Chapter 7
She sighed. At least she was consistent.
Abby could always grab a guy’s attention, but she’d never had any luck holding onto it.
In bars back home, she had to hide her skills and her brains.
Not like she was a conversation killer on purpose, but she had a real knack for it.
I fly helicopters for the US Army; guys didn’t like being outperformed.
I’ve flown in twenty countries on five continents; most guys in Maine bars had never traveled farther than the tax-free liquor stores just over the New Hampshire border, I—
What was the point? She scared off guys in Fort Campbell bars just as effectively. Though spooking away a Delta operator might be a new low for her; an honor she could have done without.
Something flickered at the edge of her awareness. “Ethan, check the CCA position. See what that damn thing is up to.”
“Nothing much. Holding position. It’s enough higher that they won’t be running ten million bucks of experimental aircraft into a hillside anytime soon.”
Higher. That meant—
“Send it wide!” Abby punched the left pedal, doing one of her favorite Chinook tricks—making twenty tons of helo spin about its vertical axis without banking.
Because she had twin rotors, she could fly the nose and tail in different directions.
Which meant she could send the nose left and the tail right until she was on a new course, twisting around the fuselage center point of the cargo hook.
And, this close to the ground, she could do it while diving for the dirt without having to worry about catching her long thirty-foot blades while in a steep bank.
She twisted so sharply that she passed behind the Little Bird off her port side. Behind and below. If she’d been low before, now she was hugging the terrain. Sorry, buddy. The Little Bird was there to protect her, and she had a bad feeling about what lay close ahead.
Or… She’d just messed up royally by departing her designated route in a direction that was backward-some. It was definitely abrading the time window second by second, but that was the least of her worries at the moment.
“Check the CCA view,” she ordered Ethan. She couldn’t afford to look away from the obstacles flashing by.
“Identified twelve hostiles.”
“Twelve?” Was every Night Stalker in the entire regiment aloft tonight?
“They’re—shit. They’re small.”
Drones! If she ingested even one of those into an engine, they’d be down in the dirt.
Except Chinook helos had one major drawback.
If the drive train broke, they couldn’t autorotate down to a tricky landing.
Instead, Chinooks tended to shred at altitude and rain down on the ground in several thousand tiny pieces.
She checked her display again—nothing. The drones weren’t stealth or the CCA wouldn’t have seen them.
Diving low and outside had saved her…but from what?
Drones were such a threat that she couldn’t believe Colonel Beale would put them in her path. Not even Trisha O’Malley would do that.
She keyed the radio. “Little Bird. Turn to heading two-six-zero. Climb to thirty meters. What are you seeing due north?”
Abby only had to wait seconds for the report. “The CCA. Otherwise, clear skies.”
The Air Force collaborative combat aircraft wasn’t collaborating; the Air Force had programmed it to give a false report of a drone swarm.
She slammed the controls over to swing back to course and climbed back to the hundred-foot cap.
Then she had an idea and hit the radio again. “Put a simulated round through that damn CCA’s little brain.”
Ethan reported six seconds later. “CCA has suffered a hundred percent simulated destruction.”