Читать книгу Destiny's Woman - Lindsay McKenna - Страница 8

“Major Stevenson, I feel like a fox that’s been given access to the henhouse,” Joe Calhoun admitted, excitement in his deep Southern drawl as he sat in front of her desk. Joe had arrived promptly at 0930, unsure why the commanding officer wanted to see him. Now he knew: he was being offered a plum assignment to Black Jaguar Base Alpha. As executive officer, no less! For a U.S. Army chief warrant officer like him, this was an unheard of gift.

Warrant officers were in that gray area of army ranks—they were no longer enlisted, but weren’t full-fledged officers, either. They played an important role in the army, but were outcasts of a sort, accepted neither above nor below them. No one really appreciated what they did militarily, and yet without them, the army helicopter program would die.

Maya smiled. “You Texas boys have a language all your own, Chief Calhoun. But I’m glad you’re willing to give this black ops a whirl.”

He had a tough time sitting still in the dark green metal chair. “Yes, ma’am, I sure am.” Joe felt like he was in a dream. As a half-breed Comanche who’d grown up in Texas, he’d long been an outcast. Joe had had a hardscrabble life as a child, and been the victim of jeers and taunts throughout twelve years of school, where prejudice followed him mercilessly. He felt the army was giving him a chance to prove he was better than the names he’d been called, and he worked longer and harder than anyone else, trying to prove his self-worth.

All his life he’d been told he was worthless, except by his family, who loved him. That love had given him hope to cling to when things got bad at school. Joe worked hard at never making a mistake, because to make one, in his books, was the worst thing he could imagine. It would prove he was a “dumb redskin” who was too stupid to learn. He never told anyone of his heritage—ever. Now, as he sat there hearing words he’d never thought possible, it seemed as if all his hard work was going to pay off—he was going to be X.O. of a base! That was mind-blowing to Joe. He could barely sit still because of the happiness exploding through him. Finally, someone was going to give him a chance to prove himself!

“Now…can you tell me a little of how the night ops training went between you and Chief Redtail?”

Furrowing his brows, Joe avoided the C.O.’s penetrating gaze. Clearing his throat, he opened his large, square hands. “Ma’am, she caught on the quickest of all the pilots when we trained her on the night scope we wear on our helmet to see in the dark.”

Smiling to herself, Maya continued to hold his candid gaze. Just as she’d thought, Joe Calhoun—who had seemed from the start to be a throwback to a kinder, gentler time when women were put on pedestals and treated like ladies—was showing his warm, amicable nature. Maya had seen Calhoun’s carefully written reports on the women pilots he’d trained. Oh, he’d been specific about weaknesses and strengths in night ops activities, but nary a word had been said about possible personal problems between himself and Akiva Redtail.

“Joe,” Maya said, her voice ringing with authority, “it’s very important for me to get the gist of the chemistry between you and Chief Redtail. After all, she’s going to be your C.O. at this new base. I have more than a passing interest in how you two might get along.” Maya’s mouth twisted wryly. “There’s a great Texas saying I heard from one of my pilots, who was born there—‘you don’t drop your gun to hug a grizzly bear.’”

Maya’s meaning wasn’t lost on Joe. Shifting uncomfortably in the chair, he rubbed his sweaty palms on his jungle-fatigue pants. “Yes, ma’am, I’m familiar with the phrase.”

“Good.” Maya pinned him with her narrowed gaze. “So, does it clarify the relationship between you and Chief Redtail?”

Joe pushed his long, thick fingers through his short black hair, as he did whenever he was nervous. There was a lock that always rebelled and dipped across his brow. Nervously, he pushed it back. “Ma’am, with all due respect, I really admire Chief Redtail. She’s the best combat pilot you’ve got here at Black Jaguar Base, in my opinion.”

Maya heard the respect and admiration in Calhoun’s soft drawl, but she also saw his struggle to remain positive. Maya knew it was important to get all the cards laid out on the table, to have all the possible problems addressed now—not later, when they were in Mexico, fighting like two cats in a dogfight. Joe’s easygoing Texas style made it hard for Maya to think that even Akiva’s acidic temper could rile this good ole boy. Joe had, in her assessment, the patience of Job. He was infinitely tolerant, which would well work for him in this upcoming project, as Akiva was none of those things. Maya hoped Joe could provide the necessary balance to make this operation successful.

“I’m in agreement with you, Chief Calhoun, about Akiva’s skills. She’s the best we’ve got, which is one reason we’re earmarking her for this mission. The other is that in your reports on the pilots, she scored consistently highest on night-scope trials with the Apache. We are in need of two pilots, the best two, because a lot of missions are going to be at night, out over the Gulf. You know as well as I do that flying over a large expanse of water poses potential problems with pilot disorientation. And flying at night, with the scope, is twice as tricky.”

Nodding, Joe saw her expression remain hard. He could feel the C.O. casting around for something, and he knew what it was. Joe just didn’t want to give it to her. He didn’t want to paint Akiva in a bad light. It wasn’t his nature to talk negatively of people; rather, he was always upbeat and positive about their strengths, never shooting them down for what they didn’t do right, or what their weaknesses were.

God knew, he had his own set of problems to work on, and he wouldn’t appreciate someone disemboweling him in public. His father, who was full-blood Comanche, had taught him to speak well of a person, that if he did so, energy would come back tenfold to him as a result. It was easy to eviscerate people, to tear them apart verbally, to shame or humiliate them. Joe had found that out early in his life. And he didn’t ever want what had happened to him at school, to happen to others. The stubborn part of him, which was considerable when tapped, was rising to the surface as Major Stevenson continued to stare at him.

He felt like she was looking inside him and reading his mind. Lips pursed, he waited. What did she want? Why did she want to hear that Akiva Redtail practically hated the ground he walked on? Joe had never figured out why, exactly, Akiva disliked him so openly; he had chalked it up to a clash of personalities. Given his easygoing nature, he let her venomous comments and glares slide off him like water off a duck’s back, and he didn’t take it personally. At least, he tried not to….

“How do you feel toward Chief Redtail?” Maya asked in a low tone.

Brightening, Joe grinned. “She’s an incredible combat pilot, ma’am. I really enjoyed teaching her the upgrade on the night optics. She was a pleasure to work with.” Joe was, in fact, very drawn to Akiva, but she sure didn’t like him, so he kept his desire for her to himself.

“So—” Maya fiddled with the pen in her fingertips and frowned down at it “—you have no problem going on this mission with her?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t.”

“Not one problem, Chief?”

Joe shook his head. “No, ma’am. She’s all guts and glory, as we say in the trade. She’s already bagged a Russian Kamov. And she’s aggressive. That’s what it takes out there—we both know that. I’m looking forward to being her back seat, to tell you the truth. I can learn plenty from her.”

Smiling thinly, Maya raised her head and stopped thumping the pen against the desk. Joe’s expression was so damned easy to read. The guy hid nothing in that square face of his. His gray eyes were wide and earnest. “I don’t think it’s telling any stories out of school, Chief, that Akiva rides roughshod on some people.” Mainly white, Anglo men, but Maya swallowed those words.

Shrugging, Joe said, “I think most combat pilots are perfectionists, ma’am, and they get sour milk real fast when things aren’t right. Their lives depend upon the equipment workin’ constantly and the crew doin’ their job like they’re supposed to do. I don’t fault her on that in the least. Do you?”

Maya smiled to herself, liking Joe’s ability to stress the positive. “I agree with you, Chief.” Still, Akiva would wear him down, and Maya wondered how thick Joe’s hide really was. How long could he handle her acidic responses to him before he reared up on his hind legs and fought back? That was the fly in the ointment on this mission. It all hinged on Joe’s patient, plodding personality, his ability to get along with her, no matter what.

“Ma’am, I feel you’re like a huntin’ dog sniffin’ around for a bone of contention or somethin’ here. Are you worried about me bein’ able to get along with Chief Redtail?”

“I’m not concerned about you getting along with her,” Maya said drolly. “It’s the other way around. Akiva has a lot of knives in her drawer, and she’s real good at pullin’ them out and slicing and dicing, Chief. I just don’t want you to be chopped up by her when she gets in one of those moods, is all. And I think you know what I’m talkin’ about?”

Joe’s mouth curved into a friendly smile. “My daddy always said that makin’ it in life is like busting mustangs, ma’am. You’re gonna get thrown a lot. You gotta expect it. But the key is you get back up, dust yourself off and get right back in the saddle again.”

“Well,” Maya said with a chuckle, “that about says it all when it comes to interfacing with Akiva. She’s got some…weaknesses, Chief Calhoun. And it’s my job to make damn sure you know them going into this black ops, so you’re not surprised at the other end.”

“Okay,” Joe said, stymied. What problems? Akiva had a strong personality, one he admired, but he never considered her penchant for thoroughness and perfectionism to be a problem. It took a strong man or woman to be a combat pilot—that was part of the required package. And he had no problem with strong, confident women. So what was the major hinting at here? Granted, Joe had been at the base only a couple of months and didn’t run into Akiva every day, although he wished, on a personal level, he did. Just getting to look at her tall, proud, powerful figure and those penetrating gold eyes of hers made his heart pound with silent need. But this was a busy place, and the training was grueling and ongoing. Joe had his hands full as an instructor pilot on the night optic upgrade training missions, so rarely saw Akiva.

“We have another sayin’ in Texas, Major—‘Never grumble, it makes you about as welcome as a rattlesnake in camp.’”

“Hmm, I see. Well, you need to know that Chief Redtail isn’t all sweetness and light. She’s going to need your help and I’m going to need you to roll with a lot of punches she’s more than likely to throw your way. Don’t take them personally, Chief Calhoun. If the heat in the kitchen gets to be a little much, sit her down with your diplomatic, good ole boy style and talk it out. Akiva can be reasoned with.”

“I’ll remember that, ma’am.”

“Good.” Maya looked at her watch. “Let’s get down to logistics. Morgan Trayhern has just arrived with his second-in-command, Mike Houston, and Akiva should be in the planning room with them about now. We need to go over the assignment.”

Leaping to his feet and coming to attention, Joe said, “Yes, ma’am. I’m more than ready for this. Thank you for the opportunity. I never expected this promotion.”

As Maya got to her feet and grabbed the clipboard and pen from her desk, she gave the aviator a dark look. “Keep your positive attitude, Chief. You’re gonna need it where you’re goin’. And I feel you’ve more than earned this position.”

Akiva sat on one side of the planning room and leaned back in the chair, her legs crossed. In the center of the room an overhead projector sat on a table, flashing the first diagram on the white wall in front of them. Two men—both civilians, although she knew they’d both been in the military at one time—stood talking in low tones to one another next to the projector. They’d introduced themselves to her earlier. Akiva had seen them on other occasions at the base, but had never been formally introduced until now. Though she’d arrived right on time for the planned meeting, now that she was here she found her heart beating in panic. Could she really command this mission? More than anything, Akiva didn’t want to disappoint Maya. That one fear gave her the resolve to try and make the mission work.

Hearing the door open, Akiva turned to see who had come in. She saw Maya move briskly into the room, clipboard in her left hand. As Chief Warrant Officer Joe Calhoun followed, Akiva’s brows knitted and her pulse accelerated. Akiva wanted to hate him. He was a white man. And right now, Calhoun represented all Anglo men to her. Working her mouth, she found a bitter taste in it. Reaching for a paper cup that sat next to her folding chair, Akiva took a quick gulp of the tepid water. When she looked up, she saw Joe Calhoun standing right in front of her, his large, square hand extended.

Akiva choked on the water that was halfway down her gullet. Coming up and out of the chair, she coughed deeply, her hand pressed against her throat. Damn! Moving away from him, she finished coughing and turned. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she met his smiling gray eyes. His hand was still extended toward her.

“I just wanted to congratulate you, Chief Redtail.” Joe saw her gold eyes narrow with fury. Her cheeks were red with embarrassment. He saw her gaze drop to his hand and then snap back up to his eyes.

“Thanks,” Akiva mumbled. She ignored his hand and sat back down, crossing her arms belligerently. She wished mightily that Calhoun would go sit down in one of the chairs on the other side of the room. She didn’t want to be anywhere near him.

Joe tempered his disappointment as Akiva refused to shake his hand. Okay, that was fine. He introduced himself to Morgan and Mike, who gripped his hand warmly with obvious welcome. Searching around, he saw a chair nearby and reached for it. As he sat down, he noticed Morgan Trayhern, Mike Houston and Major Stevenson studying them. Feeling heat crawl up his neck and into his face, he saw the quizzical look on the two men’s faces, the worry banked in Major Stevenson’s eyes. Everyone had seen Akiva snub him. Embarrassed, Joe felt as if he’d done something wrong, but there was nothing he could do to rectify it.

“Okay,” Maya said crisply, “let’s get this mission planning on the road. Chiefs Redtail and Calhoun, I think you already know Mr. Trayhern and Mr. Houston? Good. Morgan, do you want to start this briefing?”

Morgan Trayhern shrugged out of his dark green nylon jacket and placed it on the back of one of the chairs. Dressed in a pair of jeans, hiking boots and a dark blue polo shirt, he turned and opened up a briefing file. “Mike? You want to give Chiefs Redtail and Calhoun the dope, here?” He handed two sets of information packets to him to give to the warrant officers.

Houston, who was dressed similarly, nodded. He quickly handed out the twenty-page packets on the planned mission. Joe nodded and thanked him. Akiva’s belligerent look faded and she actually softened the line of her mouth as he handed the papers to her.

Morgan stood at the projector. On the wall was a map of southern Mexico. “We were able to use satellite infrared to locate this little airport facility. It’s hidden deep in the jungle and is completely surrounded by old-growth trees.” Flashing his laser penlight, Morgan circled what appeared to be a small pinprick in the map. “This is the exit-entrance point. Many years ago druggies cleared this thousand-foot-long dirt runway for light, fixed-wing aircraft, as well as helicopters. They were using the aircraft to haul cocaine shipments.”

Akiva sat up. “You said helicopters? What kind?”

Joe glanced at her. She was now in combat mode, tense and alert, her huge gold eyes narrowed on the map in front of them. Despite her prickliness, Joe couldn’t help but admire Akiva. She was six feet tall, big boned, and her womanly body was firmly muscled beneath her tight-fitting black uniform. Joe would never admit it to anyone, because it would be considered sexist by the U.S. Army today, but by damn, she was a good-lookin’ woman, with curves in all the right places. She was easy on the eyes, as his fellow Texans would say.

Joe’s problem was that he wanted to stare like a slobbering fool at Akiva. She commanded everyone’s attention whenever she strode into a room. He liked the fact she wore the bright red scarf of her Apache heritage around her head. Her high, sharp cheekbones and large, slightly tilted eyes gave her the look of a lone wolf on the hunt. That excited him. And yet she’d rebuffed his friendly overtures at every turn. Joe figured she didn’t like him at all. Though disappointed, he still absorbed her intense beauty and dynamic energy as she sat up in the chair and pointed to the map.

Mike Houston, who stood next to Morgan, responded to her question. “All civilian types, Chief Redtail. No armed military rotorcraft that we can find.”

“Good,” Akiva muttered defiantly, “because if we’re moving in, we need to know what’s out there and around us.”

“The closest town, San Cristobel,” Morgan said, pointing to the north of their base of operations, “is here. It’s a village of about a thousand people, all farmers. The jungle begins just outside their little community. Your base is fifty miles away, so there’s no chance that they’ll discover you. Few farmers penetrate the jungle, so it’s your fortress of protection.”

Houston grinned slightly and looked at Akiva and Joe. “I wouldn’t bet that people in the village don’t know this airport is here, however. So you need to keep on your guard in case someone wanders in someday while hunting for medicinal herbs or whatever.”

Akiva nodded and, picking up the clipboard she’d leaned against her chair, she began to make notations on the mission. She respected Mike Houston. He was part Quechua Indian. And from what she had seen of him, his blood was decidedly more Indian than Anglo, which made her trust him more than she would most white men. Though Morgan Trayhern was Anglo through and through, Akiva gave him grudging respect as well. The man owned a black ops company known as Perseus, and he’d done a lot of good for people in trouble around the world. He was one of the few white men she’d seen who was truly good-hearted.

Most Anglos were bastards, in her experience. Sending Joe Calhoun a glance as she lifted her head, Akiva found her heart pounding briefly. Why did she feel so out of sorts around him? she wondered as she watched him write down information on a notepad he held in his large hands. His profile was strong, and for some reason reminded her of the White Mountains on the Apache reservation in Arizona where she’d grown up. The res was a craggy, windswept piece of land, baked by the brutal heat of the sun in summer and freezing cold in winter. Joe’s face was craggy, too, with high cheekbones, a chiseled, full mouth, and strong chin.

He was six feet tall, like her, and medium boned, with more of a swimmer’s body than a weight lifter’s. Most Apache helo pilots were lean and mean looking. Joe was lean and tightly muscled, but he had a kind-looking face, not the face of an aggressor. He didn’t fit the normal mold of a warrior, and that stymied Akiva. And yet the army had promoted him to instructor pilot, so he must have the goods or he wouldn’t have made the grade to the Apache program. The old maxim of her grandmother—never judge a book by its cover—must apply to Joe, Akiva thought.

She remembered the warmth she had seen in his gray eyes when she’d met him that first day of training in the Boeing Apache Longbow helicopter. Normally, combat pilots had predatory eyes, reminding Akiva of an eagle in search of its next quarry.

Not so Joe Calhoun. He’d completely thrown Akiva off guard with his friendly, good ole boy smile and demeanor. He was soft-spoken and gentle with her at all times. And unlike most pilots, Joe never cussed. That was a surprise to Akiva, because cursing in the heat and stress of battle was as common as breathing among combat people. And Joe had treated her like a lady, being solicitous and sensitive to her needs as a person, rather than a faceless soldier.

It hadn’t taken Akiva long to realize Joe Calhoun was a man of the past, thrown into the present. In her mind he did not fit the combat or instructor pilot mode—at all. And because she couldn’t pigeonhole him, he kept her off balance. Only when Akiva could label someone was she able to react in a way that protected her from that person. With Calhoun, there was no slot to place him in, and that unsettled Akiva completely. He’d always treated her with deference and respect. In fact, the admiration in his voice during training was wonderful—but Akiva tried to throw off his praise and warmth just as quickly as he dispensed it. Anglos were not to be trusted under any circumstance.

Yet the worst part was, she was drawn to him! Few men had stirred the flames within her as Joe did. Akiva tried to ignore her quickening heartbeat each time he gave her that gentle smile. Her yearning to know what it would be like to kiss his smiling mouth really shocked her. For all Joe’s gentleness, which in itself was a powerful beacon that drew Akiva, he stirred her womanly nature, too. Akiva didn’t like being drawn to an Anglo. No matter how personable Joe appeared to be, somewhere within him was the darkness all Anglo men carried. She knew it lurked within him, even if she hadn’t experienced it.

She glared at him for a moment. Why did he have to be so damned different? Was it because he was from Texas? She would feel a helluva lot less jumpy if she could only figure him out. Then she’d know what tact to take with him, her well-ordered world would once again fall into place and she could relax.

“And who’s the drug lord in the area?” Akiva demanded in a dark tone.

Morgan’s brows knitted. He replaced the map with a color photograph of an older man with silver hair. “Javier Rios. He’s the kingpin of drugs in southern Mexico. His son, Luis, is a helicopter pilot, and they have four civilian helos that Luis and his mercenary pilots use to fly. The helos have a fixed fuel range and Luis takes his helos to dirt airstrips in various areas along Mexico’s Gulf Coast, to fixed-wing planes that load it on board and fly it into the U.S. So Luis’s job is as a middleman on these flights.”

Akiva stared at the silver-haired gentleman, who stood against a background of whitewashed stucco arches overhung with hot-pink bougainvillea. It was a beautiful villa, the red-tiled patio behind him filled with several pottery urns holding blooming flowers.

Rios’s heritage was clearly Castilian, Akiva noted. He was dressed like a patron of old in a wine-colored, short-waisted jacket embroidered with gold thread, a starched white shirt, and a maroon neckerchief held by a gold-and-amethyst clasp. The man’s face was wide, and Akiva was sure that in his youth he’d been extremely good-looking. Now his silver hair was neatly cut and a small mustache lined his upper lip. But his eyes made Akiva shiver; a dark brown, they reminded her of the hooded look of a deadly viper getting ready to strike at its prey. Rios’s thin lips were smiling, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. It was the lethal smile of someone who knew he had ultimate power over others. A chill worked its way through Akiva, though she tried to ignore it.

“Rios is well regarded in the archeological world,” Morgan noted. “He’s donated millions to a number of projects over in Italy and is on the board of a number of internationally famous museums. He has a penchant for Rome and loves all things Roman.

“The villa where this photo was taken is just outside San Cristobel. There is an airport near the town, and he routinely flies in and out.

“Javier Rios is a man of old world traditions. Those who know him say he’s a throwback to the days of Queen Isabella, when Columbus was searching for the New World. He’s highly educated, with a doctorate in history, and he sponsors worldwide workshops on Roman antiquity. His latest project is saving a number of mosaic walls and floors found in old Roman villas in northern Italy that are being threatened by rising waters from a nearby dam.”

“What a nice guy he is,” Akiva growled sarcastically. “The world probably looks up to him with admiration.”

Joe grinned over at her. He liked Akiva’s testy humor. Most combat pilots had a black sense of humor; it served to reduce stress during tense situations they often found themselves in. “My daddy always said that if it looks like manure, smells like manure, then it probably is manure.”

A sour, unwilling grin pulled at Akiva’s mouth. She met Joe’s smiling gray eyes, and try as she might, she couldn’t stop from grinning at his comment. “I like your daddy. He’s a smart dude.”

Nodding, Joe felt immediate warmth, soft and velvety, slip around his heart. It was the first time Akiva had actually been spontaneous with him. Maybe being a C.O. was going to change how she related to others. That possibility made him feel good inside.

“My daddy had a sayin’ for every occasion,” he assured her with a chuckle. Again, Joe saw a spark of warmth in her eyes. Joy deluged him unexpectedly. What would it be like to see that look in her eyes as he kissed her? The thought had heated promise. Joe carefully tucked that desire away in his heart, for now was not the time to pursue it—or her.

Morgan grinned over at Houston. “The world might see Javier Rios as an educated man of immense wealth who supports the arts, but beneath, he’s a drug dealer, pure and simple. So, Joe, I think your assessment has cut to the core here. Manure is manure—even if you dress it up and hide it under expensive clothes.”

Houston rubbed his chin and studied the two pilots who would be taking the mission. “Rios is a cultured man of letters and principles. He loves bullfighting, and supports the sport financially all over Mexico. At this villa he raises bulls that will be trained for the arena, not only in Mexico, but Spain as well.”

Akiva shivered. “The bastard,” she whispered tightly. “Treating those poor animals like that…”

“The bulls don’t have a chance,” Houston agreed. “If one is a little too frisky in the bullring, they drug it to slow it down, so the matador can plunge his sword into the animal’s heart.”

“And Rios does the same thing,” Maya told them grimly. “This dude may look nice on the outside, but he’s got a murderous heart. Morgan? Show them a picture of the son, Luis. He’s a piece of work, just like his daddy.”

Akiva’s eyes narrowed as a picture of Luis Rios flashed up on the screen. It was a color photo of him standing next to his civilian helicopter, decked out in a leather bombardier jacket, starched red shirt, a white silk scarf and tan chinos.

“Chip off the old block, I’d say,” Akiva growled, and she gave Maya a knowing look. Luis Rios was drop-dead handsome, with black wavy hair, wide brown eyes, a long, angular face, patrician nose with flaring nostrils and a thin, smiling mouth. In Akiva’s opinion he looked every inch the spoiled only child of a superwealthy family.

“This dog’ll hunt,” Joe muttered, more to himself than anyone else as they studied the photo.

Akiva turned and frowned. “What?”

Joe tipped his head toward her. “Texas sayin’. It means that the son is a sniffer-outer of the first degree.” He punched his index finger toward the photo. “I wouldn’t trust this guy at all. He’s a real predator. I see it in his eyes.”

Akiva agreed. “And he’s flying a helo. Weapons or not, it still makes him dangerous.”

“And,” Houston warned them darkly, “he’s got three other helos in his little ‘squadron.’ We don’t have any dope on him. The last person the Drug Enforcement Agency tried to put in the Rios camp was discovered. We never found his body. So we don’t know that much about Luis or his helicopters and pilots. That’s something you’ll be finding out as you go along. The Pentagon wants Luis’s movements charted. We need to know where he goes, where he sends these choppers along Mexico’s Gulf Coast and what kind of schedule he’s got worked up for them.”

“So he’s usin’ them to haul drugs out of the jungle,” Joe drawled, “and then off-loading them to fixed-wing aircraft sitting on dirt strips near the Gulf Coast on the eastern side of Mexico? He’s pretty sharp for a weasel.”

Grimly, Houston nodded. “Yes, he is, Joe. But a helo, if equipped for a larger fuel load, could fly into the Texas border area. And he may be doing that. You’re going to try and find this out.”

“A helo can dip in and out of a jungle pretty easily,” Akiva said. “Just chop trees in a fifty-foot radius and damn near any rotorcraft can drop down, pick up the cocaine and lift it out.”

“That’s what we think,” Morgan said, giving Akiva a look filled with approval. “And that’s part of your mission—find the holes chopped in the jungle. That means low-level reconnaissance.”

Maya stood up and went over to the two pilots. “You’re going to be given one Boeing Apache Longbow gunship and a Blackhawk. You’ll use the Apache for interdiction efforts. Use the Blackhawk to start mapping, snooping and finding out what you can around the southern part of Mexico. We expect you to update your maps weekly, via satellite encryption code. You can send them by Satcom to us here, at the main base. The information you begin to accrue will be sent to the Pentagon, as well. With your efforts, we’ll start building a picture of Rios’s drug trade in southern Mexico.”

“And every time he sends a shipment over the Gulf,” Morgan said, “you’ll be notified by an American submarine crew that’s sitting on the bottom of the Gulf, on station, that there is an unidentified flight in process. They will alert you on a special Satcom channel and give you the coordinates so you can intercept that bogey.”

Akiva’s brows raised. “Extreme, dude.”

“I thought you’d be impressed,” Morgan murmured with a grin.

“I didn’t know the U.S. Navy was involved like that,” Joe said, amazed.

“Yes, they are. More than you know,” Houston said. “The navy sub lies on the bottom for three months at a time. We’ve been doing this for a couple of years and have a pretty accurate picture of who, what, where and when on every drug-initiated flight. If an American submarine picks up radio traffic or Satcom info, they’ll notify you.”

“Is every flight a drug flight?” Akiva inquired.

“No,” Morgan answered. “There are legitimate civilian flights into and out of Mexico over the Gulf.”

“But they file flight plans with the Federal Aviation Agency,” Joe pointed out. “And druggies don’t.”

“Exactly,” Mike said with a smile. “Our submarine on station has an hourly updated FAA flight plan file on every aircraft coming out or going into that area of Mexico, so that when they make a call to you, you can be pretty damned sure it’s a drug flight.”

“What do we do?” Akiva asked. “Shoot ’em down?”

Chuckling, Morgan shook his head. “I wish, but no. First, you’re going to follow the same operating procedure you do here—you must identify the aircraft or rotorcraft by the numbers on the fuselage. Your Apache has been downloaded with all the fixed-wing aircraft numbers for Mexico, the U.S.A. and nearby Central and South American countries. If none of them match, then you can assume it’s a drug flight.”

“At that point,” Houston said, removing the picture of Luis Rios and putting in another photo that showed a single-engine aircraft dropping a load of what looked like plastic bags into the ocean hundreds of feet below, “you are going to scare the hell out of them and make them do one of a couple of things. First, most drug runners don’t want to fight. They’ll drop their drug shipment in the water and make a run back to Mexico if pressed. If that happens, a Coast Guard cruiser in the area will steam toward that area and pick up the evidence, if it hasn’t sunk to the bottom by that time. Secondly, if the plane won’t drop its drugs, then it’s your responsibility to persuade it to turn back toward Mexico. Do not allow that plane to hightail it across the Gulf toward U.S. waters.”

“And what do you specify as ‘persuasion,’ Mr. Houston?” Akiva stared at him.

“Your Apache is equipped with hellfire missiles, rockets and cannon fire. You persuade them to turn by firing in front of their nose.”

“Under no circumstance are you to shoot them down,” Maya warned. “Same SOP as we practice here, Akiva.”

“And if they fire back at us?”

Maya grinned. “Well, then, the game plan changes. If you’re fired upon, you are authorized to fire back.”

“Good,” Joe said with pleasure. “Just the kind of job I’ve always wanted—defensive countermeasures.”

“I hope to hell they fire back.”

Joe gave Akiva a knowing look. There was satisfaction in her husky voice when she spoke. He saw the predator’s glint in her eyes and knew it well. She was a hunter of the first order, and he found himself more than a little excited at the chance to be in her back seat on these missions. With her three years of combat experience, she could teach him a lot. She was a master at combat tactics.

“That might happen once or twice,” Morgan warned, “but they’ll get the message real quick and not fire. There are no parachutes in those civilian planes, and Rios won’t want to lose them and his pilots like that. No, they’ll learn real fast not to fire on you.”

“What we have to be careful of is Rios finding our base,” Joe said. “Once he sees us interdicting his shipments and turnin’ them back, he’s gonna be one pissed-off dude.”

“Yes,” Maya warned, “Rios is a man of action. In all likelihood, he’ll send his son, Luis, to do the dirty work. And with four helos, they can do a helluva job trying to locate your base. One thing in our favor is that they are civilian helos and don’t have the equipment or instruments to easily follow or find you. From the air, your base will be tough to find, which is why we chose it. There is an opening in the trees, but it’s about half a mile from your actual base, and you’ll have to fly low, under the canopy, to get in and out. Even if Luis spots that hole, all he’ll see from above is more jungle, not the base itself.”

“But,” Akiva said, “if it was an old drug-runner’s base, why wouldn’t he know about it?”

“Luis can’t know everything,” Mike said. “There are dirt airstrips all over southern Mexico, hundreds of ’em. Finding your base will be like trying to find the needle in the haystack.”

“Still,” Morgan cautioned, “you are going to have to stay alert. If Luis ever does find you, he’ll come in and kill everyone.”

“Worse,” Akiva said, “he’ll get his hands on the Apache. That could be disastrous.”

“Right,” Maya said. “So most of your flying is going to take place at night. Both helos are painted black, without insignias of any type. With the Blackhawk, you’ll perform daylight combat missions. Combat with the Apache will be night activity only. You fly when the drug runners fly—in the dead of night.

“You don’t want to fly near San Cristobel. You’ll want to stay out of sight as much as possible. I’ve worked up a number of vectors that you will fly to and from your secret base, so that no one can get a fix on you and follow you home.” Maya handed them each a manual. “Study it. Your lives, and the lives of your ground crew, depend upon it.”

Akiva settled the manual in her lap. She felt the thrum of excitement, like a mighty ceremonial drum of her people, beating within her. The more she heard of this mission, the more she knew she was exactly fitted for it. She was the eagle stooping to dive, a sky predator, and with her flawless steed, an Apache Longbow, she knew she could wreak hell on earth in Javier Rios’s neighborhood. She salivated at the opportunity. The only glitch in this mission was Joe Calhoun.

Risking a quick glance in the pilot’s direction, she noticed that he sat relaxed and at ease in his chair. She saw no predatory excitement in his face or his eyes. He wasn’t the kind of combat pilot Akiva wanted. No, she’d rather have had Wild Woman or Dallas or Snake; any of those women had the killer instincts that Akiva herself had honed to such a fine degree. And in their business, they stayed alive because of that steely combat readiness.

Joe Calhoun was an enigma to Akiva. He just couldn’t be labeled, didn’t easily fit anywhere in her world as she knew it. And yet he was going to be her back seat, the person she had to rely on to keep her safe on these missions. How was she going to trust an Anglo who looked more like he ought to be flying a cargo helicopter than a combat gunship?