by Brynn Kelly
“Your river.”
“My people’s river. Ko Awatapu te awa, ko Maungapouri te maunga. Awatapu is my river. Maungapouri is my mountain.” She jerked her head at the highest of the snow-crowned peaks jutting up behind the deep green nearer range. “I haven’t always lived here but my whānau—my family—are anchored by these mountains and that river, guardians of them. So yeah, don’t die on my watch because you’ve screwed up your wiring and death is the only challenge left.”
Oh, he was getting a reminder that a very different challenge could still amp him up. He had zero time for women who were impressed by his uniform or his family’s money. A pity legionnaires with death wishes didn’t do relationships.
She walked past him, toward the cockpit. “See, to me, you look like a rich guy with too much time to spend at the gym.”
Okay, so that stung—his fitness had come from hard work, self-control and self-loathing. Those he could take credit for. But it also meant she’d been checking out his body.
Guessing he wouldn’t get an invitation, he circled the chopper and let himself in as she settled in the pilot’s seat.
She raised her chin in cool appraisal, clipping on her harness. “What’s your weapon?”
A test? “Le Fusil à Répétition modèle F2. Sometimes a Hécate II.”
She hovered long, slender fingers over the dials on the instrument panel, eyes narrowed, following their path. Not taking chances, even though the blades had just stopped spinning. Overkill, but he’d tolerate that in a pilot. “That’s the FR-F2, right? Sniper rifles.”
“You know them?”
“Those don’t sound like US military issue. So...what? You’re a mercenary? Sorry, I mean security contractor?”
“In a sense,” he said. “Just not a well-paid one.”
“Isn’t that the whole point of selling out—making money?”
“Not for me. I’m a legionnaire.”
She gave him that sideways look again, pulling on her headset and handing him his. “What, like the French Foreign Legion?” Her voice boomed through the intercom.
“Oui, Légion Étrangère, mademoiselle.”
“You are so full of shit you could be a long-drop at a campground in January.”
“No idea what that is, but it sounds bad.”
She checked the panel above their head, again following her fingers with her eyes, and adjusted a lever. “Seriously? You’re a legionnaire?”
“Yes, ma’am. Caporal Cody Castillo du groupement des commandos parachutistes du 2e régiment étranger de parachutistes de Calvi.”
She did a three-sixty check through the windows, and engaged the starter. “Commandos parachutistes,” she repeated disdainfully. “A parachute commando?”
“You know, most people are impressed by that.”
“You’ll never catch me jumping from a perfectly good aircraft.”
“Afraid of heights?”
“Only of falling from them, which is totally rational and something you should be grateful for right about now.”
“Yes, ma’am. That I am.”
“Are you for real with that ‘yes, ma’am’ thing?”
“Habit. My abuela would have me over her knee if I didn’t show respect to women.” Okay, so he might be hamming it up there. His grandmother controlled the family fortune from a laptop, not a rocking chair. Why haul your grandson over your knee when a withering stare was plenty scary?
As Tia worked the controls with deft fingers and sharp eyes, a muted whine filtered through the headset and the shadow of a blade glided across the ground in front, slowly pursued by another.
“Vous parlez très bien français,” she said.
“So do you.”
“Expensive education—and that’s about all I remember. But you had an abuela?”
“My family’s from Mexico.”
“And you’re not?”
“Texas—born and raised.”
She gave a sharp laugh. “Right, so you’re a legionnaire commando from Texas.”
“Now, what have you got against Texas?”
“Nothing. It’s just that you’re not what I...” She shook her head. “It’s just one of those places that seems, I dunno, mythical.”
You’re not what I...expected? Hell, neither was she. “Says the woman who lives in Middle Earth. But go ahead and believe what you want about me. I just care that you’re a good pilot.”
The seat underneath him hummed, as if the chopper were straining with impatience. He knew the feeling.
“The best,” she said.
“Where did you learn to fly?”
She sighed, a scratch through the headset. “Would you ask me that if I was a guy?”
“Uh, yeah.”
She increased the engine speed and the blades whipped faster. “I get asked that a lot and you know what? My male counterparts don’t. I’ve checked with them. They don’t get the question.”
Shit. Was she right? Would he ask a guy that question? “Ma’am, I got total respect for all pilots—planes, helicopters, fucking hang gliders. Takes guts and brains and composure, and that’s something few people have.”
She scoffed, as if she wanted to be pissed at that but couldn’t manage it. “Nice recovery.”
The chopper lifted without a shudder and skimmed above the tarmac. He liked the way she talked. Sharp and combative but with enough humor that she didn’t cross into mean or bitter. Sparring, not landing real blows.
“You don’t mention on your website that you’re a woman. You don’t have a photo.” Because he was damn sure it would’ve given him extra incentive to book her, on top of her stellar reviews and safety record. “Was that deliberate?”
“I don’t say I’m a man, either. If people assume the wrong thing, that’s on them, not me. I don’t want my gender to help me or hold me back. I’ve had journalists wanting to make a big deal out of it. Even a publisher once, though she was more interested in...” She frowned. “I say no to everything. I don’t want to be the ‘plucky aviatrix keeping up with the big boys.’”
He got the feeling that’d happened before—and that it was the big boys who did the keeping up. They rose over a braided river, the shallow, bleached water in no hurry. The Awatapu’s lower reaches. Around him the chopper felt weightless, a mosquito next to the albatrosses he was used to.
“I guess what I’m asking,” he said, “is how a civilian pilot in probably the least gun-crazy country in the world knows her sniper rifles.”
“Nine years in the New Zealand air force.”
Ah. “Flying choppers?”
“Yep, though I started on transport craft—Orions, Hercules.”
“They’re still making those things?”
“The ones I flew were Vietnam relics. Of course I grew up with visions of racing Skyhawks, but by the time I enlisted they’d been sold.”
“You didn’t fly other jets?”
“We didn’t have any.”
“An air force without jets? You serious?”
“And our emblem is a kiwi, a flightless bird. Go figure.” She activated the radio. “I’m just going to call in.”
She spoke in clear, clipped shorthand. Phonetic call sign, position, altitude, direction, destination. Ahead, the last of the spring snow clung to the range’s shadowy folds, in denial about the blue dome that curved above.
“To be fair,” she said when she’d signed off, “all that Top Gun shit went out with the nineties. The future’s in drones, which doesn’t leave many options for real combat pilots. I’m not into that remote-control crap. If you don’t have the guts to go to a place you have no business blowing it up.”
“Where did you serve?”
“Samoa, the Philippines, hunting pirates in the Middle East... To
ok a bunch of scientists to Antarctica one summer. Mostly disaster relief and humanitarian missions, which is how it should be.”
“Word. Though they can cut you up as much as combat. Why did you leave?”
Silence. “We had a...family crisis. My koro—my grandfather—he’s lived in Wairoimata all his life, and he was struggling to get his head around it. And my brother and I needed to...get away. So we made a pact to come down here for a bit. Lie low, look out for Koro. Of course, Koro thinks it’s us who needed him. Didn’t mean to stay this long but it’s one of those places that sucks you in. Besides, now I have this monster to pay off.” She slid a hand across the top of the instrument panel. “So I’m here for a while, like it or not.”
He got the feeling she liked it okay. There was more to her story, but if she didn’t want to share, then all good. Who was he to pry? Happy families weren’t his thing, either, not anymore.
“I know a guy you might know,” he said. “Ex-legionnaire. Came to us from the New Zealand army.”
“Yeah, because I know everyone in this country. We all went to school together. Or is this more of a ‘You’re brown, he’s brown, so you must know each other’ kind of thing?”
“Hey, I’m just as brown as you.”
“So you should know better.”
He laughed. He was almost sad it was such a short flight.
Way below, the chopper’s long shadow flickered over green rock-strewn foothills, like some slimy black creature rolling and jerking over the land.
“Okay, Cowboy, what’s his name?” Tia asked, the words rushing out, like she’d been trying not to ask.
“Austin something. Austin Fale—Falelo...”
She quietly swore, a whisper in the headset. “Austin Faletolu. He used to date my brother. I hate that.”
“What, that he dated your brother?”
“No, that I know the random guy you’re talking about.”
“It happens a lot?”
“More than it should in a country this size.”
They fell silent, he in awe, as the landscape got wilder. Barely tamed farmland gave way to rainforest, and trees in turn succumbed to a desert of jagged rocks and brown tussock. Along the edge of the range, fresh landslides left plummeting scars of scoria. A country on the move, tossing and turning and refusing to settle into sleep.
Man, he felt alive. Anticipation churned in his stomach and his skin buzzed. Not a wired adrenaline, like the start of an operation, but a lightness, a freedom. Escape in T-minus ten.
“You have travel insurance, a will?” Tia asked.
Aaaand bubble burst.
CHAPTER TWO
CODY SHIFTED IN his seat. “Yeah, I got a will.” His father’s lawyers had insisted on a succession plan for the business, though if they were smart they’d skip him. “But you think any insurer’s gonna give a reasonable quote for this?” He could fund an evacuation anyway. Or the repatriation of his remains. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you’re well paid for the search and rescue.”
They cleared the seam of the range and turned south. The view switched to black and white, a rocky alpine plateau with fog filling the basins and dips. Farther into the mountains the ground snow thickened from tattered lace to a sheet to a blanket. In a valley between two craggy peaks spread a blue-tinted tongue of ice. The glacier. No sign of climbers.
He zipped his jacket higher. It was high-tech but lightweight, like most of the clothes he carried. Tia turned west and the sunlight bounced off the glacier, into his eyes. He shut them until the burn passed. Shame he wasn’t getting on the water until 0600. He needed to blast off the nerves in his belly. He felt a nudge on his thigh. Tia pointed down. Carving around massive boulders was a river of milky turquoise, so vivid it seemed to glow.
“Estupendo,” he whispered.
“Indeed. The Awatapu.”
“Hell. I thought the photos on the web were doctored.”
“Nope. Cool, eh?”
Tia followed the river’s winding path. Final approach to Nowhere. As the altitude dropped, rock and snow yielded to tussock and thick khaki scrub. The river narrowed into boulder-strewn white-water corridors, flared into blue pools lipped with beaches of ashen stones, narrowed, flared, narrowed, flared, growing faster and wilder as more streams washed in. Man, he wanted a piece of that.
Tia navigated down into a clearing beside a red-roofed hut along the river, blond tussock flattening under them. If he’d closed his eyes he wouldn’t have sensed the moment of contact. She radioed in as she shut down. He pulled off his headset. As the blades whined to a halt and the engine’s white noise ceased, silence washed in. She stared at the hut. Well, hut was ambitious. More of a shed with a couple small windows and a chimney. Under a corrugated tin awning, a gray dish towel slumped from a rope. Could’ve been there months. Tia screwed up her face as she removed her headset. No sign of any missing tourists.
He spent the next ten minutes trying to equalize his ears as he helped Tia stash the kayaks under the awning. He could be imagining the rush of water over stones, but the bell-like bird chatter was real. The biting stench of avgas lifted, leaving the scent of clean air and distant snow. No better perfume.
She nodded at a craggy white peak in the distance. A bird of prey was riding a thermal. “A cold front is blowing up from Antarctica. You should be out before it hits, but if the weather turns, ride it out in the hut or your tent and I’ll check on you when it clears.”
“Sure thing.” Like hell.
“Because that river’s going to get high and fast superquick.”
Even better. “Noted. Thanks.”
She sighed, like she knew he was a lost cause. “Camp well above the water level—it can change quickly this time of year. Your best launchpad is down that track.”
The “track” she pointed to was a slight gap between the prickly shrubs circling the clearing. “The river meanders for about a kilometer. Then you get your first challenge with a nasty, narrow little rapid. After that a big tributary joins and it really gets wild and pretty much stays that way. But the worst part, the part that makes it grade six, is the Auripo Falls, which you’ll reach about midday tomorrow. Eighteen-meter drop—that’s sixty feet to you—underwater whirlpool that’ll hold you forever—”
“Yeah, I’ve read up on it, asked around. You’ve kayaked this river?”
“God, no. Just rescued enough people to know where they get unstuck. Or rather, stuck. I know it mostly by air—and my brother runs canyoning trips in the lower reaches in summer.”
“Jumping off waterfalls? And you call me a risk taker?”
Almost a smile. “He’s very safety-conscious.”
“Like you.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“So your brother jumps off waterfalls—and throws other people off them—and you call him safety-conscious. And I put only my own life on the line, and I’m a risk taker.”
“He knows what he’s doing. But yeah, once was enough for me. I’m happy just being his taxi driver.”
“You canyoned? I thought you were scared of heights.”
“Not heights, just falling, as every human should be. And it confirmed I was right to be afraid.”
“So you just drop his victims to their fates instead?”
“I figure if you’re determined to kill yourself, you’ll find a way. It might as well benefit me.” Her tone dropped just on the side of teasing. She wiped her hands on her thighs, like she was absolving herself of responsibility. “Right. That’s me out.”
“Last chance to talk me ’round.”
She raised her chin. “You want me to talk you around?”
“No.”
“Good. I could use another search and rescue contract to pay off the last one. Just make sure you die in a place I ca
n easily spot from the air. And keep an eye out for those tourists. I don’t like the idea of them lying...” She rubbed her eyes, as if trying to erase a mental image.
“I’ll do that.”
“Get off the river well before dark each day. When the light drops you can’t see the snags.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That was a bit ‘no shit, Sherlock,’ wasn’t it?”
Man, she was so close to a real smile. If he just worked a little harder... “It’s nice that you care.”
“You have someone waiting for word of when you reach Wairoimata? Who can raise the alarm when you don’t show?”
“No, ma’am.”
Was she asking if he was single?
In your dreams, numbskull. Not that he was looking to hook up, but she’d be a fun vacation distraction.
“Got a mobile?” she said.
“Yep.”
“It won’t work until Wairoimata. You have my number—call me when you get out. If I don’t hear by Wednesday, I’ll start asking around.”
“Will do.”
“Got a distress beacon?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded to the kayak.
“A GPS one? Bought locally, not overseas?”
“Yep.”
“Keep it on you. It’s no use in your kayak if you get swept out. But don’t use it unless you’re dying. I don’t want to fight my way up here at midnight in a cyclone to find you twisted your ankle.”
“This happens?”
“Some people treat those things like Uber. If you can kayak out safely, do it. It’ll make a better war story to boast about later.”
“Noted.”
She gave a sharp nod and walked away. Security briefing over.
“Well, thanks,” he said.
Right. He checked his watch. A few hours before dark. He’d scout out the river, get sorted for the morning, then settle in with a freeze-dried dinner and his e-reader. He rubbed his belly. Food would fix that empty feeling. Damn, twenty minutes in her company and now he had to get reacquainted with solitude. Maybe when he called her from Wairoimata he’d ask her for a drink. Even a place that small had to have a watering hole.
