Wings of Gold Series

by Tappan, Tracy

  “Yes.”

  “In the event of an emergency ground landing, don’t exit the aircraft until all violent motion has stopped or we tell you to do so. Once clear of the aircraft, meet at the twelve o’clock position—or where the nose of the helicopter used to be—and we’ll make a plan. Do you have any questions?”

  “Nope,” she said. “I’m ready.”

  He paused, studying her.

  Well, why shouldn’t she be ready? He looked and sounded like he knew what he was doing.

  One corner of his mouth twitched. “Good to know.” He instructed her to stay in the hangar until the AW escorted her to the helicopter, then he turned to Jobs and Tarzan. “Let’s pre-flight the aircraft. I’ll take the tail and rotor head.”

  The three men trotted onto the flight deck.

  She watched them climb all over the aircraft for the next fifteen minutes, nothing better to do than study Mister Enigma himself. Her feelers were already up and taking input about who Kyle Hammond really was: the man he acted around his men or the man he was with her? Maybe he—

  She nearly jumped clear of her boots when a high-pitched whistle blasted from the ship, immediately followed by a voice booming from a loudspeaker. “Flight quarters, flight quarters, all hands man your flight quarter stations!”

  As the loudspeaker continued to announce things she didn’t entirely understand—smoking lamp is out topside?—she saw several men dressed in floatation coats jog onto the flight deck. Some unchained the helicopter, while another hooked a cord up to the side of the aircraft. Jet engines whirrrrred to life. The rotor blades began to turn, faster and faster, until they were steadily hard-thumping the air.

  The noise grew deafening, and she pressed her hands over her ears.

  Tarzan appeared at her side and dropped the ‘cranial’ helmet on her head. Grabbing her by the arm, he led her across the tarmac.

  Her pants slapped her legs and her shirt billowed off her back.

  The AW helped her into the aircraft, plugged an electrical cord into the back of her helmet, then strapped her into a seat with a five-point restraint.

  “Tower,” she heard Kyle’s voice in her ear, “request green deck for takeoff.”

  “Roger,” an unfamiliar voice crackled back. “Winds are three-five-zero at fifteen knots, pitch two, roll four, RAST15 open. You have a green deck, cleared for takeoff.”

  The big beast lifted slowly. The body of the creature shuddered. Cords dangling from the roof swayed. And then the ship dropped far, far away…

  Chapter Four

  Turbulence. Kyle cursed silently. Passengers hated jerky rides, and catching bumpy air currents in an H-60 Romeo-class Seahawk helicopter was a helluva lot different than surfing rough swells on a commercial airliner. That was a little bit of rock ‘n’ roll.

  This was slam dancing in a mosh pit.

  “I’m going to descend,” he told Jobs. “Try to find smoother air.”

  Luckily, they were on the last leg of their journey. It’d been a long one, requiring two stops for fuel, one at a USNS16 supply ship in charge of UNREPs,17 and the second at a Pakistan air force base. Their mission was taking them deep into the northeast part of Pakistan to Azad Kashmir, near the border of Kashmir, India. JEM’s main base was said to be located in India’s southern Kashmir and Doda regions, and so it’d been arranged for the American journalist, Max Dougin, to make contact with JEM from Azad Kashmir.

  Max. Kyle nearly snorted. Just hit him in the middle of the forehead with a ball-peen hammer when Max Dougin strode into the Bunker Hill’s wardroom as a female. No, he hadn’t been happy to discover her sex. Bad enough he was being made to babysit a journalist on a dangerous mission without that person being a woman. But what could he do? As Admiral Kelleman had pointed out, they couldn’t find the hostages without Dougin. She was the person JEM was willing to allow into their inner sanctum.

  So Kyle had bright-sided it.

  They’d had fun last night, right? She’d come. He’d come. Why not go for more, liven up this deployment?

  The suggestion had earned him a laugh in the face.

  Not that he expected her to immediately pull her old Girl Scout uniform out of mothballs and play want to sample my cookies? with him. What he had expected was for her to flirt back. She’d been forward enough last night, making him instantly rejoice in his decision to take a taxi from the Captain’s Bar to the more divey Jebel Ali Club where he found her.

  This morning in the Bunker Hill’s wardroom when she first saw him, she’d been…not cold exactly, not even lukewarm, just…utterly unperturbed. Only a slight flicker of a single eyebrow had acknowledged she’d recognized him for who he was. And he’d never encountered a woman who didn’t react in some way to a run-in with him after a one-night stand—a quiet gasp, a little blush, an excited thrill leaping to her eyes at the prospect of a do-over.

  Had last night been so meaningless to Max Dougin that she’d already set it aside completely? If so, he almost had to admire her for it. He didn’t think so, though. She wasn’t a pro at the ol’ fuck-and-shuffle. He knew woman, and even though Max let him make a meat popsicle out of her last night, such a thing wasn’t her regular MO. The moment he stepped into the Jebel Ali Club, he got a bead on her; she was a woman on the prowl for a little out-of-the-ordinary adventure.

  He’d been happy to accommodate.

  He was happy to continue to accommodate, as he made clear. Although, frankly, if it wasn’t for all the months of deployment-induced sexual deprivation stretching out ahead of him, he would’ve passed on a second helping of Max Dougin. She wasn’t his type. He was a tit-man. Full-bodied women with long hair were his preference, and Max was made up of angles and edges. She had a pointed chin, sharp cheekbones, and the bones in her shoulders, at the base of her throat, and at her hips thrust out in rigid relief against the sleekness of her muscles. Okay, he’d give her that—she was pleasantly lithe. He’d been telling the truth last night when he complimented her thigh muscles. And her eyes. They were downright incredible. The main part of her iris was dark indigo while her pupil was surrounded by a lighter shade of blue. The combination gave the impression of her eyes being lit up. Which was really cool, and…back to her tits… He had to offer up another gimme. While on the small side, they were soft and supple as cream puffs.

  “Sir,” Jobs’ voice came through his earpiece. “We’re thirty miles from our destination.”

  “Roger that.”

  They were flying to an aid station located just outside the tiny town of Saaneh, approximately twenty miles east of the Mangla Dam and very near the Indian border. The facility had been set up by an NGO, or non-governmental organization, called International Humanitarian Medical Relief. IHMR specialized in offering medical care in times of crisis. They’d been one of the first on the scene in Haiti after the 2010 earthquake, and they spent a lot of time all over Africa. In this case, they’d landed in Pakistan because hostilities had recently flared up between Pakistan and India, two long-time enemies; and since IHMR had deemed that Pakistan was on the losing end of most skirmishes, they established their aid station on the Pakistani side.

  “And, Jobs,” Kyle added to his copilot, “if you keep calling me ‘sir,’ instead of ‘Mikey,’ I’m going to collect some of your teeth.” Banking left, Kyle flew the aircraft between the two ranges of jagged rock where the aid station was located, aiming for a dirt area at the northern tip of the camp large enough to accommodate three helicopters. The area had been cleared of FOD18 as best it could to create a makeshift landing pad.

  From the sky, Kyle could see that a perimeter fence made up of huge rolls of bailing wire surrounded the entire camp, landing pad included—the kind of fence which stopped human incursion, but not bullets. To the south of the landing pad was the motor pool, and next to that, a rectangular-shaped structure about one hundred fifty feet long—or half the length of a football field—constructed of wood and desert-colored canvas. The roof was painted with a large red cross,
designating it as the main medical tent.

  Kyle came in on final approach, his helo blowing up twin tubular waves of sand from either side of it as he set down the wheels on the landing zone. Normally the Pakistani government wouldn’t have allowed a US military aircraft to land in their country, but due to the current hostage crisis, they’d granted special permission for a team of journalists to be dropped off.

  Kyle checked his sight lines, scanning for threats. Strange thing about the terrain in this part of Pakistan, it wasn’t strictly desert, but a patchy mix of green grass and arid sand, trees peppered throughout—like the countryside couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. Kyle didn’t spot any troublemakers, so he shut off the engines. The rotors slowed, then stilled.

  He swung out of the cockpit, then sent Max off to settle into her private quarters while he and his men erected a tent of desert camouflage over the helo. After that, he left Tarzan to do the Daily and Turn19 inspection on the aircraft, and he and Jobs headed for the main medical tent.

  A road from outside the aid station led from the only gate to the front of the main medical tent. It curved around like a U-shaped drop-off driveway, returning to the exit. A dirt circle about ten yards in diameter sat to the right, or south, of this U. From its center a flag pole thrust up into the sky, flying the IHMR logo: a medical symbol—which was two snakes winding around a winged staff—with two human hands clasped, one light, one dark, just above it.

  Kyle and Jobs’ progress was tracked by a Pakistani sentry posted between the flag circle and the road. The guy managed to look bored while still maintaining a rigid posture. The sounds of a working camp filled the air: the occasional voice raised to a shout, hammering coming from somewhere, the steady flapping of the IHMR flag in the breeze, the tacka-tacka-tacka of something mechanical running—he’d guess a second-rate generator.

  At medical, Kyle checked in with Dr. Farrin Barr, the IHMR physician in charge. Dr. Barr was in her early thirties, of medium height, and came from Middle Eastern or Arab ancestry if her black hair, off-white skin, and almond-shaped dark brown eyes were taken into account. Attractive, if exotic was a man’s type. It wasn’t necessarily his.

  The resident corpsman, however, was. HM320 Katherine Hart, or just plain Kitty as she was called here in order to keep a low profile—American military were a no-no on Pakistani soil—represented every man’s fantasy girl-next-door darlin’. She spoke with a sweet Southern accent, had big blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, and chestnut-colored hair, which was wrapped into a tight bun at her nape—a decent-sized bun, so she probably had a fair amount of hair. She was on the short side, but packing a nice set of curves.

  Maybe he’d take a run at her if Max didn’t pan out.

  The thought woke up the Universe, the Big U butting in with a lot of finger-wagging and bullshit about how screwing one woman while on a mission with another, who he’d also screwed, was the quickest way to crash and burn this mission. Oh, and—tap, tap on the shoulder—fraternization between officers and enlisted was illegal.

  For once, he must’ve listened, because the idea of bagging the corpsman didn’t entirely appeal.

  “Meal times are at oh-seven-hundred, twelve-hundred, and eighteen-hundred,” Dr. Barr was telling them as she led their group into the post-op ward. “Water is rationed here, so take military showers.”

  The sharp scent of antiseptic pierced Kyle’s senses, and he stayed by the door with a whole lot of get me out of here going through his brain. Too many of his bad memories involved hospitals.

  Dr. Barr gestured at the line of twenty immaculately-made beds stretched down either side of the tent, so forty in all. IVs dripped down to three men in post-op beds. “We haven’t been too busy, lately. Thank goodness. There’s only been light skirmishing. Still, the border is volatile. You need to consider anything outside of our fence line a hot zone.” She picked up a clipboard and glanced at it. “If we get incoming, you’ll be expected to help with the wounded. We’re a small outfit. Any questions?”

  “Anyone else American military besides the corpsman?” Kyle asked.

  “Two Seamen orderlies were also given to me off the USNS Mercy,”21 the doctor answered. “Other IHMR employees include a secretary, supply administrator, anesthesiologist, and two cooks. The two men who do the laundry are Pakistani locals, and the guards are all Pakistani military.”

  Kyle nodded.

  “I’ve assigned you and Lieutenant Whitmore to tent eight. Your enlisted man can bunk with my two cooks in tent nine. There is a barracks here, but it’s only for the Pakistani guardsmen. I’m in tent seven, if you need me. Anything else?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Dr. Barr started to turn away, then, “Oh. The woman you arrived with, a, uh, Max Dougin, wanted to see you when you were done with me. She’s in tent ten.”

  “Thank you,” Kyle said.

  He and Jobs went outside, and were met by Tarzan. The three of them strode to the south edge of the flag circle, where a footpath led to the rest of camp, like Main Street in a small town. Ten to fifteen tents were stacked along the main path at precise intervals. The tents were of various sizes, but all built of the same wood and canvas semi-permanent material as the main medical building.

  Boots stirring up dust, the three of them passed the supply tent, the latrine, at which point Kyle’s senses got smacked with the caustic smell of urine cakes, then continued on past the barracks—which was pumping out some kind of high-pitched, whiny, let’s-kill-the-infidel music—the showers, then the mess hall. Kyle caught a distinct hamburger aroma, and if he didn’t feel like he’d been chewing on sand grains ever since he landed in this dusty rathole, he might’ve gotten hungry. He dismissed Jobs and Tarzan to grab evening chow. Finally, he came to a row of smaller tents—living spaces for the personnel here.

  Tent number ten was the size of a small vacation beach bungalow, built of wood and tan canvas, like everything else in this colorless outfit. The door was wood, and Kyle knocked on it, then entered at Max’s call.

  She was unpacking her equipment bag, just setting a laptop on her cot when he entered.

  A second cot was on the other side of the tent, an olive green sleeping bag slumped on it. A small stand of shelves set next to the tent wall stored the miscellaneous junk—books, brushes, framed photograph, toiletries bag—of the person whose living space this was.

  Glancing over her shoulder, Max noticed him studying the other bed. “It turns out I’m sharing with Kitty.”

  Kyle moved further into the room. “Dr. Barr said you summoned.” He grinned. “Changed your mind about me already, have you?” He reached for his belt, as if he was going to undo it.

  She flipped open her laptop and booted it up. “This is going to be a very long assignment if you keep doing that.”

  She didn’t sound perturbed. Only amused with him. So glad he could be of service. He half-curled his lip into the vague consideration of a sneer, annoyance with her warring with respect.

  “Actually—” She pulled a cell phone out of a small backpack. “I’m finishing up your fake bio online and need a picture of you to upload. You appear too military in the photos I found of you on your Facebook page. And, ahem, always with a different woman.”

  He cocked a brow. Did that bother her? Difficult to tell. Which added numbers to his annoyance percentage. Her ability to play it cool continued to be world-class. “What can I say?” He hitched a single shoulder. “I’m a sociable kind of guy.”

  She raised her phone to him. “Smile,” she instructed.

  He deepened the crooked lean of his mouth.

  She clicked the camera on her phone. “You’re Richard Sagget from CBS News.”

  “Whoever you want me to be, honey.”

  Not a twitch out of her.

  “I’ll call you Dick for short,” she said.

  Ah-ha! There was the perturbed he’d been vying for. “Oh, Max, better not. It would be like a mating call for me. Let’s go with Rick.”

  S
he guffawed softly as she connected her cell phone to her laptop.

  “Whoa, I made you laugh,” he said triumphantly. “That’s the first I’ve heard you laugh since…hell, since you seduced me last night with, ‘hey, baby, I’m going out in the field tomorrow to hunt terrorists, and I don’t know if I’m going to make it back.’”

  He paused, poised for a blustering correction about him being the one to seduce her, not the other way around. None came.

  She just placed her laptop on her knees and started clacking away on the keyboard.

  “What a line, Max,” he went on, still trying to bait her…to see what her amazing eyes would do when she got riled. “Did you think—?” He stopped. Hold up. He frowned suddenly, a funny feeling building in his stomach. Max’s fingers clacking on the computer keys looked a little stiff. She was…tense. “Holy shit!” It was a day for ball-peen hammers to the forehead, because another cracked him a good one. “You weren’t kidding with that line, were you?”

  Clackity-clack…clackity-clack…

  “Max?” he snapped.

  She stopped typing, but kept her focus on the computer screen and didn’t speak.

  He set his hands on his hips. “Are you actually afraid of dying on this mission?”

  Another infuriating pause. “Does it matter?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes unnaturally dim.

  Which was enough to make a man want to hurl himself on a grenade for her.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because…” Because, dammit, I’ll be with you, and I want you to believe I can keep you safe. “Because I need to know if you have intel I’m unaware of.”

  “Nothing that would affect your part of this mission.”

  He scowled at her. “Maybe you could clue me in so I can form my own opinion.”

  She exhaled a sharp breath. “All right. Have you ever heard of Daniel Pearl?”