Frankie was madly in love with it.
She had nicknamed their helicopter Zena and it took all of her limbs to make the helo behave as it was intended. Her right hand held a stick called a cyclic that rose vertically from the floor between her legs. Her left hand gripped the collective, an oversized stick-shift controlling the pitch of the main rotor blades. Her feet rested on a set of pedals that governed the tail rotor.
Hanging judiciously from the overhead console was her good luck charm...her dad’s Marine Corps dog tags.
To her left, she was aware that Gage was now talking to their flight mechanic in the rear of the aircraft, double-checking strategies. Chief Warrant Officer Quinton Herriman’s accent, low and distinctly Australian, hummed in her ear above the roar of twin engines. As crew chief, everything that went on in the back of the helo was his responsibility.
Damon was their rescue swimmer.
That morning had started out as absolutely glorious. Sunny, with a light northwesterly breeze and exceptional visibility. A few wispy cirrus clouds floated high in the atmosphere. Every seaworthy vessel in New Harbor’s marina had launched, sometimes squeezing three abreast on their way out of the bay.
Frankie arrived a few minutes early, received a concise report from the off-going pilot and wandered out to check on the helicopter. She was seated on a grassy knoll bordering the perimeter of the circular helipad, a pair of binoculars resting in her lap, when her pretty-boy crew rambled in.
Damon had a maniacal grin on his face.
“Good morning, boss!” he yelled out to her.
“You’re too happy for this time of morning,” she answered. “Do I dare ask what you’ve been up to?”
His reply was a wicked smirk.
Quinton came in seconds later holding a large foil-covered pan.
“Mornin’, Chief,” Damon called to him. “What’s in the pan? I’m starving!”
“Lasagna’s not for breakfast, mate. Isabelle made us this for dinner.”
Gage was the last to roll in and was more surly than usual. Instead of spending a few moments teasing her, he swept past with a gruff “good morning” and immediately went to work placing a call to the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration for the latest weather and seismic activity reports.
Two hours later, the emergency call for assistance came. A thirty-foot motorboat struck a rock and was sinking fast. Her water pumps could not keep up with the inflow of sea. Keeping her eyes on the horizon, ahead in the distance Frankie saw the trailing red pattern of a civilian flare.
“I have two confirmed in the water,” came Gage’s no-nonsense advisory moments later.
Frankie angled down. She eased Zena forward, hovering at a set altitude from the surface and listened for Quinton’s instructions.
The Voice began calling out distances.
“Left five, right three, forward five.”
Beside her, Gage mirrored the instructions with his outstretched arm in a clipped series of hand signals. He was a firm believer in redundant systems and left nothing to chance. If radio communications went out, they could still get the job done.
“Hold.”
With slight flicks of her wrist, Frankie countered the tendency of the helicopter to drift left. She kept them stable at a fixed distance from the victims. Helicopter backwash could be overwhelming. The coastal waters at their latitude were bitterly cold even in late summer. Anyone forced overboard wouldn’t last long in the frigid water before succumbing to hypothermia. If the survivors could not swim to the rescue basket and enter it of their own accord, Damon would be deployed to assist.
“Hatch open. Request hoist power.”
“Roger.”
She had an alpha crew, Frankie thought with satisfaction while keeping their position steady. Nothing ever rattled them. All three had military training and Damon had gone on to become a paramedic. Gage was a former PJ, a pararescueman with New York’s elite 106th. Quinton had been with Australia’s Special Air Service Regiment before moving to the states. Her crew was competent, diverse. They made her proud.
“Right three. Hold.”
The wind had picked up. Gusts buffeted the aircraft. Frankie quickly corrected. She glanced down. The people in the water clung desperately to one another but showed no sign of swimming to the rescue basket.
“Take us in for extraction.”
Frankie toggled the controls.
Damon gave a thumbs-up and plunged into the water below. He swam rapidly towards the two and signaled for the basket.
“Forward five. Hold,” the Voice instructed.
The first survivor pulled in was a woman. She was abnormally quiet, shaking uncontrollably. Quinton rapidly checked her for any obvious injuries, wrapped her in a warm blanket and sent the basket back down.
* * * *
Gage watched Frankie deftly maneuver the controls to keep them in a stable hover. She almost made it look easy. Her “control touch” was the best he’d ever seen in a pilot. For a moment he had a fleeting fantasy of those same hands running down the small of his back and gripping his naked hips as she took him inside her tight body. Gage shook his head to clear the unwanted image. Thoughts of sex with her assaulted him from time to time, often at the most ridiculous moments.
Gage studied her face. Under the formidable helmet was a cool, decisive head behind elegant cheekbones. She never cut corners, never did a half-assed job, no matter how extreme the fatigue. That she was particularly easy on the eyes didn’t hurt matters either.
When she’d first transferred to their crew, Gage was vocal about his reservations. She was green, untested and he let her know about it. “I hear your previous flying’s been limited to mail runs,” he had accused.
“If shuttling parts around the East Coast with an occasional maintenance flight thrown in for good measure was all I ever did, I wouldn’t be here,” she spoke quietly.
“You only have six months of actual rescue piloting to your credit,” he reminded her.
“Enough to get this job.”
Not nearly enough to his way of thinking. Gage badgered her constantly, easing off only after hearing through the grapevine that her sister was dying of cancer.
Gage’s attention focused back to the water.
The second victim crawled into the basket. Damon clung to the line above the basket and made the journey alongside, as Quinton hoisted them up.
“Boom stowed. Ready for forward flight.”
“Affirmative.”
Gage gave Frankie the sign. She worked the anti-torque pedals at her feet, banked thirty degrees starboard and headed back to base with a hundred gallons of fuel still left in the tanks.
* * * *
Safe and sound in the rambling white mansion known as Air Station Harmony Bay, the rescued couple snuggled together under warm blankets, sipped steaming cups of hot coffee while awaiting their ride to the airport.
The estate at Harmony Bay was purchased when it became clear that the New Harbor cutter station needed air support. The two-story structure was built in the late nineteenth century by a wealthy lumber mill owner as a summer home for his family.
Boasting a large stone fireplace encased in the south wall and rows of enormous windows looking out over the helipad and ocean beyond, the air base was a mix of old and new.
Maps of the northern Pacific region, bulletin boards, detailed topographical charts and tide tables adorned most of the wall space. A bevy of radios, flight suits and assorted electronic equipment joined the melee of what had once been a sprawling living room for a rich family.
“Ira Bergmann?” Frankie spoke with awe. “Ira Bergmann the movie producer?”
Frankie stuck out her hand and gave his a vibrant shake. His head bobbed. Sprigs of gray hair swayed under the force of her handshake.
“I am soooooo pleased to meet you.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you too, young lady,” he answered. “Thank you for saving our lives.”
Frankie smoothe
d her hands down her flight suit, dragged a chair across the floor in front of them, swung it around backwards and straddled it.
“How are you feeling, ma’am?”
“Better,” the older woman answered in a shaky voice.
“Ma’am, I am Captain Moriarty,” Frankie officially introduced herself. “Would you like more coffee?”
She shook her head no. “Please, call me Lonnie.”
“Lonnie, I am required to file an incident report anytime we answer a distress call. I was wondering if you and your husband feel up to answering a few questions?”
Lonnie glanced nervously at her husband.
“We’ll try.”
Ira Bergmann took a long sip of coffee and steeled himself to account for the boating accident.
“Everything happened so fast that I’m a bit sketchy on the details.”
“Understandable,” Frankie said softly.
“Lonnie and I were relaxing in the cockpit, enjoying a cocktail. We were talking about our new grandchild. The autopilot was on when we heard a terrible wrenching noise from below deck. The boat came to a jarring halt. I was thrown to my knees. Then we started taking on water.” He blinked back a tear and cleared his throat with a cough. “What else can I answer for you?”
Frankie flashed a genuine smile and hesitated before speaking.
“It must have been very frightening for you.”
“Oh, well, yes it was.”
Frankie tried to lighten the moment. “As stressful as working with actors and directors?”
“Almost,” Bergmann smiled.
“They must really test your patience.”
Bergmann relaxed a bit. “Yes, they can also be exceptionally good at testing my checkbook.”
Frankie chuckled. “I watched the last movie you co-produced with Vin Diesel, three times. What a great action flick. I hope you plan on doing a sequel.”
Bergmann nodded.
“So, is his last name really Diesel?”
“Uh, no.”
She contemplated his answer a moment, eyes gleaming with excitement.
“Do you happen to know if he could use an extra stunt pilot?”
She heard someone exhale a loud grunt.
“I don’t know,” Bergmann answered.
* * * *
Gage watched from a corner chair while he polished his scuffed boots. What was wrong with Frankie? Instead of questioning Bergmann about the boating accident, she was steering the conversation towards movies and some actor. What the hell was going on? He glanced over and met Quinton’s perplexed look from across the wide room. The big Aussie shrugged.
“Captain?” Gage interrupted. “Don’t you have a report to write?”
“Yeah, in a minute,” she answered and turned back to Bergmann. “Would you like more coffee, sir?”
“No thank you. I’m jittery enough as it is.”
“I was wondering,” she paused in mid-thought. “Do you know how I could get an autographed picture of Vin?”
You would think she’s a damned groupie or something, Gage thought bleakly. For some reason, listening to her so jazzed about some guy got his hackles up. She was a Coast Guard rescue pilot, for God’s sake. One of the finest he ever worked with. What was the deal? Was she taking a second stab at puberty?
“Captain?”
“Lieutenant?”
“Would you like some help rinsing down the helicopter?”
“No thanks. I’ll do it in a moment.”
Gage tried again.
“Captain, we need to refuel.”
“We have plenty of fuel. We’ll top the tanks off later.” She turned back to face Bergmann. “I read an article in the local paper last week. Is it true that Vin does all his own stunts?”
Enough was enough.
Gage couldn’t sit there and listen to one more second of her babble. The next thing she’d want to know was if the guy slept naked. His eyes narrowed. He jumped up and stormed off through the kitchen, slamming the garage door behind him so forcefully that the entire house shook.
* * * *
Frankie knew their visitors were worn out from their harrowing experience but she couldn’t help herself. Opportunity was knocking. She might never get another chance like this. She had lusted after Vin Diesel since she first set eyes on him. Frankie had sat there in the theater, ignoring her buttered popcorn and soft drink, while waves of drooling desire swamped her.
He was not the typical pretty boy.
In fact, he was downright sinister. Yet there was something about him that made her want to do all the kinky things her friends in the Sisterhood talked about.
Frankie jumped at the sound of the garage door slamming and glanced up. The massive windows hummed with vibration under the force. Quinton was standing by the fireplace, looking sheepish. Damon was smothering laughter behind his large hands and Gage was nowhere to be seen. Her face warmed to three shades of red in rapid progression.
"I’m really sorry going on like this. You must be tired and hungry. I can't seem to stop myself. I’m very sorry." Frankie stood up. "Let me get you a sandwich.” She flashed Ira a sly grin and whispered under her breath, “Maybe after you’re rested we can talk some more about Vin?"
* * * *
“Damon? Have you been doing the laundry again?”
Through the window a clean and sparkling bright helicopter glared reddish-orange in the sun. Frankie was in the laundry room folding clothes. From somewhere in the kitchen she heard, “How did you know?”
“A lucky guess. Quinton won’t be happy with these socks. I think you’ve invented a new color for the crayon box.”
“Hey, I always wanted to be famous.”
“Would you settle for infamous?” Quinton lobbed the remark from his perch on the stairs leading up to the second floor where he was busy with pencil and ruler, sketching a proposed room addition to his house. Frankie glanced over at him and smiled. His voice soothed her raw nerves like a bath in warm honey. Vin Diesel excluded, if someone asked her the dictionary definition of stud, Frankie would have to smile and point her finger at Quinton. Six foot three, with the broad shoulders and build of an athlete, The Voice was not only gorgeous but he knew how to listen.
“I’ve got a question for you, Almighty Swordsman.” Frankie spoke to Damon in a loud, supercilious voice. “Which one of the Sisterhood is going to be your next victim?”
“Victim?” His nappy blonde head appeared around the corner of the laundry room. Devious brown eyes flashed with amusement. “That’s a harsh word to use for the services I provide.”
“If the perversion fits…”
“Actually, I was thinking about taking on an extra credit project.”
“Extra credit?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t like the sound of this.”
“Can I get Lauren’s phone number from you?”
“Lauren doesn’t like boys. Who are you really after?”
Gage suddenly materialized beside Damon, sweaty from running the beach. “He’s going after Claire,” Gage spoke softly.
“Why Claire?” she asked.
Damon was giving her a cheeky grin. Frankie shook her head. The carefree youngest member of their team was a superb specimen in the prime of life. His six-pack abs and tight, round ass sent cars drifting off the blacktop while their drivers strained to get a better look.
“The other one,” Damon gestured in the air, trying to come up with a name.
“Sophia?”
“Sophia,” Damon confirmed. “Well, I saw her at the grocery store in Fairhaven last week. I was picking up some burgers for a barbecue my buddies were having.”
“Yeah, sure,” Frankie interjected.
“Honest. All I did was say hello. She started backing up and dropped a big sack of potatoes.” Damon shook his head. “The way she overreacted, you would’ve thought I was some flasher in a trench coat.” He took a deep breath. “She’s gonna take some work so I’m saving her for last.”
/>
Frankie smiled.
Virgins always were a tad skittish, especially when confronted by a known predator of Damon’s caliber. Sophia was Frankie’s trump card, the polar opposite of the twenty-six year old facing her now. If anyone in the Sisterhood would foil him and allow her to win the bet, it would be the judicious Sophia. Across the room, Quinton was grinning devilishly. Frankie gave him a wink.
“You think Claire will be easier to score with than Sophia?” she asked.
“Let’s say that some women have trouble dealing with physical attraction. I think Sophia might be one of them and I want to devote plenty of time to help her get past that phobia.”
Frankie tried to look serious. “Are you sure? Maybe she’s not interested in what you have to offer. I know the thought has never crossed your mind but not every woman on earth is interested in coupling with you,” Frankie said flatly.
Damon was instantly suspicious. “You haven’t broken one of the rules of our bet, have you, boss?”
* * * *
Gage broke up their chatter with a bitter outburst. “Frankie, what was that crap about Van Diesel earlier today?”
Her mouth fell open.
“Vin,” Damon corrected.
“Right.” Gage gave Damon the look. He was tired and irritated and didn’t need a dose of the kid’s righteous shit right now. The thought of Frankie turned-on about some stranger really pissed him off.
He had gone running on the beach to work off his aggravation yet the foul mood remained. The Bergmanns were long gone, probably relaxing in their Malibu mansion by now, and he was still smoldering. In the years that she had been their pilot, Gage had never seen Frankie show a speck of serious interest in the opposite sex. She was sassy as hell and could yuck it up with the crudest of them, yet she never openly flirted with any man. Like a big brother, Gage covertly kept track of her activities. To his knowledge, she didn’t date. He was relatively confident she didn’t swing the other way and as far as he knew, nothing out of the ordinary had been going on in her life lately. Was her lapse in sanity one of those freaky, biological time clock moments that single women her age were occasionally afflicted with? Why hadn’t she told him she was in need of some companionship? He ran a hand through his wavy brown hair and watched while she calmly folded his underwear. “You were supposed to be questioning them about the boating accident,” he spurted.
Guarding the Coast Page 2