She got the big twin rotors lumbering their way around. But her Charlene was a beast of a bird and the ten thousand horsepower of her two engines overcame their inertia in seconds.
“Good to go?”
“Copilot good.” Emily reported.
“Just a…” Sam was still hustling “…and we’re clear. Good to go. You’ve got me doing the work of four.”
Abby didn’t care. The rear ramp clanged shut as she lifted.
Emily was handling the tower, which was good as Abby wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. “Heading Two-Eight-Zero,” Emily called out as soon as they were clear of the base’s air space.
The SAS base lay only ninety kilometers northwest of Brize Norton, so eighteen minutes later they were landing at Stirling Lines. Her Chinook took up a third of their little helo runway. She shut it down right where it was, blocking everything.
“Sam, anyone tries to board, you have my permission to shoot them.”
“Uh, yes ma’am.”
“They’re British, you might offer them tea first.”
Abby didn’t appreciate the colonel’s humor. Which was a pity, it was a good line. The two of them climbed down at the same moment the security troops trotted up, a staff sergeant with a three-man fire team. An SAS staff sergeant, which meant he was more skilled than any soldier outside the SAS at any level. He saluted nicely, which was the only thing that slowed her down.
“You didn’t give our base much of a head’s up on your arrival or your purpose, ma’am. While Group Captain Cutcher cleared you?—”
First Abby had heard of it. She’d thank Colonel Beale later.
“—she’s RAF, not Army and not SAS. We need to know the purpose of?—”
“Where is he?”
The sergeant blinked once, then showed that, like Delta, the SAS recruited for intelligence in addition to other skills. “American chap put his bum in a sling, did he, ma’am?”
“He did.”
“Just a short walk.” He did an about-face and, with a hand sign she didn’t quite catch, had his squad form up around them—half escort, half guard. Then, correctly judging her mood, he set off at a fast walk. They were soon doing a light jog to keep up with the striding pace she set.
They crossed the grass and headed up a lane between long buildings. The SAS apparently didn’t train out in the open where they could be observed by others. One building echoed with the hard snaps of an indoor shooting range, another with the grunts of hand-to-hand combat training. Straight ahead was an open field. Beside it parked a line of electric motorbikes, a pair of MRZRs, and a DAGOR.
Misty was the first one to spot her. She simply pointed. Abby shifted her course. Then Misty smacked Hot Rod and Compass atop their heads so they wouldn’t miss the show.
69
Derek knew he was in for it the instant he heard the Chinook hammering down out of the sky. It was no gentle approach. One moment there was nothing. The next there was the great beast of a machine practically standing on its tail to shed speed. Chance had it silhouetted by the sun behind light clouds, a terrifying image that shot his heart into his throat. He’d expect the bird to crash on its tail any second. But it didn’t. Instead, at the last impossible moment, the nose dropped and it settled as lightly as a feather behind the buildings.
He tried to prepare himself.
Abby was coming. And, based on that landing, she was some kind of pissed.
Looking around revealed nowhere private. They had been setting up for a demonstration of the extreme response their vehicles could achieve under crisis conditions. There was no rough driving course here at Stirling Lines, so this first part would be more show and tell and he wanted it to be good.
He didn’t want?—
Abby stormed out of the lane between the buildings, using that impossibly quick stride of hers. An SAS security squad jogged alongside. Beale was…being Beale, wholly unreadable.
“Abby, I?—”
At five paces, she yanked out her sidearm and shot him in the chest.
70
