Tamia: Underground: Mole, #1

By Esther Mitchell

Marine Captain Tamia Kuan is no stranger to war. Raised in war-torn Tibet, and then turned loose with the street gangs of Old San Francisco, Tamia is living proof that no matter the crisis, the strong will survive. On the streets, she learned to bury her heart to survive, and, by the end of the world war known as the Divide, that survival depended on no longer having a heart at all. But one man's belief in her will turn the tables on Tamia, and force her to free her heart. For, in the midst of one of the deadliest counterespionage missions of her life, the one thing that saves Tamia could be love.

**TRIGGER WARNING!! THIS BOOK CONTAINS SCENES DEPICTING/DISCUSSING DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, SEXUAL ASSAULT, AND CHILD LOSS. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.***

• Language: English
• Publisher: Esther Mitchell
• Release date: Mar 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781955301152

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Underground: Mole

Book One

Tamia

By

Esther Mitchell

This work is copyrighted as of 1992 by Esther Mitchell

Underground: Mole

Book One: Tamia

COMING SOON

Book Two: Mind Killer

Other Books by ESTHER MITCHELL

LEGENDS OF TIRUM

Book One: Daughter of Ashes

Book Two: Phoenix Rising

Book Three: Spirit Mage

Book Four: Mistress of Cats

COMING SOON

Book Five: Sister of Dragons

PROJECT PROMETHEUS

Book One: In Her Name

Book Two: Hope of Heaven

Book Three: Shadow Walker

Book Four: Blood Debt

Book Five: Between Worlds

COMING SOON

Book Six: Crimson Rose

GUARDIANS, INC: WITCH HOLLOW

Book One: Sight Unseen

Book Two: Up In Flames

COMING SOON

Book Three: Nick of Time

GUARDIANS, INC: WYCHWARD

Book One: Tempting Fate

COMING SOON

Book Two: Pyramora

HANOVER INVESTIGATIONS

Book One: Burden of Proof

COMING SOON

Book Two: Silent Night

FyrRose Productions

637 S. Cynthia Avenue

Tucson AZ 85710

http://www.esthermitchell.com

Copyright © 1992 by ESTHER MITCHELL

EBOOK ISBN: 9781955301152

PRINT ISBN: 9781955301169

Published in the United States of America

Original Publication Date: January 5, 2004

Edition: 3rd

Editor: Gail Delaney

Cover Artist: FyrRose Productions

Cover Art Copyright by FyrRose Productions © 2018

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the publisher.

Ebooks are not transferrable, either in whole or in part. As the purchaser or otherwise lawful recipient of this ebook, you have the right to enjoy the novel on your own computer or other device. Further distribution, copying, sharing, gifting or uploading is illegal and violates United States Copyright laws.

Pirating of ebooks is illegal. Criminal Copyright Infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, may be investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of up to $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious situation. Any resemblances to actual events, locations, organizations, incidents or persons – living or dead – are coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

Dedication and Acknowledgment

To my best friend, soulmate, and love of my life, for being my sounding board, my inspiration for the character of Richard Carinson, and my biggest fan. You showed me what love is truly about, and for that, I will always love you. I miss you every day.

To my boys, who provided technical and mechanical expertise where mine was lacking and fielding my constant questions. I can never thank you enough. Stay safe out there.

To my friends, Philip and Tina Huang, who answered my questions about China, Tibet, and Buddhism. Thank you for all your help.

JUST ONE MORE TIME

It's been a long time,

Since I felt this pain,

It's been a long time,

Since I held onto a dream;

I've been living on the run,

And hiding from the sun,

Alone in this dark night of mine,

Until I have to reach out, and hold on,

Just one more time;

I've watched my dreams fade,

And my life dies every day,

I'm a captive to my pain,

And all alone with my fears;

I've locked away the sun,

And told the moon that I'm done,

As Hell closes over me,

And my heart screams to hold you,

Just one more time;

But comes a quiet voice,

Within my haunted heart,

To remind me that, in love this true,

Forever is just one more time.

TRIGGER WARNING FROM AUTHOR

THIS NOVEL CONTAINS SCENES OF GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, AND GRAPHIC REFERENCE TO

SEXUAL ASSAULT AND DOMESTIC VIOLENCE.

READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

If you are a survivor of sexual assault or domestic violence, references and events in this work may be triggering for you. It is not my intention to cause anyone distress or to trigger anyone's traumatic memories, so please do not read if you feel descriptions/references of these events may trigger you.

Chapter One

103 MAFT Division, Pelham Marine Barracks, Bronx, New York

23 January 2118 -- 1650 Hours

Damn it. Not again. Marine Captain Tamia Kuan shoved one hand through her dark hair, the ponytail she pulled it back in hours ago long since destroyed by sliding around under a malfunctioning Armored Flight Tank, and muttered a few choice epithets under her breath as she studied her Tank's repair requirements, currently scrolling across the diagnostic terminal's screen.

Damn thing isn't worth the money it costs to keep it flying.

She glared at the two-thousand-pounds of mechanized, weaponized body armor/aircraft as she sat back in the diagnostic bay's chair, her fingers lifting to toy with the silver rose pendant around her neck -- her only jewelry besides her dog tags. Restless energy spiraled through her, and her fingers dropped to the touch screen, flying over it as she cursed out the piece of trash under her breath. Of the five hundred and thirty-six Mobile Armored Flight Tanks in the unit, she swore hers was the only cursed one. So much for all that 'rank hath its privileges' bullshit. She was the fucking Flight Commander, and she was riding around in a death trap.

Problems, Captain? An amused male voice behind her startled Tamia out of her slouch. She jerked upright and her shoulders straightened on instinct, even as her hands lifted to fix her hair, transferring God only knew what engine fluids into the disarrayed strands.

No, sir. Just three-ten again. It's a piece of-- She caught herself, and cleared her throat before continuing in a more respectful tone, This Tank's a waste of time and money to repair. Sir.

She glanced over her shoulder at her commanding officer when she sensed he hadn't moved on. It wasn't like he was into personal acknowledgements. She counted Colonel Rodney Bennet in her small number of close friends. He was a squared-away soldier, and even if he wasn't gay, he wouldn't be on her radar. Her damn dating radar was busted anyway. She only chose men who were either physically or emotionally unavailable -- David was proof of how fucked up her taste in men was.

Tamia shook her head, dislodging the painful memories. Can I help you with something, sir?

The War Department's issuing recruitment rosters again. Orderly says it's for the Flight leaders. Give it a look over. I'd like your recommendations by end of the week.

Will do. She sighed as she dropped the infochip he handed her onto the station beside her and returned her attention to the diagnostic terminal. Just what she needed -- more headaches. She had enough problems, if the crack in her Tank's fuel cell pump was any indication.

Fuck, she muttered under her breath after Bennet left, shooting her Tank a dark glower, her fingers again moving instinctively to toy with the small silver rose on the chain around her neck as she calculated how long she'd be stuck fixing a machine she didn't even like.

Yo, Cap! What're you still doing here?

Tamia glanced at her digital wrist monitor as the familiar voice echoed off the concrete hanger floor and metal undercarriage of her Tank, to discover four hours had passed. Muttering a sharp expletive, she slid out from underneath the machine and squinted up at the dark man standing at her feet.

"Christ, Gibbons! Why didn't someone tell me it was so late?"

Lieutenant John Gibbons grinned, displaying the gap in his front teeth, from a Tank accident two years ago before he'd been transferred to the 103rd. You looked like you were havin' too much fun to stop, Cap.

Tamia snorted in response as she rose to her feet and shut down the diagnostic terminal's power grid. She hated mechanical work, and her guys knew it -- which was why the shitheads found it hilarious to leave her stranded under her broken-down Tank whenever it needed repairs. As she watched the green glow of the diagnostic grid fade from her Tank, she chuckled wearily and rubbed her face, then grimaced when she realized she just rubbed gear grease into her face.

What the hell am I doing here, John? I never put in for Tanker duty. She couldn't help the bitterness of the familiar complaint as she wiped her hands on a grease rag, then used the rag to clean the pendant around her neck she'd smeared with dark grease, handling it earlier. It wasn't that she hated being a Tanker, exactly. I'm a ground-pounder, not a fucking mechanic. I'm supposed to be slogging around in muck up to my tits, not scooting around under a piece of machinery on my ass.

Gibbons laughed, leaning his 5'10 frame against the prone Tank, putting them at essentially the same height. Tamia's no-holds-barred definition of life never ceased to amuse her men, most of who came from middle-class backgrounds. Bureaucrats, probably. You volunteer for that Trooper shit?"

Nope. I got snatched up in the draft. The words slipped from between her lips as the memory of her first look at a battlefield, only seven weeks after her number came up, flashed through her mind. As it turned out, war wasn't really much different from the streets of Old 'Frisco, except she wasn't drugged out of her mind anymore. She'd been stone cold sober -- and piss-your-pants-and-run-like-hell terrified.

Tamia swallowed hard at the memory. The military would never have taken a fucked up street punk like me if it hadn't been for the Divide.

Gibbons grimaced. Nasty business. I was glad to miss most of it. Got in on the tail end two months before the Atlantic Treaty. How much action did you see?

Tamia closed her eyes, trying to block out the gruesome images his query roused. Only someone raised in the sheltered life of untouched suburbia could refer to the Divide as nasty business with a straight face. She'd spent a long time now trying to block out the years of horror no human being should have to endure.

I got drafted in September of 'oh-nine, just three months into the war, she answered quietly, her gaze fixed on the grease-smeared rag in her hands. Seven years of her life swallowed up in Hell. A place deep inside of her died a little more every day she lived that nightmare. She shuddered. "I thought it was a way out of Hell, and off the streets that were slowly killing me. I was never so wrong in my life. It wasn't a way out; it was simply a trade, one hell for another. I spent three weeks drying out from the drugs, and four weeks learning how to stay alive. Ten minutes after our first drop into battle, I would have sold my soul to be high again."

Can't say I'd have blamed you, Cap. Gibbons shook his head. "From what little I saw of the Divide, Hell wouldn't even begin to describe what it must have been like in the beginning."

Tamia smiled wearily, still lost in her memories. David and I thought we were invincible. We'd survived gang life, with its low life expectancy. We were so sure we'd survive the Divide, too.

And you did.

But David didn't. Tamia could close her eyes and still see David's dark, angry eyes, his scowling face. David Farenes had been her boyfriend for years before the Divide, whether she liked to admit to the relationship or not. She owed him tears when he died, but hate had long since killed any tenderness she might have felt, by then, and she had no tears to spare him. He was killed in the Easter Raids on Rio Bantos in 2110. Took a Kriomite bullet in the head.

Gibbons whistled. Those make a nasty mess. But... I thought they were illegal.

She shook her head. Not back then. They only banned the manufacture of Kriomite weapons near the end of the war, when it looked like the damned things might end up on the streets.

I'm sorry. Must've been tough, boss.

Had it? Strange. She remembered most of it in cold, objective facts now. Was she so numb to war and death? She shrugged and pushed the disconcerting thought away.

I've never been a stranger to war. I was born a couple of months before the Reaver War began. In Tibet, that was practically a death sentence all on its own. Everything I can remember about my life is a bloodbath. She scowled. If it hadn't been for my grandfather, I'd probably be a brainwashed slave in some Chinese sex camp.

Gibbons looked distinctly uncomfortable, before he frowned and changed the subject again. So, if you were drafted, and never put in for Tanker duty, how'd you end up here?

She snorted a laugh. Beats the hell out of me, John. But, I'll trade all this back in an instant to get back on the ground.

God, she missed ground combat, where all it took to survive was her own wits and strength. She didn't need to memorize a flight manual or rely on finicky machinery to function in ground combat.

Tamia sighed. At least she wasn't involved in too many skirmishes anymore. The Divide ended two and a half years ago, with the signing of the Atlantic Treaty at Ascension Island. The Commonwealth of Euro-American Developed States -- or CEADS -- remained fairly strong after the war was over, but the Council of Separate Economic Countries -- COSEC -- splintered into little, warring factions. The more advanced CEADS nations pulled the strings in many of those factions. There were still hostile conflicts between former CEADS and COSEC nations, though, prompting the Neutral States -- nations who stayed completely out of the Divide -- to establish the Equatorial Patrol, a year ago. The Patrol was one hundred percent funded and staffed by Neutral State nations like Switzerland and Japan.

The Patrol kept an uneasy peace between former enemies, but Tamia didn't count on it lasting. There was too much bitter blood, on both sides. Hell, she herself watched too many friends die during the Divide, including David.

Tamia winced. She and David were lovers, if you could call what they had love. She never did. They were as opposite as two people could get, with nothing but their years together in Old 'Frisco in common, but that was enough, in war, even if David had a way of attracting enemies rather than friends.

She winced again in guilt. She hadn't thought of David in a long time; didn't think of him much at all after he died. He'd been easy to forget, even if everything he'd done to her was hard to get past.

Everything changed for her, the day David died at Rio Bantos. She barely even recalled his death, most days, and when she did remember it was with the dispassion of an objective observer, and some small relief. However, the battle and its aftermath... oh, yeah, those memories were indelibly burned into her brain.

Pinned down inside a communications outpost for nearly two weeks, their squad survived a COSEC mortar unit on the way in, but it kept them jittery from shelling and a sniper team in the Columbian jungle around them made escape impossible. They'd already lost half the squad to those damned snipers. It was a goat fuck, clear through. They weren't even supposed to be there; but some brainiac at the War Department decided to send Troopers in to do Military Intelligence work in one of the border's hottest spots.

Nobody bothered to tell them it was a suicide mission.

Their squad leader decided to make a backdoor break from the outpost when their supplies began to run dangerously low their second week in. However, the break would take them deeper into hostile territory, and their morale was already teetering on the edge of Hell. David -- never one for following orders even when it didn't require risking his neck -- argued with Captain Bryant just before a sniper's Kriomite bullet tore through his skull and painted what little brains he had all over the supposedly bulletproof shield wall.

Tamia lay there in the trench; her eyes squeezed shut against looking at the gaping hole where the top of David's head used to be, and faced the knowledge she was going to die, either way. She'd just been getting ready to stand on her badly-wounded leg and at least go down fighting, when she heard the unmistakable roar of thermal missiles striking the jungle nearby, and then the glorious sound of silence from the mortar sites. When she opened her eyes next, she found herself staring into the grease-painted face of the man David would never be.

He was a Navy SEAL, and the worry in his cobalt-blue eyes gripped her heart. Problem was, it never let go. Over the eight years since, she tried telling herself what she felt was just gratitude -- and maybe a little hero-worship -- but the connection forged between them that day proved impossible to shake. All her stern self-lectures didn't dim her growing obsession with him. Throughout the Divide, she sought out every function he attended, just for the chance to watch him. She even conned a friend in Military Intelligence into slipping her copies of his service record and Internal Affairs profile. She read every word so many times she could recite his personal history blindfolded. She guarded every word like a top-secret mission. They, and the necklace she refused to remove for anyone, were her most prized possessions.

Not that she ever got any closer to him than those files. She watched Richard Carinson from a distance, as fascination slowly deepened with every detail she learned about the man behind the military machine.

Sadness and pride mingled in her chest, her fingers lifting to absently touch her necklace again. The pendant he gave her, eight years ago...

They were just climbing aboard the SEALs' armored extraction transport. Her heart hammered in her chest. She told herself it was leftover adrenaline, and not the cobalt eyes of the SEAL at her side, his arm protectively supporting her as she tried to walk on her fucked-up leg. He hadn't left her side or let go of her since his hand closed over hers when he first helped her up after securing the tourniquet.

Once in the transport, he settled her into a seat, and the reluctance in those cobalt eyes said he didn't want to let her go yet. As he straightened, his hand slid over hers, and she felt something small, thin, and metallic press into her palm. Looking down in surprise, she found a small silver rose charm -- laser-cut and about half the length of her pinkie -- in her hand. 

Her gaze flew up to the serious expression and intense blue eyes of her rescuer. Before she could ask, he murmured, It's a promise. I'll always see the rose, no matter how many thorns you hide her under.

With a reluctant flicker of a smile, he started to step away. Her heart twisted hard, surprising her, even as her hand latched onto his wrist.

"Wait. Who are you?"

He shot her a small smile -- really more of a flicker of his lips. "My callsign's Ace. But I'm rather you call me Rick."

Whether by Ace or Rick, he made a name for himself in the war. By the time the Divide reached its height in 2113, the Navy had decorated Commander Richard Benjamin Carinson beyond his class of service, even if he refused to let them promote him beyond Commander, which would have taken him out of the field. He retired from active duty in October of 2113, to form a pseudo-military organization of his own. With their own unique chain of command, the Commandos were a very elite and covert organization, and definitely outside regular military channels.

Sure, everyone knew the Commandos existed, and there wasn't a man or woman in the military who didn't have dreams of joining their ranks -- even if scuttlebutt had it most of the Commandos didn't have military records. However, beyond their existence and Carinson's involvement, there was no public information on the Commandos. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure that, whatever else it held for them, public glory was not one of the benefits.

Anonymity suited Tamia just fine. She had little interest in fame -- she saw the cost of it as a child. She just wanted to get her boots back on the ground. If anyone could offer her that, the Commandos could.

Knowing the Commandos got her closer to him didn't hurt, either.

She looked up to find Gibbons watching her with a troubled frown.

You okay, Cap? You sorta spaced out there for a second.

Okay? No, but she'd survive. A tired smile inched across her face as she released the pendant. Yeah, I'm okay. Guess six hours staring at a leaky hydro pump fried my brain.

That'd do it. He laughed, pushed away from the Tank, and strode toward the bay door, calling over his shoulder, See you tomorrow, boss!

Tamia tossed him a wave, a grin edging across her face. That man had an inexhaustible supply of energy -- like a Border Collie on Pixi Dust. She shook her head as she spun her chair around and reached for the infochip Bennet gave her. Might as well find out what the War Department bureaucrats wanted now. She swore beneath her breath at them all and slipped the 'chip into the port on her datareader. As she scanned the first line of text, however, she sucked in a sharp breath, and felt the world tip.

Attention: Command Com.

Enclosed is request from Commander Carinson for marksman candidate. Contains list of possible candidates and service records. One volunteer with above-average interest requested. Distribute to commanding officers of listed units.

Tamia's heart leapt into her throat, her hand going back to her pendant as her gaze sped over the list, searching the headings on the screens of digital text. Beta Command. Air Flight Delay Sector. Quatron Trooper Squadron. Ah, there it was. 103rd MAFT Division. With a deep breath, she scanned the short list of names. One name leapt out at her, causing her to release her breath in a small cry. Kuan, Tamia (Capt).

Tamia was out of her seat in a flash and racing toward the colonel's office. She skidded to a halt a step away from her bay, doubled back, and snatched the 'chip from the datareader before bolting for Bennet's door.

Sir! She just barely remembered decorum as she burst into the room. She was a Trooper, damn it, and she wanted this, bad. Bennet would understand. Sir, I need to speak with you.

The Marine colonel glanced up from his terminal in surprise, before his expression cleared, and he acknowledged her with a tilt of his head.

Captain. Come in and have a seat. He gestured to the seat across from him and waited patiently for her to comply. What's on your mind?

This list, sir. She held up the infochip, but was loath to let go of it. She was too afraid the offer would evaporate if she let go. Colonel Bennet, I'd like to volunteer for the transfer.

What transfer? His brows knit as he held out his hand for the 'chip. Reluctantly, she handed it over. What are you...?

She watched his eyes widen as he loaded it up and scanned the contents. Her fingers lifted to her pendant again, and she barely resisted the urge to close her eyes and mutter a prayer -- to whom, she had no clue -- as she watched his expression shift from curiosity to concern. He couldn't deny her this. She wasn't a Tanker. She needed back in the field, relying on her own instincts, rather than the logic board of a piece of machinery, to survive. If she stayed here, she was as good as dead. Still, she faced forward, careful to keep her expression neutral. Better to not appear too eager.

When he looked up at her again, Bennet's gaze was troubled. Are you sure?

Sir. She rose smartly to her feet and stood at attention. She would show him she was ready for this. She wasn't the hotheaded Tanker he thought. With all due respect, I'm a Trooper, not a grease monkey. This is my chance to get back where I belong.

He sighed as he unplugged the 'chip from his terminal and gestured her back to her seat. She sat stiffly, too afraid he was going to deny her to relax.

Captain Kuan, I realize how much you want back out in the field with ground combat, and not just as your commanding officer. As your friend, I worry about you. You're too close to some personal edge here. Hell, Tamia, I wish I could give you the commission of a Troop commander -- you more than deserve it. And yes, your credentials are impressive, to say the least, and your service record is impeccable.

Her heart sank. This speech had a big but written all over it. She couldn't stand the suspense. But?

A weary smile edged his face. But I have a duty to my Division to keep the best person possible in the command chair of your Flight. Whether you like it or not, you're one hell of a Flight Leader, and I need you here. He shook his head as he sat back and regarded her steadily. I'm sorry, but I can't submit you just because your feet itch.

Sir, she addressed him formally, her gaze fixed straight ahead and cool, even as her gut churned anxiously. Damn it, she needed this. Give me a chance, at least. My real skills are being wasted here. Besides, three-ten's trashed. If I fly it again, I'll come back in a body bag. Please, sir, I have to know that I tried.

It was the closest she'd ever come to begging, and they both knew it. A tired smile of understanding inched across his face. I can see how important this is to you, Tamia. All right, put in for the transfer. But, his smile disappeared, if you're not selected, I expect you to file for another Tank, and be back out there, leading my Flight.

Yes, sir! Thank you, sir! She leapt to her feet and gave him a smart salute. Adrenaline pumped through her; she could take on the world, right now. Deep inside, she knew she'd never see the cockpit of a Flight Tank again.

As she left Bennet's office, a grin broke across her face, and she barely held in the excitement bouncing through her. She covered the distance between Bennet's office and her own bay in almost no time. There, she gave her Tank an once-over, then, for the hell of it, flicked off the monstrosity. Juvenile, sure, but the rebellious part of her forced to grow up too fast needed the satisfaction of getting even with the ugly death traps. The squat-bodied Tanks reminded her of a repulsive metal gnome from some seriously warped fairy tale anyway. She didn't know who was responsible for their original conception, but their designer was one sick puppy.

A grin broke across her face at the hope she might never have to look at one again. If her luck held, by tomorrow she'd be a Commando.

Yo! Cap! Heard you're looking to trade your Tank for boots. A deep baritone voice boomed off the metal walls of the hanger. Bad deal, if you ask me.

A wry grin spread across Tamia's face. News travels faster around here than these lugs, doesn't it?

She swung around then, to look up at the man. Lieutenant Scott Leysenhuk was not a small man, by anyone's standards. Standing 6'8" and weighing upwards of three hundred pounds, he was nearly as massive as a Tank himself. The sheer muscle mass of the man made him imposing -- the kind of man you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. But Tamia knew her Second-in-Command, and he was an absolute pussycat once you took him out of his Tank.

On the battlefield, Scott was a terror. Out there, he was a born Tanker who, in Tamia's opinion, should have been the Flight Leader instead of her. He knew Mobile Armored Flight Tanks better than anyone she knew -- not just how to operate one, but how every nut, bolt, and pump in them worked. She'd watched him practically take one apart and put it back together, all on his own. As far as she was concerned, that was the kind of Flight Leader the 103rd needed.

However, if Scott had one flaw, it was that he was too nice. Once he was out of the cockpit, the man was too easygoing for his own good. His diplomatic nature was the reason he let the brass keep passing him over for promotion, in spite of her recommendations. He kept losing the commander's seat -- and the accompanying promotion -- because the brass thought he wasn't aggressive enough, and he didn't fight them hard enough for the chance.

Hell, the brass never saw the man in action. If they had, they'd be singing a different tune. Scott was the reason the 103rd had such low casualty rates, not her.

Now, he clutched his chest in mock agony and quipped, Say it isn't so!

"Hell, yeah, it's so! I practically had to beg Bennet to put my name up for consideration. I want my feet back on the ground, where they belong. If all goes right, this'll be your problem by tomorrow evening." She jerked her thumb at the Tank,