Wings of Gold Series

by Tappan, Tracy

  He gave Shane a flat stare. Where the fuck was all this coming from? “Well, damn, I sound better than a Rubik’s Cube for providing hours of puzzling pleasure for you.” He somehow managed to sound nonchalant even though steam was building inside his skull.

  Shane shrugged. “Just wondering.”

  Jason thrust to his feet. “Go back on pain meds, Shane.” He tossed his plate onto the small table. “You make more sense when you’re on drugs.”

  Shane chewed blithely. “Have you ever thought about actually getting pissed once in a while, Jace? Maybe even yell a little?”

  “Fuck off.” He used a bland tone to cover the increased level of pressurized steam in his head, also pushing aside whatever profound teachings Shane was trying to lay on him, the same as he would detour around a pool of quicksand. He lacked any particular desire to get swallowed up in it all. “How was that?” He grabbed a kebab skewer off his plate and turned on his heel, stalking off in search of the injured kid’s bicycle.

  But since Doc Barr isn’t a woman you can hate, you’ll have to blow it another way.

  All right, so Jason was pissed—way ta go, Shane!—and biking for over five miles along the winding roads of Margalla Hills National Park was only sending the barometric pressure inside his skull into more dangerous altitudes. He could not fucking believe Farrin made this same trip in the middle of the night all by herself.

  You’re going to get angry with me.

  Ya think?

  But contrary to Shane’s belief, getting pissed did not help. If Jason needed to vent some cosmic-level psychological screwed-up-childhood brain infarctions—or whatever—then rage was not the way to go. It only made him lose control.

  Dammit! Did I hurt you?

  He cycled his legs vigorously, his pajama pants flapping.

  Just wondering how you’re going to do it…

  He gnashed his teeth. What the hell did Shane know about it, anyway? Jason heard through the grapevine that Shane had tossed away his relationship with Kitty Hart, and a man who so thoroughly flushed his own love life down the toilet didn’t have any call to be speaking about anyone else’s. Asshole.

  And, shit! Now he’d biked too far. See? No control whatsoever when I’m pissed off.

  He’d been trying to ride a circuitous route around Islamabad, but overshot the perimeter and was now in nearby Rawalpindi, biking alongside Nur Khan, a Pakistani Air Force Base. The fence line started out as a high, blah-beige cinderblock wall, then ended at a locked wooden door, where a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire took over. Through the chain-link, Jason saw the airfield—flight line, air terminal, tower, etcetera—and…

  And that was when brilliance struck.

  In Rawalpindi, Jason stole a car, a cheap-o Suzuki Mehran that after a few come on, baby sputters managed to chug gamely back to Talhaar. He parked beside Usman and Afia’s small garden, unloaded the kid’s bike from the trunk, then stalked into the front room.

  Shane peered at him expectantly from his chair. “I heard you drive up in a car. Does that mean we’re a green light?”

  “Yes, but we’re not taking the car.” Car or horses, neither would allow them to traverse a bunch of goat trails efficiently in one of the most dangerous areas of Afghanistan. “You said you’re the team breacher, right?”

  Shane’s brows went up, then down. “Yeah.”

  “Got any breaching charges with you?”

  “In my pack.”

  “Can you open a locked wooden door secured by metal hinges?”

  “Easy. One two-inch strip on a hinge will blow it right off.”

  Jason smiled. He didn’t know why. There wasn’t anything to be happy about. Okay, for a man who got off on fast pace and danger, his plan might’ve been a little smile-worthy…but only if Farrin wasn’t a part of it. Which she was. But still.

  He smiled.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Jason gathered necessary intel from Shane—the LATLONG coordinates of the Kunar outpost, as well as the universal SEAL radio frequency—on the trip back to Rawalpindi. He didn’t drive all the way up to the Pakistani Air Force base, but ditched the Suzuki Mehran a few blocks away, then hoofed it with Shane and Farrin the rest of the distance, sweat draining down his temples. Not from the hike, but because he was wearing a roomy poncho he’d stolen earlier to hide his rifle and pack.

  Shane was wearing a similar poncho for the same reason.

  Farrin’s clothes covered her from head to feet, including scarf, which was nothing particularly new. Out of respect for Usman and Afia, she’d followed Muslim tradition over the last few days and only exposed the flesh of her face and hands.

  Come to think on it, he’d seen Farrin’s hair uncovered and unbraided only twice: while camping beside the dry riverbed, and in the fire-damaged hut. He’d like to see her hair loose again, would like even more to touch it. He’d touched her hair once, but the black strands had been sweaty—this was right after their stint in the dirt cellar—and so he hadn’t been able to tell how soft her hair was. He’d bet her hair was very soft.

  “What’s the plan?” Shane asked when they came to a stop across the street from the PAF base. He kept his English voice down low, even though it was after ten at night and not many locals were on the streets. “Blast our way through that wooden door, fast track over to a bird, then say seeya to this fucking sandbox?”

  “Precisely that,” Jason answered. Here’s hoping all goes as smoothly as Shane is making it sound.

  Twin lines of consternation appeared between Farrin’s brows. “You’re actually going to steal a Pakistani helicopter?”

  “Yep.” Casual tone; keyed up insides. Getting caught by Pakistani regulars in the act of stealing one of their birds would only be marginally less fun than being captured by the Taliban…although he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure. Might be worse.

  Too bad he couldn’t call on the local military for help. There should be professional courtesy among fighting men, no matter what bullshit two governments were squabbling about. But here in Pakistan, the military was covertly in bed with the Taliban—much to the US government’s disapproval—so forget that noise.

  Shane’s eyes moved in a scanning motion. “I don’t see any guards around.”

  Jason nodded. “That should work in our favor while you set off your charges.”

  Shane squinted through the chain-link fence. “What kind of birds are those?”

  “Eurocopters.” Probably sold to the Pakistanis by the French.

  “Do you know how to fly one?”

  “Fly? Yes.” The technical aspect of using collective, cyclic, and both pedals in concert was the same the world over. Mechanically, however, well…not all birds were built the same. “Starting one up is a different story.”

  “Navy,” Shane drawled. “It’s not just a job. It’s an adventure.”

  Jason snorted.

  “Do I get a vote in this harebrained scheme?” Farrin asked.

  Jason looked at her.

  “We have a car,” she pointed out.

  “Flying is the quickest way out of here, Farrin.”

  “But not necessarily the safest.”

  “Safe is relative. Calculate our track record on the ground so far. How many more run-ins with the Taliban do you need?”

  She emitted a sigh—weary or beleaguered. Not happy-go-lucky, at any rate.

  “Which bird are we going for?” Shane asked. At least he was on board with this mission.

  “The one at the west end of the field. Side number 185.” It was the only bird Jason saw with helmets hanging in the cockpit. Since most flight helmets were custom fit to an individual pilot’s head, extra helmets onboard designated Eurocopter 185 as the Ready Five bird—the one helo all airfields kept “at the ready” for immediate emergency takeoff. The added bonus would be that half the preflight checklist would already have been completed.

  “Shane, you jump in back and keep your HK ready. Farrin, I’ll need you up front with m
e to help read the labels on the gauges and buttons.”

  She gave him a doubtful look. “I read very little Arabic.”

  “That’s more than I do. Everyone all set?”

  Shane held up his breaching charges and grinned savagely. “Let’s tear it up, Vanderby.”

  Jason really thought they’d have more time before the Pakistani Air Force men on duty started shitting Frisbees.

  He should have had at least until he cranked over the helo’s engines and started making a lot of noise. But the Pakistani pilots who’d flown Eurocopter 185 last didn’t follow proper procedure on shut down—big surprise—and left the strobe turned on.

  When Jason flipped on the battery—luckily, the switch was outlined in red, along with the two engine starter buttons, making them easy to find—he was met with the extremely unwelcome sight of the strobe light flashing rhythmically off the nose. As far as attention-getting on an airfield went, a flashing strobe was on a level with accidentally releasing one of the helo’s missiles from its side carriage onto the deck—clunk, roll, and then maybe ka-boom! Okay, maybe not quite that bad, but at the moment, it felt it.

  “Farrin,” he clipped into his mic, “find the button for strobe—strobe!”

  She frantically searched the cockpit. “I don’t know the Arabic word for strobe.” She was wearing her helmet over her head scarf, which looked a little funny. Or maybe charming, if his mood had been different.

  “Shit,” he growled. He could totally picture what was happening in the tower right now. The controller would be leaning forward to peer out his large window, squinting down at the flight line below, asking, Do we have a helicopter scheduled for a flight tonight…?

  Jason punched the starter button for engine number one—whirrrr. “Stay frosty, Mad Dog. The strobe has put us on a countdown.” He was betting on no more than thirty seconds before Air Force uniforms showed up to investigate who was messing with one of their precious Eurocopters. Since it took nearly two minutes to get a helicopter spooled all the way up to full throttle for flight, then, well—doing the math—they were going to get into the thick of it very soon.

  He fired up engine number two—whirrrrrrr!—then pulled off the rotor brake. The blades began to spin. Okay, now they were making a racket: both jet engines online, rotor blades thwacking the air.

  A volley of foreign language blasted into his earpiece.

  “Sounds like the tower is wondering what the fuck you’re doing,” Shane translated.

  “Any suggestions for a response?”

  “How about: Save your breath, you’ll need it later to blow up your date?”

  Jason guffawed.

  Shane laughed, too. “I’m guessing Doc Barr won’t translate for us.”

  Jason shot a quick glance at Farrin.

  She was still haggardly searching the dashboard. “I think the strobe light might be this button.” She pointed at it.

  He punched it.

  WHOOM!—thud!

  And, flush! There went Jason’s sense of humor, right down the toilet. “Fuck!” he exploded as he glanced out at the tarmac.

  “Uh, Jace,” Shane said. “Things aren’t sounding too good back here.”

  Farrin’s eyes went round. “What just happened?”

  “That must’ve been the jettison stores button,” he told her. “We activated the CAD23 and blew off both auxiliary fuel tanks.” Something he very much had not wanted to do.

  Farrin’s eyes stretched wider. “Do we still have enough gas to get where we’re going?”

  Only one tank to fly two hundred and fifty miles? Got me…

  “We’ve got movers,” Shane barked. “Inbound on our six.”

  Dammit. Expected, but dammit! Jason edged the throttles ahead slowly, keeping an eye on the RPM gauge as he gradually introduced more fuel into the engines. Advancing the PCLs24 too fast would over-temp the engines—the reason why it took so friggin’ long to get up to full throttle.

  “Where are we on takeoff?” Shane asked.

  “Thirty seconds,” Jason gritted. Sweat filled up his ill-fitting helmet like a fishbowl. The blades spun faster and faster.

  “Am I cleared to fire?” Shane bit out.

  Well, here was a pickle. If Jason gave the go-ahead to open fire on another nation’s soldiers, he could kiss his naval career good-bye.

  Shane cursed. “A decision before the uniforms are here in the aircraft…”

  You know what? Fuck it. Jason was carrying important mission intel in his ditch bag, held the valuable asset of a SEAL on board this aircraft, plus an American civilian. He had every right to protect his shit. Besides, he was in the middle of stealing another nation’s helicopter. Sort of a big no-no already. “Roger that. You’re cleared hot.”

  “I’ll try not to kill anybody,” Shane came back. “Just make ’em dance a bit.” Blam! Blam! Blam!

  Then the rapid return fire of an AK: bapbapbapbapbap.

  Jason exhaled a forceful breath. Unbelievable that they were in a firefight with Pakistani regulars. Tight-gripping the throttles, he advanced them a little more. C’mon, c’mon, almost full forward…

  Bap! Bap—! Oomph.

  “Shane..? Shane!” Jason barked. “Do you copy!?” He whipped around to look into the rear cabin.

  Shane was lying face-up on the floor, blood sprayed in a fan above his left shoulder.

  A livid snarl lashed out of Jason. “You fucking got shot again?!”

  “They just had to hit my one good shoulder.” Shane coughed. “Think the bullet mostly grazed me.” He tried to struggle to a sitting position, his helmeted head bobbling.

  “Stay put!”

  Farrin was fumbling with her seat buckle, as if she planned to unhook and climb back there to help.

  “You too!” Jason shoved the throttles to full. “I’m lifting off.” He yanked up on the collective to add massive power, aimed the stick forward, and applied pressure to the left pedal to increase the thrust of the rear rotor. They roared upward, the violent rotor wash from their rapid departure tumbleweeding the pursuing Air Force uniforms across the tarmac. Thunkity-thunk, and—

  Bap! Bap! Bap!

  What the—? More AK gunfire, this time coming off their nose. Jason peered down through the cockpit side window.

  Five men in baggy civilian clothes were just below, two with their rifles pointed skyward, shooting at Jason’s Eurocopter. Other armed men were hustling along four people—three men and one woman—dressed in American-type clothing, who… Wait.

  Cheetah sneakers… Those armed men were wearing Cheetah sneakers!

  Holy shit.

  The four people down there were the American hostages.

  At some point in their reckless flight, all the sweat in Jason’s fishbowl helmet overflowed, streaming into his eyes and ears in drenching rivers. He couldn’t blame his poncho this time. He’d tossed his kit in the back of the aircraft before climbing into the cockpit. No. This was pure stress.

  Do we still have enough gas to get where we’re going?

  That would be a huge negatory, Big Ben. But, hey, no worries. Pakistani jets will most likely shoot us out of the sky long before we go black25 on fuel.

  Five miles out from the LATLONG coordinates of the SEAL outpost, they were still in flight—surprisingly, and thankfully—but Jason was flying with his body angled forward against his seatbelt, as if the position could somehow help the aircraft maintain forward motion when such a thing should’ve ceased to be a possibility. Several miles back the indicator on the fuel gauge stopped flirting with the red line and pegged it. Fumes, at this point, were the only thing keeping them airborne.

  Farrin hadn’t spoken for the majority of the flight. She certainly wasn’t talking now, not with a caution light blinking at her from the dashboard, intermittently making her face look yellow. Even if she couldn’t read the Arabic symbol on it, anyone who drove a car knew that illuminated lights on a dashboard were never good.

  No conversation was coming from Shan
e, either, seeing as the man had decided to take a small nap on the floor of the aft cabin.

  Jason spread his fingers open on the stick, then re-closed them in a more relaxed hold. Five miles, girl. Come on. You can make five more miles.

  Five miles out also meant it was time to announce himself. Reaching for the comm box located on the center console, he toggled in the numbers for the universal SEAL radio frequency, 128.73, then keyed the mic for outside communication. “Kunar outpost, this is Eurocopter 185, approaching five miles from the east. Friendly—repeat, friendly—requesting immediate landing. Carrying a wounded eagle: one of your own, Mad Dog Madden. Standing by for validation.”

  A voice crackled back almost immediately. “Roger that, Eurocopter 185, we have you in our sights.”

  Yeah, he bet they did. A man didn’t fly this close to a SEAL base and not find himself in over a dozen crosshairs. And, of course, the helo’s damned strobe was still on.

  “What BUD/S class was Mad Dog in?” the voice asked to validate their identity.

  Hell, Jason could answer that one. “Class 0504.”

  There was a pause, presumably while the man on the other end verified the info.

  “Fuel status critical,” Jason said in a get-a-move-on tone. “And I have time-sensitive intel.”

  “Roger. You are confirmed friendly and cleared to land.”

  “Copy that.” Thank you, all the gods of aviation. “Flying without NVDs, requesting flare.”

  “Roger that. Light off in three. Two. One—”

  A glowing pinkish fireball shot up, arcing across the sky one mile off his nose. It illuminated a flat circle of dirt below it, and, to the north side of this crude landing pad, a HESCO26 barrier—stacked two units high—surrounding three structures. One building was a long, rectangular CHU27 trailer, probably transplanted off the J-bad base, the second was a forty-by-forty structure built of mismatched sheets of plywood, with a small water tower next to it. Several yards beyond the tower was the third structure: an outhouse.