By Break of Day (The Night Stalkers) Read online

  Connie was a touch too carefully intent on her hot chocolate, and Kara did her best not to give her away.

  Perhaps it was just as well. Kara could feel a dose of anger building up, what Rudi, her closest brother, had dubbed the Dreaded Red Brooklyn Haze. Kara’s desire to unleash it on Trisha was building. The fact that she could see the real target’s back wasn’t helping.

  Perhaps detecting the gathering storm, or perhaps having a desire to protect her shins from other women wearing Army boots—Kara wished she’d been the one to think of kicking her on the sly—Trisha evaded.

  “I wasn’t talking about him, anyway. She got one, I’m telling you.”

  There was a respectful silence as they all turned to look at Kara.

  “I got one what?”

  “A black-in-black mission.”

  “No.” Kara shivered at the memory of the black-in-black assignment she’d flown oversight on in her first month with the 5D. Her role in that had been strictly surveillance, but it had been pure hell to even watch. Trisha and Claudia had been front and center on that one; the latter was lucky to be alive.

  Lola was looking back and forth. She hadn’t been a part of that mission and was clearly taken by surprise that Kara knew what one was.

  “It’s—”

  “Shut up, O’Malley.” Lola Maloney, friend, had just been replaced by the woman in charge of the 5D.

  And Trisha did keep her trap shut, grimacing and biting her lower lip.

  When Lola Maloney spoke with that tone, it would take a braver person than Kara to face her down. Apparently one braver than Trisha too.

  Claudia, who flew an attack-version Little Bird just like Trisha, sighed and shook her head. Lola missed seeing the connection between the three of them from that mission.

  A side glance showed that Connie had seen it go by, but she didn’t miss anything, so that wasn’t a big surprise. Connie had probably just connected a hundred clues and figured out that they’d flown a secret mission into Azerbaijan to fight with the Russian Navy. The woman was that scary sharp.

  A new black-in-black? Kara rolled it around on her tongue and didn’t like the taste of it. Was that what she and Justin had been in? No, it had been a weird and ugly black op on friendly soil, but no worse than that.

  She prayed it wasn’t heading into a black-in-black.

  She’d flown surveillance on any number of missions and done her fair share of kill strikes over the years, though most of those had been before SOAR. Killing terrorists from a high-flying RPA platform had been the power spot for the U.S. Air Force 3rd Special Operations Squadron. She’d long since lost count of how many CIA spooks had sat beside her handing out targeting confirmations back in the 3rd SOS.

  Those were black ops. You didn’t talk about them. No news to her that Major Willard Wilson fell into that category.

  But black-in-black was divulged to no one. Ever. Committing perjury in order to deny its existence was normal operating procedure.

  Kara looked at Lola and waited, doing her best to keep her expression naively neutral, as if she’d heard of black-in-black but never been on one…which wasn’t likely. Still, it was the best ploy she could come up with on short notice. She was suddenly grateful that her brothers had taught her to lie straight-faced.

  As she waited, she could feel the Red Brooklyn Haze retreating and her focus returning. She wasn’t on the Peleliu to deal with some Texan Chinook pilot.

  She was here to fly with the 160th SOAR.

  Lola glanced around at the other tables, but no one was paying any particular attention to them. She huffed out a long-suffering sigh.

  Lola grumbled something that sounded French, Southern, and foul. Oh right, she was New Orleans Creole.

  She offered a scowl at Trisha before speaking.

  Trisha did look chagrined, not a common expression in Kara’s two months of experience with the woman.

  “What you flew the last three days, and what you did last night—which was very well done by the way—was a black op. Which you”—again the glare at Trisha—“are not cleared for, so don’t ask.”

  “Okay, okay.” Trisha raised her hands in self-defense. “I got it. Sheesh. Girl can’t even fuck up and get away with it by just being cute in this outfit.” The sass and grin was well on its way back to normal. “It always works on guys just fine. Too many women around, I’m telling ya.”

  “A black-in-black.” Lola lowered her voice and they all leaned in. “Well, I just hope to God for your sake that you never do get one of your own.” Lola had clearly caught on that Kara had flown one.

  The nods around the group were all emphatic.

  “Seriously, she’s not kidding. They’re just the worst,” Trisha said in such a way that it just might hide from Lola that Kara had been a part of that one with Trisha and Claudia. Then Trisha grinned. “So, was the cowboy the best?”

  Subject change from hell, but at least it was a change. Kara leaned in even farther until they all went quiet. She kept her voice a whisper. “Dream on, O’Malley.”

  Then she sat back and finally started on her breakfast for real, welcomed by the circle of laughter at Trisha’s expense.

  * * *

  “Heads up,” Bill said softly, the first words he’d spoken during the meal. It had taken some work, but Justin had gotten Michael talking about some of the more public Delta Force missions. Even speaking in general terms, it was downright impressive what these boys had done.

  As they had talked, bits and pieces of their missions fit in with some of the “practicals” during his SOAR training. He’d rehearsed things in training that had been developed by the people in this room, at this table. And they’d done it under live fire.

  “You need to send that pickup tactic you did at the airfield in for training.” Michael had echoed what the Activity agent had said. “I was watching you from the feed to the DAP. That’s new. It’s good. It needs to be practiced.”

  Justin had never had something to send back before. It was an odd feeling to think that the next round of pilots to go through training might be practicing something he’d done in the field.

  “Weren’t really anything all that new”—he tried to put it off—“I’m just the first one stupid enough to try it.”

  They had then spent most of the meal devising and discarding ways to make it a less risky maneuver. If the driver had been even the least bit less competent, they’d have nosed down into the airstrip and still been smeared along the tarmac when the Israelis arrived.

  At Bill’s “Heads up,” Justin glanced over his shoulder.

  The women all had their heads close together, then burst out laughing. Kara looked terribly pleased with herself.

  Justin suddenly felt like a target had just been painted between his shoulder blades.

  Chapter 12

  Justin walked into the bay of the Calamity Jane as the sun was setting toward the unseen Israeli coast. The Peleliu was single-footing her way west. Not fast, but definitely on the move toward whatever her next assignment might be. When they arrived where they were going, Justin wanted to make sure his bird was ready.

  He had to take off his hat at the head of the ramp or risk knocking it off. The cargo bay of the MH-47G was one “Justin” high, as his old crew had called it. Carmen had rediscovered that one recently, coming up with it on her own, which had both hurt and helped with the old memories.

  Inside he could walk about safely enough, but not with the extra three inches of cowboy hat. The cargo bay was head high, a Humvee wide as he’d proved the night before, and long enough for a pair of them though it would certainly cramp the two crew chiefs at their forward miniguns.

  He’d expected some maintenance personnel to be aboard. His crew was out for some practice time on one of the Black Hawks; the 5D was big on cross-training.

  But the only one there wa
s Sergeant Connie Davis. She was so unlike Kara it was hard to equate them as being in the same service. Connie looked like the pretty girl next door, not the genius mechanic of the entire regiment. Her husband, a massively built crew chief called Big John for a reason, also flew on the Black Hawks and was as gregarious as she was silent. It was generally acknowledged that he was the second-best mechanic in all SOAR. Hell of a couple.

  “So, is she back together?”

  Connie preceded to rattle off the maintenance, inspections, and impact of his unusual flight on the Calamity Jane’s mechanical well-being. He considered himself well versed in the components of his helicopter, better than most pilots, but he was still barely able to follow the list she read off from some mental file; she used no paper references.

  “I’m takin’ it that all in all I didn’t bust up my sweet ride none too bad.”

  Connie stared at him for at least a count of ten, then nodded. Maybe she figured that was the most complex information a pilot could be expected to process.

  He liked that quiet bit of sass, so different from Kara’s, but still there, deep and strong.

  “I’ve been thinking about something Michael said.” He watched her and saw that he suddenly had her full attention. Yes, Michael commanded that kind of respect. Something Justin wouldn’t mind having himself some day. Not the respect itself, but being worthy of it. And to start that process, he’d have to track down Kara and soon. But not yet.

  Besides, Connie waited.

  He posed the problem of the chaotic weight shifts he’d experienced while picking up The Activity team.

  They discussed wheel chocks, ones that could be slammed onto the cargo deck at a moment’s notice to stop an on-boarding vehicle. The problem was if the vehicle jumped the chocks due to its initial momentum, then its weight would be trapped too far forward.

  Then he suggested a net, and they began discussing stress loads on hull-frame anchor points. It was a different problem because the Calamity Jane wasn’t an upgraded MH-47D, but a purpose-built MH-47G. His Golf had monolithic framing—rather than individual components riveted together, large sections were machined as single pieces. It cut the helicopter’s weight by almost fifteen percent, which was a huge payoff in performance. They debated those differences back and forth for a bit.

  They spent most of the shift working the problem, and he was pretty pleased with the results. It was also his first time working with Connie, and he came to appreciate quite how skilled the woman was at what she did. She was as focused on the machines as a quarter horse was on the home stretch, perfectly made for her passion.

  There was a change, as abrupt as a wind shift ahead of a squall line. He almost looked up to see if there were clouds gathering, but he was still inside the Jane, still on the Peleliu’s hangar deck.

  Then he spotted the cause. Kara Moretti stood at the foot of the ramp, arms crossed over that lovely chest, watching him.

  Connie tapped her tablet computer to save their notes and calculations.

  Then she looked at him. It was an appraising look. One that speculated whether or not it was safe for her to depart. It struck Justin that as a DAP Hawk crew chief, Connie would have as exceptional facility with weapons as she did with machinery. The Direct Action Penetrator was the most lethal helicopter ever designed, exclusive to the 160th SOAR. And Connie flew on the only stealth one in existence.

  Her look took on new significance.

  He offered a careful nod and a soft “ma’am.” He would be careful with Kara.

  Connie acknowledged his intent and then departed, pausing by Kara to rest a hand on her shoulder before walking off.

  Now, Justin wondered, just what defenses was he going to have to round up to survive Kara Moretti?

  * * *

  Kara was startled by the sympathy from Connie, though she tried not to show it.

  Connie didn’t say a word as she passed, but she’d passed some kind of a silent warning on to Justin. That much was clear.

  Kara didn’t need someone else to fight her battles, but Connie clearly understood Kara’s inner turmoil of the moment and had let her know she’d be available if Kara needed someone to speak with afterward.

  The silent kindness heartened her, far more than her mere inclusion in the circle of the women of the 5D. And coming from the quiet Connie Davis made it all the more powerful.

  Justin started toward her, until she held up a hand.

  The hangar deck was the biggest open stretch on the ship for running laps. Even with her coffin in one corner and the massive Chinook in the other, it was a quarter-mile around the deck’s perimeter. As night shift was ending, runners were starting to hit the deck. Running the hangar deck was the most common workout on board ship other than free weights.

  Already a dozen Rangers, several SOAR, and tight group of Navy were working their way around the deck’s perimeter.

  SOAR ran loose, some pairs, some singly.

  Navy hung together, jostled about but in a cluster.

  The Rangers could be spotted miles away, three neat rows of four Rangers each. As more showed up, they fell in behind and made another neat row. They started up a chant that was already echoing louder off the steel walls than the runners’ feet pounding the deck. The Rangers could make the deck ring so loudly that it shook the coffin until she thought she’d lose it and go completely bonkers.

  Instead of letting Justin come to her, she walked up the ramp and into the cool darkness and sound-buffering structure of the helicopter. The few interior work lights that Justin and Connie had been using barely lit the cavernous interior.

  “It’s more comfortable and quieter up in the cockpit.” He waved her forward.

  At least the man knew she was here to talk.

  “Goddamn horse-whisperer tricks,” she muttered at him as he let her lead the way forward.

  He laughed dutifully, but not much spirit behind it.

  She chose the left-hand, copilot’s seat; no way was she going to sit in Justin’s position. She considered it, putting him at a disadvantage, but her heart wasn’t in it and she didn’t want the reminder of sitting right where his body spent so many hours.

  “Pretty comfy,” she noted as she settled into the chair. It was well padded and plenty wide. She’d sat in Black Hawks, which were markedly less cozy. The Little Birds that Trisha and Claudia flew forced you to rub shoulders while flying together, and not an extra ounce of the tiny craft was wasted on comfort.

  “Armchair pilots,” Justin agreed as he settled into his own seat, “that’s us. Though it does grow old after the first dozen hours, doesn’t it?”

  She hadn’t thought about that, but it was one of the things that her slender Gray Eagle had in common with the massive Chinook: long-endurance flight.

  A Little Bird had to land every couple hours for a refuel. A Special Ops Black Hawk could go three hours and then do a midair refuel for another three. At three hours a Chinook was simply warming up. It could cross the U.S. with only two four-minute refuels. Though it would be crazy to try the twenty-hour flight with only one set of pilots. Her Gray Eagle could go for thirty if she had to; Kara had flown a few missions like that where handing it off to a relief pilot simply wasn’t an option.

  Both of their craft offered comfortable seats for their pilots, and she knew only too well how little that helped on the longer missions.

  “I was about to come looking for you.”

  “So that y’all could round me up?” Kara gave it a Texas twang. “I don’t round up so easy, you know.”

  Justin grinned at her. “Y’all’s accent sucks. But it is easier to understand than that straight Yankee you normally sling around.”

  She didn’t smile back and he didn’t appear surprised. Instead he stared straight ahead out the broad windshield. The open fantail of the Peleliu offered a broad view of the night ocean—the green p
hosphorescent wake stretching for a long way behind them.

  Parts of this cockpit were familiar, and parts of it were so foreign, much like Captain Justin Roberts. His response to her body was so gloriously male, but his response to her, and hers to him, was territory she’d never experienced before.

  The Chinook’s dashboard had broad glass displays the size of a laptop screen ranged low in front of both pilots. Where she had larger screens, they had a sweep of bulletproof glass laminate that afforded a wide view. A panel of radio gear separated the two seats, which was all familiar.

  Where she had a few simple settings for her craft’s electrical and engine systems, the Chinook had a broad switch panel mounted in the ceiling. And for the Gray Eagle her simple joystick was mounted to the right, with fire controls for the four Hellfire missiles she could carry, and throttle control to the left. The Chinook’s joystick standing between her knees had far more buttons than she had fingers, and another button-covered control that almost looked worse where her left hand would naturally fall beside her.

  This was a terribly complex machine that Justin flew into the fray of battle.

  Like his aircraft, Justin was turning out to be much more complex than she had first thought.

  She looked back over her shoulder and down the long cargo bay where just last night a Humvee had roared aboard at full speed—a vehicle that fit with only inches to spare. Had it barreled forward, it would have killed the crew and the pilots before crashing the helicopter.

  And five years ago, a bomb in a cargo bay just like this one had killed Justin’s entire crew.

  Maybe she understood a little more of why he’d left her this morning so abruptly. That he flew at all wasn’t just a surprise—it was a miracle.

  “How did you get back on the horse?”

  * * *

  It wasn’t a question that Justin had been expecting. He’d been rehearsing different ways to explain how dangerous he was when the black memories washed over him. He had tried losing himself in a willing woman just the once, only to terrify her. He’d almost worked out how to explain that…