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Damien's Christmas

Page 16

by M. L. Buchman


  The Night Stalkers were a damned secretive lot, and after two years of training, she understood why. With seven years flying for the 10th, she’d thought she was good.

  She’d been repeatedly lauded as one of the top pilots at Fort Drum.

  The Night Stalkers had offered an education in what it really meant to fly. In the two years of training, she’d flown more hours than in the seven years prior, despite two deployments to Iraq. And spent more time in the classroom than her life-to-date accumulated flight hours.

  But she was ready now. It was très viscérale, right down in her bones she could feel it. The Chinook was as much a part of her nervous system as breathing.

  Too bad they didn’t build men they way they built the big Chinooks—especially the MH-47G which were built specifically to SOAR’s requirements. The aircraft were steady, trustworthy, and the most immensely powerful helicopters deployed in the U.S. Army—what more could a girl ask for? But finding a superhero man to go with her superhero helicopter was just a fantasy for a lonely teenage girl.

  She dove down into a canyon and slid to a hover mere inches over the reservoir inside the thirty-second window laid out on the flight plan.

  Danielle resisted a sigh. She was ready for something to happen and to happen soon.

  Pete’s Chinook and his two escort Black Hawks crossed into the mountainous province of Sikkim, India ten feet over the glaciers and still moving fast. It was an hour before dawn, they’d made it out of China while it was still dark.

  “Twenty minutes of fuel remaining,” Nicolai said it like a personal challenge when they hit the border.

  “Thanks, I never would have noticed.”

  It had been a nail-biting tradeoff: the more fuel he burned, the more easily he climbed due to the lighter load. The more he climbed, the faster he burned what little fuel remained.

  Safe in Indian airspace he climbed hard as Nicolai counted down the minutes remaining, burning fuel even faster than he had been while crossing the mountains of southern Tibet. They caught up with the U.S. Air Force HC-130P Combat King refueling tanker with only ten minutes of fuel left.

  “Ram that bitch,” Nicolai called out.

  Pete extended the refueling probe which reached only a few feet beyond the forward edge of the rotor blade and drove at the basket trailing behind the tanker on its long hose.

  He nailed it on the first try despite the fluky winds. Striking the valve in the basket with over four hundred pounds of pressure, a clamp snapped over the refueling probe and Jet A fuel shot into his tanks.

  His helo had the least fuel due to having the most men aboard, so he was first in line. His Number Two picked up the second refueling basket trailing off the other wing of the Combat King. Thirty seconds and three hundred gallons later and he was breathing much more easily.

  “Ah,” Nicolai sighed. “It is better than the sex,” his thick Russian accent only ever surfaced in this moment or in a bar while picking up women.

  “Hey, Nicolai,” Nicky the Greek called over the intercom from his crew chief position seated behind Pete. “Do you make love in Russian?”

  A question Pete had always been careful to avoid.

  “For you, I make special exception.” That got a laugh over the system.

  Which explained why Pete always kept his mouth shut at this moment.

  “The ladies, Nicolai? What about the ladies?” Alfie the portside gunner asked.

  “Ah,” he sighed happily as he signaled that the other choppers had finished their refueling and formed up to either side, “the ladies love the Russian. They don’t need to know I grew up in Maryland and I learn my great-great-grandfather’s native tongue at the University called Virginia.”

  He sounded so pleased that Pete wished he’d done the same rather than study Japanese and Mandarin.

  Another two hours of—thank god—straight-and-level flight at altitude through the breaking dawn and they landed on the aircraft carrier awaiting them in the Bay of Bengal. India had agreed to turn a blind eye as long as the Americans never actually touched their soil.

  Once standing on the deck—and the worst of the kinks worked out—he pulled his team together: six pilots and seven crew chiefs.

  “Honor to serve!” He saluted them sharply.

  “Hell yeah!” They shouted in response and saluted in turn. It was their version of spiking the football in the end zone.

  A petty officer in a bright green vest appeared at his elbow, “Follow me please, sir.” He pointed toward the Navy-gray command structure that towered above the carrier’s deck. The Commodore of the entire carrier group was waiting for him just outside the entrance. Not a good idea to keep a One-Star waiting, so he waved at the team.

  “See you in the mess for dinner,” he shouted to the crew over the noise of an F-18 Hornet fighter jet trapping on the #2 wire. After two days of surviving on MREs while squatting on the Tibetan tundra, he was ready for a steak, a burger, a mountain of pasta, whatever. Or maybe all three.

  The green escorted him across the hazards of the busy flight deck. Pete had kept his helmet on to buffer the noise, but even at that he winced as another Hornet fired up and was flung aloft by the catapult.

  “Orders, Major Napier,” the Commodore handed him a folded sheet the moment he arrived. “Hate to lose you.”

  The Commodore saluted, which Pete automatically returned before looking down at the sheet of paper in his hands. The man was gone before the import of Pete’s orders slammed in.

  A different green-clad deckhand showed up with Pete’s duffle bag and began guiding him toward a loading C-2 Greyhound twin-prop airplane. It was parked number two for the launch catapult, close behind the raised jet-blast deflector.

  His crew, being led across in the opposite direction to return to the berthing decks below, looked at him aghast.

  “Stateside,” was all he managed to gasp out as they passed.

  A stream of foul cursing followed him from behind. Their crew was tight. Why the hell was Command breaking it up?

  And what in the name of fuck-all had he done to deserve this?

  He glanced at the orders again as he stumbled up the Greyhound’s rear ramp and crash landed into a seat.

  Training rookies?

  It was worse than a demotion.

  This was punishment.

  About the Author

  M. L. Buchman has over 50 novels and 40 short stories in print. Military romantic suspense titles from both his Night Stalker and Firehawks series have been named Booklist “Top 10 of the Year,” placing two titles on their “Top 101 Romances of the Last 10 Years” list. His Delta Force series opener, Target Engaged, was a 2016 RWA RITA finalist. In addition to romance, he also writes thrillers, fantasy, and science fiction.

  In among his career as a corporate project manager he has: rebuilt and single-handed a fifty-foot sailboat, both flown and jumped out of airplanes, designed and built two houses, and bicycled solo around the world.

  He is now making his living as a full-time writer on the Oregon Coast with his beloved wife and is constantly amazed at what you can do with a degree in Geophysics. You may keep up with his writing and receive a free Starter Library by subscribing to his newsletter at www.mlbuchman.com.

  Also by M. L. Buchman

  The Night Stalkers

  Main Flight

  The Night Is Mine

  I Own the Dawn

  Wait Until Dark

  Take Over at Midnight

  Light Up the Night

  Bring On the Dusk

  By Break of Day

  White House Holiday

  Daniel’s Christmas

  Frank’s Independence Day

  Peter’s Christmas

  Zachary’s Christmas

  Roy’s Independence Day

  Damien’s Independence Day

  and the Navy

  Christmas at Steel Beach

  Christmas at Peleliu Cove

  5E

  Target of the Heart

&nb
sp; Target Lock on Love

  Firehawks

  Main Flight

  Pure Heat

  Full Blaze

  Hot Point

  Flash of Fire

  Smokejumpers

  Wildfire at Dawn

  Wildfire at Larch Creek

  Wildfire on the Skagit

  Delta Force

  Main Flight

  Target Engaged

  Heart Strike

  Angelo’s Hearth

  Where Dreams are Born

  Where Dreams Reside

  Maria’s Christmas Table

  Where Dreams Unfold

  Where Dreams Are Written

  Eagle Cove

  Return to Eagle Cove

  Recipe for Eagle Cove

  Longing for Eagle Cove

  Keepsake for Eagle Cove

  Deities Anonymous

  Cookbook from Hell: Reheated

  Saviors 101

  Dead Chef

  Swap Out!

  One Chef!

  Two Chef!

  SF/F Titles

  Nara

  Monk’s Maze

  The Me and Elsie Chronicles

  * * *

  Don’t miss a thing! Get a free starter library!

  www.mlbuchman.com

  Copyright 2016 Matthew Lieber Buchman

  Published by Buchman Bookworks

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the author.

  Cover images: US Marine One © Blakeley

  Beautiful Couple, Groom And Bride Wear Wedding Clothes,embracing In Bedroom © Happydari

  Enjoying The Christmas Tree © Shootalot

  * * *

  Discover more by this author at: www.mlbuchman.com

 

 

 


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