Chapter 8
“She’s a wild one.” Derek joked to Sam, the master sergeant crew chief.
Abby’s first sudden maneuver had caught them all by surprise.
With no banking, they hadn’t been driven deeper into their seats.
Instead, the bird had twisted sideways, tossing the unwary against hard surfaces.
He and Sam had been standing near the center of the aircraft, so they were only dropped to the deck when their feet had gone sideways without them—instead of slamming up against hard objects.
The only real injury was that Hot Rod, who’d been lounging in his normal driver’s seat in the DAGOR, lost a hold of his muscle-car magazine.
Between the abrupt twists, turns, and air currents—with its pages flapping like a bird’s—the magazine disappeared out the open Minigun window.
It was wide and tall enough for a crew chief to swing the big gun where it was needed, but it had slipped by.
Everyone adapted fast; the second hard swing elicited no more than grimaces excepting a steady stream of curses from Hot Rod.
“Major Roberts says she’s the Number One Chinook pilot, after him, of course.”
“Tall Texan, white cowboy hat?”
Sam nodded.
“Shit. Next time you see him, tell him that Derek still says thanks. Hauled my team’s ass out of Ecuador when no one should have been able to. So, what’s Abby’s story?”
Sam’s smile said that it wasn’t his smoothest play, but he did swing up his helmet’s microphone to switch it off. “Nobody climbs that hill.”
“What? Why not?”
Sam shook his head. “Scares ’em off. Seen plenty try. Too smart for ’em. They bounce off like a hard wall.”
“Plays for the other team?”
Again the head shake.
“Any reason not to try?”
“How do you feel about pain?”
“Hey, I’m Delta.”
Sam laughed and thumped him on the shoulder. “Good luck, bro. You’re gonna need it.” Then he swung down his mike and headed along the cargo bay toward the other crew chiefs.
Derek watched to see if he was filling them in then voting whether to toss him out at altitude; no one glanced his way.
He squeezed along the side of the DAGOR and sat in the passenger seat.
Hot Rod sat in the driver’s seat, still griping about his lost magazine.
No help there. After the two hard maneuvers, with no sign of a third, most of the others were doing what Spec Ops warriors did best while waiting for the action to start—sleeping.
Derek was bolt-wide awake. By brute force, he shifted his thinking.
Based on what he’d already seen tonight, what battle scenario had command cooked up for him?
Would they be dumped into the back forty at Fort Campbell the way the other half of his team had been dumped at Bragg’s Range 37?
At the other extreme, were they going to meet planes that would ship them all overseas tonight?
That was unlikely as most of the big lifters—C-17s and C-5s capable of carting around multiple helos—were back at Fort Bragg.
That meant a ground action at Fort Campbell. What was Abby Rose like in real life, away from her helo?
Shit! Back exactly where he’d started.