Chinook

by M. L. Buchman

  Joint Base Lewis-McChord was far more than the Air Force’s McChord Field and Gray Army Airfield. Even with the two hundred thousand active personnel here, plenty of the base’s four hundred square kilometers were undeveloped forest for realistic maneuver-warfare training.

  It could be months, or even years before they found his body.

  34

  “The chief warrant said that the best food today is over at the airshow at McChord.”

  Miranda had to admit that there wasn’t much more they were going to learn from the crashed CH-47D. And she was quite hungry despite a minimum of physical activity. Yet the morning had been highly educational.

  She made a note in her personal notebook to research the amount of energy burned in learning new information compared to various physical activities.

  Jon requisitioned a van, and the whole team piled aboard.

  Jeremy was reading from his tablet computer about all of the aircraft they could tour after lunch at the Airshow and Warrior Expo.

  “Oh my God! They have a B-1B Lancer bomber on display.”

  “And this is a good thing why?” Taz and he had at least calmed down a little around each other through the morning.

  Miranda hadn’t been sure what it was, but Mike had pointed it out to her, so that must be what had changed.

  “Because I keep drawing that stupid card every time we play the game. It’s like that thing has it in for me.”

  Miranda nodded. “Jeremy does seem to have a particular affinity for that card, over thirty-nine percent beyond statistical norms.”

  “Being bombed by a bummer of a bomber. I like it.” Taz’s tone was upbeat and she was smiling.

  Miranda would interpret that as…pleased.

  “They have a Chinook, a Black Hawk, and an Apache,” Jeremy continued.

  “No MH-6 Little Birds?” Andi asked so softly, it was hard to hear her.

  “Not listed.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  Taz asked why they made her so jumpy.

  When Andi didn’t answer, Mike offered her story for the remainder of the quick three-mile drive between the airfields.

  Miranda already knew the details.

  Andi’s years flying MH-6s for the Night Stalkers were cut short when her copilot was killed while seated close beside her—blown up by a fired grenade that had entered the armhole of his vest and become lodged there during flight. To make the hit, it was almost certainly an UBGL—an under-barrel grenade launcher. No throw would have been sufficient.

  It had given Andi a brutal case of PTSD that still dropped her at the most unexpected times. Miranda understood very well that need to sometimes shut out the outside world.

  But there was something curious about the end result.

  The inside of an MH-6 was significantly smaller than the two front seats of the van they were presently riding in. So she had to imagine that she was a little cramped, and that Jon’s shoulder would be almost touching hers from the driver’s seat.

  If Miranda herself had been shot by a grenade that became trapped against her chest…

  She turned to face the side door as Andi said her copilot had done to protect her.

  The force factors were uncertain, but—

  “Andi, what armor were you and Ken wearing?”

  “Miranda!” Mike shouted. Mike never shouted at her.

  “What?”

  “You can’t just—”

  “It’s okay,” Andi’s voice sounded from behind her. “We both wore the newest vests from FirstSpear, the ABAV—Aviation Body Armor Vest. We both also wore a low-profile Gold Flex Kevlar vest underneath it.”

  “Ah, that explains why you survived. The Russian VOG-25P would have had an immediate initial explosion designed to bounce it back into the air before detonation of the primary charge. So we may surmise that it was the standard VOG-25 grenade.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I’m saying that if your copilot only wore the ABAV, the explosion wouldn’t have been so well contained, and you were seated so close that you probably wouldn’t have survived. A confined and compressed explosion trapped between the body and the armor would have exceeded the ABAV’s armor on its own. But if the grenade was trapped between the armor and the under vest, that helped contain the explosion.”

  “Perfect. Now I owe Ken even more of my life—he’s the one who suggested buying those ourselves. Can I find a way to feel more miserable about surviving?”

  “Yes, I assume you can. But I don’t understand why that upsets you.” Miranda climbed out of the van and waited until Andi joined her.

  Because they were an official vehicle, they were able to park close by the airshow field, rather than out in the remote lots that the tourists had to use.

  Ahead of them, Jon showed his ID, received salutes, and escorted them through.

  Taz was hovering close by Andi’s other side.

  This close, they had to wait for the roar of the passing C-17 Globemaster III as it eased by just three hundred feet over the field. It rolled a dozen parachuted pallets off the stern ramp, which scattered their loads over the grass on the far side of the runway.

  The crowd cheered loudly when the last pallet dropped a Humvee. It would have been more impressive if they’d dropped one of the new Joint Light Tactical Vehicles, but it was still prettily done, with a stars and stripes parachute. And she saw that there was a JLTV for viewing: a Category C ambulance with four litters. She’d have to look at that more carefully after lunch.

  “It upsets me,” Andi shouted a bit over the jet’s departing roar, “because Ken died saving my life. If he hadn’t turned his back on me at the last instant, the force of the explosion that ripped off his arm from the inside would have ripped off my head, rather than smearing the windshield with his blood.”

  “But would you have done any less to save him?”

  Andi didn’t seem to have an answer to that.

  35

  Until this moment, Taz hadn’t once thought about the two men who had died beside her in the rear of the crashing Ghostrider. Without question, she’d be dead if they hadn’t been there as buffers.

  But there’d been nothing noble in what any of the three of them had done.

  They’d hidden and cowered. She’d lived, they’d died. Simple, done.

  What Mike hadn’t said was as clear as what he had. Night Stalkers didn’t quit; it just wasn’t in their makeup. Yet Andi had. Loss of confidence? Unlikely. But the alternative would explain her reaction to the arrayed Night Stalkers helos and her cautious question about MH-6M Little Birds being at the airshow—PTSD.

  Yes, that fit Andi as clearly as the ASD fit Miranda. Again, she should have seen it sooner. Then she’d have been more careful about what she said. Based on her success rate in the last fifteen hours, maybe not.

  Did she have PTSD or some kind of shock reaction herself?

  She hadn’t spent years flying beside either of the men who had died beside her. She’d never even met them until that mission. General Martinez had given her their names, she’d called, and they’d come.

  The Order of the Coin.

  Unlike many commanders who distributed their personal or unit challenge coins far and wide, General Martinez’s were rare. They were given to only the most trusted. Every single person involved in that final operation, all dead now, had been part of the General’s Order of the Coin. For all she knew, she might be the sole surviving possessor of one of his coins. She could feel it in the watch pocket of her jeans.

  Though Taz had followed General Martinez for so many years, she wasn’t sure that she’d ever felt close to him. He was there and she was at his side. She’d…belonged. The coin was a tangible symbol of trust. But no more than that.

  These people cared about each other. Deeply. Deeply enough that Mike was kind to her and Holly had both threatened to kill her for Jeremy’s sake and had not actually done it for the same reason.

  Cared enough for Mike to actua
lly yell at Miranda for Andi’s sake.

  Yet Miranda was still trying, in her odd way, to help Andi with her pain.

  “Is that what friends do?” The question slipped out because Taz actually didn’t know.

  “What?” Miranda inquired as Andi seemed presently past speaking.

  “Help each other? Try to protect them?”

  “I don’t know,” Miranda nodded at the rest of the team leading the way through the crowd toward the food booths.

  Taz kept a careful eye on Andi to make sure she stayed with them.

  “Prior to this team, I only ever had one friend. And she was my therapist and my governess for years before that. She and I only found friendship recently.”

  “Aren’t these people your friends?”

  Miranda shrugged uncertainly.

  “Yes!” Andi shook off her own thoughts and declared emphatically, “Oh my God, yes! Miranda, don’t you dare doubt that. I’ve been with your team for over a month and Holly still doesn’t trust me around you.”

  “She threatened to kill me.” And Taz wasn’t so sure that she’d been kidding.

  “She does that sometimes,” Andi’s wince at some memory made Taz feel a little closer to her.

  The C-17 roared into a landing.

  Then it performed one of its neater, and louder, tricks. Once it was fully stopped, it reversed its engines and the pilots backed the massive plane along the runway, off onto a taxiway, and over to its hangar. She’d always liked watching them do that.

  During the jet-enforced silence, Taz considered the others.

  No need to ask about Jeremy, he worshipped Miranda and would probably give his life for her without even thinking about what that meant. Taz certainly hadn’t for all those years she’d given to the general.

  “And Mike?” Taz had to know.

  “Mike’s great!” The two women said almost in unison.

  That would teach her to ask.

  Mike’s threat over the card table last night had made Holly’s look inconsequential.

  Taz understood force and knew how to confront it. Holly and Andi going for their knives was exactly what she’d tried to do at The Rail pub in Port Angeles.

  Mike, in the quiet of Miranda’s spectacular home, sitting at a crowded table, had managed to threaten her entire future without anyone catching on.

  It reminded her of her own techniques as an Air Force colonel. Finding a weakness—exploiting it. She’d forgotten that in six months of being a hotshot.

  Though she doubted that she’d ever been as smooth as Mike had. She’d have blasted her way through, embarrassing her target in front of everyone, especially his superiors. To use Mike’s card metaphor, her F-35 would have dropped a B61 nuke on her target—often had.

  Mike had slipped in under the radar and cut her heart out without her even noticing until after it was done.

  Thankfully, her stomach found a distraction.

  It only took a moment to zero in on the best booth in the airshow’s food court. The burger guy had the longest line, and the burrito guy was a close second. But off to the side was a domed steel wood-fired pizza oven on a trailer. His signage was poor and his line short, but she could see by his face that all he cared about was the pizza.

  She pulled Miranda and Andi with her when they started for the Asian noodle booth, clearly the worst of the lot by the scent of their scorched sesame oil. Though their signage did make it all look good.

  Holly veered over to follow. The three men went for a burger and a beer.

  Once they got close enough, the quality of the ingredients was obvious. The tomato sauce wasn’t some thin red slime, but looked darkly rich, thickly speckled with spices, and the perfect scorching of diced fire-roasted tomatoes. The mushrooms were fresh sliced, and the basil was still on its stems, with the ends in a water bath until he plucked them moments before baking.

  “Ah,” Holly breathed in deeply. “The woman has a good nose on her. Okay, Taz, I’ll put off killing you for at least a little while.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “No worries.” Holly ordered three slices of double pepperoni. Which was a little startling as the slices were very generous—six per full pie instead of the more typical twelve.

  Andi and Miranda went for a slice each of the mushroom.

  She herself ordered the garlic chicken in a white sauce, and the chorizo with caramelized onions and goat cheese on that chunky, fire-roasted tomato sauce.

  While they waited, a helicopter demo began overhead.

  A trio of MH-6M Little Birds came racing in over the eastern tree line. Once clear, they dropped to five feet so fast that she was afraid they’d crash. But they were Night Stalkers, so of course they didn’t.

  At the edge of the field, they came to land. No, they came to stop, and not even quite that. They pulled nose high to kill their speed, then appeared to roll their skids on the ground, aft-to-front.

  On either side, bench seats were folded down and six Army Rangers sat three to a side aboard each helicopter.

  As the rear of the skid contacted the ground, the Rangers popped their belts and stepped off. They dropped into crouches with their weapons raised. The Little Birds continued their roll and were all racing back for the trees within seconds. That fast, eighteen soldiers were on the ground, armed and ready.

  As the Little Birds climbed to clear the towering Douglas firs, a trio of MH-60M Black Hawks burst into view.

  Instead of diving for the ground like their little cousins, they raced to a halt a hundred feet above the crouching first wave. Fast ropes were tossed out either side. In moments, pairs of Rangers were sliding down from each helo. The second pair were on the ropes before the first ones were clear. The initial eighteen soldiers were joined by another thirty in well under a minute. They were now at platoon strength.

  She turned to shout how impressive it was, but Andi wasn’t watching the display. She was staring at the departing Little Birds with a look between envy and agony.

  Shit!

  Andi had asked if there were any Little Birds on display. And Mr. Literal Jeremy had only looked at the display aircraft, not the aerial demonstration teams.

  “Crap bunch of pilots,” she shouted to Andi as the Black Hawks roared off. “Bet our Air Force combat search-and-rescue guys from the 38th could kick their asses.”

  “Are you nuts?” Andi spun to look at her. “Those are Night Stalkers.” Her flailing arm, indicating the field now behind her, almost smacked Miranda in the nose.

  Taz just grinned back. She’d forced Andi to get out of her head, apparently not a good place to be in at the moment.

  “Oh, right. You were one of them. Forgot for a moment. Still…” Taz could see over her shoulder that more Little Birds were coming into view, the heavily weaponized AH-6M versions.

  Definitely better if Andi didn’t look that way.

  “Yeah, I’ll put our CSAR teams up against you guys any day. Air Force rules! Just like the Falcons in football. Here. I’ll prove it.” She thumped down her elbow on the pizza guy’s counter. “Arm wrestle you!”

  Andi went for it.

  She was no weak fish, but she hadn’t been hotshotting all summer. Taz let it be a battle—until the Little Birds were gone—then put her down.

  “Shit!” Andi glared at her arm. “I’m so out of shape.”

  As Taz turned to pick up her pizza order, she caught Holly looking at her. “What?”

  “Not a thing, Air Force. Not a thing.” But it sounded like a compliment. Former SASR, Holly hadn’t missed what Taz was doing, even if Andi had. Which had been the whole point.

  They snagged a fold-up table for four close by the fence line just as it cleared. It offered a sweeping view of the airfield: a wide grass verge, taxiway, the short and long parallel runways, and more field beyond. A great seat to watch the show. A quick scrounge and they had enough chairs crowded around for the guys as well.

  Holly flicked a finger against Taz’s paper plate. “Okay, in the
future, Taz orders first. Because, damn girl, those look amazing.”

  “You snooze, you lose. Because you can’t have any of mine.”

  “Stingy,” Holly took a huge bite of her double pepperoni, then sucked in air against the heat. “Ow! Damn but that’s good.”

  She took a more careful bite of her own.

  Taz didn’t fool herself that there was any future for her, but it would be nice if her demise waited until she’d finished these. Because Holly was right, the pizza was damn good. Her two slices would make a fine final meal.

  36

  “I have very much want of a beer,” Ru led them between two of the massive transport jets and toward the food stalls that bordered the runway. The two American generals following as if they had no choice.

  Mei-Li had never learned how to stop Zhang Ru’s power. He plowed through any objection until he utterly dominated everyone near him. He always made her feel so helpless, but inch by inch she’d been clawing her way out of his grip. She hadn’t succeeded yet, but perhaps soon—if she could find the right help.

  The crowd they strolled through were talking excitedly about this jet or that helicopter. Mei-Li had only learned about the one helicopter Ru had her research.

  And she hadn’t known why until last night. Whatever change Ru had insisted that mechanic Bob Wang make, it couldn’t be good. Mei-Li didn’t understand enough about these machines to know if it was a small bad or a big one.

  Once again she was docilely caught up in Ru’s wake.

  She’d seen the three little helicopters arrive and unload their people. Then the three bigger ones.

  Now the six of them were performing an aerial display as if there was a real attack occurring. One of them shot a missile, except it was bright yellow and had no rocket flames. It flew less than fifty feet, then floated down to bounce on the ground. It was made of foam.

  Five more followed.

  The crowd roared in approval.

  Perhaps foam missiles were an American thing. She considered broaching the subject as an opening to conversing with one of the generals, but neither one seemed to be the right choice for what she needed.