lawyers in the country. He had finished speaking with his parents, assuring them Meredith would be fine with rest and care.

They would come once Meredith was out of the hospital, and planned to spend the next few weeks with her. Jessie, the daughter of Dennis's younger brother and his wife, had been living with them since she was teenager because Edward and Grace had spent several years in Saudi Arabia, working for the Embassy. Jessie had remained with Dennis and Christine even when her parents returned, since she was in school and happy.

His soft Boston accent had faded over the years he had lived in New York City. Annie perched on the armrest of the couch in which Jason was sitting. Jason pulled the pager off his belt, and glanced at the small screen. A frown knit together his brows, and Annie's forest-green eyes met her husband's with concern.

"Excuse me for a sec," Jason rose and headed towards the nurse's desk. A brief exchange, and he was using the phone. Whoever was on the other end of the line must have told him something upsetting.

"Annie and I will be there in an hour. No. if the fire's as bad as you are saying, do not try getting into the evidence shed. Try to contain it with the Blackstone volunteer department."

Annie rose, meeting her husband's eyes with grim determination.

"Dennis, we have to go. Several of the housing units somehow caught fire.."

Dennis Murphy's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Like Meredith's research cabin?"

"I do not know.." Jason answered honestly. He and Annie left the man pondering the odds of such incidents, and they all sensed it was something dangerous happening around them.

*******************

"William Dawson, you stand accused of endangered species poaching, transport of said species across state and country lines, drug running, and a host of other crimes," the steel gray haired judge's dark brown eyes focused on the smiling man. "Not to mention being linked to the murder of seven game wardens in Africa, and the murder of a wildlife biologist in Glacier National Park."

William Dawson's light hazel eyes showed nothing of his thoughts about the case being built against him. He wore an expensive, tailored charcoal gray suit, and his sandy hair had been recently trimmed. On his right wrist he wore a gold Rolex wristwatch glinting with diamonds. He glanced toward his team of high-priced lawyers and refrained from commenting.

"Bail will be set at six hundred thousand dollars," the judge announced, scowling toward the polished lawyers representing the man.

"Our client wishes to return to his home where is his wife is expecting their firstborn, once his bail has been posted," the lead lawyer announced, no doubt appealing to the judge's well known sense of family values.

"Where is this compound?"

"Outside of Hayden Lake, Idaho. Mister Dawson wishes to see this terrible misunderstanding cleared up as soon as possible," the lead lawyer said smoothly.

The judge's jaw muscles worked, but other than the photographic evidence of Dawson helping two German men poach protected wildlife, there was nothing directly connecting him to the host of other crimes. Even the evidence seized in his main warehouse, including to radio collars off the missing Spirit Lake pack members, could not be directly tied to him.

He ran a massive business with six offices in the United States, and two overseas. The drugs were found in an employee's locker, and the young skinhead was not talking. The ominous connection between the man and the Aryan Nation had not been brought up in this hearing. The judge glanced toward the cluster of men and women representing the United States government and local authorities.

He smiled toward the young wildlife biologist whose photographs would hopefully connect the dots. She stood between an older married couple, obvious friends, as well as, coworkers. He thought of the man that had been killed in Glacier National Park. He had witnessed Dawson leading a poaching party, but had nothing other than his eyewitness testimony.

Six weeks before he was to testify he had been shot dead outside his house. There were no witnesses, but the law enforcement rangers and other investigators believed his murder was at Dawson's orders.

But he could not send Dawson to the black pit he deserved. The judge hated the law when it did not serve justice. He cleared his throat, "You may return to your home until the trial date is set in the next few months. But let me make this clear: should anything happen to Ms. Murphy, you will be held responsible. I will not have another death on my hands."

The lawyers inclined their heads respectfully, and Dawson turned with his polished team of defenders. The judge had risen, and was gathering his papers when Dawson met the eyes of the woman responsible for this trial.

Smiling, he playfully formed a gun with his right hand and pretended to shoot the young woman. The judge and the rest of the court froze. The young woman stiffened, and the tall, brown haired, brown eyed Chief Ranger of Burntmountain snarled, "Enjoy your last months of freedom, asshole."

"Is that anyway for a civil servant to address a citizen of the United States?" Dawson laughed, grinning at the purple-faced judge. "I was just kidding. Take care, Meredith Murphy."

Meredith stood her ground between Annie and Jason, feeling their anger and frustration that matched her own. She knew her life was about be altered, but how deeply remained to be seen.


******************




April 18, 1999

Meredith Murphy puffed out her cheeks, and scanned the computer screen with narrowed eyes. It was her annual report on the return of the Gray Wolves to the Burntmountain District of Drango Gap National Wildlife Corridor. There were two separate packs she had identified over the course of the four-year study. They shared some territorial overlaps, and there two other packs living in National Forest lands adjacent to the pack.

Both packs had migrated out of the Canadian wilderness six years ago, following the migratory routes of the big game animals. It had validated the theories behind the foundation of the unique biosphere park. Drango Gap was named for the man that had been the inspiration for the creation of the park.

Mike Drango had been a logger turned naturalist, murdered for his efforts to preserve the remaining Old Growth forests he and his family had harvested for generations. His killers had never been found, though speculations pointed to certain folks. A statue of him had been erected in his hometown of Blackstone, Washington. He had been an unassuming, affable man, a family man that had wanted his children's great grandchildren to enjoy the wilderness of his youth.

Meredith wished she could have met the man. It had been his murder that had convinced his friends and family things needed to change. If it had not been for his murder, Meredith could not help but wonder if the park would've existed.

A grassroots effort blossomed, and soon local to federal branches of government began taking note. Of course, the fact that the enjoyment of the outdoors and a variety sports in tourism made more economic sense than harvesting the forests played into the creation of the park.

Drango Gap covered several states, connecting the migratory corridors of wildlife, and preserved critical habitat for those animals. There were sections of the sprawling park closed entirely to the general public and outdoor fanatics, deemed too critical of a habitat area to risk.

But much of the mammoth park had recreational areas where people could connect with nature. Eco-tourism, outdoors adventure companies, and a host of other activities were permitted in established zones within the park.

Locals were finding better money catering to the folks that places like Burntmountain attracted. The resort town of Burntmountain was well on its way to becoming the one of the best resort towns in America.

It enjoyed year round visitation, skiing, snow boarding and limited snowmobiling mixed with hiking, mountain biking, horse back riding, wilderness camping and climbing. So did the rest of the Burntmountain District.

It was a challenge, meshing together the different activities without impacting the resource. Meredith, Hank Burnside, Shannon Mac Bride and the other resource management team members worked hard to maintain a balance. The others worked out of the headquarters in Seattle, though they were available should she require assistance.

Meredith saved the twenty-eight-page document, ran the spell and grammar checks, then hit the print command. A glance at the wall mounted clock told her she had an hour before Annie and Jason Hendricks brought by the new Law Enforcement ranger and part-time pilot. The woman would be using the guest cabin behind Meredith's house, an arrangement that suited Meredith.

There had been a recent rash of break-ins and minor arson cases, something that concerned Meredith. Having a commissioned law enforcement officer living on her property should discourage most troublemakers. The report she would be submitting would most likely be the last one she making, since her main duties as the lead district resource management ranger had grown. USGS biological team members would soon take up the task, something she knew was necessary for the time being. And it did not help her that she was on Dawson's list.

Meredith stretched, sighed as she watched the first two pages print out. Time for a shower, she mused. It had been a very busy day. She had started her morning with a six-mile jog, then finished cleaning up the log cabin behind her house. She had sat down to complete her report, losing track of time.

She risked a sniff. Her nose wrinkled. Yup. She smelled pretty ripe. She dashed out of her office and up the stairs to the third floor of the sprawling house. She had thirty minutes to shower and dress, and another thirty minutes to lay out the hors d'oeuvers she had bought last night in Blackstone.

She trotted past the two guest bedrooms and bathroom to the master suite. She began shedding her garments as she headed for the master bath. She considered herself in the mirrors that ran the length of the oak and green marble vanity that took up the entire north wall of the master bath.

At five feet four inches, she was sleekly built, years of hiking, mountain biking, running and climbing had made her muscles compact and strong. Her breasts were small and firm enough that she did not have wear a bra every day, though they were not too small. She wore her dirty blonde hair short for ease of wear and comfort. Her grandfather said her eyes were the color of sunlit seawater off the coast of Ireland during a fine spring day. Meredith called them gray-green, but she liked her grandfather's lyrical description.

He had supported her when she went against the course her family had set for her. She had not selected one her family's traditional occupations, an action many had debated and questioned. Instead, she had followed her heart and interests despite the protests of several family elders.

Meredith stepped inside the separate shower stall and turned on the water. She sighed with gratitude when the hot water washed over her lithe frame. She used the herbal shower gel on the rough natural sponge to wash herself, thinking about the past five years. She loved what she did, and she loved Drango Gap. She still had faith in the National Park Service overall mission, but she was realistic enough to know politics played too strong a role in many management decisions.

Five years ago Jason and Annie took a gamble on a young graduate student fresh out of the University of Idaho, betting she had what it took. Meredith had spent her summers working in Olympic, Glacier and Yellowstone National Parks, getting the necessary skills and experience to match her intense studies.

Between her high grade point average, extensive field experience and excellent recommendations, Jason had selected her out of a list of two hundred candidates. Several of those not selected had hinted that her family ties were the reason for her selection, since her family was very, very wealthy and socially prominent.

Meredith had known the only way to disprove her detractors was to work hard. To prove her abilities beyond a shadow of a doubt, she had worked harder than most others would have, and ignored those negative voices. She had been a rich, city bred, twenty-three year old grad student with a passionate love for nature and the outdoors. She had proven that Jason and Annie's instincts had been accurate.

Those that had opposed her selection had either come to accept her, or found themselves being ignored by their fellows. Meredith had come into her own. Her family, too, had come to accept her career choice. Building the main house had been the final gesture that told the world she had decided her own fate. She had bought forty-acre piece of property with the lovely two-bedroom log cabin when an elderly couple decided to move closer to their out-of-state children.

Meredith had designed the main house with a young architect to meet her needs. Three stories, the elegant timber frame house reflected modern touches. The lower level held her spacious office, the large eat in kitchen, formal dining area, a good gym, a half bath and large storage area that lead into the finished basement. The second floor held the great room, two guest bedrooms, a full bath, and a cozy den. The third floor had another two guest bedrooms, another full bath and the master suite.

A full, wrap around verandah encircled the first floor level, and there was a balcony area right off the master suite. She loved her life. Between her salary and trust funds, she was very, very comfortable. Truth be told, she really did not have to work. She could live very comfortably on her trust funds, but neither she nor her family believed in the idle rich concept.

Life was good. Dawson's case was still making it's way through the overburdened legal system, and Meredith knew it could be months before the trial date would be set. She did not permit the possibility of foul play to haunt her days or nights. Should anything happen to her, there was enough information to make sure the man spent the rest of his natural life in prison.

She reluctantly stepped out of the corner shower stall built out of wood, lovely Mediterranean styled tile and frosted glass etched with a wildlife motif. She grabbed a towel, drying her hair as she entered the bedroom where she tossed a pair of comfortable blue jeans and cream-colored shirt onto the bed. A dark brown leather belt, socks and a pair dark brown and evergreen walking shoes completed the outfit.

Running her fingers through her short hair, she finished drying off and dressed. In another twenty minutes Jason and Annie would be bringing by the newest edition to the ranger staff. Meredith dashed back downstairs to get the food ready. She swiftly placed the hors d'oeuvre's that required heating on a tray, and slipped it inside the oven. Next, she carried up a small tray of raw veggies, cheese, fruit and crackers. Annie would bring whatever was left over to the Ranger Station.

The four law enforcement rangers, the dispatcher and joint facility maintenance folks working between the two agencies loved when she hosted parties. It meant those unable to attend would find some really good food in the Headquarters Building/Ranger Station. The maintenance members were shared between Okanogan National Forest and the Burntmountain District of the Drango Gap National Wildlife Corridor, and were locals' men and women whose diverse skills kept the numerous existing physical plants up and running.

Well-fed maintenance folks that felt appreciated meant things got done correctly and quickly. Something staff and visitors benefited from, in Meredith's opinion. The carpenters had done a great job on rebuilding the interior of the emergency and fire cache that had needed more wracks for hanging gear. Built-in heavy-duty draws for the numerous carabineers, descenders, anchors, and such the park used for rescue missions made her life easier, since she kept the gear list updated.

Meredith had roasted a huge turkey with all the trimmings for the guys, as thanks for a job well done. Morgan had teased her the carpenters were ready to build her own building, since they loved her cooking. Most were only part-timers on call when needed for projects and repairs, but they were included in the end of season party she always hosted whenever possible. And since most of them were local contractors, she hired whenever she needed work done on the house and cabin.

Thankful that she had had the foresight to straightened up the Great Room, kitchen and second floor bathroom last night, she heard the sound of vehicles driving down the dirt road. Meredith immediately spotted Jason's fire engine red Dodge truck, then the dark blue Jeep Cherokee following his truck.

She chuckled. Right on time. She jogged down the stairs to the first floor and cut through the large eat-in kitchen to the back door. She stepped outside onto the wrap around verandah in time to see the two vehicles come to a halt behind the house.

Meredith immediately noticed that Jason had shaved off his winter whiskers, and had had a recent hair cut. Annie stepped out of the passenger side, a slender woman three inches taller than Meredith with forest green eyes and silver frosted, shoulder blade length chestnut hair.

Annie was the Chief of Visitor Services and Interpretation for the District, and the head of the Law Enforcement program for the district. A quick-witted, direct woman, she balanced Jason well.

Jason and Annie had been married for twenty-three years, since Annie had proposed to the soft-spoken man. They never had looked back. Jason beamed when he spotted Meredith standing on the verandah.

Drango Gap National Wildlife Corridor would be their final park, they had decided. They had decided to retire here when they felt it was time. Annie had a very shrewd business mind, and had invested their earnings wisely. They had never had children, though they had tried, and accepted it was not meant to be. But they had several nieces and nephews, so they did have kids they loved and helped spoil whenever possible. Annie and Jason loved and liked each other, and Meredith knew the couple did not take their relationship for granted,.

Neither did her parents or grandparents, and her older brother Richard and his wife Carolyn seemed destined to have the same type of relationship. Meredith hoped someday she would find that same kind of lasting love and affection, too,

"Hi, kiddo..." Jason called out affectionately when he spotted Meredith. Jason slid an arm around his wife's waist as the jeep pulled up alongside Jason's fire truck red pickup truck.

Meredith started down the back porch steps and ambled towards the Jeep Grand Cherokee. She tried recalling the details that the couple had given her. Dianthe Xavier, a former fighter pilot off the USS Abraham Lincoln, honorably discharged, joined the National Park Service several months following her leaving the military, worked the Everglades for two years.

She had gotten her status down there, doing air, water and land patrols. She went to FLETC, and applied to several openings, including Burntmountain. Jason had made some calls, heard damned fine things about the woman, and had been able to reach her since she was a vet.

Ryan Smith had put his two cents in, too. He had been a pilot for the Air Force Reserves, and heard through the grapevine she was a sierra-hotel pilot. A damned good officer, too, according to his connections. She had left behind a lot of friends, and a lot of questions.

What they had not told her was the woman was an Amazon. Meredith blinked when the towering woman unfolded her six foot one frame out of the vehicle, shaking her dark brown mane of hair out of piercing blue eyes. Meredith felt her heart skip a beat, and her palms became sweaty.

She shook her head, attributing her reaction to the fact she had been an incredibly busy the last two weeks. Jason's eyes narrowed, and Annie paused. They had noticed her reaction. Meredith knew they would be asking her questions. Her single status had been a point of debate for years within the tightly knit group.

She had dated a couple of nice fellows, but never felt the burning passion her friends had talked about. Tracy had dragged Meredith to dozens of social functions. Meredith reasoned it was just that she had not met the right person yet, not to mention she had been focused