Gavin told them what he’d found out. His men were like slavering dogs getting a morsel tossed to them. In Afghanistan, Moslem women could not talk directly to any man. Consequently, it was a world of males with males and the women were hidden away in their homes. Gavin missed being stateside. Even though he’d crashed and burned with Laurie Braverman on his first tour here, he still hungered for conversation with an intelligent woman.
As he glanced toward the flap of the tent where Nike Alexander had marched through, Gavin lamented her departure. Clearly, she thought he was hitting on her. Well, wasn’t he? Digging into the pocket of his trousers, he produced a twenty-dollar bill and threw it across the table to his medic. “Here, Robles. Satisfied?”
Chuckling, Neal took the twenty and hoisted it upward. “You tried. Hey, Cap’n, this will give us another round of beer!”
The men clapped and hooted, and Gavin grinned crookedly. His team needed this kind of blowout before they got dropped in the badlands again. As he took one more look to where Nike had left, he wished he’d had a little more time with her. Would they ever meet again? Hope sprang in his chest. Nike was a fascinating woman, pilot or not. Gavin shrugged off any romantic thoughts and took a deep swig of beer. Chances of ever seeing Nike Alexander again were next to nothing.
“Nike,” Major Dallas Klein-Murdoch said, “sit down and relax. Welcome to BJS 60.”
Nike settled in front of her commanding officer’s desk. Every incoming pilot to the squadron did a one-on-one with the CO. This morning, it was her turn. Dallas Klein’s reputation with the original Black Jaguar Squadron, for which she had flown in Peru, was legendary. Nike was only too thrilled to be here under this woman’s command. They’d had a stint together in Texas chasing Mexican drug-runners before this latest assignment. There, Dallas had fallen in love with ATF agent Mike Murdoch. The Pentagon had then sent Dallas and her new husband to Afghanistan to oversee the latest Black Jaguar Squadron. Murdoch was now a captain in the U.S. Army and worked as a strategy and operations officer for the all-women Apache combat pilots that comprised BJS 60. And while the pilots were all female, some males in the ranks took care of the Apache helicopters. Nike was glad that Dallas was assigned here with her new husband. Taking off her baseball cap, Nike sat down and grinned. “Like old times, isn’t it?”
Dallas laughed. “Better believe it.” She reached for a file folder and handed it to Nike. “Here are your orders. We have twenty women Apache pilots here and ten helicopters assigned to us. The last two helos are being flown in today to this base. My executive officer, XO, is going to be Captain Emma Trayhern-Cantrell.”
Raising her brows, Nike said, “From the Trayhern family?”
“The very same. Shortly after you left Peru, Emma was assigned to BJS in Peru and flew Apaches down there for six months before I was able to convince the Pentagon to have her assigned here. She’s a chip off the old Trayhern block—a real woman warrior.”
“Whose child is she?” Nike wondered.
“Clay and Alyssa Cantrell-Trayhern’s oldest child. Emma has three younger sisters, two of whom are in the U.S. Naval Academy right now. They’re due to graduate next year. They’re twins. Clay and Alyssa were Navy pilots and flew P3 antisubmarine aircraft for twenty years. Emma, whom you’ll meet sometime today, is a long, lean red-haired greyhound with blazing gray eyes. I’m glad to have her on board. She’s a natural XO.”
Chuckling, Nike opened the folder. “Emma sounds perfect for this black ops.”
“Oh, she is. Her grandfather is the original black-ops figure behind the scenes,” Dallas drawled, smiling. “Let’s get down to business. I’m seeing my pilots individually to give them their orders.”
“Fire away,” Nike murmured, studying the papers.
“First of all, BJS 60 remains an all-woman U.S. Army force,” Dallas began, leaning back in her chair. “The women I chose for this new squadron have more than one flight skill. For example, you are licensed to fly fixed-wing, single-engine planes as you did on the U.S.-Mexico border with me. And you’re also certified to fly the CH-47, which is the workhorse helicopter used here in Afghanistan.” Dallas looked over at the lean, wiry pilot. “Every woman in BJS 60 has multiskills in aviation. There may be times when I want you to fly the CH-47 and not the Apache.”
“Being multitalented has never been a problem for me,” Nike said, grinning.
Dallas leaned back in her chair. “We are under General Chapman and we work indirectly with the national Afghanistan Army. BJS 60 is going to be a ‘sparrowhawk’ team that will be called upon in emergencies when the regular Apache pilots from the other two squadrons are not available. In other words, we’re going to pick up the slack to ensure that Special Forces A teams get immediate help and support out in the field. Our jobs will vary depending upon what General Chapman’s operations officer decides for us. One day you could be flying a CH-47, another, you’ll be back in the seat of an Apache helicopter. Mike, my husband, is working as a liaison between Chapman’s people and us. We’re going to try and get as much air time as possible in the Apache, but we also know our pilots will be flying other helicopters, too.”
Nike nodded. Instantly, she pictured Captain Gavin Jackson, who was a man’s man, supremely confident. Someone she was drawn to, but Nike wasn’t willing to admit that to herself now or ever. “I ran into one of the A teams over at the canteen a little while ago.”
“Yes, they’re our front-line defense here on the border,” Dallas told her. “These men go out for thirty days at a time. They are hunting Taliban and stopping terrorist insurgence from getting into Afghanistan. This is one of the most dangerous places in the world for our troops—the mountains and the border around the Khyber Pass, which connects Pakistan and Afghanistan.”
“And we thought Peru was dangerous,” Nike joked, turning the page in the file for her assignment.
“Yeah,” Dallas said grimly. “This is worse. Let’s talk about your assignment tomorrow morning. Part of a new project that’s being initiated by the top generals now assigned to Afghanistan is winning the hearts and minds of the border villages in this country. Tomorrow BJS 60 pilots will be assigned to certain A teams to fly them into Taliban-controlled villages. The dudes in Washington, D.C., have finally figured out that if we don’t make these boundary villages pro-American, we’ve lost the battle to stop terrorists from coming into this country from Pakistan.”
“Why are these villages pro-Taliban?” Nike wondered, perplexed.
“They aren’t. First of all, Afghanistan is composed of fiercely independent tribal systems. Even the Russians, who threw ten times the troops into this country, couldn’t defeat the Mujahideen. Afghans don’t count on anyone to help them. They have survived thousands of years with their tribal clans. In this century, the Afghan government, which has tried to force these different tribes or clans to acknowledge them, has failed to solidify them. The central government has always ignored the mountain villages along the border, anyway. They never poured any money, medical help, education or food from the government into these villages. Basically, the Kabul government didn’t think ignoring these border villages was a problem until Osama bin Laden surfaced. Now, it’s our biggest problem thanks to the government’s blind eye.”
Tightening her lips, Dallas added, “Kabul has Afghans who defy their own central government. They remain faithful only to their tribe and their chieftain or sheik. The Taliban uses force against the villagers, attacks their women and creates hostility among the tribal people. That is why these border villages don’t stop Taliban and terrorists from coming and going through their valleys. They hate them as much as we do, but they lack the resources to stop the Taliban from being the bullies on the block. And Kabul officials never sent out troops to protect these border villages from the raiding Taliban, so the villagers are understandably distrustful of the central government. And your demeanor toward these villagers will be as follows. If you, as a person, do something good for an Afghan, they will call you b
rother or sister until they die. They are completely loyal to those who treat them humanely and with respect. That is what I want you to cultivate as you interface with the villagers. This is the only way we are going to win their hearts and minds.”
“Nice to see these outlying villages hate the Taliban as much as we do. I’ll be happy to ‘make nice’ with these village folks,” Nike said.
“This new program the general has just initiated is beginning to bear fruit. Starting tomorrow, you’re going to fly an A team to Zor Barawul, a village that is located five miles away from the Pakistan border. This A team will stay thirty days to try and win the trust and respect of these villagers. This operation, which is along all of the border, is to get villagers to realize that Americans are here to help them. We’re not coming in like the Taliban with guns blazing and using brute force upon them. Furthermore, the medic in each of these A teams will be bringing in all kinds of medicine for villagers. We want to gain their trust with positive and consistent care. The only medical help these people have had in the last sixty years has been from Christian church missions and Sufi medical doctors who try their best to go from village to village helping the people.”
“Sufis? I thought they were Moslem.”
“Yes, they are. Sufis are the mystical branch of the Moslem religion. They are about peace, not war. Love and compassion instead of hatred and prejudice. We need more of that here and the Sufis are leading the way.”
Nike raised her brows. “Then Sufis are the antithesis of the Moslem terrorists, aren’t they?”
Dallas nodded. “Yes, and the Taliban is willing to kill the Sufi doctors who give their life to serving the village people, if they can. The terrorists are one end of the Moslem religion, Nike. They don’t represent the middle or the other end, which is the Sufi sect. Now, General Chapman wants to expand upon that humanitarian mission and bring in A teams to support what they’re doing.”
“Isn’t that dangerous—to put an A team down in a Taliban-controlled village?”
“Yes, it is,” Dallas said. “But the new general, who is taking over the country insofar as military help for the Afghans, sees that this is the only way to change the border.”
Nike was disappointed that she wouldn’t be flying the Apache right off the bat. She kept that to herself. “I wouldn’t want to be an A team, then,” Nike muttered.
“Fortunately, all you have to do is fly the CH-47 transport helicopter and drop them and their supplies off to the village and fly back here. I’m assigning you to six A teams that will be dropped along the border. When they need anything, you’ll be at their beck and call via radio. If they request more medicine, you’ll get the supplies from our base here and fly it in to them. If they need food, blankets or clothing, same thing. If they need ammo or weapon resupply, you’ll be on call to support that, too.”
“Sounds pretty routine,” Nike said, hoping to have an Apache strapped to her butt so she could give the troops air support.
Shrugging, Dallas said, “Don’t be so sure. The possibility of a Taliban soldier disguised as a villager sending a rocket up to knock your helo out of the sky is very real.”
“Except for a tail gunner, I won’t have any other weapons at my disposal to ensure that doesn’t happen,” Nike griped, unhappy. Each CH-47 had an enlisted tail gunner who doubled as the load master for the helicopter.
“We’ll be flying Apache support for you,” Dallas promised. “We’re not going to leave you out there without proper air protection.” She saw the unhappy look in Nike’s eyes and understood her resignation. Nike was a combat warrior, one of the finest. But not all her BJS 60 pilots were accredited to fly the CH-47 as she was. “Look, don’t go glum about this assignment. See what unfolds. Your work, as mundane as it might seem, is high-risk and important.”
“I think I’ll strap on a second .45. You can call me two-gun Alexander.”
Dallas grinned at the Greek woman’s response. Picking up another file, she said, “The border area is the Wild West and Dodge City, Nike. For real. It doesn’t get any more dangerous than here. Here’s your first assignment—the A team you’re flying out at 0530. Once you drop them off, you fly back here and we’ll give you the next village flight assignment.”
Opening the order, Nike gasped. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
Nike looked up, a pained expression crossing her face. “I just had a run-in with this dude, Captain Gavin Jackson, over at the canteen.”
Smiling slightly, Dallas said, “I hope it went well.”
“Not exactly.”
Chapter 2
Their air commander was Captain Nike Alexander. Gavin couldn’t believe his eyes that morning as his team trooped across the tarmac to the waiting CH-47 that would take them to the Taliban-controlled village of Zor Barawul.
He didn’t know whether to give her an evil grin of triumph or simply keep a poker face. As he approached the opened rear of the CH-47s ramp, she was coming out of the right-hand seat, helmet dangling in her hand. When their eyes met, she instantly scowled.
Ouch. Gavin threw his pack behind the seat and pushed the rest of his gear beneath the nylon webbing. Looking up, he noticed her pursed lips and her narrowed golden eyes—on him.
“Don’t worry,” he told her teasingly, “I’m not infectious.”
Nike couldn’t help but grin. Despite Jackson’s ragged Afghan clothing and that beard, he was undeniably handsome. A part of her wanted him. The merriment dancing in his dark blue eyes made her heart race just a little. “Don’t worry, I’m vaccinated against guys like you.” He merely smiled at her obvious warning. Damn, why did he have to be so good-looking?
Nike threaded between the other nine men who were settling in on either side of the cargo hold. She strolled down the ramp toward her load master, Andy Peters. The sergeant stood at the bottom waiting for everyone to get settled before he started loading the many boxes. Her boots thunked hollowly against the corrugated aluminum surface. On one side rested a fifty-caliber machine gun that Peters would put into a hole at the center of the ramp. Once airborne, Andy would drop the ramp, the ugly muzzle of the machine gun pointed down at the earth below them. Peters’s job was to take out any Taliban who fired up at them or tried to launch a rocket or grenade at the bird. She nodded to short, stocky Andy, who was all of twenty years old.
Nike could feel Jackson’s gaze burning two holes between her shoulder blades. He was watching her. Intently. Like a wolf on the prowl. Hunting her. Well, it would get him nowhere.
The brisk, early April morning was chilly. New snow had fallen overnight, leaving about six inches on the tarmac. There was barely light on the eastern horizon, the silhouette of the sharp mountain peaks highlighted. She had a dark green muffler wrapped around her neck and dangling down the front of her bulky dark green winter flight suit. As her fingers slowly froze, a mist came out of her mouth when she spoke to Andy.
“All here and accounted for?”
“Yes, ma’am. Ten-man A team.” He consulted his papers on a clipboard, and then he looked over at an approaching truck. “We’ll be loading all the supplies and medicine in just a moment. We’re on schedule.”
After consulting her watch, Nike nodded. There was a timetable to keep and she was a punctual person by nature. “Very good, Sergeant. I’ll do my walk around the helo while you’re getting all those boxes on board.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Scanning the area, Nike appreciated the towering mountains to the east of the small base. The village of Nar was two miles away. As the dawn grew brighter, she could see the mountains were still cloaked in heavy snow. Closer to the bottom, they appeared a dark blue color. Rubbing warmth into her arms, Nike wished she’d put on her flight jacket to keep her upper body protected against the gusting breeze coming off the mountains. She’d left the jacket on the seat in the cockpit of the helo. The sky was a deep cobalt blue above the backlit peaks. It would be a good hour before the sun, still hidden behind the pe
aks, would crest them. Nike noticed the last of the stars above her, twinkling and appearing close enough to reach out and touch. Most of these nap-of-the-earth flights were flown just above one hundred feet above the land. All flights departed early in the day when the dark-green-colored helicopter could be hidden in the mountain shadows from an ever-present enemy lurking below.
The canopied olive-green military truck backed up toward the chopper with Peters’s hand signals to guide it. Two men hopped out of the cab once the truck halted. Nike went to the starboard side of her helo to begin her check of all flight surfaces.
“Want some company, Captain Alexander?”
Startled, Nike turned on the heel of her boot. Gavin Jackson stood less than a foot away, a shy smile on his face. She hadn’t heard him approach. Stealth. That was what hunter-killer A teams were all about: you must not be seen or heard in order to kill your target. Gulping convulsively, Nike pressed a hand to her neck. “You scared the hell out of me, Captain!”
“Oh, sorry,” he said, shrugging. And then he brightened. “Call me Gavin when we’re alone like this.”
Scowling, Nike continued her slow walk along the two-engine helo. “I’ll think about it,” she said. Nike scanned the rivets in the plates for signs of wear or loosening. Craning her neck, she checked for hydraulic leaks from either of the two massive engines on each end of the bird.
Undeterred, Gavin fell into step with her. “Don’t you think it’s kismet that we’ve met twice in less than twenty-four hours?”
Giving him a long, dark look, Nike growled, “More like damnable karma if you asked me.”
“Ouch.”
“Oh, get over yourself, Captain Jackson.” Nike faced him, her hands on her hips. He was about six foot two inches tall and it killed her to have to look up at him. His blue eyes were warm and inviting. Without thinking, her gaze fell to his smiling mouth. He had a very, very male mouth. And for a moment, Nike realized he would be a damned good kisser. But a lover? Just because he was a man didn’t mean he automatically had the kind of maturity that Nike demanded. And why on earth was she even thinking along those lines with this rude dude?
His Woman in Command Page 2
