She wished she could say the same for Rick.
He had to be exhausted.
Four packets of instant coffee and an hour’s power nap were all that stood between the man and an endless night of leaning against the base of some tree with her neurotic body cradled in his arms. She’d managed to rouse herself several times, certain it was finally her turn to stand watch. But each time, Rick had eased her head back down to his chest and lulled her to sleep with the promise that he’d wake her soon.
He never had.
Guilt flooded her. No matter what he’d said, she was standing the first watch tonight—and it would be a double. But first, they’d have to survive the day. Eve tore her gaze from the gear at her boots and forced herself to stare through the thinning trees and into the clearing beyond. At her bird. After all these weeks of wondering, all that stood between her and the truth were five slender saplings and twenty feet of scorched earth.
And Rick.
Except he wasn’t between her and anything anymore, he was beside her. Literally as well as figuratively.
No, she hadn’t heard him.
Nor could she see him. He was too good at what he did. But she could sense him closing in somewhere amid the denser foliage off to her right. And then she felt him—or rather, she felt his steadying warmth as he stepped behind her.
“Ready?”
She opened her mouth automatically. She closed it just as quickly. They’d come too far for lies, even polite ones.
“No.”
Unfortunately she didn’t have much of a choice, did she? Not if she was holding out for another night’s rest in this lifetime. She sighed and turned to bathe within those twin pools of dark, soothing concern. Much as she wanted to lose herself in those eyes, in those comforting arms, she couldn’t. Nor was there any sense in delaying the inevitable.
“Let’s do it.”
Rick stood there for several moments, then nodded.
He snagged her rifle and slung it onto his shoulder alongside his, then grabbed both their rucks as he turned to lead the way through the remaining trees. She didn’t bother arguing as they cleared the saplings. It might be easier facing the wreckage this time around, but each step still ripped through her heart.
At least she managed to hold on to her tears.
Barely.
They reached her bird all too soon. She ignored the burning in her heart and in her throat and studied the blackened remains as Rick dumped their rucks at their feet. Everything appeared to be exactly as they’d left it.
She wasn’t surprised.
Rick would never have exposed them like this if he suspected the Córdobans had tracked them last night. Still, she had to wonder how long their luck would hold. Unwilling to press it now, she got down to work. She turned away as Rick leaned their rifles against the open belly of the bird and concentrated on removing supplies Anna had blessedly managed to obtain on such short notice.
“If you need anything—”
She nodded. “I’ll ask.”
She felt more than saw his answering nod as she culled several screwdrivers, regular and needle-nose pliers, a crescent wrench, a mini sledgehammer and her crowbar from the selection of tools and scooped them into her arms. Given the amount and extent of the damage she’d noted the evening before, she suspected she’d need the hammer and the crowbar more than the other tools combined—plus the mini oxyacetylene cutting torch. Rick was already snapping photographs of the shattered exterior as she stood, so she stepped away from the bird and waited.
They’d decided against a digital camera, opting instead for a 35 mm with two dozen rolls of good old-fashioned film. Film that could be presented to the investigation board undeveloped—and hence, unquestionably not tampered with. They’d also decided each roll of film should include a close-up of the chopper’s data plate. Inclusion of the Black Hawk’s official military UH-60L nomenclature combined with its unique serial number would anchor each separate loop of negatives to the specific chopper she’d signed out that fateful morning.
Rick finally moved in for a shot of the data plate.
It was time.
Eve swallowed the lump in her throat and climbed into the cockpit as Rick loaded a fresh roll of film and snapped an initial shot of the data plate. She spread her tools out on what was left of the central instrument panel. Memories crowded in, stifling her as she stared at the charred remains of the copilot’s seat beyond. Haunting memories. She jerked her gaze up and concentrated on the breeze wafting through the gaping hole where the chopper’s windows should have been.
It didn’t help.
She could still hear the rasping gurgle in Carrie’s chest…and her final tortured confession. Eve swung her head to the right only to come face-to-face with the ghost of her crew chief’s eternal, unseeing stare. She closed her eyes, wondering for the thousandth time if Rick had been able to close Sergeant Lange’s before he’d buried the man.
“Eve?”
“I’m…fine.”
With his hand gently squeezing her arm, she was.
She swallowed firmly. “You should probably get a few close-ups of the broom closet before I crack it open.”
He withdrew his hand and nodded.
She twisted around until she was facing the rear of the chopper. Rick leaned through the doorway as she braced her left hand against the central console. She locked her right to the pilot’s door, carefully evading the nightmarish void beside her. A succession of rapid flashes, clicks and whirs filled the cockpit as she focused on Rick’s shoulders instead.
“Done.”
She reached for the set of screwdrivers as he straightened, then thought better of it as she studied the steel access plate that covered the broom closet behind the pilot’s seat. The sheet metal was warped and buckled in spots. Alone, the damage was good because the gaps would give her several places to insert the claws on her crowbar if necessary. Unfortunately the screws had also melted into the surrounding steel.
That was bad.
If she fired up her cutting torch without knowing what lay beneath, she might accidentally destroy the very evidence that could exonerate her.
Or seal her fate.
She’d been over that crash a trillion times in her head. The only explanation she could come up with—hell, the only hope she could come up with—lay behind that warped panel. The broom closet housed the collective’s control rod and auxiliary servo cylinders. Rick still believed he’d never felt her pull pitch. But she knew she had.
There was only one way they could both be right.
The collective rod must have snapped.
Given the high tensile strength of the steel rod, mechanical failure was rare enough. And when compared to the relatively low physiological strength in her puny arms, it was damned near unheard of. But not impossible. Stranger things had happened when adrenaline had been thrown into the mix—and hers had been churning at full throttle that day.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t now.
Popping those melted screws by hand was out of the question. She’d have to come up with another way to remove the panel. She stared at the iron crowbar.
It was worth a shot.
She retrieved the bar and slipped the claw on the angled end beneath the first buckled seam, putting everything she had into a quick, all-out heave.
Nothing.
She tacked on a fervent prayer as she attacked the other four buckled sections in turn.
Not a single one budged.
“Want me to try?”
She flicked her gaze to Rick’s sinewy arms. Not even the grease paint smeared into his skin could conceal the thick, generous muscles beneath. No doubt about it, the man was significantly stronger than her. Perhaps too strong. Since the screws had melted, there was a good chance part of the warped panel had fused to the collective rod beneath. She didn’t want to risk any more damage than was absolutely necessary.
“Not yet.” She wiped the sweat from her brow and dried her hand on her T-
shirt. “Let’s try the torch first.”
He nodded and turned to walk over to his own ruck. He hunkered down and sorted through the supplies they’d packed in his and grabbed the oxyacetylene pack. Rick must have used a torch before because he turned on the gas to both cylinders and used the lighter from his pocket to ignite the gas mixture streaming from the cutting tip. He adjusted the flame as he returned to her side, then passed the tip and a pair of safety glasses through the open door.
“Thanks.”
He nodded as she donned the darkened protective lenses. Sparks showered into the cockpit as she carefully cut into the warped sheet metal, carving a tight circle around the first melted screw, then each of the others in turn.
“There.”
He took the torch from her hand and turned off the gas as she picked up the crowbar and slipped the claw beneath the right seam of the access panel. This time the sheet popped off easily. Much too easily.
Her heart shot into her throat.
She wasn’t ready. She’d spent the past two days preparing for this moment, but now that it was finally here—
Dammit, now was not the time to chicken out.
She shoved the warped panel aside, her eyes automatically picking out the collective rod from the others and tracing it as she dumped the panel into the copilot’s seat. A split second later, she found what she’d been looking for.
She blinked. Stared.
Gasped.
Rick stiffened beside her. “Son of a—”
The rest was lost to the sudden, furious pounding in her chest, the thundering roar in her ears. It didn’t matter.
She’d heard enough. She’d seen enough.
Rick’s curse confirmed it.
The collective rod had snapped, all right. But not for the reason she’d suspected. She swallowed the bile threatening at the base of her throat and reached out to trace her fingertip across the raw ends of the steel rod.
Except, it wasn’t raw.
At least, not all of it.
Over half the diameter of the collective rod had been severed with something finely serrated, straight and held damned near perpendicular to the length of the steel.
The rod had been deliberately cut.
It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d pulled pitch or not that day. Even if the engine hadn’t cut out, without collective she hadn’t had a prayer in hell of maintaining control. Someone wanted her to crash her chopper.
Hard.
“I don’t understand. Why?”
She tore her gaze from the rod and fused it to Rick’s equally stunned stare on the slim, desperate hope that he had an answer. He didn’t. But by the time he ripped his own gaze from the rod and met hers, the fury searing through those dark brown eyes had coalesced into chilling determination.
“I have no idea. But I will find out.”
“It just doesn’t make sense.”
Rick returned the crowbar and torch to his ruck along with the last of their tools and glanced up. Eve was slumped against the side of her bird, the emerald fire in her gaze now as cold and exhausted as the empty blackened hulk behind her. It had been surprisingly difficult giving her the space she’d needed these past three hours as she ripped apart the remainder of the wreckage, but he was glad he had.
She’d needed it.
Earning her exoneration at the expense of her crew’s lives had been a shallow victory.
She’d needed time to adjust.
Time to loosen her grip on guilt.
While he suspected she was still clinging to the final threads, she had at least moved on enough to begin thinking clearly again. Dispassionately. Her tentative statement proved it. Just as the tension in her gaze begged him to confirm it.
He closed the flap to his ruck and gave it.
“I agree. Nothing about this makes sense.”
The tension in her eyes eased—but the exhaustion didn’t.
She needed food. Sleep.
Hell, they both did if they were going to figure this out. This time, he didn’t plan on traveling far. But he did intend on moving them into the trees. Far enough and deep enough to kill this hair-raising sensation of exposure. He swung his ruck up and hooked it on his right shoulder then did the same with both their rifles before he stooped down to grab the main strap to Eve’s ruck as well.
“Let’s go.”
Fortunately, she was too tired to argue. She simply followed him into the tree line, as silently as he’d taught her six weeks before. He didn’t get them as far away as he would have liked. He was just too damned tired. Near as he could figure, he’d slept four hours out of the last sixty. If he didn’t get another hit of caffeine soon, he wouldn’t be able to shuffle one boot in front of the other because he’d be lying face down on the jungle floor, dead to the world.
Where would Eve be then?
Unwilling to contemplate the answer, he stopped in the middle of a particularly dense section of foliage. He could feel the confusion radiating from Eve behind him as she stopped short as well. He stared up through the dark green fronds of the ferns, measuring, gauging. The trees anchoring either end were three feet apart. Still, it was completely shaded, enclosed. Cooler.
It would have to do.
He dropped their gear. “Let’s eat.” He winced as he realized the clipped voice that slapped into him was his own. He turned to apologize, to explain, only to discover he didn’t have to. Eve evidently understood that his terseness stemmed from exhaustion because she was already kneeling down and opening her ruck. She pulled out two MREs, slit the outer pouches open and retrieved both instant coffee packets without being asked.
He accepted them gratefully.
He tore off the tops and tapped the granules straight into his mouth. She grimaced, but she must have seen it done in the field before because she had her canteen open and waiting as he finished. He accepted the water gratefully too, quickly washing the bitter dregs down his throat.
“Thanks.” He passed the canteen back.
“You’re welcome. Now eat. And then for God’s sake, get some sleep. You look like hell.”
He scowled. “You don’t look so fresh yourself.”
She actually smiled. “At least I can still stand.”
Damned if she wasn’t right.
Until that moment, he hadn’t realized he was half-leaning, half-sliding down the trunk of the tree behind him. He caved into temptation and lowered himself the rest of the way, his T-shirt scraping and snagging into the bark as he settled in at the base.
“Besides, I’m the reason you’re exhausted.”
He shrugged. “You needed the rest.”
She leaned forward and passed one of the MRE pouches over. “So do you.”
Not any more.
Or rather, not as desperately as he had two minutes before. The caffeine was already pouring into his blood, pulsing into his brain. He could feel the dull ache ebbing from his muscles as they spoke, his brain sharpening. The rest of his senses followed. “I’m fine now.”
Her sharp snort disagreed with him. “And I could find my way back to the border from here with my eyes closed.”
Closed eyes.
Now there was a fantasy.
He swallowed his groan. “Haven’t you heard? Sleep’s for sissies and pilots. All a grunt needs is coffee.”
“Until you crash for good.”
The concern in her frown took the sting out of the taunt. “Don’t worry. I’ll crash soon enough. But first, we need to talk.” He leaned the MRE pouch against his right thigh and pulled out the cocoa packet to toss it back to her.
She caught it neatly.
He was jealous. Given the current, non-existent edge to his reflexes he’d have fumbled it—if he’d caught it at all. He watched her as she unscrewed the cap to her canteen and poured the water into her cup, wondering how hands streaked with that much soot, sweat and grease paint could be so slender and so graceful. The same thought had struck him several times over the course of the morning as
he watched her rip that chopper apart panel-by-charred-panel.
The chopper.
The sabotage.
He rubbed his fingers into the muscles of his neck, massaging the knots that had been tightening all morning as she retrieved the cocoa packet and tapped the contents down. “You do know you weren’t the intended target, don’t you?”
She paused in midtear.
She looked up, hope swirling amid the guilt-ridden shadows of her eyes. “How can you be so sure?”
He lowered his hand and shrugged. “For one thing, you were too new in country. For another, you may not remember, but on the ride from the hotel in Panama City to the Huey you mentioned that other than Carrie, you’d yet to run into anyone you knew. The level of tampering we documented today suggests a mature hatred or a professional job. Both operate on more than a passing whim.”
Personally, he was leaning toward a professional.
A mechanic, most likely.
Who else would have the security clearance necessary to gain access to an army Black Hawk, in addition to intimate knowledge of the UH-60’s fuel sensors? Eve had said it herself just an hour before—whoever tampered with the gas gauge so that when the chopper’s main fuel tank ran dry it still registered as three-quarters full, had known what the hell he or she had been doing. Especially since the external fuel bladders had also failed to switch over.
As sabotages went, it had been bloody brilliant.
Despite 460 gallons of JP-5 in the external tanks, the bird had simply run out of gas—in midair. Sawing halfway through the collective rod should have ensured that no one lived to tell about it. Facing that burned-out hulk again confirmed it. They’d been damned lucky to survive.
She had to be thinking the same thing.
“What about you? Could you have been the target?”
He swore he saw her hands shake as she swished the cocoa around in her cup. When she met his gaze, he knew he had.
His air bled out.
She was afraid. More so than she’d been when she’d thought she might have been the intended target. The fear had even succeeded in crowding out the guilt in her eyes. It was in the slender grime-streaked fingers biting into her cup. Eve was honest-to-God terrified someone was gunning for him.
Crossing the Line Page 15