Fleet Hospital. Anne Duquette Marie

any real people. But her aliens, ghosts, vampires, zombies and other weird creatures in the midst of suburbia were pure fiction and so, fair game. Those stories hurt no one—except Lori Sepanik and her professional reputation, even if they did pay the bills.

      Hence her pen name, Jo Marche, with the intentionally added “e.” She was an avid reader who’d used books to escape from a poverty-ridden childhood, and Jo March of Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women became Lori’s favorite heroine. The fictional Miss March had escaped the world of lurid fiction to become a famous writer. Even as a child, Lori had pretended she was Josephine March, the famous writer. In her version, Jo married the handsome Laurence, even though the pretty younger sister ended up with him in the book, and she vowed to follow Jo March’s example. Sadly, young Lori’s plans for herself hadn’t panned out, and rather than sully the innocent name of the fictional Miss March with trashy tabloid fiction, the adult Lori had added an “e” to her pseudonym, vowing to drop it when she finally became legitimate—as in publishing an AP or UP story. The name change might be slight, but it made her feel…less guilty.

      She’d left her old neighborhood in St. Louis four years ago and moved to Las Vegas, hoping to cover the entertainment news. But not once had she ever been in the right place at the right time with the right “connections” to get to the really big stars. With some college education, a little money and a couple of “you’re almost there” rejection letters to spur her on, she’d moved south from Las Vegas to Southern California. Writing about California’s “four seasons”—earthquakes, droughts, fires and mudslides—helped supplement her income, especially since Hollywood stars tended to be even more guarded than those in Vegas. And San Diego, so close to the border, didn’t make a big deal about people who lived out of their cars in trailer parks, river washes or the interstates’ many “rest areas.” As long as there were no sanitary or trash problems, the police left her—and others living the not-so-glamorous California dream—alone. At least she could shower and keep clean until another sale afforded her enough money to stay at a cheap motel. She hadn’t hit San Diego’s definable rock bottom yet—living on the beaches or in the parks year-round and fishing through trash for redeemable bottles and cans.

      Luckily Jo had talent, determination and, at age thirty-three, enough of her youth plus enough maturity to keep reaching for her star. A Fleet Hospital story might provide her with enough money to go legitimate for a real newspaper and find an apartment where she could live and date like a normal person. Maybe even get married eventually and have a kid or two. She refused to consider herself homeless—just struggling—but a 1968 Chevy Impala back-seat bedroom wasn’t exactly a good place for children.

      Jo had a game plan. No one knew a thing about Fleet Hospitals. No one had written about them, not even the big papers like the Los Angeles Times. Maybe she could get enough material for a features article in Sunday’s nationally syndicated Parade section. With luck, she might be able to get enough info to write a TV sitcom, too. Everyone loved M.A.S.H., the TV show, which was still going strong in reruns.

      So what if the odds were stacked against her? Except for her quick brain, the odds had been lousy since the day she was born. Fleet was better than alien stories; something, anything was needed to feed her creative mind—and her nearly empty bank account.

      She intended to write a piece establishing herself once and for all as a woman going somewhere. A woman with a future in legitimate journalism. Either that, or she’d be stuck composing her next tabloid story: “Shape-shifters locked in guarded Fort Knox vaults. Military denies all knowledge.”

      Right now Jo had everything on the line. Someone had broken into her car and stolen her used but serviceable laptop and the trash bag holding most of her clothes, leaving behind the few dirty clothes she hadn’t washed yet. Another female resident of the trailer park where Jo stayed had almost been raped in the showers; she’d escaped only because her attacker had slipped on the slimy mildew-covered tile. Still, he’d succeeded in getting away before the police arrived.

      Jo now had a limited wardrobe, an empty stomach and a backpack that served as her camera case, suitcase and purse. She discovered that she wasn’t bouncing back from life’s little problems the way she used to. The trailer park was getting too scary, even for a lifelong veteran of trashy neighborhoods, and she didn’t know which felt worse, the lousy mattresses in the lousy motels or the back seat of her Chevy, with its broken springs and torn vinyl upholstery. Being at Camp Pendleton meant a cot, and since she was a reporter—an invited civilian guest—her meals were free.

      None too soon. She’d paid almost all her money to a Los Angeles forger for two fake IDs, both in her pen name: one a bogus driver’s license, the other an Associated Press card that had gotten her permission from the Marine Base General to report on Fleet Hospital. All she had now was a stash of about a hundred bucks to hit the thrift shop for some new clothes—if there was anything left after renting a computer to type out her story and then fax it in.

      But first she had to find that story. She’d better start interviewing as many people as possible—and that meant she could stay in the shade for a while. Anyone who had any sense would join her after mustering.

      “Finally!” she murmured as roll call ended. She scanned the crowd again. She needed to locate the handsome CO, Michael James McLowery, and then that boring-looking chaplain. What was the guy’s name and rank? She checked her notes one more time. Oh, yeah, there it was….

      HERE HE WAS, Daniel Preston, Lieutenant, CHC, USN, a chaplain straight out of OIS—Officer Indoctrination School in Newport, Rhode Island—and about to undergo an exercise that would teach him about dealing with the dead and dying. His years in the Navy Reserves hadn’t acquainted him with a chaplain’s most solemn duties, which was why he’d finally made the jump to full-time sailor. Like most of the population in a wealthy country usually at peace, he’d never seen an adult die. In fact, he’d never seen anyone die…

      Except for a small child. Anna McLowery. That was back when he was Daniel Klemko, Jr., known as “Dennis.” But his father, Daniel Senior, had died in ’Nam, from friendly fire, no less, and his mother had remarried and let his new stepdad adopt him. He became Daniel Preston, minus the Jr.

      The memory of that little girl’s death had stayed with him, made his new name welcome and had later driven him to bars, booze, women’s beds and, finally, to the ministry. He doubted he had any genuine calling as a man of God, but he could certainly identify with other tortured sinners. So here he stood, an honest-to-goodness military chaplain, expected to counsel, pray with—or pray for—moulaged military personnel made up with eerie Hollywood expertise to look like dying patients.

      Soon “the enemy,” the instructors and support staff, would quit mustering them and start the attack. He’d been waiting for it since early morning. Two hundred personnel from all over North America were also waiting.

      “Back to your stations. Disssssss-missed!”

      Everyone except the armed on-duty compound guards at the gate fell out and shuffled back to the two hospital entrances, either Triage and Casualty Receiving or the main hospital entrance to the command center.

      An African-American female with an M-16 slung across her back and a radio attached to her shoulder fell out beside Daniel. She reached up to adjust the security earpiece/radio she wore, swiped at the sweat on her face, then stared at her hand.

      “Damn heat’s melting my mascara—” She broke off at the sight of Daniel’s subdued black lieutenant’s garrison emblem on the left of his uniform collar and the Cross of Christ emblem on the right. “Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to swear, sir.”

      Daniel read her Second Class rank on her collar and her Master-at-Arms rank, rate and name, A. Jackson, by the embroidered badge on her pocket. “I’ve heard worse, MA2.” He reached into his pocket for the ever-present wad of tissues he carried. Prayers and Kleenex, a chaplain’s stock in trade. He gave her a handful and gestured toward another area of mascara on her skin.

      “Sorry, sir,” she said again. He noticed—couldn’t help noticing—Jackson’s flawless feminine features and trim but voluptuous body. Her accent was as thick and heavy as