"Because of the fraught political situation?"
"Because of my personal limits. I can work 16's. When well rested, and only then, I can work an 18. But I'm not twenty-five and bulletproof anymore, gentlemen. I am physically unsafe on my reaction times and mental acuity at a 19 hour day, and I won't risk passengers that way." That, she was firm on, looking them directly in the eye. "I've canceled before, and when they've tried to penalize me, I called the union, because that's a line I won't cross."
"Thank you." Grunveld nodded, and this time she didn't find it hard to meet his eyes.
"So, I arrived at the gate, and they didn't even have a manifest for me, security had a hold on the fuel.” From there, she recounted the rest of the day. If she left Blondie out, well, he wasn't relevant to the course of the flight. And they didn't know to ask. Yet. If she was lucky, she'd be gone on cargo flights before they could listen to the CVR and hear him.
It was, as plans went, not half bad. Which was exactly why, she suspected, it was going to blow up in her face.
9
After several hours of talking, her voice was hoarse, and even the coffee wasn't cutting it. Dr. Wilson called for a lunch break. That sounded like an excellent idea - especially when she found the exits at both end of the hallway guarded by soldiers, who were entirely too awake and aware of her as she headed for the ladies room. They wouldn't be easy to ditch, but there were better chances when they hit the general public area - even if she had to turn on her handbrain and summon a media swarm, and hostile Feds. Best bet, though, was still to finish the interview, then slip out before they could think of anything else to ask.
When she got back to the conference room, people were already filing out. Grunveld nodded in her direction. "Lunch is at a nearby cafe, about half a mile off the airport. We've been there before; they’ve always got good food."
She nodded, not wanting to abuse her sore throat any further by replying, and joined the herd as they headed out. Pilots would have piled into a crew van like it was a clown car, but apparently investigative team members liked first-class comfort and style. They had a convoy of three vehicles, with a bunch of the soldiers riding along in each one as the board split up. She ended up in the tail end vehicle, with mostly soldiers, and decided to put her head back against the seat like she was sleeping, keeping watch through slitted eyes on where they were going, while ignoring attempts at conversation.
The cafe itself was quite pleasant, with an extensive selection of little appetizer-sized plates. She could have done without the military boys by the front and the kitchen looking too-casual and barely touching their drinks as they watched everyone suspiciously, but the food was good. She made short work of the fried minithulu with a garlicky tomato sauce, avoided the olives after the first bitter bite, and tried a selection of things artistically piled on little bits of soft bread or hard toast, while the others talked of various restaurants in the area, and the weather compared to home. Despite repeated offers of wine by the waiters, everybody passed, opting for tea or strong coffee.
Movement by her elbow drew her attention to Grunveld, who had brought over two dishes from where he'd been sitting. "Try these before the others scarf them." He handed over something wrapped in bacon and speared on a toothpick. She bit in, and sweet and savory flavors exploded in her mouth. She tasted dates filled with cheese and something crunchy, and all of it amazing.
"Mmm! That's wonderful, thank you!" She smiled at him, and stole another off his plate. He grinned, and snagged one himself.
"Pilots have to stick together." He bit into his own date with a smile. Before she could ask him what the other dish was - it looked like breaded, fried balls of something, and that could range from sweet to savory to truly awful - his attention was caught by something out front, body tensing up and hand up inside his jacket. She looked at the front of the restaurant, where she couldn't see anything abnormal, so she guessed someone must have pinged his implant. There was some scuffle going on by the kitchen door - one of the soldiers had grabbed somebody who'd just come in from the kitchen, but wasn't wearing the waiter's outfit.
Michelle frowned, but it seemed under control. As she reached for one of the fried things, Grunveld pivoted and tackled her, throwing both of them down on the hard crete floor of the restaurant as her plate went flying.
She was trying to figure out what was going on, and why, when her brain registered the sound of gunshots. Grunveld crushed her against him and rolled across the floor as the screams started. Together, they hit shattering crockery, knocking against chair legs and being kicked by people’s legs, until they fetched up hard against a wall. The air was filled with the sound of breaking things, and screaming people, with people shoving back from tables, or diving under them, or running back and forth.
Grunveld pulled them into deep shadow under a shelf along the wall that doubled as a table, hidden from the outside by a tangle of bar stool seats and the people still on them. He kept her head shoved down even as he twisted around, peering out, ignoring the screaming overhead. Wrist to wrist, their jackets pushed back so the implants were unshielded, he pinged her implant. "Evac's coming in forty-five seconds. Get ready to run. Keep your head down!"
Michelle nodded, sucking in a winded breath, and pinged back an affirmative. He squeezed her hand, never taking his eyes from a scan for threats. His other hand held a small, sleek blaster, the kind that didn't look impressive or flashy, just functional. She couldn't remember him pulling it out. Michelle plastered herself to the wall until he tugged on her hand. Time to run! She scrambled on hands and knees, following him on the path he chose toward the sidewalk.
The van they'd come in was gone, and a heavily armored thing roared up as they ran for it. The door opened just as they got to it, and hands lifted her up and threw her in onto the steel mesh flooring. She scrabbled forward and to the side, curled up out of the way as more people were boosted in with more force than care. There were seats, but an attempt to get into one resulted in someone shoving her head down. "Stay down!" Then they were roaring off, and she curled into a ball as the rough ride slammed her back and forth against seat supports and people's boots and shins. She gripped her leg where it hurt, noting a tacky warmth, and wiggled her toes. They were fine, nothing broken, so she just needed a bandage when they weren't focused on not getting shot.
When they finally came to a stop, the investigation board members onboard were handed out first, giving enough room for the soldiers to maneuver. Michelle figured staying put was the better part of valor, at least until the path to the door was clear. A hand squeezed her shoulder, and she looked up to see Blondie crouched next to her. The surprise at seeing him kept her mouth shut, as he smiled. "So this was your turn to sit down, shut up, and act like cargo, right? At least we didn't make you throw luggage before you get to a comfortable seat." He gave her a wink.
She blinked at him, gathering her scattered wits, as he stood and held out a hand. "C'mon, you can get up now. Are you all right, ma'am?"
She took his hand with the one not holding her leg, and let him help her up. Putting weight on her right leg made it go from throbbing to lancing pain up all the way up to her hip, bringing tears to her eyes. "I'm fine, though I think I rolled across a broken plate back there. Do you happen to have a bandage?" She looked at her with a frown, and she gestured with the other hand at the bloody, ripped fabric.
"Aid kit!" Blondie snapped, and she was confused. Had she gotten the terminology wrong?
"No, I don't need the whole kit, just a plaster." Her protest was overridden as he picked her up, carried her bodily to a seat, and put her in it. A bright yellow aid kit appeared, and one of the other troops pulled out and tore open the disinfectant wipe pack as Blondie picked up her leg, and pushed her pants up to see the cut. She sucked in a breath through her teeth as he mopped up the blood smeared all down her shin and calf and soaking her sock. It wouldn’t clean up; blood kept welling right back up and spilling down her leg and his hands. Blondie pres
sed gauze on the wound, hard, and said a little less sharply, "Combat wrap."
That was a roll of, well, wrap. He wound it around her leg without putting any pad or ointment down beneath, and she bit her tongue and trusted he knew what he was doing with his supplies. Once it was wrapped and cut off, he eyed the rest of her body, moving her limbs and clothes to check for bloodstains. She hastily added, "I'm fine. Nothing else cut."
He handed the wrap back, and considered her for a moment. "Your definition of fine could use a little work, ma'am. Anything sprained or strained?"
"Just bruised." She got up, testing her weight on the leg before taking two steps to finally get out of the vehicle. He was practically hovering, ready to catch her if she fell. They were parked in the hangar with the doors shut, and Grunveld was waiting outside. "Really, I'm fine. They've been hunting me hard for the last few days, every time I turn on my handbrain. I’ve been leaving it off because of that.“ She shook her head at Grunveld's offer of an arm, and tried not to limp as she headed back for the conference room. Softly, she muttered, "I should’ve realized they'd be watching the investigation team, too. Stupid of me. Damnit."
Blondie swore, and took her arm whether she wanted it or not. Grunveld held open the door, and said over her head to Blondie, "No wonder she's a twitchy mess."
She snorted, and shook her head. "You aren't catching me at my best." Turning to Blondie, she grumped, "Really, you can let go; I'm not going to fall apart on you." Besides, it was easier to get through a single-person man-door alone.
"We'll take care of you." Blondie said it quietly, even as he refused to let go of her elbow.
She bared her teeth at him in an imitation of a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes and they both knew she didn't believe it. "Thank you. Now can we get back to the interrogation? We have a timeline here to hit."
Grunveld snorted, and Blondie shook his head. As they headed down the hallway, he said brightly to Grunveld, "I like her. Can we keep her?" She hit him with the back of her hand across his stomach, and Grunveld laughed.
"Are you sure, boy?"
10
By the time she'd been questioned about operations, structures, survival factors, powerplants, systems, air traffic control, weather, survival factors and last but certainly not least, human performance, the clock had ticked over to late afternoon local. Her eyes were gritty, her throat was scratchy, and her body was insisting it was almost dawn and she needed to quit trying to pull an all-nighter, on top of the adrenaline crash from lunch. Her leg was throbbing gently, and twinging every time she shifted it. The board members, in small consolation, were looking pretty rough around the edges, too. As they started gathering notes, she croaked, "Is that all, gentlemen?"
"It is. This concludes the preliminary interview with Captain Lauden." Dr. Wilson rattled on with bureaucratic notes into the microphone, but she tuned him out to concentrate on draining the last of the coffee from her cup, even if it had long gone cold, and bracing herself to get up. The Feds would definitely be watching the exits, expecting her to catch a ride to a crash pad. She needed to grab a ride to the cargo side of the ramp, and then give the Imperials the slip so she could double back to a cargo outfit without them tailing her, and see if she could pull off a second interview in a day. Or catch a nap, and then double back. Exhausted as she was, that sounded a whole lot wiser. Hell, first she needed to stop trying to plan, and actually get out of the chair.
Movement next to her bowed head caught her eye. She looked up to see Grunveld beside her, offering her a hand. She hadn't even seen him move, and that said bad things about her situational awareness. She accepted his help, and needed it when the cut leg protested her putting weight on it, almost folding under her. He didn't let go after she stood, even when she tried to move away from him. "This way, ma'am."
The others were still busy with their notes and planning who was going to cover what and where, so when they hit the hallway, they were alone. Before they could reach the hangar, he stopped her by simply blocking her forward movement with one arm, and then putting the other behind her, trapping her up against the wall. She gritted her teeth, and tried to stay pleasant. "Sir…" She stopped at his wincing expression.
"Call me Sven. I'm not a sir; I work for a living." He smiled, taking the sting out of the rebuke. "Lauden, you look like shit."
"Thank you… sir." She replied dryly, and he acknowledged the rebuke with a small smile and a grunt.
"If you were one of my crew, I'd pull you off all duties for a week, feed you dinner, and put you to bed. Have you had any critical incident stress training?"
This close, unable to move, if he'd had the slightest bit of suggestiveness, she'd have panicked. As it was, he reminded her of the fishing captains back home - crusty, curmudgeonly, and caring underneath it all. Michelle ignored the trapped feeling and focused on the question. "Can't recall anything."
"Damn." He frowned, and pushed off the wall, folding his arms. "So you've survived getting your nerves half-fried between the alarms and the malfunctioning system feedback, only to endure adrenaline dump after dump between the nightmares, the media, the flashbacks and the Feds."
She should breathe easier with the extra space between them, but the words made her twitch for a different reason. Warily, she looked at him, and found an unexpectedly sympathetic look on his face. "Voice of experience?"
He grimaced, and ran a hand over his face, rasping against the day's stubble. "I've been shot down three times, and had a few hovers go haywire. I don't recommend it." She relaxed, then, as his gravelly voice dropped into teasing black humor. "Stick with just the one crash, girl. They don't get better."
"Michelle, not girl." She replied, and smiled back. "And I'm already off duty, so if you'll excuse me, Sven, I'm going to find a nice, quiet dinner."
"I know just the place. It comes with the boys on overwatch. They’ll ensure it stays nice and quiet, unlike lunch." He gestured forward, heading to the hangar. "Do you like steak?"
"I do. Depends on what you want in trade for wining and dining me, though. I'm not that kind of girl." She turned to look at him before turning the door handle.
"Hah! No, I have a few more questions, off the record and over beer, for you."
She groaned, and pushed open the door. "No. I have answered enough questions today. You'll have to try another day."
"Oh, I will. But these won't be hard ones. C'mon." With that, and with a hand between her shoulder blades, she was steered toward the armored personnel carrier.
That alone was enough to make her dig in her heels. "Where are you headed? Because that thing sucks. I'll meet you there."
"It sucks less if you're in a seat." Blondie was at her shoulder, and she jerked away from him, startled at his sudden appearance. "And you're not leaving this hangar… wait, no, let me finish. You're not leaving this hangar without armor and top cover." He looked over at Grunveld. "We've already taken out two snipers, and the observation drones, but I can't do a damn thing about their satellite coverage."
"You've been busy."
"They got sloppy. This afternoon… Are they trying to start a world war?" he snapped, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a one armed hug. "Thank you for getting her out of the line of fire this afternoon. We got three of them, but missed the fourth until it was too late." He glanced down at her, and bit back whatever he was about to say, changing it to, "We know now they were Feds, tasked to eliminate the investigation team and our favorite pilot, here. What the hell are those assholes playing at?"
"Who the hell knows?" Grunveld sighed. "I'm too old for this shit." He checked his handbrain, and swore. "I need to catch up with some of the others. I’ll see you two back at the compound."
"Yes, Master Sergeant." Blondie replied, and they watched him head back to the meeting room.
"Excuse me." Michelle reached up, and peeled his hand off her shoulder.
"Michelle?" He let her pull his hand away, but left his arm across her back while l
ooking entirely too amused.
She kept her voice soft enough for a private conversation, despite onlookers. "I need to go, now. I'll do dinner with you and Grunveld another night. For now, I just need to get out the cargo side, where they're not looking for me."
Blondie smiled, and shook his head. "Come on. You're dead on your feet. Let's get you some food, and a place to rack out."
"I have a place to rack out. I just need to get out of here." She wrapped her arms around her chest, thinking out loud. "Once I make it over to the cargo ramp, I'll be home free."
"Ma'am, right now I don't trust you to take another fifteen steps without falling over." He slid his arm down her back and caught her hand where she'd wrapped it around herself, squeezing it gently. She looked down at that, then up at him, and there was nothing but concern in that hard gaze. "You're exhausted, and that makes you a very easy target. You can be strong and independent tomorrow; tonight, take the help you're offered."
"Damnit, Blondie…" She stopped, and shook her head. "What the hell is your name, anyway?"
"Alex Miller." He replied, and tugged her along. She sighed, and let him guide her to the armored vehicle. "But you can call me Blondie if it makes you happy." Tom was leaning by the door, affecting a too-casual attitude. Hearing that remark, he straightened up with a big grin, only to be stopped by a finger poking him in the chest. "Not you! Just her."
Going Ballistic Page 6
