Probably SEALs, she thought, momentarily locking gazes with the bald and rugged one sitting to Duggan’s left. She wasn’t sure what it was that made her look in his direction, only to catch him staring at her.
He stood abruptly to face her as she walked by and said, “Captain Vaccaro?”
“Yeah?” she said, shifting her gaze between this stranger and the men at the table, who continued their conversation with Colonel Duggan.
Leaning forward while dropping his voice a bit, he said, “I’m Hunter Stark. That was great shooting this afternoon. Brave move coming back with your engine hit. You saved a bunch of marines and my guys. Thank you.”
“And who exactly are you and your guys?” she replied, staring into his blue eyes, the ends of which sagged a bit.
Stark smiled. “Just some guys who owe you their collective ass. Thank you again, Red One One. I hope to someday repay the favor.” And with that he turned around and rejoined his table.
As she stepped away, Vaccaro noticed Stark leaning closer to Duggan and whispering something in his ear while pointing at her. The colonel looked at her departing figure over the rim of his reading glasses.
She kept walking, going straight to the rear of the hall and settling at one end of an empty table. She drained the first water bottle in thirty seconds, before sitting back and sipping the second one while contemplating her fried dinner choice.
“Is this seat taken?”
Vaccaro looked up at a smiling Captain John Wright, U.S. Marines, pointing at the spot across from her. He was just a bit taller than her, and muscular, with a narrow, clean-cut face, short blond hair, hazel eyes, and a strong neck and chin—the portrait of a Semper fi recruitment ad.
As Wright sat, the side of his boot reached inconspicuously under the table and brushed against hers.
“Captain,” he said, with a slight grin.
“Captain,” she replied, returning the grin.
“How was your day at the office?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Wright frowned at his burger and fries and grabbed one of her nuggets.
She narrowed her stare as he winked, popped it in his mouth, and chewed it slowly before saying, “Heard the one about the crazy air force jock who landed a Hawg at night held together by duct tape, wire, and a prayer?”
“Nope.”
He tilted his head, cut his burger in half, and took a hearty bite while she nibbled on a fry.
“You saved lives today,” he said.
She shrugged.
“I mean it.”
Another shrug.
“We lost three guys, one of them a Peter Wiley, LT. Marines. We would have lost more had you not shown up when you did.”
“It’s what I do, John.”
“Yeah, and you do it better than anyone I know.”
She was about to reply when Colonel Duggan walked up to them and put a hand on Wright’s shoulder, the reading glasses now hanging from his neck at the ends of a black leather cord.
Wright tried to stand and salute, but Duggan kept the hand in place and said, “At ease, soldier.” Then, turning to Vaccaro, he added, “Good shooting today, Captain.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now,” Duggan said, shifting his attention back to Wright, “a word in private, Captain?”
12
Simply Irresistible
KANDAHAR AIRFIELD. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Wright followed his commanding officer outside the mess hall, out of earshot of everyone. The tip of the storm was almost over them. A light mist shadowed this part of the base, the wind had picked up a bit, and lightning rumbled overhead.
“So, the air force captain, huh?”
Wright momentarily looked away.
It was frowned upon to fraternize with members of the opposite sex while on rotation, but everybody did it. And besides, there was something about Laura Vaccaro that had gripped him from the moment he’d set eyes on the red-haired pilot during his last R & R weekend in Qatar, four months ago. And it wasn’t just because she had looked absolutely stunning in that tiny bikini. There was an aura of strength about her that the jarhead in him had found simply irresistible.
“Sir, I—”
“Relax, son,” Duggan said with his craggy version of a smile. “I’m not here to bust your balls, though speaking on behalf of the Seventh Regiment … Ooh-rah.”
Wright grinned. “Ooh-rah. Now, what’s going on?”
Before Duggan could reply, the dark clouds above them opened up and the two marines stepped back beneath the overhang in front of the DFAC.
Wright noticed that the rain wasn’t splashing. It was bouncing off the ground.
“It’s hailing,” he said.
“Yeah,” Duggan mumbled, briefly putting on the glasses to look at the ground, before letting them hang again from his neck. “Fucking Afghanistan. It can’t just simply rain around here. Everything has to be so fucking difficult.”
“Roger that, sir,” Wright said.
“Anyway,” he said, as pea-size hail peppered the aluminum roof and skittered around the front of the dining facility while dozens of soldiers caught in the open ran for cover, vanishing inside various buildings. “I’m running short of rifle platoon leads, so until I can get more rotations, I’d like to transfer one out of your unit to cover the loss of Lieutenant Wiley.”
“Will get right on it, sir.”
“Appreciate that, son.”
Wright liked him. A different commander would have simply grabbed one of his guys and sent him an email after the fact. But Duggan was considerate enough to ask, though in the end it still meant that Wright would have to step in and lead a rifle platoon if called upon before a replacement arrived.
“Semper fi,” Duggan said, walking back inside.
“Semper fi,” Wright replied, before glaring at the sky and also heading back into the mess hall.
When he reached his table a moment later, his dining companion was already gone, though she had left a chicken nugget on top of his burger.
13
Janki Mishka
KANDAHAR AIRFIELD. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
“With all due respect, sir, I’m not moving a damn finger for the Agency until we get paid.”
Colonel Stark chewed on a chicken nugget while he regarded Larson, sitting across from him in the mess hall. The chief had a valid point, of course, and his sentiment was certainly reflected in the stern gazes held by Ryan, Martin, and Hagen, sitting next to him. The CIA owed his team fifty thousand dollars for the last op, plus ten thousand each for the captured techs.
They had just finished briefing Colonel Duggan on the events at Compound 45. Now Stark had just received an introductory text from the new CIA chief at KAF, someone named Glenn Harwich, and the mere mention of it had triggered this dinner table mutiny.
He looked over at the table in the rear, where Duggan had marched off a moment ago to have a word with one of his guys having dinner with the pretty air force pilot. Her red hair reminded him of someone he had worked with a few years ago—in Russia of all places. Vaccaro was still there, eating alone now, and for a moment he thought about walking over there and joining—
“I mean, you think I’m being unreasonable?” Larson pressed.
“No, Chief,” Stark replied, turning back to his guys, reaching for his bottle of water and taking a sip. “Not at all. But I still think we should meet the man. Who knows? Maybe this Harwich guy can get us paid.”
“Yeah,” Ryan decided to add to the conversation, sipping from a can of Sprite. “Those techs were alive and cuffed when we passed them over to the spooks. Not our fault NATO decided to blow the place off the map with little warning. Right, Mickey?”
The quiet Navy SEAL looked at the Delta sniper and nodded before returning to his brown tray next to a pack of Sobranie Classics and a lighter.
“And if not, then fuck them,” said Martin, running a hand through his blond hair and smoothing his mustache with two fing
ers before unwrapping a watermelon lollipop. “The Agency ain’t the only show in town.”
Stark nodded to himself and set his phone down without returning the text. Maybe silence was the best way to get the Agency’s attention. Besides, there were indeed other employers out there, whose contracts had taken them all over the world, and not just in support of Uncle Sam. In his decade since retiring from the Special Forces, Stark had accepted jobs as long as they met his simple criteria:
Will the mission make the world a better place?
Did the employer have cash in hand, and was the retainer enough to cover initial expenses?
Did all team members agree to go?
That philosophy had landed him deals across the Americas, Europe, certain African nations, as well Korea, Japan, and even China and Russia.
Russia.
Stark stared at Hagen’s cigarettes before glancing over at Vaccaro and shaking his head, returning to his food. To this day he couldn’t believe his team had actually run a joint operation with the GRU Spetsnaz in Moscow, back in 2002. But they had been in between jobs and his criteria were certainly met by the request from the Russian government to assist the GRU after forty armed Chechen rebels seized the crowded Dubrovka theater, taking 850 hostages.
What a logistical mess that was, he thought, recalling how any force entering the theater would have had to fight through a hundred feet of corridor before coming up against a well-defended staircase leading to the hall where the rebels held the hostages. And on top of that, the Chechens had planted explosives everywhere, including on the captives themselves. Working closely with a senior GRU Spetsnaz operative named Kira Tupolev, they had devised the idea of pumping a chemical agent into the building’s ventilation shaft before commencing the rescue operation. When it was over, all rebels were killed without a single casualty on their respective teams, but at the cost of losing 130 hostages due to adverse reactions to the gas. Over the coming days and weeks, the use of the gas was viewed as heavy-handed, though not by the White House, which deemed the decision justifiable.
The alternative would have been much worse, he thought, staring at the bottle of water next to his tray, the clear liquid reminding him of the two liters of Stolichnaya vodka Kira had brought to his hotel on the eve of his departure. She had worn black jeans and a low-cut black T-shirt that exposed part of a compass rose tattoo hugging her neck and dropping into her cleavage. It was embellished by the most beautiful red roses mixed with pristine snow.
“I teach you to drink like a Russian, my Janki mishka, yes?” she had told him, uncorking the first bottle and pouring them shots while nicknaming Stark her “Yankee bear.”
Kira had endured a cut across the right side of her forehead from shrapnel during the final assault. But the fine scar and even the stitches had only enhanced her appeal. And when combined with that mysterious body art … well …
Stark filled his lungs, recalling that amazing red hair—along with those hazel eyes and that smile—as they laughed and drank, Russian style, eating pickles in between shots.
Before long his clothes had come off as she forced him onto his back.
“Do not forget me, Janki mishka,” she had whispered, hovering over him while guiding him inside her, the very intricate and colorful compass rose extending over her breasts and midriff.
Stark had been unable to reply as the Russian woman took him whole, managing to do what no other woman had to that point: help him forget Kate—if only for a little while.
Blinking the flashback away, Stark glanced over to the rear of the dining hall again, but Vaccaro had already left.
“Too young, Colonel,” said Larson.
“And too pretty,” added Ryan.
“Like we say in Brooklyn, sir,” said Martin, “fuhgeddaboutit.”
“Won’t be able to keep up, sir,” said Ryan.
“Keep up or keep it up?” asked Martin, curling and stretching his index finger. “I heard PTSD meds mess with your winky.”
Stark just closed his eyes.
“Oh, yeah,” Ryan added. “And a pretty red thing like that probably needs it every day.”
“And twice on Sundays,” Martin said.
“I’d listen to the porn star, Colonel,” Ryan said.
“Plus, you saw the way she was looking at that jarhead captain,” Larson chimed in again, glancing over at Ryan. “Pure lust, wouldn’t you say, Romeo?”
“Pure,” said Ryan.
“Think the curtains match the drapes?” asked Martin.
“Only one way to find out,” Ryan said, while Hagen grinned and Larson laughed.
Stark slowly shook his head and quietly returned to his meal.
14
WASP
KANDAHAR AIRFIELD. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Laura Vaccaro sat at the edge of the tarmac under a sea of stars. In the distance the Sulaimans rose up to meet a moon just hovering above their jagged peaks. The range looked majestic, mysterious—even peaceful.
From a distance.
Up close and personal, however, she knew that dark forces were constantly at work against NATO. The jihadists, relentless in their quest to exterminate every last nonbeliever in their zealous cause, had a very simple strategy: kill every last soul inside these walls. To them it was a war of complete annihilation of the enemy at all cost, and that included dying in the process, which made them so damn dangerous.
Vaccaro frowned while staring at various jets, cargo planes, and helicopters taking off and landing. Off to the right, the ground crew towed her crippled Warthog from the spot she had parked it earlier that evening, by a long line of tied-down A-10s on the ramp, and into a hangar for repairs. Her eyes moved to the adjacent Warthog, her new ride as of two hours ago. Someone had even already stenciled her name on the side of the cockpit.
She contemplated it while reminiscing about the hundreds of combat hours she had flown in the formidable air support jet standing larger than life under the yellow glow of floodlights bathing a tarmac the size of dozens of football fields. To this day it amazed her that a plane that entered service in 1977 not only was still in business but also was kicking ass and taking numbers. And last she’d heard, this beast of a machine was going through a number of improvements, primarily in avionics, precision weaponry, and improved armor, to extend its service life to 2028.
But improvements aside, the Warthog was still the same basic robust platform she first flew in 1991, shortly after Congress lifted the restriction on women flying in combat.
Hugging her knees, Vaccaro stared at the large Laco Trier pilot’s watch on her left wrist while thinking of the female aviators that had come before her, trailblazers of yesteryear who had paved the way for her generation.
And it had all started with the WASP.
The legendary Women Airforce Service Pilots was formed in 1942 by pioneering civilian female pilots employed to fly military aircraft under the command of the U.S. Army Air Forces, the predecessor of the modern U.S. Air Force.
She filled her lungs with pride at the courage displayed by those pilots, who logged more than sixty million miles during the war years under the unflagging leadership of legends like Jackie Cochran and Nancy Love. The WASP flew every type of military aircraft of the time, from P-51 Mustangs to Spitfires, P-47 Thunderbolts, and all bomber models—in noncombat roles, but certainly in combat-type conditions. Their job was to relieve male pilots for combat duty in Europe and the Pacific, and it included test pilot duties, handling the delivery of airplanes from factories to airfields, training new male pilots, and running simulated strafing missions. The WASP even towed targets behind their fighters to train B-17 gunners using live ammunition. Of the 1,074 women who earned their wings to join the WASP ranks, thirty-eight lost their lives during World War II—eleven in training and twenty-seven in active duty.
As she thought of this, Vaccaro noticed a truck pulling up to the ramp a few hundred feet from her. It was filled with caskets draped in American flags.
She sta
red at the Stars and Stripes for a good minute or two, until a Boeing C-17 Globemaster III cargo jet caught her attention as it taxied from the runway. Its air force gray was dull in the floodlights as it stopped near the truck.
Probably from Dover, she thought. Dover Air Force Base, in Delaware, was home to the 512th Airlift Wing.
Shortly thereafter a long line of young men and some women, a mix of U.S. Army 82nd Airborne and U.S. Marines 7th Regiment, marched single file out of the rear ramp, hauling their standard-issue duffel bags. They headed to their respective branch’s welcoming committee, which included NCOs and some officers.
From high school proms to Afghanistan in as little as six months via Fort Benning or 29 Palms plus an air force ride, she thought, wondering how many of those kids were having sex in backseats this past spring.
She stared at their baby faces, most of them in their teens, innocent eyes gawking about after being cooped up in that jet for fifteen hours. She dropped her gaze to an older guy in civilian clothes walking among them down the ramp, hauling a backpack.
Probably another civilian contractor, she thought. The man certainly stuck out among the young GIs with his bald head and salt-and-pepper beard, breaking ranks with them on the tarmac to meet up with someone in a dark sedan with tinted windows. He threw his stuff in the rear, climbed in, and drove off.
The line of newcomers continued for another few minutes, quieting down when the large truck backed toward the ramp and the detail started to unload the coffins—a sight guaranteed to strip any notion of romanticized war from their minds.
“Yeah, kids,” she mumbled. “Welcome to hell.”
“Talking to yourself again?”
Vaccaro looked up and stared at John Wright in his running shorts, sneakers, and a Semper fi T-shirt. Perspiration filmed his face. He had two bottles of water and offered one to her.
Without Fear Page 11