I Own the Dawn: a Night Stalkers military romantic suspense

  I Own the Dawn

  a Night Stalkers military romantic suspense

  M. L. Buchman

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  About This Book

  She learned to trust no one—the hard way! Now she must.

  “Top 5 Romance of the Year!” – NPR

  Kee Smith qualified as a helicopter crew chief, a top sniper, and the second woman to ever make the Army’s secret Night Stalkers. When she chooses her copilot as her next target, he doesn’t stand a chance.

  His role as helo copilot and top team strategist always fit Archie Stevenson. Until a pint-sized shooter kicked his world sideways.

  When a mission gone wrong threatens to start a new war, they must solve it together—if they don’t kill each other first.

  “At the very top rank (of romance).” – Eloise James, B&N Book Reviews

  “One of the best military romantic suspense novels this year.” – Romancing the Book

  [Can be read stand-alone or in series. A complete happy-ever-after with no cliffhangers. Originally published in 2012. Re-edited 2021 for improved reader experience but still the same great story.]

  1

  “There’s no way you’re assigning me to some girlie-chopper.”

  Kee Smith had to look a long way up to see herself reflected in the major’s mirrored shades. Well, let him look down into his own damn reflection in her shades and see how he liked it. All he’d see was himself shimmering in the desert heat before the helicopter he’d rammed down through the dawn sky.

  They stood in a baking soccer arena, which was now turned into a baking forward airbase out in the middle of the baking desert close by the bloody baking Afghan-Pakistan border. Already, the tier upon tier of weathered concrete seating focused the heat on the bare dirt field like a hammer.

  No response. Crap!

  Maybe she couldn’t read the major’s eyes through those shades, but after six years in the US Army, she could read his silence.

  “Sir.” Damn. Screwin’ up already, Kee. She’d spent the last thirty-seven hours going from one lumpy flight to another to get into the theater of operations. Her reward, a dusty bivouac fifty miles from Afghanistan’s brutal Hindu Kush mountains. That part didn’t bother her. If President Matthews said the war was here, fine, she came here. But that her new commander turned out to be a stick-in-the-mud, protocol-bound dweeb… That she didn’t like so much.

  She was dirty, stank worse than after running a tenner with a field pack. Her butt was chapped from one too many hard racks, and sweat dripped down from her bandanna in the desert heat. And now she was coated with the fine desert dust raised in a thick, brownout cloud by the major’s landing that was still taking it’s damn time settling.

  There wasn’t no way in hell or highwater she’d done all that to get assigned to a girlie-chopper. She came here to fly. Into the bloody fray, not away from it.

  Major Chunk-o-Muscle cracked a smile without a single drop of friendly behind it. His flight suit showed rough wear that she knew from experience didn’t happen overnight. The handle of his piece, a non-reg Sig Sauer P226, sweet, looked worn too. The silvery aluminum showing through the black anodizing. That took serious use. The hand resting loose beside it had a gold ring; she’d seen him slip it on after he climbed out of the helo. Common practice. If you were downed, you didn’t want anything shiny on you to attract attention.

  Of course, the symbol on a guy’s finger had never stopped men from hitting on her before; built short and curvy, they all figured she was easy. They all found out fast quite how wrong a man could be. Besides she wasn’t into married ones, muscley or otherwise. The Army might choose her partners in the air, making choices she sometimes didn’t like, often didn’t like, but she sure as shooting chose hers on the ground.

  “What’s wrong with a girlie-chopper?” His deep voice practically laughing at her.

  She shrugged her duffel off her shoulder and let it smack down, creating a knee-high local brownout of its own in the dust-fine sand. She rested her aluminum rifle case on top of it. Dragging her hands through her jaw-length fall of hair didn’t calm her one bit. She still looked dark and tousled in the major’s shades. Shit, didn’t matter anyway. Go for it.

  “Permission to speak candidly, sir?”

  His half-amused nod ticked her off.

  “I fought too damn hard to get here to be slotted in with some cute little public relations fantasy you have in your head, sir. Sure I’ve heard of Major Beale, goddamn legend and all. But if I end up on her squad, I’ll catch no end of flak and you’ll be wasting both my time and the Army’s. They didn’t ship my butt to this forward airbase, thirty miles into the middle of nowhere, to form a chick squad.”

  That he’d planned on doing it to her at all told her what kind of a commander he was, and she wasn’t looking forward to it.

  “They shipped me here because the nastiest battle on the planet is happening up north in the Hindu Kush. I came to kick serious ass, pardon, sir, not to be slotted by gender. I want, I deserve to be placed because I’m the best at what I do. I belong in a bird like that.” Kee pointed over her shoulder without turning. She’d seen the distinctive T-shape of the beautiful helo, the twin of the major’s own bird, reflected in his shades. The heavy rock ‘n’ roll beat of its rotors pounded against her diaphragm before she could hear it.

  The major didn’t bother to glance up. “You ready to ride on that?”

  “Damn straight.”

  Now he did look up, a smile impossibly softening his stony face. Mr. Chunk-o-Muscle was Major Handsome as well. Who’d have known with that permanent scowl. She turned to follow his gaze.

  Falling down like a hammer out of the crystal blue sky came her baby. A Black Hawk helicopter. And not just any Hawk. It was an MH-60L DAP. The Direct Action Penetrator was the nastiest gunship God ever put on Earth and only the best flew in her. Kee’d nearly died of pleasure the first time she saw one. Actually she’d been about to die literally too.

  She’d spent five long years bucking her way up from regular Army infantry to get aboard. It had taken her three of those to get into SOAR and another two to get through SOAR training. Now she was here, forward operations. She’d done it and now was facing her dream ride, a DAP Hawk. No man had ever made her feel this good.

  And this sweet bird wasn’t fooling around. Two massive weapons’ pylons stuck out from either side of the midsection. On one side she had a rocket pod carrying nineteen missiles and a 30 mm cannon in case they wanted to go mastodon hunting. On the other pylon, another rocket pod and a rack of Hellfire anti-tank missiles, three of which were missing.

  It was flying proof that unfriendlies lay plenty close around here. Hell, even the surrounding town of five thousand people could be hiding anybody. The two crew chiefs still had their hands on the M134 Miniguns peeking out of their shooting holes though they were down to a mere hundred feet up. The helo was still exposed to any unfriendlies lurking in the town that surrounded the stadium on three sides and remained ready to unleash hell. The Hawk also had the mid-air refueling probe, which meant she went in way deep. Kee was so down with that.

  Only one group flew such a bird, SOAR. The Special Operations Aviation Regiment (airborne), the Army’s 160th. The Night Stalkers. The baddest asses on the face of the sky. And she was here. She pinched her leg, on the side away from
Major Muscle-head. It stung. This wasn’t no dream. Wide awake. She’d done it.

  They both turned away and covered their faces as a brownout of dust washed across the field, adding another layer to her too-many hours of grime. Once the bird hunkered down, and speech and vision were again possible, she faced him.

  “That.” She cocked a thumb over her shoulder. “Me.” She thumped her chest with a fist. “Sir!” For good measure.

  “Done!” Again that hidden laugh. “If you can talk your way past the pilot.” He turned on his heel and disappeared into the heat shimmer.

  So, all up to her, hunh? Good. Didn’t scare her none. Kee grabbed her rifle case, yanked her duffel over her shoulder, and tromped over to the DAP as her rotors wound down and the dust settled.

  Respect. She’d give that a shot first. Respect with a little help. Because, like a good soldier, she had more than one weapon in her arsenal. She tossed down her duffel and the rifle case at the edge of the rotor sweep and made sure her T-shirt lay smooth and tight on her skin so that every muscle and curve showed. Pack ‘n’ rack. Six-pack abs and a good solid rack for a chest. On clear display. Her dusky skin, almond eyes, and single blonde streak in dark hair had created a magic for knocking men dead. Wasn’t why she had it, but it worked.

  She didn’t tease, it wasn’t her mode. If she offered, she meant it and delivered. But having men’s brains switch off around her had its advantages. She wasn’t gonna be filing a letter of complaint with the chief people designer who’d wired men’s brains to blow away like dust in rotor wash whenever they were around her. It amused her that it worked every damn time.

  The pilot climbed down, leaned in to trade a joke with his crew chief, and then headed out from under the slowing rotors. He would have passed her by, but Kee snapped a sharp salute.

  “At ease.” No salute back.

  Crap! Newbie mistake. She jerked her hand back to her side and couldn’t help checking behind her, but Major Muscle was gone. She knew better, had been forward-deployed plenty to know better. In the field you never salute a superior officer. Sure way to tell a sniper who to target.

  Kee dropped to parade rest, clenched her hands behind her back. Muscled arms and shoulders back focused men on a chest that wowed ’em all. Civilian women thought they were hot, but there was nothing like a buffed-out soldier babe. And the civilians knew it, too. Wasn’t a single civilian chick ever gave her a smile when she entered a bar.

  “Sergeant Kee Smith. Best damn gunner you ever met. I want on your ship, sir.”

  The pilot peeled off his helmet, revealing blue eyes darker than the sunrise Afghan sky and an unruly wave of soft brown hair that she’d bet never stayed under control, no matter how long a woman played with it. He opened the front of his flight suit to reveal a sweaty tee on a slender frame.

  “Captain Archibald Jeffrey Stevenson III at your service. And it’s not my ship. You’ll be wanting to converse with the major.” His voice slow, smooth, and refined, like a radio announcer on those classical stations.

  Then he grinned at her, a saucy, funny grin. Started in his eyes and wandered down to his lips, ending up kind of lopsided. Not Handsome Mr. Major, but it made him look pretty damn cute. She couldn’t help but notice that his long and lean had nice muscle underneath, you’d expect no less from a SOAR flier.

  The captain, however, didn’t have the decency to rake his eyes down her body. The major hadn’t been able to help studying her frame, she could tell despite the mirrored shades he wore like they’d been welded there. But this captain somehow managed. Either gay or self-control of steel-like strength. Came down to it, she’d be betting on the latter. What happened when that much self-control let go? Now that could be worth the price of the ticket to find out.

  He moved off to her right, passing so close they practically brushed shoulders. He leaned in and whispered, “Good luck. You are going to need it. More than that nice chest, Sergeant.”

  “But it’s a damn nice chest, isn’t it, sir?” So he had noticed.

  “Yes, ma’am, it is.” And though she didn’t turn to look at him, she knew they were smiling together for that moment.

  Captain Archibald Jeffrey Stevenson III. What was this woman’s Army coming to? Did he have any idea how ridiculous he sounded? Like those late-night movies when the only thing on was some British hoo-ha, everyone prancing around in long dresses. Hard to believe he had said “chest” with a voice like that. Though she’d liked the way he said it, as if it were a compliment, not a drool.

  She spotted the oak leaves on the collar of the other pilot and set aside thoughts of long and lean captains with wavy hair. The major was still helmeted and chatting with the crew coming in to service his helicopter.

  The Hawk had been through hard times. Tape patches showed more than a few hits on the fuselage; several of the panels had been replaced, and a couple of those had patched holes too. Now that they’d stopped spinning, she could see that one of the rotor blades was newer than the other three, replaced after taking too much abuse. This bird had seen heavy action. She moved in to check out the guns, worn hard but so immaculate you could eat off them. Her kind of weapon.

  “Pretty, isn’t she?” a crewwoman’s voice asked from close beside her. SOAR had women in the ground personnel, but Kee was only the second woman to ever make the grade for flight operations.

  “Sweet candy for sure,” Kee agreed.

  A serpent of coiled gray had been painted across the Night Stalker-black of the helo. The colors so close in tone made it hard to see in places, which made it appear all the more dangerous. It wrapped around the gunner’s lookout window and writhed across the pilot’s door. Etched in his scales, the name of the bird. Vengeance. The serpent’s head, striking forward along the nose of the helo, sported mirrored shades. In the lenses, someone had drawn a reflected explosion of an enemy going down hard.

  “Better than sex.” She rubbed a hand down the long barrel of the 30 mm cannon. “I can’t believe that bastard major wanted to slot me on the girlie-chopper. This is real flight.”

  “Don’t like girlie-choppers?”

  “Not one friggin’ bit. I want this bad boy. I didn’t come here to form no goddamn chick squad.” She stepped forward to stare into the face of the rocket launcher. Seven fired. They’d been in the heat last night. She’d wager it hadn’t turned out well for the bad guys. Night Stalkers ruled the dark—it was one of their two mottos.

  Something kept dragging at her attention. She’d been trained to pay attention to the niggling feeling that something was out of place. Something not right. It had saved her life more than once while pounding ground for the 10th Mountain Division.

  Looking up, she spotted it.

  “The rotor blades. They look different.” Kee could feel the maintenance chick, still behind her, focusing her attention upward.

  “Thicker. Most can’t see that. This is the first M-mod in the theater. The MH-60M upgrade adds twenty-five percent larger engines, needs a heavier blade.”

  Kee whistled in admiration. “She must haul ass across the sky.”

  “She does.”

  Kee glanced over at her new companion. “Kee Smith.” The first thing she noticed was the shoulder-length blonde hair and the bluest eyes on the planet. Pretty, slender, perfect posture. Would fit in with Archibald Jeffrey Stevenson III oh so fine. Maybe they were hitched. Met in a frickin’ hoity-toity fern bar somewhere on the Upper West Side. The woman dug a sparkler out of a pocket and slipped it on her left, though the Captain’s hand had been clean. Still, could be.

  The second thing Kee noticed was the worn flight suit, then battered helmet under one arm, the scuffed-up M9 Beretta at her hip, and the pair of major’s oak leaves on the woman’s lapels.

  Kee’s poker face clicked in a beat and a half too late. One woman had made it into SOAR before her. A friggin’ legend. And not for spreading her legs to the top. A girl couldn’t turn around without being compared to the one other woman flight-qualified in the wh
ole regiment. That damn Major Muscle had tricked her. Tricked her into begging to get onto the girlie-chopper she so hadn’t wanted. Who’d have guessed the girlie-bird would be a DAP Hawk?

  Kee knew the woman’s name before she spoke in that refined voice of hers.

  “Emily Beale.”

  “You for real?” Kee couldn’t equate the tall slip of a blonde standing in the dust beside her with the legend. Real or not, no woman truly met SOAR standards before Kee’d come along. That was cold cash to your street dealer. There had to be another story here.

  “Last I checked.”

  Kee managed to clamp her tongue between her teeth before she could put her foot any farther down the rabbit hole. The legend told that the title of SOAR’s number-one pilot belonged to the only woman flying in all five battalions. Kee also knew for a fact that officers lived to mess with lower ranks’ minds.

  SOAR pilots were as bad-ass as the ground pounders they carted through the sky. Every hour a Special Operations Forces guy trained, a SOAR flier trained. The 75th Rangers didn’t have nothing on a Night Stalker. And they couldn’t fly.

  The Delta operators, the D-boys, okay, they were something other. Even a SOAR couldn’t keep up with them, but the crew for the 160th’s helicopters sat at the pinnacle of the US military’s air power for a reason. They were the best. That meant being the toughest.

  Major Beale was a total lightweight, all trim and slender. If you gave Kee a .50-cal machine gun to cart around with a case of ammo, you’d be getting somewhere. But if you gave a whimp-ass FN SCAR carbine to Ms. Major Beale, could she so much as pick it up? Well, she did have one hanging across her chest, but if she fired it, she’d probably be kicked onto that narrow ass of hers.

  Major and Major. Her brain went click, loud enough to be audible. Major Chunk-o-Muscle had smiled at the sky when this bird had swung into view. He had the shackle of gold on his left hand to match Beale’s sparkler. Married her way to the top. Hey, whatever worked. Didn’t mean Kee wanted to fly with Miss Hoity-Toity Girl. She’d never make her mark if they always kept her in the shadow of SOAR’s only other woman.