She distracted herself by inspecting the crews that were in turn inspecting their latest addition, like they were a neighborhood welcoming committee really unhappy about who just bought the house next door.
Lola could identify Tim and Big John. And when the knock-’em-dead blond slipped up beside the equally handsome, blue-eyed Major with the distinctly amused grin, she knew she’d spotted Major Emily Beale and Viper Henderson. Damn, their kids were gonna be something amazing to look at.
The two other women had taken one look at her and turned back to shut down their bird. So, these were the first three women of SOAR. Not exactly the warmest of welcomes. Well, they were going to have to deal. She made four.
The two copilots were already working on their post-engagement reports, flight suits peeled down with the arms tied around their waists, white T-shirts clinging to their frames, damp with the heat. If the weather was this hot in mid-March, what was summer like? Both guys were nice enough to look at, but the excitement of a little blood was insufficient to distract them from their jobs.
“Black Adders.” Big John flashed her another one of his big, easy smiles. “Those lucky enough to fly with Viper Henderson and his wife. That’s what you are now, a Black Adder.”
“We’ll see.” One of the women paused long enough in cleaning her weapon to glare down at Lola. “Gotta have more than a lousy scrape to be a Black Adder.”
Stung by the automatic dismissal, Lola pushed to her feet. Resisting the urge to steady herself on the shoulder of the corpsman who even now was taping on the final bandage, she stepped over to the Sergeant. She looked down at the woman, a full head shorter than Lola. She had long, Asian black hair with a single, dyed-blond streak, narrow eyes, and a brick-shithouse body. Real breasts, something Lola had always wanted and never grown.
Lola moved up until she was toe to toe with the woman.
“Sergeant, I got way more couilles than you ever dreamed of. And that’s Black Adder Sir to y’all. We be clear here?” She could feel the Creole flowing out of her. She bit down on her tongue before she could go too far. She knew that once her own temper was really rolling, it would be hard to reel it back in before it burned her.
She could see the woman’s temper rising fast and hard. Well done. Screwing up the team before she’d even stepped aboard. She’d just turned a bit of derision into a battlefield. Well, to hell with her.
Before she could let loose another round, the other crew chief stepped up. Hazel eyes, a cascade of soft brunette hair around a quiet face.
“Give her a break, Kee. She’s flown with me before. She’s alright. And you know how long a haul it is from the States.”
Lola recognized the voice. She’d never seen the woman in daylight without a helmet, but she knew her. Sergeant Connie Davis. Yeah, they’d flown together, once, on a mission that she’d been told she was never allowed to mention to anyone, ever. She’d been on a SOAR training mission in Germany when an emergency call had gone out for a CSAR crew. That combat search and rescue mission was also the last time she’d flown as pilot-in-command.
“Hello, Sergeant Davis.” The quiet mechanic had rarely spoken as they flew together, but they’d gotten it done.
“Chief Warrant LaRue.” Connie Davis returned to her weapon as if nothing had happened.
Sergeant Kee last-name-unknown glared at her as she stripped down the top of the flight suit and tied the arms around her waist with such a hard tug that Lola winced in empathetic pain. Then she turned, making it clear Lola wasn’t worth even dirt. Well, maybe that much. If she were lucky.
Lola’s first instinct was to tackle the little bitch and solve it here and now, but she knew better than to follow her first instinct. Had learned that the hard way. Especially with someone of lower rank. Officers weren’t supposed to pound the crap out of enlisted, no matter how much they deserved it.
Still, the whole holier-than-thou attitude pushed her buttons real damn hard.
She turned back to the others. Tim still leaned his head back against the cargo deck as the corpsman inspected his nose. His big friend hovering protectively despite his dismissive words.
“Not broken,” the corpsman announced. “You’re almost done bleeding.”
“Yeah,” Big John rumbled, “stop whining. You such a wimp, boy.” You could hear the affection in the way he said it. These guys clearly had some serious history. They’d been through it together.
The Majors were still watching her. She felt herself straightening as she faced them, could feel the pull of the bandage across the graze along her calf.
Major Henderson was still smiling at the little display. It wasn’t overt, but he wasn’t the pure steel of legend either. He struck Lola as a man who found humor in any situation, despite his reputation. Well, perhaps any situation other than someone shooting at his wife.
Major Emily Beale was wholly unreadable.
Lola snapped a salute, as clean and sharp as she could with her bloody pant leg cut open and Afghanistan dust penetrating every pore of her exhausted being.
“Chief Warrant 2 Lola LaRue reporting for duty, ma’am.”
The Major simply stared back at her with those crystalline blue eyes.
Lola retained the salute for several long seconds before remembering. Then she lowered her arm hesitantly, remembering too late that you didn’t salute in the field. A salute could tell a distant sniper which one to aim for.
When her hand at last returned to her side, the Major nodded slowly.
“Welcome to the Black Adders.” She then slid on mirrored Ray-Bans exactly like her husband’s. Suddenly there were four of Lola staring back at her.
Beale and Henderson turned and were gone, taking only moments to disappear into the shimmer of heat already rising from the packed earth of the abandoned soccer field.
Lola let out a sharp breath and turned for her gear. Only Tim remained, his head still tilted back, the red cloth still covering much of his face.
She could see Big Bad John Wallace walking away with Sergeant Connie Davis. Holding hands.
“What the hell?”
***
Tim opened his eyes that he’d kept closed against the bright desert sun because there was no way to put on his sunglasses with how his nose felt. About the size of his mama’s favorite soup pot.
He noticed where the new girl was focused. John and Connie. Who’d have ever guessed? Connie’d sure pissed off John enough in the beginning. Half a year back Tim would’ve bet good money there’d be death before marriage, and now you couldn’t turn around without them being all lovey-dovey. Sad state of affairs, my man. Sad state. Bachelors hitting the mat right and left. Down for the count and, even worse, looking all happy about it.
“Married two months. Only way to keep ’em apart is when the Majors assigned them to different choppers.”
He watched her back as Chief Warrant LaRue shed her vest and peeled down her flight suit against the rising morning heat. A thin, white tank top outlined strong shoulders and that sharp taper to a soldier’s slender waist. But a woman’s hips. Not some anorexic nymph, just a shapely woman in fine shape. Damn fine shape. And that cascade of thick, dark chestnut hair curling down past those strong shoulders. Nonregulation hair wasn’t all that common in SOAR, but it was allowed and LaRue’s mane was a serious statement in that direction.
Serious eye candy from behind. She’d made SOAR, which meant she was an awesome flier, though Major Beale would make her better. Be fun to watch those lessons. But he wasn’t gonna complain for a second about sharing a camp with a woman so easy on the eyes.
Then she turned to look down at him where he still leaned back against the side of the chopper. Skin naturally the color of the most perfect summerlong tan and a face that stopped him cold.
He could see her incredible figure, hard to miss from where he sat at her feet looking up at her, all sleek and
lean and perfect. But her face. He didn’t want to look away from that face for a moment.
He knew her, but didn’t. She had a face that a man, having seen it even once, could never forget. But where? When?
Poland.
He’d never been closer than thirty meters across a wind-torn cruiser’s deck, but it had to be her. It wasn’t just her beauty or her amazing wave of flowing hair. It was how she stood. Something radiated from her that he couldn’t turn away from.
She studied him with narrowed eyes, then eased off and smiled down at him.
“You’re sweet.”
“What?” But he didn’t need to ask. She’d been eye candy from behind, but from the front she was incredible. And she’d caught him staring stone cold. Tim could always be cool around a woman. Mirrored shades on, T-shirt with the sleeves and collar torn off, muscles on show—the women flocked and he didn’t complain. And he treated them all nice enough that he never heard them complain one little bit either. He was always smooth, even, steady.
He reached in his mind… and came up with nothing. No smooth line. No easy shrug. No Mr. Casual. All he could do was watch as her eyes shifted from curious to friendly. She tugged a pair of sunglasses out of a thigh pocket and slipped them on. Then a crazy smile pulled up at one corner of her mouth, dimpling the cheek on her left side. A burst of laughter came forth like from an insane elf.
“Come on.” She offered a hand. “Get up out of the dirt and show me where to get food and a shower, in that order.”
He took the offered hand, and though his nose throbbed as he made it to his feet, it didn’t start bleeding again. Regrettably, he still wore his flight gloves, but he could feel the strength. Long, lean strength in fine-fingered hands.
He turned to help her with her gear, but she pulled on fifty-plus pounds of pack and slung her duffel over one shoulder with the ease of a soldier’s long practice. Slender and strong. Stunning and funny.
Tim was so screwed.
Big John was gonna laugh his ass off.
Chapter 3
The mess tent was, well, a mess.
Lola dumped her gear by the tent flap and followed Tim toward the chow line along the back wall. She could see the territorial boundaries laid out like an airstrip.
Far right taxiway belonged to the U.S. Army Rangers. Crew cut and muscled up. A lot of them had their green berets on. One guy had a T-shirt that proclaimed, “Rangers—often mistaken for the wrath of God.” They were a rowdy lot with a lot of back slapping and stories flying between them. Good guys when you needed a hammer blow.
Down the left taxiway guys huddled around a couple of quiet tables. Three things made them stand out. Their motions were small, precise, tightly controlled. Some had long hair, others a beard or mustache. And they were speaking in whispers that wouldn’t carry to the next table, even if the rest of the tent were silent.
D-boys. No mistaking them anywhere, except in public where they were frickin’ invisible. You’d pass them on the street and never notice them. She hadn’t known Delta Force was encamped here. That meant there was some seriously nasty shit going down here.
Lola was good with that.
Deltas weren’t muscled like Rangers, though they trained longer and harder. Tricycle and NASCAR again. Rangers might rock ‘n’ roll, but D-boys were the best warriors on the planet. Even the SEALs gave them respect.
Like the SEALs, Delta operators also let their hair grow to civilian lengths, making it easier for them blend in. They looked like, well, any guy. They’d be hard to pick out of a crowd, hard to remember them even if you did.
SOAR made a career of moving Rangers into battles, D-boys and SEALs into clandestine tactical situations, and getting all of them back out. It’s what she’d signed up for. And after two extra years of training required after making SOAR, she was ready. Beyond ready.
Down the middle of the chow-tent runway, SOAR. No more chance of mistaking the Night Stalkers than the Delta operators. Many had arm tattoos of a sword-wielding Pegasus, a flying horse of death. Quieter than Rangers, of course everybody was. Their stories were more focused but still physical, planed hands swooping to demonstrate a flight path, a jabbed finger to indicate rocket fire. Some crew cut, most not.
She liked that about SOAR and had let her hair start growing the day she’d signed up. She liked the implied companionship with the D-boys. The most lethal fliers carrying the most lethal fighters.
“Hey, c’mon.” Tim snapped his fingers in front of her face to get her attention.
Lola had come to a stop to observe this first assignment card she’d drawn. There’d be a thousand missions and a hundred camps and bases, but this was her first as a SOAR copilot and it looked as if boredom was not going to be an issue.
She followed Tim down the chow line. He loaded up on dinner. It was the end of her day after all, but Lola had always been a fan of breakfast for dinner. She also didn’t feel right eating a burger and fries at six in the morning. Despite the base’s remoteness from any other signs of Western civilization, the cooks here obviously tried, since they were serving both meals. She went for a short stack, bacon, juice, and fruit.
Tim led her over to a table where she recognized most of the two crews. Clearly this was where the DAP Hawks chowed down together. She counted seats and came up one short. Nowhere for her to land without taking someone else’s.
Tim must have read her mind, he nodded to the corner. Not far from the D-boys, the two Majors sat at a table with one of the D-boys. She watched from the corner of her eye just long enough to observe everyone giving that table an extra-wide berth. Even the Delta operators swung wide.
“Who?” she mouthed at Tim. The extra guy looked rugged and tough. Then he smiled at something one of the Majors said. The rugged remained, and the tough, but it looked right on him.
“Colonel Michael Gibson. Medal of Honor and all that.”
Lola glanced over at him one more time. They had a D-boy colonel stationed in a tiny camp like this? Clearly they were not in any normal place. Duh, Lola. You’re at an unreported camp in the middle of the Pakistani desert, fifty miles, about fifteen minutes, from the Afghanistan border.
Without the Majors they’d have a chair to spare at the SOAR table. Not sure where to land, she ended up at one end of the table across from Tim, shoulder to shoulder with Big John. Connie Davis, the mechanic she’d flown with in Poland, sat on John’s other side. Might as well be a mile away with that wall of man-flesh between them.
A tall and lean man slid in next to Tim and began setting his table. Taking napkin and silverware off his tray. Even setting knife and spoon to his right, fork on napkin to his left, with plate and water glass in place. No insignia, already showered, and wearing civvies. Uptight priss by the look of it.
A hardback book thumped down on the table beyond him. A small, dark girl in white native garb jumped onto his back and wrapped her slender arms around his neck.
He ignored her. Continuing to set his place as if he sat alone in the whole tent.
The girl covered his eyes. “Guess who?”
The guy stopped, tilting his head one way and then the other, not trying to shake the small hands loose, rather considering. Then he proclaimed solemnly, “President Peter Matthews. What are you doing in Bati, Mr. President?”
Lola recognized the voice. Took her a moment to place it. Air Mission Commander. Wrench. The voice that had called them about Major Beale’s flight being in trouble. The married AMC. Well, he’d gone native and his kid had completely favored her mother, there was no sign of the AMC in the elfin face grinning over his shoulder.
“Need see my best peoples.” She lowered her voice as far as a young girl’s could go.
“People.”
The girl repeated it dutifully but still in her pretend-adult tone.
A woman arrived bearing two trays. Must be the AMC’s…
>
Lola looked at Sergeant Kee as she ground to a halt toting two trays of food. Glaring at Lola as if she shouldn’t be there. Kee stayed still long enough that the little girl took one of the trays from her hands and set it beside her book. The Secret Garden.
The Sergeant finally set her tray down with a sharp snap.
Lola was glad Kee sat at the other end of the table, down with Connie Davis and Henderson’s silent copilot, Richardson.
“Where’s Terry?” Kee asked loudly.
“Packing his gear,” the mountain man next to Lola rumbled out. “Now that we got our new copilot, he’s stateside for R-and-R, then some training.”
So Lola had counted the number of seats and crewmembers right, but she hadn’t known about the kid.
The kid. She’d arrived with the Sergeant but latched on to the AMC. They were a family. What in the hell was the kid doing on a forward air base?
Lola bit down on her tongue rather than make whatever was between her and the Sergeant even worse.
Besides, a forward, secret air base in one of the nastiest little wars in history was probably safer than the house Lola had grown up in.
Chapter 4
Chief Warrant 2 Lola LaRue leaned forward to get a better view through the DAP Hawk’s forward windscreen. It was pointless, all that existed out there was darkness. Anyway, the image was across the inside of her visor, not out the windscreen, but she couldn’t help the body reaction.
She’d lost sight of one of the Little Bird choppers they were supposed to be guarding. The two-seater attack helicopters barely weighed a tenth as much as her Black Hawk and were so quick in tight spaces that it was hard to keep track of them. You spent one lousy moment trying to find where some raghead bad guy was pinging your windshield with rifle fire, and the Little Bird slipped into hiding.
Major Emily Beale, who sat to her right in the pilot’s seat of their Direct Action Penetrator Black Hawk, pointed casually down to the left just in time for Lola to spot the Little Bird swinging into sight from behind a pillar of rock. How did the woman know what Lola was missing even before she did?
Take Over at Midnight (The Night Stalkers) Page 3