Wings of Gold Series

by Tappan, Tracy

  WINGS OF GOLD SERIES

  BY

  Tracy Tappan

  Bestselling and award-winning author

  ARC ONLY

  Box Set Contents

  BEYOND THE CALL OF DUTY

  ALLIED OPERATIONS

  MAN DOWN

  Sample of THE BLOODLINE WAR

  Also by Tracy Tappan

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  The Community Series

  Paranormal Romance

  THE BLOODLINE WAR

  Winner of the Independent Publishers Book Awards Bronze Medal for Romance

  THE PUREST OF THE BREED

  Finalist for USA Best Book Awards for Romance

  BLOOD-BONDED BY FORCE

  **With over 575 combined five-star reviews!**

  Check it out now

  Copyright © 2015, 2016, 2017 Tracy Tappan

  Kindle ARC Edition

  This is an ARC edition and not for distribution

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Before you start reading the first book in the Wings of Gold Series…

  Tracy Tappan is offering a FREE introductory novella to her subscribers.

  EIGHTBALL TWO-THREE takes place some years ago in flight school, and introduces the heroes of the first two, full-length novels of the series, Eric O’Dwyer and Kyle Hammond.

  Available in mobi (for Kindle), ePub (for iPad, iPhone, Nook, Kobo, etc.), and pdf.**

  Click HERE to download your FREE copy (includes the novella, CLEARED HOT)!

  Note to readers: Pilots use technical jargon and a dizzying array of acronyms when they talk and think. For the sake of storytelling, I’ve toned down much of this lingo, but it would be impossible to portray naval aviators realistically without it. The terminology shouldn’t trip you up in the story, but a glossary has been provided for those who are interested in exact definitions.

  To use the glossary function on your eReader: Click the number that appears at the end of the word being defined. You will be taken to the glossary at the end of the book. From there, click the “spade” icon at the end of the explanation, and then you will be taken right back to where you were in the story.

  BEYOND THE CALL OF DUTY

  BY

  Tracy Tappan

  Book one in the Wings of Gold Series

  BEYOND THE CALL OF DUTY

  Starring Lieutenant Eric “LZ” O’Dwyer and Nicole Gamboa…

  A Navy pilot and DEA agent join forces to take down a ruthless drug lord, but the intimate scene they must play together as a part of the undercover op ends up going way too far.

  * * *

  “Leave it to Tracy Tappan to take a deadly mission and make it darn near Mission Impossible!”

  ~ Tome Tender

  “This is a gripping read that barrels along at such a tremendous pace that it is hard to put down.”

  ~ Two Feisty Angels and A Devil

  Special Thanks

  I am indebted to Scott Fagan, Political Counselor, US Embassy Nicaragua (former Senior Human Rights Officer in Bogotá, Colombia), for providing vital information about Bogotá.

  My deepest gratitude goes to Captain Jeff “Taps” Tappan, US Navy RET, for his invaluable guidance regarding helicopter operations.

  Heartfelt thanks go to Raquel Escudero, PhD in Spanish Philology, for her help with the Spanish phrases in this novel.

  My sincere appreciation goes to my contact in the Drug Enforcement Agency for answering questions about the DEA. Due to the nature of his undercover position, he shall have to remain anonymous. During my time in the diplomatic community, I developed a profound respect for the men and women who work in this field. The sexual harassment suffered by the heroine in this novel is a product of my imagination and is for story purposes only.

  This book wouldn’t have been possible without the generous help of these experts, and if not for the brilliance of my two editors, Faith Freewoman and Jessa Slade.

  *

  This is a novel. All mistakes in geography, procedure, technology, aerodynamics, and language are my own.

  * * *

  Lyrics to the song Biggest Part of Me by Ambrosia are reprinted by gracious permission of Hall Leonard Corporation.

  Biggest Part of Me

  Words and Music by David Pack

  Copyright © 1980 Sony/ATV Music Publishing

  All Rights Reserved

  Used by Permission

  Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation

  To Bruce McAllister

  Thank you for guiding me to write this book.

  I’ve always had a passion for military heroes, and you helped me to unlock that.

  Chapter One

  June, JW Marriott Hotel, Calle 73, Bogotá, Colombia

  “So which one of you am I going to have sex with?”

  Eric O’Dwyer snapped his eyes up, meeting the gaze of the woman who’d just settled her shoulder against the doorjamb of the hotel suite living room. Tipping his chair back, he ran a hand over his jaw. The idea was to present a picture of naval aviator cool, when in reality he was using his hand to keep his jaw from dropping at the sight of her…a level of subtly he at least managed. The other men on his flight crew?

  Not so much.

  Lieutenant Kyle “Mikey” Hammond, the maintenance officer1 of Eric’s air detachment, who was currently jacked back in another chair, jolted so hard he almost did a header. Kyle was usually a bit smoother around the ladies…although being stupid was also fairly common for him. In fact, Kyle had earned his call sign, Mikey—after that Life Cereal commercial kid who’d eat anything—for doing a very public ugly on liberty with a woman. An act Eric would’ve given half the money in his bank account to have avoided seeing.

  Petty Officer Justin “Bomber” Miller, who was slouched on the couch, transferred his soggy, unlit cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other, chewing on the damned thing so hard he looked like a crusty version of Colonel Klink chowing down on a rotten burrito—just like the colonel from the TV show Hogan’s Heroes, Miller kept his head shaved.

  The silence stretched.

  “An interesting introduction.” Eric rose smoothly, giving her another quick once-over. His gut snarled up. The Latin woman brought to mind a tasty treat: cappuccino skin, chocolate eyes surrounded by long, licorice lashes, and a root beer waterfall of hair currently hiked into a high ponytail. She even seemed to have brought a slight whiff of caramel in with her.

  Height-wise, she was somewhere between tall and short—maybe about 5′5″—with a body that might’ve been considered voluptuous if only her shapely hips and full rack had been taken into account. But she was sporting one hell of an athletic form. Her dark brown cargo pants were tight enough across her pelvis to emphasize a flat, curvy waist, and her tan-colored tank top exposed the ripped muscles in her arms…nothing bodybuilder-like, just very defined.

  A time or two Eric had slept with her kind: fit as shit, but soft in all the right places. There was a certain erotic satisfaction in being with a woman who could kick serious ass. Not his, of course. But still…this could mean trouble for him, and, gee, maybe he should’ve remembered he hadn’t been laid in over four months before he opened his yes-sir-I’m-a-team-player mouth and said “aye, aye” to this mission.

  Problem was, he hadn’t expected her to look like this when he signed off on th
e job. Not that he was some kind of Cro-Magnon who assumed, just because his counterpart on this op was a DEA agent, that she would be mannish or unattractive. He just…hadn’t expected her to be this attractive. Hell, she wasn’t just attractive, she was striking. No. Ball-tighteningly gorgeous, which was exactly what was happening inside his flight suit. Good thing his dick was smart enough not to get in on the action, or he never would’ve made it to his feet.

  The woman crossed her arms over her chest and cocked a single brow. “I assume you gentlemen were briefed about the particulars of this mission.”

  Ah, yes, the particulars of this infamous mission…

  Bomber’s teeth snapped off the back half of his cigar, and he made a choking noise. He even blushed a little, which didn’t entirely make sense. Bomber wasn’t taking point on this mission.

  No. Eric had that dubious honor. Boo-yah for him. “Only the basics. I’m Lieutenant Eric O’Dwyer, by the way, officer in charge.” He came around the table and offered her his hand with his best grin. “I’ll be your partner in crime.”

  The woman pushed off the wall and stepped inside. “Special Agent Nicole Gamboa.” She shook his hand, and, damn. That was quite a grip.

  “My crew—” Eric introduced, gesturing first to his AW.2 “This is Bomber.” Whether Bomber had earned his call sign from his perpetual habit of plugging up the head every time he dropped a deuce or because he got snot-slinging drunk on port calls, Eric didn’t know yet. This was his first time deploying with the seasoned Aviation Warfare specialist. Their current cruise was a three-month-long counterdrug operation off the coast of South America aboard the USS Lake Champlain—the ship they’d left a few hours ago to join an operation that now looked guaranteed to bring Eric a world of hurt.

  “And this is Lieutenant Kyle Hammond.” He gestured at Mikey, who pushed to his feet, and tossed Agent Gamboa one of his trademark can’t-wait-to-get-you-naked smiles.

  She wasn’t amused. Could hardly blame her. In the case of this mission, that probably hit too close to home.

  But when it came to women, Mikey only had one speed: player. And despite how plainly he projected his intentions to the fairer sex, he rarely ran short on female attention. Sandy-haired and blue-eyed, Mikey had some definite goods going for him: good height—he clocked in at an inch below Eric’s 6′1″—and good-looking. His great was that he had the naval aviators’ swagger and smirk down pat, and that’s what regularly got him laid.

  Special Agent Gamboa turned back to Eric. “What about you?” Her focus dropped pointedly to his name tag. “What’s with the LZ?”

  “It stands for Landing Zone.”

  Agent Gamboa’s lips slanted. “Thank you, I was able to translate that much.” She switched to a wide-legged stance and crossed her arms again.

  The posture didn’t suit her, boxing in her body, making her appear awkward—when he’d guess she was the farthest thing from—and almost mannish, which he knew she wasn’t.

  “Why are you called Landing Zone?” she asked.

  Chapter Two

  Fifteen hours earlier, USS Lake Champlain (CG-57), Ticonderoga class cruiser, off the coast of Venezuela

  The man’s look of sheer terror appeared out of the dense night fog.

  Eric locked a curse behind his teeth, catching only a glimpse of a pair of wide-open eyes before the surface warfare officer dove down the back stairs of the control tower—sent there by Eric’s helicopter rotor blades slicing through the air mere inches from the tower’s glass…and the man’s face. Eric yanked back on the stick.

  “Wave off!” Mikey yelled.

  Yeah. Already there, man. Eric pulled up on the collective with his left hand to add power while he increased pressure on the left pedal. The ship’s deck lights smeared back into the goo3 as he swooped the bird low over the surface of the ocean, the subsonic movement of the blades whipping up a mist of rotor wash. Eric added more power and gained altitude, flying into open air.

  “Fuck, that was close,” Mikey hissed, his voice coming through Eric’s earpiece. “Have you ever flown in weather this bad before?”

  “Negative.” Sweat ran though Eric’s hair, making his helmet feel too tight for his head. They’d been in this mess for more than forty-five minutes, ever since returning from an emergency MEDEVAC to find ceiling and visibility conditions sitting squarely at zero-zero; lights on the ship were barely discernible, and the small deck of the cruiser where they were supposed to set down was completely invisible.

  “LZ,” Mikey said, his eyes pinned on the gauges. “Fuel is now below minimums. We’re down to three hundred pounds of gas.”

  Shit. “Enough for one more approach, and that’s it.”

  Mikey turned his head, glancing up from his vigilant study of the gauges. “So we need to consider ditching?” His tone was calm on the outside, but Eric could detect a note underneath it.

  Probably because setting down a helicopter in the ocean at night while in foul weather—both of which negated use of the horizon as a reference point—was a tricky maneuver to manage safely. If not impossible. Eric would need to be able to hover steadily over the ocean, then lower down to the surface gently and immediately slam on the rotor brake. If he landed at all lopsided, the helo would flip over while the blades were still spinning, catapulting them into a high-speed tumble that would most likely kill them. And if that didn’t, then the steel rotor blades exploding into shrapnel would.

  None of the options were on Eric’s bucket list. Unfortunately, there weren’t a whole lot of other choices he could see. With so little fuel, flying to another airfield was out. It was either plant his wheels on the deck of the USS Lake Champlain—and they’d nearly crashed during that last attempt—or land in the ocean.

  A man’s true character is tested by how he behaves under stress, Eric, not when times are good. Eric drew in a tight breath. “If I wave off after this pass, I’m going to line it up to set down in the water. Is your head on straight yet?” The first couple of rough, low-vis landing attempts had thrown Mikey into vertigo—a pilot’s worst nightmare, where up could be down, and left could be right, but the brain was too messed up to tell. Not the best of conditions to be in while inside a cockpit.

  Mikey glanced out the front window and grimaced. “No. I’m still upside down.”

  Which meant Mikey could assist on the gauges and manage comm with the ship in order to pare down Eric’s duties to the sole task of flying, but he couldn’t put his hands anywhere near the controls. In many respects, Eric might as well be flying solo.

  Mikey turned back to his vigilant study of the gauges. “You’ll stick it on this pass, LZ. C’mon, man, you didn’t earn your call sign for nothing.”

  Eric adjusted his fist around the stick, his glove squishy with sweat. The pitch of the helo engine increased as he cranked into a turn to line up on final approach once again.

  After a couple of minutes, Bomber, his AW, who was monitoring screens from the back of the aircraft, spoke. “You’re at 1.2 miles, sir. Ship dead ahead.”

  It was time for Eric to start his descent. “Okay, this is the one. Rolling in on final.” How many times had he said that at this point? “I’ll try not to put us in the hangar this time.”

  “Hangar’s good,” Mikey returned. “Just after we’ve landed.”

  Eric eased forward on the stick, focusing on the ship’s fog-blurred landing lights until his eyes nearly crossed. The small dots slanted ninety degrees to port, and an upsurge of nausea drenched his tongue with saliva. Wouldn’t it be just great if he got vertigo too? He swallowed hard.

  “Four degrees left off course,” Mikey told him.

  Tension sat like a dead weight in Eric’s chest. How the hell was he supposed to monitor the rate of closure on his glide path when he couldn’t make heads or tails of any frame of reference? He needed a fucking horizon…the edge of the ship…something.

  “LZ…come right.”

  He gritted his teeth. His muscles were so tense, every adjustm
ent he made was erratic. If he fucked this up then a Navy chaplain and a Casualty Notification Officer would end up on the doorsteps of Mikey or Bomber’s loved ones’ homes. Eric wouldn’t be able to live with himself—if he lived.

  Dammit, stick this! He forced in a breath, then another. Don’t get so hung up on trying to fix what isn’t working. Use what is. Licking the sweat from his upper lip, Eric lowered his eyelids to half-mast, concentrating on the perturbations of the helicopter around him, the change in atmospheric pressure, the heightened moisture he could feel in the air as he descended closer to the water. Use the gauges. Trust your experience. His hand made necessary changes at the stick, his gaze periodically swept up from the gauges to double-check where he was, and his feet worked the pedals with scarcely any input on his part. Muscle memory and training were taking over.

  “You’re good,” Mikey said in a gravelly voice. “Reduce to sixty knots, descend and maintain glide path.”

  The voice of the LSO4 in the landing shack now came through Eric’s earpiece. “You’re just aft of the deck, Lieutenant. Easy forward ten…five…steady.”

  Normally, an H-60 Seahawk helicopter landed using a RAST5 system, where a probe on the bottom of the aircraft was inserted into a box on the flight deck below. But the LSO must’ve decided the beleaguered pilots had been through enough tonight without requiring that kind of precision in bad weather.

  “You’re over the deck!” the LSO’s voice blasted through Eric’s earpiece. “Land!”

  Eric slammed the collective down, and they fell out of the sky, hitting the deck with thunderous impact. The blades bounced, the technical publications on the dashboard hit the ceiling, and Eric’s vertebrae jarred together. Ouch. But, fuckin’ A, alive.