“Grand. That’s grand. We’ll pop round over in close about nine hours from now if you don’t mind setting up a bit of clearance for us. Tell old Ralph to warm up the cards and have his cash handy.” Mark winked at her though Emily couldn’t figure out why until he said the next line. He was a step ahead of what the Brits would say. “Oh, right. That’ll be close on 0600 your time. Well, mayhaps we’ll be a-catchin’ up over morning chow. See you soon.” Mark hung up. “I have control.”
Not that there was anything to do, the autopilot probably flew better than she would over the big stretches of the Great Plains—she’d never been a fixed-wing gal. But his grin said the King Air wasn’t all he was pleased to have control of. He may have retired after doing his twenty years, but he still enjoyed the game—especially when he was the one dealing the cards.
35
Derek wished he bumped shoulders with Abby a little less often; the woman was incredibly distracting. He’d be down in mission-prep mindset and she’d go striding across the hangar like a self-guided missile. Even if she was targeting nothing fancier than a screwdriver or a bottle of water, his attention auto-locked and tracked until she was gone again—or Misty “accidentally” dropped the butt of her carbine on his foot.
Abby’s earlier assessment had proven a hundred percent accurate. Every time he came near her crew, a low and feral growl of incipient rage crystallized in the chill air. Each time she came near his D-boys, their already low and sparse conversation faded faster than the daylight behind the thick clouds of the approaching storm.
But circumstances didn’t let them remain separate for long. Three CH-47F Chinooks filled a C-5 Galaxy cargo bay. So, a trio of Night Stalker-modified MH-47Gs absolutely packed it solid—though the bay stretched longer than the Wright Brothers’ first flight. Each helo’s double-size extended-range fuel tanks bulged outward along either side, making for a very tight fit.
Then there was the loadout inside the birds, packed solid with Delta vehicles and gear for the flight. Charlene One had reloaded one of the nine-man DAGORs. That had placed her crew and Derek’s in close quarters as they debated which gear to take.
Abby cursed. “It would help if we knew where we were going and what utter moose’s mess we were about to step in.”
Derek was about to correct her that it was moose shit when a voice behind them answered, “England. And we have no idea.”
Abby spun on her heel, then saluted sharply.
Derek turned to face the oddest-looking group. He saluted the blonde colonel who must be Emily Beale. He’d heard she was tough as hell; he hadn’t expected her to be knockout gorgeous as well. Colonel meant mid-forties at a minimum and this slender blonde wasn’t showing a bit of that. A big man in a sheepskin-lined denim jacket loomed close behind her. His jet-black hair was as straight and almost as long. As he didn’t remove his mirrored shades, it was a mystery how he saw crap halfway up the Chinook’s ramp, inside the C-5’s cargo bay, under a heavy overcast sky. To Beale’s other side stood a pretty girl wearing a hot-pink parka and lime-green scarf that made it hard to focus on her face. Once he did, she looked to be mid-twenties with Southwest Asian dark skin and brilliant green eyes. She had a Sheltie dog close by her heel but off lead.
The last person…
One warrior recognized another. He wore a black turtleneck and a non-descript jacket, and his face said he’d spent years living outdoors. Older was irrelevant upon seeing the deep skills inherent in his stance and assessing gaze. Though Derek knew they’d never met, there was no mistaking the man from the stories about him.
Derek drew up to parade-ground attention and saluted. “Colonel Gibson. An honor, sir.”
He nodded, then barely ticked his temple with a loose-handed salute in return.
“Funny how some of us don’t rate anymore, isn’t it?” the big guy commented to Colonel Gibson like it was a great joke.
Abby gasped, “The Majors.” Then she saluted the big guy.
“Lt. colonel (retired) but, yep, that was me ’n’ Emma. Had us some serious fun.” He left Abby hanging with her salute up long enough to make it a tease before returning the gesture.
Derek risked a glance over at Abby.
“Legendary inside the Night Stalkers,” she whispered. “I’ll explain later.”
“Legendary,” the big man must have exceptional hearing. He tested the word, “Legendary… I like that one. Whaddya think, Dilya? Do Emma and I rate as legendary?” He struck a pose with his hand over his heart and his head turned up and to the side.
Derek couldn’t stop the laugh—which was at least half nerves at meeting Colonel Gibson.
“Not so much?” The guy gave up the pose with an easy shrug. “Y’all ready to get this here hoss into the air?”
“England, ma’am?” Abby asked. “We loaded both training and battle kit. Should we dump the latter?”
Colonel Beale shook her head. “I wish we knew but we don’t. Keep it.”
“Then we’re ready to go.”
“What’s the full complement?”
“Three Chinooks. We have six crew per bird—total of eighteen.” Abby glanced at Derek.
“I’ve set up a mixed force. A pair of Polaris four-man MRZRs in Charlie Two—each with three Delta and a 24th STS comm specialist I kept on loan from the Air Force. Five SilentHawk hybrid-electric bikes with operators are stowed in Charlie Four.” He hooked a thumb to indicate Abby’s bird. “I loaded a single DAGOR in favor of fitting more gear options aboard Charlene One. Nine seats but it’s running light with myself and three other Delta knowing there were more personnel inbound. I loaded the .50 cal Browning for good measure.”
“Christ, Emma, the Brits are going to think we’re invading. Should I warn Fay?” The big LC-retired guy looked worried.
