Читать книгу Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart of Stone - Lindsay McKenna - Страница 8

“Major York, if you don’t want to be kicked out of the U.S. Army and asked to resign your commission, I suggest you take this temporary duty assignment.”

Dane stood at attention in front of his superior’s desk. “Yes, sir!”

“At ease,” Colonel Ronald Davidson said, and gestured toward a chair that sat at one side of his huge maple desk. The winter sunshine of December moved through the venetian blinds and painted shadows throughout his large office. Was it an omen of things to come? Dane had a gut feeling it was.

Dressed in his one-piece, olive-green flight suit, Dane took the orders and sat down. Davidson’s gray eyes were fixed on him and he knew why. Trying to choke down his fear, he tucked the garrison cap he’d been wearing into the left shoulder epaulet of his flight suit. He sat at attention. The tone in his C.O.’s voice made his heart beat harder. Dane knew he’d screwed up—again—with a woman Apache pilot in training to upgrade to the D model. Was this his death sentence? He tried to concentrate on the neatly typed set of orders before him. Reading rapidly, he felt a little relief began to bleed through him.

“Sir, this is TDY for six weeks down to Peru, to teach some spook ops pilots D model characteristics?” He tried to keep the surprise out of his voice. Dane thought the colonel had called him to this office to tell him to resign his commission because of his latest mistake. Obviously, he’d been wrong, and more of the tension leaked out of him. The last thing he’d expected was an assignment like this.

“That’s right,” Davidson informed him in a growl. Getting up, his body thin and ramrod straight, he tapped his fingertips lightly on the desk before him. “You’ll see I’ve assigned two other I.P.s and three enlisted men to accompany you down there to train these pilots. You’re to head it up—unless you don’t want the assignment, Major.”

Dane looked up. He got the gist of his commander’s warning. Yesterday, Warrant Officer Kathy Juarez had filed a gender complaint against him. Dane had been warned it was coming. Swallowing against his constricted throat, he scowled down at the orders. He’d opened his big mouth without thinking first, and the words had flown out. Dane was trying very hard to think before he spoke after his lesson four years earlier with another student, Chief Warrant Officer Maya Stevenson, and the group of women going through training with her. He’d cleaned up his act quite a bit, but sometimes, when he was dog tired and stressed out from the heavy demands on his shoulders, he’d slip up. And he had.

Davidson was giving him one last chance to shape up. There was no choice and Dane knew it. He either took this TDY or Davidson was going to make sure that this most recent complaint from a female pilot was going in his jacket. And once it got in there, his career was over. He would be better off resigning and saving them the trouble of putting the complaint into his permanent military record. It would be a black mark that would follow him until the day he died, a stain he did not want on his record. The army was on a crusade to make itself genderless. Male and female no longer existed. Just bodies. Just human beings. Well, Dane was having real problems adjusting to that new perspective.

“Just to give you a little background on this spook ops group,” Davidson continued in a milder tone, “it’s been shifted to Perseus, a Q-clearance organization within the CIA family. They operate on a need-to-know-basis by only a handful of people within the government. Morgan Trayhern is the boss. He’s asked the army for the best I.P.s we’ve got. The detachment known as Black Jaguar Base has twelve pilots who need upgrade training. The work they do down there is crucial to stemming the flow of cocaine from Peru into Bolivia. Because they cannot spare their people to come up here to Fort Rucker for training, you’re going to go down there and train them, instead.”

“I see, sir.” Well, Dane really didn’t, but that didn’t matter, either. What mattered was that his C.O. was yanking him out of this messy and potentially embarrassing situation and tucking him quietly away. Out of sight, out of mind. And out of trouble, as far as he was concerned. Because of Dane’s jaded past, Davidson, who was in his fifties, didn’t particularly care for him, though he respected his abilities as a teacher and pilot. It was a good thing, for Dane knew his career would have been over with this latest charge set against him.

Not that he didn’t deserve it. Warrant Officer Juarez was Hispanic, and he’d made the off-the-cuff remark that no South American could fly as well as a North American one. Stupid, yes, but he’d shot off his mouth to his new class of Apache pilots first without thinking about the consequences. And Davidson wasn’t happy about it or he wouldn’t be sending him away for a long time to let the situation cool down. Dane’s ill-timed comment reflected directly back on the colonel, too. Davidson was protecting his own hind end in this. He was up for general’s stars in another month. If this incident took off and the newspapers ran with it, Davidson’s stars were down the toilet.

“Sounds interesting, sir.” And it did. Dane had never been to South America, although he was born in Del Rio, Texas, a little border town, and grew up bilingual, even though they moved from base to base frequently.

“You’re getting the assignment because you speak Spanish, Major,” Davidson said heavily. “Everyone chosen is bilingual. This spook ops has Peruvian, and other South American pilots, as well as some on loan from overseas. Mr. Trayhern needed someone who could handle the different languages and get the job done. That is why you’re getting this TDY.” Davidson glared down at him. He picked up another paper. “And perhaps, while you’re gone, Major, I can sweet-talk Warrant Officer Juarez into dropping her legitimate charge against you. I’m sure you won’t make the same mistake twice, will you? After all, you’re going to South America to find out just how good the pilots are down there.”

Swallowing hard, Dane said, “Sir, I’ll make sure it never happens again.”

Scowling, Davidson glared at him. “You’re old guard, Major. You’re a lot younger than me, but you sound like the army back in World War II. Well, those days are gone and you’d better get with the new program of gender neutrality or your butt is history. You’d best make good on this mission, Major. I’m expecting a glowing report back from the C.O. of that ops about you and your men’s white glove behavior. Do you read me loud and clear?”

“Yes, sir, I hear you.” Dane stood up at attention beneath the man’s drilling, cold look.

“Sit down.”

Dane sat. He felt the C.O.’s anger avalanche him.

“I’ll be damned lucky if this warrant officer doesn’t go to the press with your remarks. Our women pilots are just as good—probably better—than our male pilots. They’ve distinguished themselves time and again, and you keep working against them. I don’t know what your agenda is, Major, but on this TDY, you’d better stuff it and work with the people down there four square.”

“Yes, sir, I will.”

“You and your contingent are leaving tomorrow at 0800. You’re taking a navy helicopter carrier down to Lima, Peru. The capital city sits right on prime beach-front property. You’re also taking two D model Apaches and a Blackhawk with you. You’ve got three I.P.s, one for each aircraft. One of the three enlisted instructors will fly with each of you. The aircraft, once assembled inside the carrier when it arrives at Lima, will be flown off it and you’ll rendezvous with elements of Black Jaguar at an agreed-upon time.”

“I see, sir.” Dane felt a little excitement. He’d never been on spook ops before. His world revolved around teaching pilots about the deadly beauty of the Boeing Apache. He lived to fly. And he was a good teacher, to boot—at least with male pilots.

“We’ve got an agreement with the Peruvian government, Major. Once those D models are assembled and brought up to the deck of the carrier, you will fly them on specific coordinates that will be preprogrammed into the flight computers. You will not, under any circumstances, be carrying hot ordnance on board. The Peruvian government wants those three aircraft to leave under cover of darkness, just before dawn. They don’t want any nosy newspaper reporters to get wind of us coming into their country or the president will have a lot of explaining to do.

“You will meet two Black Jaguar Apaches at a specific location deep in the mountains, far from the capital. They will then escort you to their base. As I understand it, it is dangerous where you will be flying. There is a drug lord, Faro Valentino, who has two Russian Kamov Ka-50’s assault helicopters that ply the same area. If they see you, they’re going to try and blow you out of the sky. It will be up to the C.O. of the base and their Apaches to protect you and fly shotgun. They will be carrying hot ordnance on board, in case the Kamovs jump you. There’s no guarantee they will. But the C.O. has informed us that you should expect attack. You need to review the terrain of the area and be ready to cut and run if that happens. You need to know where the hell you’re going and what you’re going to do to make sure these new D models aren’t downed before they get to their new base.”

Frowning, Dane said, “No hot ordnance for us in a dangerous situation? Isn’t that stupid, sir?”

Davidson grimaced. “Major, choose your words more carefully, will you? Didn’t you just hear me? The Peruvian government will not allow you to bring these assault helos over their territory with missiles, bullets or rockets. What if you crash into homes and kill people? They’re afraid that if the combat helicopters are seen, word will leak back to their press, and all hell will break loose. Having U.S. military aircraft flying in Peru is a political hot potato, anyway. We’re stepping on eggs. There is no way to get where you’re going, except by helicopter. The jungle where the drug lords produce their cocaine is wild, dangerous, country.”

“But they’ve got Apaches carrying ordnance.” Dane tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Why is it all right in one place in Peru, but not another? Why should I open up my crews to possible confrontation with a Kamov and get shot all to pieces?”

“We have a lot of political toes we just can’t step on,” Davidson said slowly, obviously at the limits of his patience with Dane. “Once you get the D models to the base, you’ll be able to train the pilots there. When everyone is up to speed, the D models will join the A models already there, and you can fly with hot ordnance.”

“So, we risk three helos and six people trying to get them to this jungle base?” Dane frowned.

“You will have two Apache A’s escorting you in, Major. Just follow the C.O.’s instructions, and things should go well. But as mission commander on this TDY, you need to realize that if the Kamovs attack, you have to have a plan on outrunning and outmaneuvering them because they can outgun you. The only thing standing between you and them will be those two A models rigged for combat.”

Unhappily, Dane nodded. “I see, sir.”

“Good.” Davidson reached for a folder and handed it to him in a brisk manner. “Here’s more info. Take a look at it.”

Opening the file, Dane nearly choked. The color photo of the C.O. of the Black Jaguar Base stared back at him.

“Problems, Major?”

Heat shot up his neck and into his face. Dane tried to squelch a curse as he sat there, pinned in place by his C.O.’s gaze.

“Sir…” he rasped, half standing, pointing at the photo in the file “….this is impossible…this can’t be…. I mean—”

“Captain Maya Stevenson is the C.O. of Black Jaguar Base, Major. And she’s your commanding officer on this mission.”

No! Dane sat down, before his knees buckled beneath him, disbelief thrumming through him. Those cool, half-closed emerald eyes, eyes that reminded him of a jungle cat, stared back at him. Maya Stevenson was the biggest thorn he’d ever had in his side. She’d nearly scuttled his career so many years ago. After she’d graduated into the Apache A model, she’d quite literally disappeared. Not that Dane was unhappy about that. He wasn’t. She was the in-your-face kind of woman who made him see red with great regularity. He didn’t like her independence. Or her chutzpah. She’d call him out every time he said something wrong—or politically incorrect. There wasn’t a day that went by when she was his student that they hadn’t flared up and had words, angry words, with one another. Worse, she’d reported him and he’d damn near lost his status as an I.P., had been threatened with losing his army career.

Davidson moved quietly around the desk, trailing his fingers along the highly polished edge of it. All the while, his gaze remained on Dane.

“A word of warning, Major York,” he whispered.

Dane looked up. “Sir?”

“Mr. Trayhern of Perseus, and myself, are all too aware of the dog-and-cat fight you got into with Captain Stevenson four years ago. If either of us hear a word from her that you or your crew are not being perfectly behaved down there, then things are really going to hit the fan. Big time. You will be training twelve women pilots, Major. And it’s well known you don’t get along well with women in the military. The crew you’re taking down is going to behave just as you do. So I suggest you clean up your act, accept that women make just as good pilots as men, and get on with your teaching and training down there.”

Dane stared down at the photo again, disbelief bolting through him. He felt as if he’d been struck by lightning. Maya was in a black, body-fitting flight suit. There were no insignias on the uniform, nothing to indicate her country of origin or that she was a pilot, much less in the U.S. Army. Her hair, as black as the uniform, was in a chignon at the nape of her slender neck. The look of pride in her raised chin, that confidence he’d always disliked about her, now radiated from the photo. He felt hot and sweaty—an adrenaline reaction. Davidson stood within a few feet of him, and Dane could feel his C.O.’s icy gaze drilling into his back as he looked at the photo.

“I feel like I’m being fed to the lions…sir.”

Davidson chuckled. “Maybe you are, Major, but this is going to be your final test to see if you can achieve gender neutral status. You pass this test, and I’m sure your career will continue. If you don’t, well…this is your last chance. Do you understand that?”

Bitterness flowed through Dane. He glared up at the colonel, whose gaze was unwavering. “I get the picture, sir. Frankly, this is a no-win situation.”

“It doesn’t have to be, Major, if you let your prejudice against women in the military dissipate. This can be a real turn-around mission for you. But it’s up to you. If you want to keep your caveman mentality about women, that’s your choice. Or you can see this as a golden opportunity to drop some old, archaic attitudes and embrace and support women in the military. They pay with their lives just like a man does. They deserve equal treatment and respect. It’s that simple.”

Sure it is. Dane clenched his teeth, his jaw tightening. Great. Just great. Not only would he have a woman C.O. lording over him, it was his nemesis, Maya Stevenson. And her father was still in the army and still a general. Dane felt hemmed in and no way out. Wiping his thinned mouth with the back of his hand, he closed the file abruptly.

“My secretary has everything you need for the trip south, Major. You’re to meet your crew at 0800 tomorrow morning at base ops. You’ll take a C-130 Hercules flight from here to San Diego. There, you’ll board the USS Gendarme, one of our navy helicopter carriers. They’ve already got the two Boeing Apaches and the Blackhawks disassembled and on board. Questions?”

Dane stood. He came to attention. “No, sir.”

“Very well, dismissed. Oh, and good luck, Major. I hear that Captain Stevenson has been giving a good account of herself and her women pilots down there. This just might be the eye-opening experience you need to convince you that women can do a job just as well as any man.” Davidson’s mouth lifted slightly. “And maybe better. But you go down there with an open mind and see for yourself.”

“Looks like a right purty city,” Chief Warrant Officer Joe Calhoun said in his soft Texas drawl as he stood, his hands resting on his hips. “Never been this far south before.”

Dane stood next to the other instructor pilot on the deck of the navy helicopter carrier anchored off the coast near Lima. Because the carrier was so large, it could not go near the shallow coastline. A thick gray blanket of fog had lifted hours earlier, and the sparkling lights of Lima, the largest city and capital of Peru, blinked to welcome them.

“Looks are deceiving at night,” he muttered. His stomach was in knots. The last week had been hell on him. Dane hadn’t been looking forward to this moment. Below, the mechanics were giving a final check on the Boeing Apaches before they were lifted by elevator to the deck where they stood. Glancing at the watch on his hairy wrist, he saw that in an hour they would be taking off.

Although it was December, it was summer in the southern hemisphere. A slight, humid breeze wafted by them. Around them, navy sailors worked quietly and efficiently, preparing the deck for the forthcoming helicopters. Joe, a Chief Warrant Officer 3, and Craig Barton, a CWO4, were under his command, and would be flying the other two helos. Craig, who had experience flying Blackhawks as well as Apaches, would take the Blackhawk into the base.

“Wonder if the women are as beautiful as they say they are,” Craig said, coming up to them and grinning.

Dane scowled. “This isn’t a party trip, Mr. Barton.”

“Hey,” Craig murmured, “I’m only kidding. You’ve been uptight ever since we came on board, sir.”

Warrant officers made up the ranks of most of the army’s helicopter pilots. Dane had been a West Point graduate and gone into helicopters aviation as a full-fledged officer, so the other men were beneath him in rank. They stood halfway between enlisted personnel and officers such as himself. They were sharp people with fine skills and had shown their capability to fly these deadly machines. The warrants had a long and proud history.

Dane managed a one-cornered smile. “I’m worried about the Kamovs jumping us.”

Joe snickered. “What’s there to worry about? We got two Apaches to protect us if things get dicey. From what you said, those lady pilots have had plenty of practice shootin’ at the bad guys, so I’m sure they can handle a little action, if need be.”

Yeah, like a bunch of women were going to protect them. Dane kept the acid comment to himself. He didn’t dare breathe a word of his prejudice to these two warrant officers. He’d worked with them for over a year and neither felt the prejudice against women that he did. Joe was half Commanche, born in Texas and twenty-six and Craig twenty-eight, both single, competitive, type A personalities. So was Dane, but he was twenty-nine and feeling like he was eighty right now. If only Maya Stevenson was not in this equation. Dane was still reeling from the shock of it all. Was she as mouthy and in-your-face as she’d been years ago? God, he hoped not. How was he going to keep his inflammatory words in his mouth?

“Well,” Joe said in his Texas drawl, “I, for one, am gonna enjoy this little TDY. I mean, dudes, this is a man’s dream come true—an all-ladies base.” And he rubbed his large, square hands together, his teeth starkly white in the darkness on the deck of the ship.

Craig grinned. “Roger that.” He was tall and lean, almost six feet five inches tall. And when he scrunched his frame into the cockpit of an Apache, Dane often wondered how the man could fly it at all. The cockpit of an Apache was small, the seat adjustable from about five feet three to six feet five inches. Being from Minnesota, from good Swedish stock, Craig was big-boned, even though he was lean. His nickname was Scarecrow. Dane liked his patient nature and softness with students. He was an excellent instructor.

Joe, who was a fellow Texan, was an exceptional instructor because he became so impassioned about the Apache helicopter and passing on that excitement to the trainees. Joe lived, ate and breathed the Apache. Maybe because he was half-Commanche he spoke Apache in his sleep—and made the bachelor officer quarters shake and shudder with his ungodly snoring. Grinning in the darkness, Dane admitted to himself that he had good people around him, and maybe, just maybe, that would make the difference on this nasty little TDY.

The other three crewmen, all sergeants, were experts in the new software, the ordnance and the handling of the “doughnut” or radar dome that was on the D model Apaches. Those three men, Barry Hartford, Alphonse “Fonzie” Gianni and Luke Ingmar, would teach the women crew chiefs and mechanics at the base the fine points of the new model. They were all married, so Dane had less to worry about in that respect. However, judging from Joe’s gray eyes and the sparkling look of a hunter in Craig’s brown ones, Dane would have his hands full with these two lone wolves running around loose in the sheep’s pen.

“Well, let’s turn and burn,” Craig said, as he lifted his hand and started for the hatch that led down to the deck where the helicopters were being prepared.

“Roger that,” Joe seconded, following quickly on his heels.

Dane stood alone. He felt alone. Watching the last of the fog disperse, he saw the twinkling of stars above him. It struck him that he was seeing the Southern Cross for the first time in his life. It was as famous here as the Big Dipper was in the Northern Hemisphere. Snorting softly, he hung his head and looked down at the highly polished flight boots he wore with his one-piece flight uniform. Alone. Yes, he’d been alone for a long, long time. Ever since his mother had abruptly left him and his father, he’d felt this gnawing ache in his gut and heart. His brows drew downward as memories assailed him. His mother was a red-haired, green-eyed, vital woman who had exuded a confidence he rarely saw in females. She’d had enough of being a “housewife” and had made an ultimatum to his military pilot father to either let her work outside the home or face a divorce.

Only twelve at the time, Dane recalled the fear he’d felt when he’d heard them arguing hotly one night in the living room after he’d gone to bed. His father’s shouting had awakened him. Dane had lain on his belly at the top of the stairs, head pressed to the wood, hands wrapped around the banister, as she began screaming back at Dane’s father just as loudly. She was tall, athletic, brainy, and had no fear of speaking her mind—ever.

“Damn…” Dane forced himself to look up…up at the Southern Cross, which glimmered like diamond droplets against an ebony sky being edged with the first hint of dawn. His mother had left. She’d tried to explain it to Dane, but at twelve, the message he got was that he wasn’t lovable enough for her to stay and be his mother. And from that day onward, he’d felt alone. Well, at twenty-nine, he still felt that way, and nothing would probably ever change it. Or the way he felt about his mother. When he was eighteen, about to graduate from high school and enter West Point, she’d left him forever. His mother had been coming to his graduation, driving from San Antonio, Texas, where she’d settled, and a drunk driver had careened into her car and killed her. Dane would never forget that day. Ever.

He heard the whirring of the elevators that would soon bring the Apaches and the Blackhawk to the deck where he stood. Moving his shoulders as if to rid them of an accumulated weight, Dane turned. As he did so, he saw a bright trail streak across the sky toward the east, where they would be flying shortly. It was a meteorite.

Dane didn’t believe in omens. He believed only in what his eyes saw, his hands felt and his ears heard. Scowling deeply, he turned on his heel. Screw it all. Did the meteorite foretell of his demise? Would it be because of his mouth? His feelings about women? Or were they going to be jumped by Kamovs? Or left at the mercy of a bunch of renegade Amazon women warriors who thought they knew how to fight?

“Be my luck that it’s the latter,” Dane grumbled as he jerked open the hatch door and went below to his fate.

“It’s time, Maya….” Dallas Klein poked her head through the opened door of her commanding officer’s office. Dallas, who was the executive officer for the base operations, raised her dark brown brows as she looked across the wooden floor at Maya’s pitiful excuse for a work area—a dark green metal, military issue desk that was battered from years of use. Maya was pouring over several maps spread across it, her face intense, her hand on her chin as she studied them.

“What? Oh….” Maya looked up. She nodded to Dallas. Glancing down at the watch on her left wrist, she blew a breath of air in consternation. “Yeah, it’s time all right.”

Dallas moved inside the office and shut the door. She was dressed in the uniform of the day—a black, body-fitting Nomex fire retardent flight suit. Her black flight boots gleamed in the fluorescent light from a fixture above the desk. Running her fingers briskly through her short sable hair, she met Maya’s gaze. “Did you sleep at all?”

“What do you think?” Maya grimaced, then straightened and opened her arms, stretching languidly like a large cat. “I’ve got the nightmare from hell visiting us for six weeks. I couldn’t catch a wink.” Maya quickly wrapped her loose ebony hair into a chignon at the nape of her neck placing a thick rubber band around her tresses to keep them in place.

“Hmm.”

“You aren’t upset about York coming?” Maya took her knee board, which she used to write things down if she needed it, and strapped it to her right thigh with Velcro. She reached into a glass sitting on her desk and took out several pens, placing them in the left upper sleeve of her uniform.

“Upset? Yeah. Lose sleep over the guy? Not a chance.” She grinned wolfishly.

“You Israelis are one tough lot,” Maya grumped. “Has Penny got the coffee on in the mess hall? I desperately need a cup before we take off.”

“Yeah, everyone’s up and around,” Dallas murmured as she opened the door for her C.O. “Edgy is the word I’d use….”

Maya grinned tiredly. “Edgy? As in on edge dancing on the edge of a sword? No kidding. Come on, I need my intravenous of java before we blow this joint and meet our male comrades in arms.”

Chuckling, Dallas, who at five foot eleven inches was almost as tall as her C.O., followed Maya down the dimly lit hall of the two-story building. Their headquarters sat deep in a cave, well hidden from any prying eyes that might try and find the complex. Maya grabbed her helmet on the way, stuffed her black Nomex gloves into it and then picked up her chicken plate, which was the name for the bullet proof vest they each wore when they flew a mission. Though they were normally called flak jackets, the army slang name was more commonly used.

Maya moved rapidly down the stairs and out the door. If not for the lights hung far above them on the cave’s ceiling, finding their way out of the place would be impossible. Familiar sounds—the clink of tools, the low murmurs of women’s voices from the maintenance area—soothed Maya’s fractious nervousness. She felt wired—and suspected it was because she would have to meet her worst enemy today.

“You’re jumpy,” Dallas observed, coming up and matching her long stride. “You sensing something?”

With an explosive laugh, Maya said, “Oh, yeah. Trouble with a capital T in the form of Major Dane York. How’s that for a mouthful, Klein?”

Chuckling, Dallas opened the door to the Quonset hut structure that housed the mess hall and kitchen facility. “Mmm, it’s more than that. You usually get this way when you smell Kamovs around.”

As Maya made her way into the small mess hall which was lined with a series of long picnic tables made of metal and wood, she saw that about half of her crews were up and eating an early breakfast. She called to them, lifting her hand in greeting, and then picked up a metal tray to go through the chow line. The flight crews had been up and working for several hours. There was ordnance to load on the Apaches, fuel to be put on board and a massive amount of software to be checked out to ensure it was working properly before any pilot sat in the cockpit. Today, Maya wanted a full array of Hellfire missiles on the underbelly of each Apache, rockets as well as a good stash of 30-millimeter bullets on board.

Penny, a red-haired army sergeant with lively blue eyes who was the head chef for their base stood behind the line, spoon in hand.

“’Morning, ma’am,” she greeted Maya as she heaped dark orange, fluffy scrambled eggs onto her tray.

“’Morning, Penny. You got any of your famous cinnamon rolls?” Maya lifted her nose and sniffed. “I can smell ’em. Any left?”

Penny blushed a bright pink. “Yes, ma’am. I managed to save a couple for you and Ms. Klein.” Penny turned to retrieve the rolls, revealing how the white apron she wore over her green fatigues hung to her knees due to her short stature. Sometimes, when she moved too quickly, the apron would become tangled around her short legs and nearly trip her.

“So you didn’t let the condors eat them all,” Maya said, pleased. She watched as Penny opened the oven and drew out two big cinnamon rolls slathered with white frosting.

“Oh, we’ve got a buncha buzzards here, no doubt, ma’am,” Penny laughed. She placed a roll on each officer’s tray. “But I know they’re your favorite, so I told my crew to keep their hands off them, threatening that they’d lose their fingers if anyone stole ’em.”

Maya grinned. “Thanks, Penny. We appreciate your being a watchdog.” Maya poured some coffee from the tall steel canister into a white ceramic mug and then went over to an empty table. She wanted time to talk to Dallas alone before the flight. Every time she thought of Dane York, her gut tightened. And yet there was something else troubling her. Maya couldn’t shake the feeling…the premonition that Kamovs were around and hunting them. Sometimes they did. Sometimes Faro Valentino, a very rich Colombian drug lord, who had money to burn and could buy the latest in Russian weaponry and aircraft, would deliberately try and hunt them down to kill them. Most of the time he was making cocaine runs over their jungle and mountains. But sometimes…he turned the tables on them. Sometimes the hunted became the hunter. Was today the day?

Dallas sat down opposite her. “You’ve got that look in your eyes,” she said as she eagerly dove into the scrambled eggs. They had Penny to thank for the fresh eggs. A farm girl from Iowa she had long ago bought a bunch of hens in Aqua Caliente, and built them a chicken coop. Penny had her “girls” laying eggs for the entire squadron. Everyone appreciated farm-fresh eggs. They had a much better taste than any store-bought variety, which were sterile in comparison, Dallas thought. Maya always urged her women to be creative, to make this base more a home than a military warehouse. Little touches like Penny’s made staying here survivable. Since Lieutenant Ana Luca Contina had married Jake Travers, and Jake had come to stay with her at the base, he had created a huge vegetable garden that yielded wonderful lettuce salads and other hard-to-get items. Jake also took care of supply and Maya was grateful for the ex-Army Ranger’s presence on their base. While Ana flew missions, Jake took care of things on the ground. Everyone, including Maya, was happy with the arrangement.

“What look is that?” Even though Maya was far from hungry, she knew today’s flight required her to be alert, and that meant feeding her body. Brain cells needed food to work, and in her business of flying the deadly Apache assault aircraft, she needed every iota of intelligence to stay on top of things.

Dallas sipped her coffee after putting a dry creamer into it. “That ‘we’re gonna get jumped by Kamovs’ look.”

“Oh.”

Dallas set the cup down. “You always have a sixth sense for this stuff. Are you too exhausted to be in touch with it this morning?”

Having known Dallas for the three years that they’d been at the base, Maya trusted the Israeli pilot with her life. On loan to them from her country, Dallas was a tough, no-nonsense warrior who had many times saved Maya’s butt when they’d come up against the Black Sharks that would hide and jump them. And Dallas knew her better than anyone at the base. As executive officer—X.O.—she had almost as much responsibility for this base operating as Maya did. And Dallas was someone she could blow off steam to without it getting around. Giving her a narrowed look, she muttered, “Okay, I have a feeling.”

Lips curving ruefully, Dallas said lightly, “Couldn’t be that Black Jaguar Clan stuff you’re connected with?”

Maya didn’t often talk about her spiritual heritage or training. Dallas knew more than most, but Maya’s affiliation with the Clan wasn’t for public consumption. Over the years, Maya’s intrepid and loyal pilots and crews had learned there was something “different” about her, but not what was different. Of course, Maya didn’t have anywhere near the metaphysical talents her sister, Inca, did. No, the only thing she was good at, when in the right space, was teleportation. And in her line of business, Maya was rarely in the right space to use that talent because it required her to be in perfect harmony within herself in order to initiate it. Nope, on any given day, she was painfully human like everyone else. The other talent she had was intuition. She’d get these “feelings” and when she did, she was rarely wrong.

Maya realized Dallas was patiently looking at her with those golden eyes.

“Okay…I got a bad feeling. I think Faro is going to turn the tables on us again. He’s going to be the hunter and us the hunted today. Satisfied?”

Pursing her full lips, Dallas said, “Yep, I am. I’m gonna tell my copilot to play heads up then, more than usual. Damn, I wish we could get a radar signature off them.”

Maya nodded in agreement. The Russian helicopter was able to somehow dodge their massive radar array and capabilities. Because it could, the Kamov had the ability to sneak up on them and blow them out of the sky—literally. That meant Maya and her pilots had to stay even more alert than usual. They were fighting one of the most deadly helicopter opponents in the world. Their own sensor equipment was useless against the Kamov unless it showed itself, which wasn’t often. The mercenary Russian pilots Faro Valentino hired were hardened veterans of many campaigns and knew the ropes of stealth and combat—just like Maya’s crew did.

Each Apache had two HUDS, or heads-up displays—small, television-like screens—in each of its two cockpits. Maya’s pilots could use IR—or infrared—a television camera or radar. The HUDs had saved the lives of Maya’s crew innumerable times, as well as helped them find the heat of bodies beneath the jungle canopy so they could stop drug runners in their tracks as they carried heavy loads of cocaine toward the Bolivian border. In the sky, the Apache’s ability to find its target was legendary. Except the Kamovs had their own arsenal of commensurate hardware, and on any given day, a Kamov could jump one of their Apaches without warning. That was when Maya used her sixth sense to the optimum. She’d not lost a helo crew yet, and she wasn’t about to start now.

Maya pulled the warm cinnamon roll apart with her long, spare fingers. “This is one of those days I’d just as soon tell the Cosmos I pass on this mission, you know? That’s okay, you don’t have to answer on the grounds it may incriminate you, Klein.” She grinned and popped a piece of the soft, sweet bread into her mouth.

“Well,” Dallas said with a sly look, “I’m glad I’m not in your boots today, Captain. Whatta choice—Kamovs or Major Dane York.”

“Humph, with our luck, we’ll get hit with both.”

Chuckling, Dallas finished her coffee. “Yeah, that’s what I call Black Jaguar luck at its finest.”

That was true, and Maya nodded as she chewed on the roll. “If we didn’t have bad luck, we wouldn’t have any at all.”

Dallas’s eyes gleamed with laughter. “And if I’m reading you right, you’d rather face Faro’s Kamovs today than York.”

“Bingo.”

“Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.” Dallas rose, picked up her empty tray and said, “Meet you out on the apron. Time to turn and burn.”

Maya sat there, feeling glum. The soft sounds of women talking and laughing made her feel a little better. The mess hall was always a happy meeting place for her and her hardworking crews. They pulled twelve hours on and twelve off when Faro and his Kamovs decided to take to the sky and make run after run of cocaine to the Bolivian border.

Rubbing her neck ruefully, Maya grimaced. Today was going to be one helluva day, and she wasn’t looking forward to any of it.