Chapter 15
Derek stayed stuck in his chair at the end of the briefing for tonight’s mission and wondered what prairie dog hole he’d just stumbled into.
Delta prided itself on being different. And while he’d flown on literally hundreds of missions with the Night Stalkers, they’d always just been an asset to an existing mission objective.
Slot helicopter A into hazardous-as-hell-landing-zone B, deliver Rangers C and Delta D, to kick serious terrorist ass T.
It wasn’t that complex a formula—until now.
Here in Fort Campbell, it was all about the helos. How to reshape the plan to leverage their strengths in new ways while protecting those precious aerial assets. Until now, he’d merely laid out a place and a time, leaving the rest up to them.
Not last night. The challenges they’d faced to hit those time marks despite picking up slower helos in their aerial convoy, then being betrayed by Air Force’s autonomous drone—he still felt sick that he’d unwittingly been a part of that.
Major Trisha O’Malley had been the one to tell him to offer that connection to Abby last night and probably, no, definitely gloated about it afterward.
But he’d been the one to actually deliver that betrayal aboard Abby’s bird.
Only her being way smarter than the average soldier had kept their lone flight clean.
He couldn’t call it a date, though by the time they’d finished dinner and headed for last night’s long-delayed debrief, he wished he could.
What makes a D-boy so arrogant? had been her first question as they sat down over Hot Brown sandwiches.
It was an artery clogging experience of the first order: layers of turkey and broiled tomatoes buried in cheese sauce and topped with bacon, all served on thick-slice buttered-and-grilled bread called Texas toast. He’d almost ordered it again for breakfast, instead opting for the marginally healthier biscuits and gravy with a side mushroom omelet.
Name another outfit as good as we are.
She didn’t even try. No need, as D-boys were the best counter-terrorism squad out there. Everyone, except the British themselves, agreed that they’d even bypassed the SAS they were modeled after. That wasn’t the question.
So, how would you answer that question about the Night Stalkers? he’d countered.
Arrogance isn’t one of my failings. And it wasn’t. Abby hadn’t bragged a single word about the skills she’d shown during the night. She simply did it and done.
He’d had to chew on that one awhile. Male bonding? was the best he could come up with.
I’d have said testosterone poisoning. Same thing I suppose. Damn but she was funny, especially when she was being half serious.
Derek had never been the sort of guy to think things through.
It was a God-given truth that no plan survives the first contact with the enemy—thank you General Helmuth von Moltke the Elder for that truism.
Delta’s solution? Don’t think too far ahead.
Go in with a goal and years of training in flexibility—act in the moment to compensate as each situation went dynamic in a new and unforeseeably ugly manner. Delta thinking was very present tense.
He'd spent much of the dinner kicking himself for hitting on Captain Abby Rose with the bar-babe line. He didn’t usually aim any higher than that. At least in that world, everyone knew what was what—high recreation, zero commitment.
She might be what his redneck father would have termed a God-forsaken Yankee, but he found her kind of charming.
Kinda? He’d spent the entire meal focused on getting her to like him…
and still couldn’t tell if he’d succeeded.
She’d tolerated him, but dinner had shifted rapidly from the personal to the professional.
She was from Maine. There’d been something about a relation with nothing but lobsters on the brain.
He couldn’t tell if that was a saying, a secret Downeast code, or a harsh reality.
Then she mentioned that she flew the same hardware that two generations of relatives before her had. After that, the conversation never veered back to her or her past. Army aviation all the way up.
Once the debrief ended, Trisha having burned everyone’s butt except theirs, they’d walked through the chill of the predawn darkness until she pointed out a building. “That’s you.” Then she turned on her heel and headed off toward a different section of base housing.
If she’d done that after the flight, he’d have been pissed. But he had learned a few things about her over dinner. If he was right…
“Hey—” He almost called out Hook Girl. Hook was a common nickname for a Chinook helo; partly the shortening of the name and partly the immense loads it could lift with its cargo hook.
For once, he heard how bad that would sound before he said it aloud.
“Goodnight, Wokka Girl!” He’d done plenty of cross-training with the SAS; the Brits loved the wokka sound of their CH-47s.
Abby froze in her tracks, covered her face with her hands and emitted a small groan of purest frustration before turning to face him. “Oh God. I’m so sorry.” She was almost in tears.
He’d been right; no social skills at all.
Over dinner, everything would be running aces as they discussed a technique or mission, then, within a heartbeat, Captain Abigail Rose went away and Abby would stumble onto the scene and become thoroughly awkward, even suffering serious foot-in-mouth disease—repeatedly.
Derek stepped up until they were as close as the moment she’d turned aside.
He wondered what she’d do if he pushed forward into her personal space: scamper or try to scupper his ass.
While it would be tempting to find out, neither would suit him much.
Instead, he waited with his hands jammed in his jacket pockets. It kept him from reaching for her.
When she still didn’t speak, he prompted her with, “Sorry for what?”
She flapped a hand helplessly about her indicating nothing that he could identify. “For not even saying goodnight? For being a hopeless conversationalist? For being an utter train wreck of a woman? Take your pick.”
“Apology accepted.”
She just gawked at him.
He put on his best Okie accent. “Though to be truth tellin’, next time I’ll be pissed as a hog without a waller if’n you don’ say g’nite like a proper lady.”
“That’s it? What about the…other stuff?”
“Well, from my view, you’re apologizing for the wrong things, so I don’t see any particular reason for me wasting time accepting such nonsense.”
“Nonsense?”
“I enjoyed talking to you more than I’ve done any woman in a long time.” He gazed up at the last of the stars and thought about it before looking to her again. “Any person in a long time. You’ve got a very interesting and sharp mind, Wokka Girl.”
“Well, I guess that’s a sight better than Hook Girl.”
“I could get to seriously like that you don’t miss a thing. You’re interesting as all hell, WG.”
“Except for being a train wreck of a woman.” She sighed and looked down at her boots.
“You seriously need to be a-getting’ you’self a mere.”
“A mere?”
“A mirror, Abby.”
“A mirror?”
So, the amazing Captain Abigail Rose, who could make flying a twenty-ton helo look as easy as a kid flying a paper airplane, didn’t see the amazing woman he’d just spent a three-hour dinner with.
Three hours in a DFAC. Army dining facilities weren’t exactly mood-making sorta places, but neither of them had cared. At least he sure as shit hadn’t.
“Abby…” How was he supposed to explain how wrong she was? The woman shone so bright he was afraid to touch her.
“What?” She looked up at him. She did like her questions.
Well, Delta had taught him how to walk through fear—by asking why.
Why was he afraid to touch her? That was easy once he thought about it.
The chance that she’d choose scamper over scuttling his ass if he got any closer.
He’d bet one-to-three odds on those options.
As he’d taken plenty of hard hits over the years, he decided it was his kind of a good bet.
He took a step in, rested a hand on her shoulder, and kissed her.
He kept it light, and she let him draw it out. She wasn’t wholly on board but the vote on his bet was still out. When she shifted back, not stepping away, just a shift, he let her.
“Looking to get laid?”
“Not tonight.” Definitely not his usual response, but it was a guaranteed way to lose his bet.
“And the part about the mirror I seem to be looking at wrong?”
“That’s the reason I kissed the lady without asking permission first.”
“Do you usually ask permission?”
He had to think about that one too. “Must say no.” She shifted farther back. “Because usually the answer is pretty damn obvious.”
“But I’m not?”
He laughed. “You got armor thicker than your Hook’s.” He made a point of looking around at the deep-blue sky. “The only thing obvious about you is that you are seriously wrongheaded about yourself.” He went Okie again. “I gon’ out and buy this here fine lady a mere right soon.”
He’d been right about her eyes; that curly walnut-brown hair and strong eyebrows that emphasized their light honey-amber color. All through dinner he hadn’t been able to look away any more than he could now. She stared at him until he wondered if maybe he needed a mere to check himself in.
“Goodnight, Captain Kylie.” Then she kissed him as lightly as he’d kissed her and turned on her heel. This time she didn’t look back.