Wings of Gold Series

by Tappan, Tracy

  Not the culmination of all these feelings bringing the memory of what had happened rushing back to him.

  His helicopter had crashed inside an enemy compound.

  Specifically, his H-60 Seahawk helicopter had suffered an RPG strike while he was flying a Special Operations mission to save four American engineers who’d been taken hostage more than two weeks ago. His bird was one of a team of five on the mission: one other Sierra helicopter, one Romeo, and two H-6 Little Birds. The group of them had just arrived at the infil point when terrorists on the ground deployed two rockets.

  And basically handed the American pilots their asses—something that should not have happened. Because the enemy shouldn’t have been able to get off shots so soon after the rescue team’s arrival. One of the missiles hit the Romeo bird in their group, tearing off the tail of the helo piloted by Lieutenant Kyle “Mikey” Hammond. Mikey was in the same squadron as Jason’s brother, Danny. The Vanderby boys both flew Seahawks, just different versions: Danny—who’d ended up with the unfortunate call sign of “Beans”—flew the Romeo, Jason, the Sierra.

  Jason didn’t see what became of Hammond. He was too busy being struck by the second rocket and dealing with a crippled bird. Since he couldn’t astral-project outside his aircraft, he couldn’t tell exactly what the damage was, but by the sluggish way the aircraft handled—like a car suddenly without power steering—two of the four main rotor blades had probably been damaged. Not the entire rotor head, thank God, or the helo would’ve dropped out of the sky like a rocket reentering the earth’s atmosphere, and he’d be sitting here dead right now.

  As it was, he’d had to arm-wrestle the controls the whole way down, only just managing to level off at the bottom for a set-down that was still extremely ugly. He hit so forcefully, the helo’s two front wheels did the splits and pancaked the aircraft flat onto its belly; a snarling array of cracks snaked across the cockpit window; the doors exploded open; and the interior went cyclone, blinding dust flying everywhere, along with the raft bag, a couple of water bottles, and a flock of open, flapping navigational pubs.

  The last thing he remembered was the feel of his vertebrae compacting together—he wouldn’t be surprised if he was a good inch shorter now. He wasn’t complaining. A pilot didn’t have call to if he’d been lucky enough to live through a helo crash. But…had anyone else survived? He had ten men under his command, a seven-man Chalk4 of SEALS, plus two of his own AWs5 in back, manning the M240 machine guns mounted in each side door, plus a young copilot he’d borrowed from Hammond’s crew.

  Jason’s gut twisted. He needed to find out who was hurt and how deep in the shit they were. It wasn’t a good sign that terrorists were currently up close and personal, one groping Jason with all the care someone would show a corpse. The man probably did think he was dead—an oversight to be used to his advantage…maybe surprise the asshole by suddenly sticking the snout of a Sig Sauer to the end of his nose.

  Keeping his breathing even, Jason slipped his hand—slowly—up to the Sig Sauer 9mm holstered in the side webbing of his bulletproof vest, all the while letting his head bobble lifelessly as his groper moved on to roughly search the pockets of his flight suit. Waiting until the groper started to tug on a Velcro closure, Jason timed the freeing of his pistol from its snap-in binding to match the tear-sound the groper made.

  His heart did a double thump, but the flow of Pashto never faltered.

  The enemy hadn’t heard him.

  Wrapping a hand around the butt of his pistol, Jason slipped the weapon out and clicked the safety off. Okay. He was armed. What now? Defend himself if he was directly attacked, but otherwise wait for the terrorists to finish their body search, then mosey off? That was probably a non-starter of an idea. An entire American aircraft was here to ransack. Doubtful these terrorists were going anywhere anytime soon.

  Which meant he had to kill them.

  His heart performed another thumpity-thump number. Just how many would he have to shoot? He had no idea—since he was currently playing possum, his eyes were closed. But there were clearly more than one—or else why speak Pashto?—so at the very least, he was outnumbered. The probability of him killing all of them before he was killed himself sat on the tricky side of unlikely.

  Unease squirmed like a slippery worm through his belly. He drew a shallow breath, and—screw it. He didn’t have time to get nervous about this.

  Lifting his chin, he raised the Sig Sauer.

  The groper’s bearded face was turned in profile. He’d just fished the portable radio out of Jason’s vest and was giving it to one of his cohorts, who ran off with the treasure.

  And then there were three…

  Jason squeezed the trigger. Pop—he plugged the groper in the ear. He moved the pistol five inches to the left and pop—he took out another terrorist, point-blank between a pair of surprised eyes. As this man dropped, the third was revealed. Jason pulled the trigger again. Pop. Blood appeared on the third terrorist’s white turban like Aladdin’s ruby. The man puddled to the earth.

  Jason stared impassively for a one-count at the three dead men. This wasn’t the first time he’d taken a life. Well, a human life, yes…and, oddly enough, he found killing humans infinitely easier. Maybe because these were terrorist dick-sniffers who didn’t give two shits about human life themselves.

  He quick-checked the area outside the helo, Sig still ready. The enemy compound—which amounted to about eight civilian-looking homes surrounding a courtyard—was in turmoil. About a hundred people were shouting and running back and forth, the outdoor building lights turning their bodies into streaking shadows. No one had heard Jason’s three shots. Still…

  Wouldn’t take long for someone to notice a three-high stack-up of dead bodies beside an American helicopter. Jason needed to egress the bird, and then… Where would he go in this terrorist-clogged foreign country? He didn’t know. But this wasn’t the time or place to ponder it. Escape first, plan later.

  Sheathing his gun, he quickly unhooked his five-point restraint and angled sideways in his seat to—ouch! His spinal cord twanged him like it’d just snapped a few guitar strings. Gritting his teeth, he continued to reach for his copilot, who was bent over the cyclic—generally known as just the “stick”—jutting up between his thighs. Jason tried to lift the kid, but there was no budging him. He tried again, and—Ah, hell.

  Jason dropped his hand, slumped back in his seat, and stared at a spot out in the far reaches of the galaxy. Damn, damn, damn. He knew what had happened…

  At the front end of the rescue op, Jason and the other Sierra bird, piloted by Vic “VD” Davidson, landed at an aid station for a pre-mission brief—a brief cut short by the arrival of a Pakistani-Indian skirmish. With him and VD—and their crews—catching crossfire from the battle, they’d hurried to get off the deck, and in the rush, the kid obviously hadn’t strapped in tight enough. Because on crash-landing, he’d slammed forward nose-first into the cyclic. Hard enough to wedge the stick who-knew-how-deep into his skull.

  Clenching his jaw to the point of muscle burn, Jason clawed the strap loose on his flight helmet, then shoved it off, just letting it bounce to the floor. I need your man, he’d insisted to Hammond at the aid station. Jason’s own copilot had taken an eyeful of glass from a stray bullet to the helo’s side window during the skirmish. And now the kid, Lieutenant Junior Grade Steve “Jobs” Whitmore, who’d been a card-carrying member of the Mickey Mouse Club, with a face full of freckles and starry-eyed dreams, was dead.

  Shit and double shit.

  The decibels of foreign shouting rose outside. Jason glanced over. There was a flurry of activity on the far west side of the compound. Terrorists going about their terrorizing business…

  Jason shook his head to clear it, his brain still gauzy from the crash. Collect your marbles, Jace. Get back in the game. Escape first, think about everything later.

  Careful of his spine, he twisted the rest of the way around to check the aft cabin. His stomach
sank from his knees into his feet. It was a damned mess. Inert bodies dressed in desert camouflage and loaded down with a staggering collection of weaponry were sprawled chockablock on the floor, legs and arms akimbo. He couldn’t find a single conscious SEAL, except…

  Except for one man, sitting upright, a Heckler and Koch 416 assault rifle braced tight-fisted between his thighs.

  A pair of hard brown eyes locked with Jason’s.

  Petty Officer Shane “Mad Dog” Madden.

  Chapter Four

  Shane’s having the dream again. The one where he knows he’s in a dream, but he can’t wake himself out of it, so it becomes real. He’s back in South Boston, running. His feet slap the city street so hard his thighs shake. His breathing is coming out of him in short, chugging coughs, making him sound like an engine with a clogged fuel injector. He passes shabby house after shabby house, weather-pitted siding and windows mended by crisscrossed strips of duct tape, then the occasional abandoned lot choked with weeds and trash. Battered cars are parked bumper to bumper along the curb, a few windshields plastered with dead leaves, lots of sagging mufflers. A white plastic shopping bag from Cumby’s tumbles down the street, chasing after him.

  W. 4th Street turns into E. Berkley as he leaves South Boston behind. Leaves behind ambulances and cop cars and a life changed forever…

  Holy God.

  Holy, holy God, how is his mother? Is she okay? And his brother…? No. NO! He knows how Keith is. It’s what paralyzed Shane. Made him unable to do anything for his mother. And then she…

  Tears spill down Shane’s bloody face.

  He’s crying. Fuck!

  He hasn’t cried for six years, not since he was eight years old and banged his thumb with a hammer. For the sin of letting a tear leak out over that agony, his father gave him “something to cry about,” punching Shane hard enough to break a knuckle—’course Hank didn’t know about the knuckle till he woke up sober the next morning. Then he laughed. Jackass ripped his oldest son’s cheek down to the bone, and he finds the whole situation fucking hilarious. Though the butt-rag could’ve gotten pissed instead, and then there would’ve been more knuckles to deal with. But Hank wasn’t a father a kid could ever predict. Made survival a hairy thing to pull off.

  The next day, Ma took Shane to the doc for stitches, then after, brought him with her to the Vanderby house, where she works as a maid. He’ll have to behave, she warns, and stay by her side. But when Mrs. Vanderby sees that Shane is eight years old, same age as her older son, she takes him off to Jason’s room “to play.”

  Puke. Last thing he wants to do is hang around some snot-nosed rich kid, but what can he do? Mrs. Vanderby is Ma’s boss. He follows Mrs. Rich Lady upstairs, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, and his shoulders hunched up as he steps into the Jason kid’s bedroom. I can kick your caviar-eating ass is the idea he wants to get across.

  Yeah…well… Turns out Jason isn’t a snotty Cape Codder.

  He smiles at Shane right away.

  “Hi,” Jason says, super friendly. He’s in a bathrobe, sitting in front of a video game. “Say ‘hi,’ too, boys,” he says to a couple of Labradors—one yellow, one black—napping on his bed.

  Both dogs thump their tails.

  Shane blushes a little and jams his hands deeper into his pockets. He’s a real skid for his nasty thoughts.

  Jason holds up his video game controller. “Do you like Sega?”

  Shane lifts one shoulder. “I suck at video games.” He doesn’t have one at home to practice with.

  “No problem. You can start with Sonic.” Jason hops up from his chair and gestures Shane into it.

  Ritchie Rich is giving up his chair to the kid with grease under his fingernails? It’s a shiesty move, but Shane goes over and sits anyway.

  Jason hands him the controller. “So, hey, what happened to your face?”

  Shane does another one-shouldered shrug. “I get into fights at school a lot.” Not a lie.

  “Yeah? Bummer.”

  Shane turns his head to look up at Jason, and it’s like the rich kid has Superman’s powers. He sees right through him. He knows how hosed up Shane’s life is…although Shane doesn’t see how a kid with a Sega in his bedroom could know something like that.

  Shane shifts his weight around in the chair. “Why are you home from school today, anyway?”

  “I have a cold,” Jason answers.

  Yeah, Jason’s nose is pretty red. Other than that, they sort of have the same coloring. Shane’s hair and eyes are dark brown. Jason’s hair and eyes are light brown. At eight years old, both their faces are girly smooth—disgusting—but when they grow up Shane’s face, since he’s the kid of an Irish, working-class drunk in Southie, will grow hard, while Jason’s face will end up looking royal. No way around it. It’s just the way God has wired things.

  Car headlights flash by Shane, bringing him back to the street. He’s still running. He squints and that pulls at the injury on his left cheek. Not from Hank’s knuckles this time, but something much worse. The blood even feels different, not runny, but thick and gooey like Quaker State, and there’s a lot of it…though not as much as was on his mother. Holy God…

  Tonight the neighbors called the Staties. Most times they ignore the drunken rages going on at the Madden house since they happen about every night. But this time they must’ve figured something was different. They figured right.

  In the distance he hears sirens whining, one set squealing louder than the other, then the other louder, and so on and back and forth, like lions in a roaring contest. It’s probably a couple of cop cruisers and an ambulance on the way to the Madden house. He won’t be there to find out. Because he ran. As soon as he saw all the blood on Ma, he tore out.

  For Jason’s.

  His best friend is the one person in the world who will know what to think and feel and do about this. The only person in his life who knows how to deal with things on his level because Jason has as much hatred and anger inside him as Shane does. Probably not after tonight, though. After tonight, Shane will have more, which is a whole helluva fucking lot, considering the screwed up sitch with Barney he saw Jason go through when they were both ten years old—the horror that bound them together as tight as brothers.

  Tremont Street. Shane takes it. He’s starting to feel winded. From Dorchester Heights to Beacon Hill is over two miles, but he’s almost there. He cuts through Boston Common, the cheery green landscape made sinister by shadows. Plants in the ritzy park are no longer green and bushy, but crouched, dangerous animals. He hurries it up and turns onto Chestnut Street where four-story brick buildings are stuck together at the seams and march down the street in such precise ranks, they could be barracks.

  Jason’s house is decorated with black shutters and black metal balconies like all the others, but Shane finds the right address and stumbles down the stairs to the basement entrance. He punches in the code to unlock the service door and creeps inside. Gulping twice, he tries to quiet his breathing and listens for anyone nearby. He doesn’t hear anything.

  He sneaks through the first floor of the house to the stairs, his heart thudding like he’s just gone a couple of rounds with Casey Murphy—fucking mouth-off—outside Peggy O’Neil’s bar on Dot Ave. He steals unnoticed up to Jason’s room and doesn’t knock on the door, just pushes inside.

  Jason is doing homework at his desk. He glances over his shoulder, sees Shane, and blasts to his feet. He’s tall. Taller than most fourteen-year-old guys. Taller than Shane. “Holy shit, Shane! What happened?”

  Shane tries to speak. Nothing. The awfulness of the night sticks all over him like tar, fills his throat with sediment. He can’t even tell his best friend.

  Chapter Five

  Present day, April

  Jalalabad, Afghanistan, US military base

  Prior to OPERATION PRIDE hostage rescue mission

  Shane snapped his eyes open and sat straight upright in bed, throwing a hand up to brace it against the underside of t
he top bunk. No one was sleeping up there—it was loaded down with all his gear—he was just trying not to brain himself. Blinking heavy lids, he cleared the fog from his head, his mind still vanilla slush from the two Ambien he’d popped at dawn. It took him a second to realize he was holding his breath. Pisser. He exhaled in a rush.

  Fucking dream.

  Slapping aside the poncho hanging down from the top bunk to block out the sunlight, he swung his legs out and sat on the edge of the mattress. Glaring down at his bare feet, he stroked his thumb along the scar traveling from his left temple to his chin. There’d been a fuckload of blood that night…

  Ass-wipe dream. He despised it.

  Dreams were supposed to be a blend of reality and invented stuff, like maybe a fourth-grade teacher showing up in a guy’s bathroom to grade his regular whack-off session—where the teacher shouldn’t be and never had been. Not this dream. It played out exactly how it’d happened, in total high-definition, Memorex realness. And since it was the worst day of Shane’s life, revisiting it wasn’t like tossing back shots with his buddies at Pacers Strip Club while some sweet honey shook her money-maker in his face.

  The one good part about the dream was remembering the day he met Jace Vanderby, although…even that wasn’t a happy place to go anymore.

  Not since Jason’s betrayal.

  Shane shoved to his feet. It was fourteen hundred hours, earlier than he planned to wake up, but he wasn’t about to try and go back to sleep. He might end up in Boston again. So he dug into his sea bag and dressed in his working clothes: a pair of Crye Precision tan, desert-patterned cargo pants, pockets on the thighs and calves, and a shirt that was plain khaki on the trunk but MultiCam on the neck, shoulders, and long sleeves. For shoes, he didn’t wear what most of his SEAL buddies did—the Salomon low-top running shoe, also in desert camo. After catching frag in his toes during a mission, he’d returned to tan, steel-toed combat boots. He would throw on a plated vest and various weapons if he and his team got to do any work tonight.