Off Limits

Still lying on the jungle floor, Alex began to shake uncontrollably, her arms and legs taking on a life of their own. It was shock, Alex knew, the continuous surge of adrenaline through her bloodstream causing the reaction. Suddenly, a huge explosion rent the air, sending a thundering clap of sound booming through the jungle like the pounding of a hundred ear-splitting kettledrums. The echo was a physical force, pummeling Alex as wave after wave rolled past her. Wincing, she realized that the marine helicopter had just blown up.

Over the next hour, clarity returned slowly to Alex’s mind. On its heels came a wall of chaotic and panicky emotions. Finally tears came, leaking down her muddy cheeks. She cried for the marine crew. They were all dead. At Marble Mountain, they’d treated her like a star because of her popular father’s influence and power. The door gunner, a red-haired boy of eighteen, had shyly asked for her signature on a sweat-stained piece of paper pulled from one of the pockets of his flight suit. He’d told her excitedly that he collected autographs.

At first, Alex had protested, saying she wasn’t famous, just an unknown person in the shadow of her larger-than-life father. But the door gunner, Private First Class Ken Cassle, had gently insisted. Squeezing her eyes shut at the memory, Alex sobbed. The cry jerked through her like a convulsion, and pain flared hotly in her left shoulder to remind her of the wound. Still, she knew, her heart bore an even larger, invisible, wound for those four marines.

As if her brain was stuck on that time frame, Alex couldn’t shake the memories of the past hour’s conversations and the images from before she’d left the marine air base. Captain Bob Cunningham, the helicopter pilot, was married—the father of two young children. He’d proudly showed Alex their pictures when she’d asked about them. He’d patted the pocket near his heart where he kept them, saying that the photos were his good-luck charm, that they were going to get him home safely to his family. And his copilot, Lieutenant Jeffrey Whitmore, had just gotten married. His wife was expecting their first child. Now none of that crew would be going home alive. Alex sobbed quietly, unable to stop the deluge of loss she felt for them and their families.

By the second hour since the crash, the bleeding in her shoulder had stopped, and Alex drew in a shaky breath of relief. She focused her limited senses on her surroundings. The sunlight, what little there was, had slanted in a more westerly direction. They’d started the flight to the firebase at noon. Alex looked down at the watch on her dirty, bloodied wrist. It was now 2:30 p.m. She sat up and tried to assimilate and understand her own dilemma. Light-headed, she knew she’d lost more blood than she should have. As a nursing student in Washington, D.C., she had seen blood from time to time, but never like this. She tried to study her left shoulder with impartiality. The flight suit was soaked with blood in a large, uneven circle that surrounded her upper arm, encompassed her left breast and reached halfway across her chest.

The wound didn’t bleed when she moved, but Alex wasn’t about to look under the loose-fitting flight suit to find out why. More important things had to be addressed. Thirsty, her mouth dry, Alex began to look around for a water source but saw none. The jungle teemed with singing birds. The fire that had engulfed the helicopter earlier had completely died out. Only a few trails of ever-thinning black smoke stained the sky. Everything, it seemed to Alex, was returning to normal.

Her heart gave a giant thud at a noise to her left. A Vietnamese, his face intent, held an ugly-looking weapon against his chest, as if prepared to fire it. Alex snapped her mouth shut and tensed. This man wasn’t ARVN, or at least he wasn’t in the uniform they wore at Marble Mountain. Instead, he wore a black cotton shirt and baggy black pants. Somewhere in Alex’s spinning senses, she recalled part of her egress briefing given by Major Ramsey. He had said that men who wore such an outfit were VC, the enemy. Alex remained frozen. Would he spot her? And if he did, would he kill her?

The soldier halted and slowly looked around, his dark brown eyes intelligent, his head cocked, as if to listen for some out-of-place sound among the normal jungle noises. His hands tightened on the stock of the AK-47 he carried. Slowly, he looked down at the leaf-strewn floor.

Alex’s eyes went wide. If she moved, she would disturb the top layer of leaves, signaling the enemy. He was only ten feet away. Sweat popped out on her upper lip. All that protected her from his prying eyes were the huge, graceful green leaves and ferns that hung like an umbrella around her head and shoulders. A panicked cry started deep in her throat. She clamped her mouth shut, in that moment understanding what a helpless rabbit must feel like as a fox stalked it. Would he hear the thudding of her heart? She could hear it booming in her ears.

The VC quietly moved on. Alex was amazed at the way the man made no sound at all. Her heart pounding unrelentingly in her breast, she realized that she had to get away from the crash site. She licked her dry lips, which were caked with blood. If she left the vicinity of the helicopter, the marines who might rescue her wouldn’t be able to locate her. Yet, if she stayed, Alex knew with certainty that the VC would find and capture her.

Which way was Firebase Lily, her original destination? Her father was waiting for her there. She was no good with directions. Her two older brothers, Case and Buck, always derided her inability to recognize north, south, east and west. With a trembling hand, Alex shoved her hair from her eyes. Which way was the sun? The triple canopy of the jungle so diffused the light that she had no real idea. Never had Alex felt so helpless, so angry at her own incompetence—or so alone.

Her father had wanted her to join the military as an officer once she got her nursing degree. Her two brothers were already in the Marine Corps. But Alex’s talents, if she could even call them that, were aligned with being of service in other ways. Her father had openly scoffed at her nursing aims, berating her with the Vance family’s hundred-year tradition in the military.

Well, Alex thought dully, I don’t want any part of it. I’m not a killer. I don’t even like war. And yet, as she sat there, Alex knew she was in a war. If Case or Buck had been shot down like this, what would they do? Her confident older brothers probably would have dressed their wounds, gotten up and headed for Firebase Lily.

With grim determination, Alex struggled to her knees. Dizziness assailed her. She tried to ignore the thought of how much blood she’d lost. Focusing on a nearby tree, a rubber tree, she saw sunlight high up on the gnarled, twisted trunk. It took several minutes to figure out an easterly direction, for her mind kept shorting out. Firebase Lily lay directly east of Marble Mountain, some thirty miles inland and near the border with Laos, according to Major Ramsey. He’d shown her the flight route on a map pinned to the wall of the headquarters tent.

Her father had always derided her lack of assertiveness. Why couldn’t she be more like Case and Buck: aggressive, extroverted and confident? Alex considered herself a plain brown mouse—just the opposite of her brothers. She compressed her full lips. In her twenty-two years of life, nothing had prepared her for this sort of situation. Still, didn’t plain brown mice survive even the largest, most aggressive of cats? She could get out of this situation if she used her common sense.

Alex slowly rose to her feet, swayed unsteadily, then anchored herself until her head cleared. She tucked her left arm against her body, cradling the elbow with the palm of her right hand. Only her mother would have any faith in her ability to survive. Alex loved her quiet, introspective mother fiercely. No matter how overbearing her father became, Susan Vance always seemed able to gently and quietly maneuver around him to get whatever she needed for the family. Alex felt another kind of pain that equaled that in her aching shoulder. What would her mother do when she found out Alex was missing and presumed dead in the Vietnam jungle? Her mother’s health was fragile. Somehow, Alex had to hurry and find the marine base so she wouldn’t worry.

Standing against a tree, Alex took stock of many things, among them the art of camouflage and of walking silently. VC stalked the area on quiet, bare feet. Alex knew she’d have to walk just as quietly. She didn’t dare crash through the brush like a bull elephant, broadcasting her whereabouts. For long minutes, Alex thought about her plan. When she finally took the first step in her white tennis shoes, she tried to imagine herself as a shadow, slipping between the damp, water-beaded leaves of the jungle foliage.

Near the end of the first hour, dizziness halted Alex. She stood hunched over beneath some large banana leaves, pressing her hand tightly against her left arm. Gasping for breath, she tried to soften the sound of the air escaping from her mouth. Once, she spotted a VC, and quietly eased to her knees. She crouched in a huddled position next to the thick, entwined root system of a large rubber tree, and the VC passed without discovering her.

Shakily, she wiped the sweat from her eyes. She looked down at her right hand. It was covered with blood and mud. Walking had caused her wound to bleed a little more.

Just as Alex straightened to resume her journey, a man’s large hand clamped against her mouth. A scream lurched in her throat, and she was jerked backward off her feet and slammed to the jungle floor. Blackness rimmed her vision and she felt him straddle her.

Black dots danced in front of her eyes. He gripped her by the throat. Again, Alex tried to scream. Her eyes grew wide as she saw him raise his hand. A long, savage-looking knife blade hovered inches above her face—aimed directly at her. She threw her hands up to protect herself, then fainted.

What the hell? Corporal Jim McKenzie grunted as he quickly released and got off the woman. As he slid the Ka-bar knife into its leather sheath, his surprise turned to instant concern. He’d heard the American helicopter crash hours earlier. He was a recon marine, accustomed to being behind enemy lines, and against his better judgment, he’d hobbled out of his hiding place on a makeshift crutch to look for survivors. Now he glanced around quickly, his hearing sharpened for any VC in the area. He knew all too well that they owned this piece of real estate, lock, stock and barrel. His left leg was encased in a primitive, makeshift splint, and he bit back a groan of pain as he gripped the woman by the collar of her flight suit and pulled her deep into the nearby banana grove. There it was dark and protected, and they would be sheltered by the long leaves that hung nearly to the jungle floor. No VC eyes would find them here.

McKenzie squinted against the gloom as he assessed the unconscious woman. Who was she? The flight suit she wore had patches identifying a Marine Air Group squadron, but not her rank. She was small and fine-boned, reminding him of the sparrows that lived around his parents’ Missouri cabin. Tansy McKenzie, his mother, fed the little birds hen scratch and just a bit of cracked corn during the winter, and she always had a slew of them waiting around for their next handout.

Jim’s gaze moved to her bloodied shoulder. Wounded. She’s wounded. Stymied as to why she would be in a marine helicopter in the first place, he pulled the flight suit away from her left shoulder. Her yellow blouse was rusty with blood. Was she a spook, maybe—someone from the CIA? Despite her nasty wound, his gaze moved back to her face. The short brown hair lay like a sleek cap across her skull. Her eyebrows were slightly arched, her lashes a thick sable color against her pale skin. Maybe it was her heart-shaped face that gripped him, or maybe it was the memory of the tiny sparrows. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties, her nose small, like the rest of her. Briefly her slack lips captured his attention. The vulnerability of her full mouth sent a spasm of yearning through him, but Jim ignored its tug. Their lives were at stake, and if they were going to get out of this area alive, he had to give his full concentration to survival tactics.

He gave her right shoulder a small shake.

“Hey!” he rasped near her ear, not wanting his voice to carry. “Hey! Wake up, gal!” He shook a little harder.

Alex moaned softly. A voice, a man’s ragged, low voice, thrummed urgently through her dazed senses. She felt his grip tighten on her right shoulder without hurting her. Her lashes fluttered as she forced her eyes open to bare slits. Alex inhaled sharply. Instantly, he clamped his hand across her mouth.

“Don’t scream,” he warned her.

Seconds stopped, hung and froze as Alex’s eyes widened. The man who crouched over her was dressed in dark green utilities. His face was oval, with a strong chin and nose, but it was his piercing dark blue eyes that frightened her the most. His mouth was thinned, the rest of his face carved with sweaty, muddy streaks and lined with tension. He was tall and rawboned, and the utility cap he wore low on his dark brown hair made him seem to blend into the foliage that surrounded them.

Then Alex saw his blue eyes thaw, grow wide with concern and lose their intent, predatory look. She felt his hand loosen slightly from her mouth, and she could smell his sweat.

“Don’t go screamin’ on me, gal,” he murmured. “I’m an American recon marine. You hear?”

His voice had a Southern drawl to it. And as Alex moved in and out of semiconsciousness, relief flowed sharply through her.

“Okay?” Jim rasped, leaning very close to her, his hand still across her mouth. She had the most beautiful mourning-dove gray eyes he’d ever seen. The pupils were huge and black, and he knew she was in deep shock. When she barely nodded, he eased his hand from her mouth. Her lower lip trembled and he saw tears gathering in her heart-stealing eyes.

Jim placed his finger against his lips in a silent request for her not to cry out or sob aloud. It was a tribute to her courage as she fought her initial reaction and lay quietly as he hunkered over her. Jim placed his hand on her left upper arm, where the material was soaked with blood. He looked around, listening carefully. VC were thick in this neck of the woods, and the odds were stacked against him getting safely back to his tunnel.

Struggling not to cry, Alex closed her eyes and tried to breathe through her mouth several times just to allow the relief to register. He was an American marine, she realized thankfully. The man above her appeared confident, and she knew instinctively that she was now safe. Safe. His fingers around her upper arm seemed reassuring as he probed the jungle with his narrowed gaze. Amazed at the sudden change in him, Alex took in the grim line of his mouth, his slitted eyes and the way his harsh features tightened with frightening intensity. Alex understood the necessity of his concentration. For the last two hours, she’d been doing the same thing.

And then, when the American shifted his attention back to her, his eyes became warmer once more and, this time, filled with curiosity. He leaned very close to her ear, and again Alex felt a sense of security in his presence.

“My name’s Jim McKenzie, gal. I’m a recon marine. What’s your name?”

A croak came out. She swallowed. “...Alex...Alex Vance.”

He nodded. “Hell of a way to meet, Alex Vance. Now, I don’t want you to talk anymore. Not yet. We’re in heavy VC country, you understand?”

She nodded once.

“Good,” Jim rasped. As he prepared to go on, he inhaled the subtle fragrance of her perfume, and the scent dizzied him, reminding him of a gentler, saner time in his life. He fought to ignore the sensations the fragrance evoked. “I’m gonna truss up that shoulder of yours so we can get outta this place in one piece,” he told her. “Whatever happens, don’t yell, don’t scream. Understand?”

Again, Alex nodded.

She saw him smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes—it was just a faint twist of his lips. As he rose from his crouched position, Alex saw pain reflected in his face and eyes. And then, as he straightened up, Alex realized in shock that his left leg, from the ankle to his knee, was in a makeshift splint. Four roughly carved sticks of wood encased his lower leg, wrapped tightly into place with vine. What was a recon? What was he doing out here alone? Alex stopped herself from asking. She saw him dig into an olive green pouch he carried on a webbed cartridge belt around his waist. He drew out a dressing, and as quietly as possible, stripped the brown waxen paper from around it.

Jim returned his attention to Alex, who lay watching him with huge gray eyes. He had to give her credit—she had common sense. She was doing exactly as he asked. Her eyes grew cloudy with pain as he gently pulled the flight suit aside and moved the fabric of her bloody blouse to expose the wound. Leaning down, he whispered against her ear, “Now, this is gonna hurt like hell. I gotta place this compress against your wound and make a sling for your arm.” He reached across her, sought and found a small twig. “Here,” he said, “put this between your teeth. Whatever you do, Alex, don’t scream, or the VC will find us.”

A fine tremble worked through Alex as she clenched the stick between her teeth. She saw the apology in his lean, hard face. Shutting her eyes tightly, Alex tried to prepare herself for the dressing to be placed over her wound.

It was impossible. As gentle as Jim tried to be, pain reared up through her, and Alex grunted. She bit down hard on the wood, the taste of it almost spicy in her mouth. Saliva dripped from the corners of her mouth. Her back arched and her heels pushed into the soft soil, her nostrils flared wide. Agony sliced through her shoulder like scalpels. Fighting back a scream that begged to be released, Alex dug the fingers of her right hand deeply into the damp leaves and soil. All her focus was on the wood between her teeth.

“Good, good,” Jim praised raggedly. He saw sweat pop out across her furrowed brow, and saw her nostrils dilate. “I’m done. Relax....” Gently removing the piece of wood from between her teeth, he smiled as she barely opened her eyes. “The worst’s over, gal. Just hang loose and I’ll get you trussed up like a Christmas goose to give that arm of yours some support.”

The pain was nearly unbearable, but through the nightmare minutes that followed, Alex was struck by how humane the marine was with her. He was tall and rangy, and as her vision cleared, Alex got a better look at him. A couple of weeks’ growth of beard shadowed his craggy features. His fingers were long and large-knuckled, and despite their size he was incredibly gentle while he made a sling of vines for her arm. But there was a coiled tension about him, as if he could explode in any direction. His alertness reminded her of a jungle cat’s, and he seemed attuned to the most minor change of sound and activity around them. Occasionally he would freeze, listen, then continue to work on her arm. They exchanged no more words—only looks—but he could communicate powerfully with those cobalt eyes. Alex was amazed, as if some unexplained telepathy existed between them. She saw his eyes change to a light blue color as he knotted off the last of the vine behind her neck.

He helped her sit up. Dizziness assailed her, and she started to fall sideways. If not for the quick intervention of his arm around her shoulders, Alex would have fallen. Everything was happening so quickly, so efficiently. She wanted to ask him so many questions. Why was his leg in that primitive cast? Nothing was making sense except that he seemed to know exactly how to help her. The sling had eased the pain in her shoulder a great deal. Alex slumped wearily against the marine, her face pressed into the folds of his damp green shirt.

Giving her a quick squeeze of reassurance, Jim eased Alex upright. The look in her dazed gray eyes told him she wasn’t doing well at all. Her face was waxen and perspiring, indicating she’d suffered heavy loss of blood from her wound.