Sign, Seal, Deliver. Rogenna Brewer

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      “One o’clock. There’s a MiG-28

       headed straight for us.”

      The news didn’t worry Zach. Since the Gulf War, Iraqi and American fighters did everything they could to avoid confrontation.

      “He’s not supposed to be in the no-fly zone. Let’s chase him home,” he ordered, putting his jet into a quick U-turn that would bring him in low on the bogey.

      “Copy. Got you covered, Tomcat Leader.” Michelle then followed his lead.

      The MiG pilot had enough maneuvers to keep them on the edge of their seats as they raced through the skies at speeds that exceeded the sound barrier. Something wasn’t right. Zach felt it in his gut.

      If this was all for laughs, the MiG pilot would have bugged out by now. This guy was playing cat and mouse as if he wanted to get caught. Which could mean only one thing—he was the cheese. So they’d better keep their eyes open….

      “Two more bogeys closing in, Zach.”

      The dogfighting was fast and furious after that, with three MiGs and two Tomcats vying for supremacy.

      “He’s got a lock.” Michelle put her Tomcat into a barrel roll, launching chaff to confuse any heat-seeking missiles. “I can’t shake him.”

      Then it happened. The MiG fired, scoring a direct hit. The tail of Michelle’s Tomcat burst into flames. Her plane spiraled toward the ground.

      Sign, SEAL, Deliver

      Rogenna Brewer

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Dear Reader,

      My father was an Air Force veteran, and after he left the service he obtained a private pilot’s license. He and my mother honeymooned in Niagara Falls and he caught a 7.25-pound walleye there. The fish was mounted and stuffed and in my possession until it simply disintegrated years later. That’s pretty much all I know about my father, because he died in an auto accident at the age of twenty-six—six months before I was born.

      My mother’s parents were very much a part of my life as I was growing up. And most of the stories I know about my father were told to me by my grandma. One such tale was how she’d run outside the house on Bank Street in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, waving a dishcloth, every time she heard a plane overhead—just in case it was my dad. Grandma once told me her only regret was that she’d never flown with my father.

      Grandma died of cancer when I was a young mother with two sons, and I mourned her daily. About a year after she died, during a rare afternoon nap, I found myself in a state of twilight sleep with tears spilling from my eyes. I heard Grandma’s voice as clearly as if she were in the room. “Don’t cry, Genna, I’m flying with your dad now.”

      My tears dried that day because I had not one but two guardian angels. I have a lot of fond memories of my grandma. I have only memorabilia from my dad: the flag that draped his coffin, his name—given to me by my mother when I was born—the ring he gave my mother on their wedding day, and his pilot’s wings, which inspired me when I started to write this book.

      Though I never knew him, I have felt my father’s absence every day. I hope you enjoy the story I wrote for him and my grandmother.

      Sincerely,

      Rogenna Brewer

      P.S. I’d love to hear from you. Write to me at [email protected]

      For the people missing from my life:

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER ONE

      0445 Tuesday

       USS ENTERPRISE CVN65,

       Persian Gulf

      IN THIS PART of the ship a man alone risked a brush with nature, but Lieutenant Zach Prince didn’t mind the tight squeeze through a passageway full of female personnel. Or the swat one junior officer delivered to his behind.

      “Hey, hotshot, what’s your hurry?”

      Zach cocked a grin and carried on. “You ladies have been at sea too long.” One hundred and sixteen days too long to be exact. Whatever the reason, at twenty-nine he rather liked the celebrity that came with being a Top Gun, the top one percent of naval aviators.

      Tart language and feminine laughter followed his progress past cramped quarters shared by six female ensigns, a “six chick” in ship slang. The term smacked of sexism, but wasn’t crude, compared to the idiom used for six male ensigns.

      Zach sidestepped another whack. After all, he didn’t want the produce bruised before it left the market. Patting the upper left pocket of his flight suit, the one closest to his heart, he started to whistle. And if it sounded a little like “Here comes the bride,” well, that was probably because he was a man with a mission.

      It had taken him the entire cruise, four months of having his advances shot down by a certain admiral’s daughter, to finally figure it out. Women didn’t want words that amounted to empty promises. Or even romance. They wanted commitment.

      So even though he could feel a trickle of sweat running down the back of his neck toward the yellow streak that served as his spine, he was going to take the plunge and ask Michelle to marry him.

      Reaching her stateroom, Zach delivered a preemptive knock and at the same time swung the hatch inward on its hinges. Stepping over the lip, he caught Michelle’s roommate, Skeeter, in the middle of tugging on a T-shirt.

      “Sorry,” he said in apology.

      “Don’t you ever knock?”

      “I knocked.” He turned up the wattage on his smile, showing off even white teeth that had never needed braces. He’d learned to use that smile to his advantage at a very early age and managed to coax one out of her, as well, albeit a skeptical smirk.

      “After the fact doesn’t count, Prince.”

      Shrugging into her flight suit, she did a quick zip-up. The leather wings stitched to her uniform identified her as S. Daniels. He’d be damned if he could remember what the “S” really stood for; everyone just called her Skeeter. The navigator was Michelle’s RIO, radar-intercept officer.

      “Where’s Her Royal Highness?”

      Skeeter nodded toward the adjoining bathroom, and he rewarded the petite brunette with a quick kiss. She let out an exaggerated huff of annoyance.

      “You know you love me, Skeeter.”

      “Keep dreaming, jet jock.” She slammed her wardrobe shut and headed for the hatch, where she paused for effect. “If you get caught, it’s not just your ass in a sling. It’s hers, too.”

      After the RIO left, Zach stared long and hard at the closed portal. Deep down he knew Skeeter spoke the truth. But he chose to dismiss the warning. As far as he was concerned, his objective outweighed the risk. Rules were made to be broken. Or at the very least bent.

      Besides which, Skeeter tended to be a bit over-protective when it came to her driver. Although the last person who needed someone looking out for her was Lieutenant Michelle Dann.

      He heard the shower running even before