Defender

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Defender Page 2

by Mann, Catherine


  Adrenaline pumped his senses on overload to the stench of sweat, sting of tight muscles, grainy wind taunting him with the helicopter serenade. Okay, Afghani Al. What’s the verdict?

  “Al” booted Socrates in the side. The sound of cracking ribs snipped the air. Socrates didn’t move.

  Bile bit the back of Jimmy’s throat. Come on, old man. Wake up, damn it.

  Twice more, Al worked to rouse the unconscious pilot curled on his side. Nathan Breuer wasn’t playing possum.

  Jimmy fought the urge to beat the shit out of Al and screw the consequences that would inevitably come from the three Al posers who seemed to get off from watching their big kahuna in action.

  The leader glanced at the horizon with the helicopter chop, chop, chopping away against the backdrop of a sinking sun, then cranked back to Jimmy. “How sad you not run faster.”

  Al plugged a bullet into Nathan Breuer’s head.

  Jimmy didn’t think, couldn’t think. He launched forward. Two of the insurgents grabbed his wrists, legs, whatever they could catch on his flailing body. Dimly he heard his arm pop out of the socket. But he felt nothing except rage and instinct and an animalistic need to kill the bastard who’d blown off the . . . oh God . . . the back of . . . God no . . . his friend’s skull.

  He pumped a knee upward. Probably not the wisest move he’d ever made, taking on four armed enemies, but the callous execution still stunned him stupid.

  A fist met his face. His vision went red. He stared through the haze of blood at Al holding the AK-47 he’d used to splatter Socrates’ blood all over the rock wall.

  The bastard kicked the dead man onto his back and smiled. “Now we run very fast.”

  A gun kissed Jimmy’s temple, and some piece of reason stilled him. He absolutely could not put his parents through the hell of losing another child. The helicopter crew might not be able to stage a rescue now, but hopefully they could get a bead on wherever these bastards ended up taking him.

  The fight flooded out of him, soaked up by the greedy, parched desert. One of the men tied his hands and feet, then dragged him by his bound wrists toward the corroded truck, engine still humming. Apparently their technology was holding out fucking fine today.

  Al climbed into the cab while the other three tossed Jimmy in the truck bed. His face slid across stones and a ragged shard of rusted wheel well. He heard himself groan at the impact of metal against his shoulder, but he didn’t register pain; he barely registered the bearded men guarding him.

  The engine revved, jerked, barreled across the desert, tires spewing a cloud of sand behind them. Reality bombarded him as Jimmy stared through the tan-colored haze at his mentor’s lifeless body.

  He’d committed the unforgivable sin. He’d left his dead comrade behind.

  ONE

  MEDITERRANEAN SEA: PRESENT DAY

  Sixty seconds ago piloting this flight had been all gum-drops and rainbows. In an exploding flash, Captain Jimmy Gage’s day turned to dog shit.

  His cutting-edge new CV-22 was still tooling through the late afternoon sky just fine. The folks speedboating along the Mediterranean Sea, however? Not so good.

  “What the hell?” He braced his hand against the control panel while aftershocks from the detonation below reverberated upward. This day may have turned to dog shit, but God willing, not nearly as bad as three years ago.

  He needed to get his head out of his ass and focus on the radio in his helmet, which squawked to life. A crap ton of voices crowded the airwaves until even his flight-trained ears threatened to go on overload.

  He peered through the windscreen, stick shuddering in his grip. Dots still danced in front of his eyes from the blast. Blue water stretched ahead to the distant Turkish coastline. The small boat of USO performers they’d been escorting to a naval aircraft carrier stalled behind, in flames.

  Training overrode questions. Time to get his butt in gear.

  There were three pilots up front and only one flight engineer in the cargo hold at the moment. Smooth would have his hands full scooping survivors from the sea in back.

  Jimmy switched his headset to hot mic so he could hear everything and respond, while keeping his hands free to work. “Vapor, swap seats with me. I’m heading back to help out Smooth.”

  “Roger that,” Vince “Vapor” Deluca jockeyed by and into the copilot’s seat beside the aircraft commander. “Holy shit, what a mess down there. Coming left.”

  Jimmy charged past the bulkhead, already channeled into his new role. He was a test pilot these days, and being able to fly any plane, any crew position, anytime had been a requisite for graduation. Thanks to his new job in a dark ops test squadron, he could do his damned level best to ensure technology became an ally rather than an enemy, as it had three years ago.

  This was a personal mission he now lived every minute, in tribute to Socrates. It was a mission that carried extra weight today.

  This should have been a shadowy slip across international waters under the guise of escorting a handful of new USO performers to an aircraft carrier off the coast of Turkey. The flight had provided the perfect cover for them to slip into Incirlik Air Base and meet up with CIA and NSA agents already in place, all focused on locating and rescuing Chuck Tanaka, a member of their test squadron who had been kidnapped in the region a week ago by God only knew what kind of monster.

  Chuck wasn’t the only service member to have gone missing in the region, but he was the only one with an experimental tracking device embedded under his skin.

  No way in hell was Jimmy leaving behind another brother-in-arms.

  “Hotwire?” the commander’s voice barked. “Smooth? Can either of you give us more on what’s happening?”

  Jimmy leaned out the open side hatch, wind roaring around him. Acrid gusts from the flames stung his nose, his eyes. He blinked his vision clear. The explosion hadn’t taken out the entire speedboat, a good sign.

  Except a hole gaped in the bow of the navy boat, sucking in water fast. An accident or deliberate?

  He’d faced plenty of hairy situations during combat and test pilot school—not to mention his four-month stint as a POW punching bag—but tossing in the wild card of panicked civilians added an element of unpredictability to any situation that had nothing to do with gauging the odds of technology. Normally he thrived on the charge of an intense assignment, even a good old head-cracking, chair-smacking bar fight to let off steam that had never quite emptied out of him even three years after Socrates’ murder.

  Jimmy tore his eyes from the mesmerizing flames licking up from the damaged boat hull and studied the survivors bobbing in the waves. “The boat’s listing, gonna submerge soon. People are jumping overboard left and right, trying to get to the life raft, Colonel.”

  Their squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Scanlon, had come along due to the sensitivity of their real mission. The delay this explosion caused could very well steal precious minutes that ended up costing Chuck or one of the other missing servicemen his life. From his own captivity, Jimmy knew the inhumane lengths some twisted souls would go to, to extract sensitive information from military targets, and back then he hadn’t even been part of the dark ops test squadron, with more explosive information to protect.

  But he couldn’t think of his friend now or the international ramifications of the top secret data stored in his brain.

  “Bringing it around,” their colonel drawled over the airwaves. “How many are in the water?”

  The CV-22 banked hard and fast, the tilt-rotor tackling the tight turn with ease. Built to replace the MH-53 helicopter, the CV-22 hovered with blades on the wings overhead and could shift the rotors forward to fly like a plane at twice the speed of its predecessor. They needed every ounce of that agility today.

  Jimmy gripped the side of the hatch, hooking a gunner’s belt around his waist for safety, although his balance was sure after ten years of flying. Smoke from the explosion snaked inside, reminding him of another time, of a crash best scrapped fro
m his mind right now.

  Already jam-packed with top secret intelligence gear to trace their lead in Turkey, the cargo hold would be crammed to the gills fast once they pulled everyone from the water.

  “I count nine swimming toward the deployed life raft, sir.”

  Lucky for them they couldn’t see the sharks.

  Jimmy, however, had a bird’s-eye view of the too many black shadows slithering just beneath the surface.

  “Nine? Hell, if there are more, we’ll be hard-pressed to take them on. Vapor, are there any ships close enough to get over here and help pick these people up?”

  “Negative contacts on the radar,” Vapor answered. “We’ll have to pluck them out ourselves. Shit, is that a shark?”

  “Okay, then,” the commander drawled through the airwaves. “Let’s move out about three hundred yards and get turned around. Hotwire, prepare to work your ass off.”

  “Roger that, sir.” He made tracks around equipment strapped to the deck, his boots clanking metal on his way toward the lowering back ramp.

  “Copy all, boss man,” Vapor responded. “Sierra Four, Sierra Four, this is Prey Two-one. We have a boat on fire and sinking fifty-four miles due north of your position. We estimate nine in the water, but there could be more. Can you get a helo heading this way?”

  Chatter from the aircraft carrier buzzed in the background while Jimmy worked with Smooth to rig the rescue hoist for deployment. The CV-22 downshifted into a hover over the burning boat.

  There had been talk initially of flying the performers. The local coordinator, however, had decided the speedboat had more of a “navy” feel and chose to go with the small boat for a prima donna theatrical effect.

  Damned bad-luck choice for the people in the ocean. But worse for Chuck, if these people’s need for drama ended up costing him even one extra minute of pain.

  Jimmy kept his voice as steady as his hands. “Colonel, waters are beyond choppy. That life raft could capsize at any second.”

  “All right, boys, let’s get some people out of the ocean.”

  The hovering aircraft descended, closer to the rocking raft, nearer still. Jimmy stared out the cavernous back hatch as the nine people waving wildly became clearer, the sharks tougher to monitor even with Smooth’s help.

  Smooth swiped spray from his face. “How about you work the winch, and I’ll monitor them coming up to the ramp?”

  “Got your back.” Jimmy deployed the winch outward, a three-person rescue hook like the forest penetrator used in helicopters. “Colonel, ease up on the raft anytime.”

  “Roger. Don’t let me get too close before you lower the sling into the water. We don’t need to be shocking these folks with the static electricity in that line.”

  A burst of wind growled louder than the engines. The tilt-rotor nudged so low, spray speckled his flight suit.

  Jimmy played the cable toward the water, the whump, whump, whump of the rotors overhead sweeping foamy ripples. “Line is on the way down. Twenty feet . . . ten.” The hoist slapped the surface by the orange rubber life raft. “Contact with the water. Ready to move in.”

  “Roger, Hotwire,” the Colonel replied, “easing up. Keep a good eye on all of them, and make sure the rotor wash doesn’t push anyone under.”

  “We’re watching,” Jimmy affirmed. “Keep coming forward. Forward. Ten feet more. Good, hold it right there.”

  A man slid from the raft, the boat captain from the looks of his navy uniform. He grabbed the rescue hook and shouted back to the others. A woman in a glittery costume detached herself from the side. With the help of the navy dude, she pulled the horse collar over her head and under one arm like a sash. The guy seemed to have things in hand below, so Jimmy held his position by the winch. Two more women joined her, facing each other on the three-seater apparatus.

  So far, so good.

  “I have three in place. Bringing them up.” Jimmy set the winching mechanism into humming motion. Easy. Easy. Eyes glued to the trio to be sure all arms and legs were clear of the line. The whir of the winding cable blended with the roar of wind and rotors. “Survivors clear of the water.”

  Destroyed boat parts swirled below, with jagged edges that could graze anyone trying to secure themselves in the hoist. Blood in the water would draw the sharks in a snap.

  Urgency pumped through him, prodding him to speed this up, but his training insisted on routine. Eyes on the line. As they neared the side door, he passed over the controls to Smooth and grabbed for the cable.

  “Slack . . .” Jimmy called the order to slow the cable. He clamped the first woman’s hand as she clambered up the ramp. “Slack, slack.” He hauled the second, then third inside. “Stop slack. Survivors on the deck.”

  He reached to steady the stumbling brunette who had to be a performer, given her gold sequined dress. Sopping wet and gasping, she shoved a hank of hair from her face, mascara streaking her cheeks.

  Smooth’s megawatt smile shouted high-priced orthodontics. “Damn, she looks famous.”

  “Save the autograph hounding for later, and let’s rustle up some blankets. We’ve got six more men and women to bring on board.” Jimmy handed the pop diva over to his panty-peeler crew mate.

  In quick succession, he scooped the remaining six in two runs, four people wearing costumes and two men in navy uniforms. Jimmy started to breathe easier as the last collapsed into the CV-22’s belly.

  “Colonel, we’ve got them all loaded and secured. No injuries. No sign of casualties. A quick head count, and we’ll be ready to bounce.” Good thing for Chuck and the other unaccounted-for soldiers, this had gone quickly. They should be back on track to reach Turkey for their NSA briefing by nightfall.

  A collective exhale echoed, before the Colonel whistled low and long, “Thank God. Bob Hope would be so pissed.”

  Smooth grinned, although his eyes didn’t stray from the barely legal diva; no surprise, since the guy never let a female pass without falling for her. “Your age is showing, Colonel. Bob Hope would be over a hundred.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Scanlon growled. “Hope’s the father of the USO. Stop blaspheming a legend, or I’ll turn Vapor loose on you. You don’t want him rewiring your car so the horn honks every time you put on the turn signal.”

  Jimmy allowed himself a laugh now that the crisis had passed without so much as a shark nibble. Humor carried them through hell in this job, one of many reasons he preferred to crew with the squadron-renowned joker.

  Maybe this day wouldn’t turn into dog shit after all. They would make a quick landing on the aircraft carrier, drop off their extra cargo, and be on their way, closer to finding Chuck.

  His laughter faded. Back to business. “Sir, still running a visual, and I don’t see any more in the water. Smooth’s asking the survivors, just to be sure.”

  Smooth straightened, spinning fast back to Jimmy and holding up one finger. “We’re missing one. A woman.”

  Damn it. Jimmy peered into the mist of sea spray below. Any of those curling waves could be shielding her—if she hadn’t already drowned or met up with a shark.

  “Okay, everybody,” the colonel ordered, “eyeballs out. Let’s find her. Vapor, work the infrared and see if you can spot a heat source. I’m gonna start a slow circle around what’s left of the boat.”

  Jimmy braced a hand and planted his feet as the aircraft banked. Half the speedboat stuck from the water, smoke billowing, stealing what little visibility he had left. A crack cut through the air a second before the damaged boat exploded into a watery bonfire.

  The CV-22 shuddered. Their new passengers shrieked. He zeroed in on the vision below. Flames flicked upward like a demonic hand shooting a fiery bird at the heavens. The orange red glow domed out over the water and illuminated a small figure struggling to stay afloat.

  Bare arms smacked the water, long hair trailing behind the woman. Smoldering scraps of metal showered down around her.

  A deadly shadow undulated below the surface a few feet away.
r />   His focus narrowed, frustration at the possible cost of this delay taking a backseat to the life-threatening emergency at hand. “Got a visual. There is someone down there, alive.” Her head and shoulders bobbed then disappeared from sight, her hair swooping after her. “Crap, she just went under. Colonel, come twenty degrees right, and you should see her.”

  “Copy all.” The craft cranked hard and fast, the colonel’s drawl growing thicker. “I saw her for a second before a wave hit her. Anyone else got another visual? Smooth? Hotwire?”

  “I keep catching glimpses. She isn’t gonna make it unless . . .” Focus gelled into determination.

  Jimmy patted the flattened LPU—life preserver unit—draped over him. He would inflate it once he reached her. “I’m going in. Smooth, get ready to haul us up.”

  He stared out the yawning opening at the thirty-foot jump. Not much of a drop except . . . Hell, he hated heights even more than he hated sharks. Some might think that strange for a flier, but he’d learned from his dead sister to meet fears head-on, fists flying even to the end.

  Jimmy took three steps back, keeping his eyes locked on the speck of humanity bobbing in the ocean below. He gasped in air tinged with the scent of hydraulic fluid and sprinted toward the load ramp. His combat boots pounded metal then air. No kicking free shoes for a nice little dip. Warriors went into the water in full gear.

  “Ahhhhh . . .” He hurtled through the battering wind and sea spray. “Fuck.”

  She’d damn well better still be alive.

  Chloe Nelson refused to die. The Mediterranean Sea, however, seemed determined to override her wishes.

  She grappled through the wall of water slamming over her. A week of swimming lessons at the YMCA as a kid hadn’t prepared her for the open high seas. Her head breaking free, she gasped for air, her eyes stinging. She choked on a salty gulp and prayed hard, really hard that those rescue folks in the hovering aircraft wouldn’t abandon her while she worked her way clear of the debris.

 

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