Chad groaned as all eyes turned in his direction. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would be the target of all the blank ammunition for the next two weeks. Fighter pilots loved nothing better than taking one of their own down a few pegs.
The briefing continued as the colonel outlined the plans for the training exercises. The “enemy” pilots’ jobs consisted of engaging the Blue Force pilots in dogfights and decimating its ground forces. Once the pilots were comfortable with their assignments, they were dismissed. Chad needed to head to the flight line to get acquainted with his flight crew.
"Major Monroe.” The colonel ambled to the door. “Welcome to Nellis.” His hand on Chad's shoulder stopped him from leaving.
"Thank you, sir."
The colonel shut the door to the conference room and guided him back toward the table. “The general will be here momentarily to speak with you."
"I understand, sir."
A pregnant pause filled the air. He knew exactly why the general was coming to speak with him, but doubted that the colonel knew anything beyond the order to prevent him from leaving. This mission was strictly need-to-know and only a handful of people had that need.
At the click of the doorknob, both men snapped to attention, prepared to greet their superior officer. Chad's heart beat loudly in his ears as it lodged in his throat. The colonel and the general saluted each other as the junior officer slid out the door and pulled it shut behind him.
"General Covington.” He saluted the high-ranking officer with all the solemnity of a new cadet. “Congratulations on your promotion, sir."
"At ease.” The distinguished-looking older man motioned for him to have a seat. “Thank you. We go back a long way, Monroe. Too long to stand on formalities when it's just the two of us."
"Yes, sir, we do.” The man in front of him had recruited him to work for the Air Force Security Agency. His job as a fighter pilot, with its numerous TDYs, gave him perfect cover and the perfect opportunity to perform the special operations work. He'd enjoyed it at first, relishing the opportunity to participate in the black ops work, to immerse himself in something other than grief.
"This whole Ramos terrorist cell is about to blow. You know that, don't you?” The general leveled him with a serious gaze.
"Yes, sir, I do. I'm ready for it to blow and be over."
"The JSF will be a part of the exercises."
So, there it was, He breathed a sigh to himself. After almost three and a half years of working with the AFSA to bring all of the elements of this mission together, the moment of truth finally presented itself.
He had been tapped to work with the AFSA on this mission shortly after the death of his wife and unborn son. He'd jumped at the chance to throw himself into something, anything to occupy his thoughts. As a result, he found himself in the unique position to help the military infiltrate a group of Latin American drug dealers with much higher aspirations. The wannabe terrorists had begun buying state of the art military devices to aid them in their cause and were poised to become a major military terrorist organization rivaling the early days of Al Qaeda if allowed to continue unchecked. The United States government had no intentions of allowing a bunch of delusional thugs to threaten US interests or citizens. The mistake had been made once before with Al Qaeda, and wouldn't be allowed to happen again.
Erika Dalton-Greene had uncovered enough information to suspect the group would make a move to purchase the world's newest fighter jet. So military intelligence ensured that Chad became the main contact for anyone in the market for a jet. Sure enough, as a result of ingratiating himself with the Ramos organization, he'd been approached about “liberating” the necessary tool to aid in their cause. He'd agreed and would “disappear” with the JSF only to reappear at the group's base camp, ostensibly to train their pilots, when given the signal.
Best case scenario allowed him to clear his name after being branded a traitor for absconding with a multi-million dollar state of the art fighter. Worst case scenario ended with him being unable to return home and burial at Arlington not an option. The few people who had knowledge of the operation would disavow everything. He and he alone would go down in a blaze of ignominy.
"Are you prepared?"
"As I'll ever be."
"I hate to even think about the possibility of losing an officer of your caliber and a pilot of your skills, Major."
"Then don't think about it, sir."
The general smiled ruefully and Chad knew his comment bordered on insubordinate. The general then proceeded to dole out a fatherly lecture on going above and beyond the call of duty and responsibility.
He listened respectfully. He didn't want to end up in a body bag any more than his CO wanted to see him in one. When did that happen? “But I will see it through, sir.” The corners of his lips lifted in a shallow grin. “I just hope this doesn't interfere with my stint here. I really want to be able to shoot down rookies."
"Son, your spot with this squadron is guaranteed. Only you have to be alive to claim it. I can't have a dead pilot up there flying. Tends to have a negative impact on morale.” The corners of the general's lips curved up slightly.
With a crisp salute and a head bob, the general dismissed him. A smart turn on a booted heel sent Chad out of the office in the direction of life support. His foot tapped a staccato rhythm as he waited for an airman to arrive to take him out to his F-15.
The morning passed quickly once he arrived at his fighter. He and his flight crew progressed through the checklist in preparation for an afternoon sortie to the northern section of the airspace. He never tired of any of the details surrounding flying, no matter how mundane. Even checking the weather and atmospheric conditions carried a measure of excitement. Being a fighter pilot consisted of far more than climbing into the cockpit and taking off. It was a lesson learned early by the best of the fighter jockeys.
He walked around the jet, skimming his fingers along the surface. His fingertips registered the slightly grainy texture of the tri-colored “flanker blue” paint scheme covering the smooth steel body. The seal between the bubble canopy and the body of the jet indented ever-so-much to his probe. His fingers caressed every joint, every bolt within his reach. The flaps wiggled slightly as he prodded them. He probed the recesses to which armament attached. He stroked the glossy black nose cone as he rounded the front of the specially designed F-15 Strike Eagle. Before the sun set, he vowed to know this jet intimately, each Eagle having its own quirks. His safety depended on it. The ammunition may not be live and the dogfights faked, but the ground and air-to-air crashes were still deadly distractions.
He stood with feet braced apart and arms crossed over his chest as he watched one of his ground crew members paint his name and call sign on the metal portion of the canopy. Pride swelled his chest as he saw the detail work painted in bold letters for the first time. Maj. Chadwick “Marilyn” Monroe.
Damn, he loved being an Eagle driver.
The intense desert noonday sun beat down on the tarmac, heating the air gradually as it climbed the ladder to the pinnacle of the sky. The band of his cap absorbed most of the moisture forming before it rolled down his forehead. But it did nothing to alleviate the beads of sweat gathering around his neck with increasing frequency. Scrunching his shoulder to his cheek, he rubbed at his face. He began to tug at his collar and cuffs in an effort to relieve some of the discomfort. His feet cried out to be released from the oven of his boots. He was quickly reminded of the brutality of the late summer Nevada weather.
He scowled as his stomach grumbled, forcefully reminding him of his lack of breakfast. I should have eaten more than one donut. His head jerked up at the call of his name, inviting him to lunch. A rumble sounded from his stomach as if cheering the proposition. Checking his watch, he groused about the time and joined the group for a much-needed food break.
And wished for his life to be this normal for good.
* * * *
"Come on, sweetheart. Just finish up
this last little bite.” Casey blew a stray strand of hair out of her eyes before working it back into her neat French braid. “Aunt Jan should be here any minute now so Mommy can go to work.” She flicked a glance at the clock on the microwave to confirm the time.
Jackson clutched his fork in a death grip as he pushed some green beans back and forth across his otherwise empty plate. Except for his plate, fork, and cup, Casey cleared the kitchen of the dinner dishes. She flopped in the chair beside her son to relax for a brief minute. That is, if coaxing a four-year-old to eat his vegetables counted as relaxing. She guessed it had to.
Her thoughts constantly wandered back to the hair-raising scare from two nights before. She mentally chastised herself over and over for her blunder. Nonstop berating had been the order of the past forty-eight hours. Jackson's active nature demanded constant observation. She knew that. Her lapse in judgment could have had severe consequences. Knowing she had actually been ready for work on time for a change would have been no consolation had something happened to her son.
With her chin cradled in her cupped hands and her elbows propped on the table, her stare bore into her son.
"Mommy, your ehbows are on the table.” He'd notice anything right about now in order to avoid those dreaded vegetables.
She bit back a chuckle as her words and mannerisms echoed back to her. At least he's learning about good manners, even if he doesn't always use them.
She snapped to an upright position, smiling at her son, whose attention reluctantly returned to his green beans.
He was all she had left, and she'd be damned if she'd let anything happen to him. If only I didn't have to work. But being a full-time stay-at-home mother didn't factor into the equation anymore. Thank goodness the child support checks allowed her the freedom to work a job requiring minimal time away from her son.
When Jackson's father had walked out of both their lives a year earlier, she refused to work a traditional nine-to-five job. She couldn't do that to her son; he already had enough to deal with. He was used to having Mommy around all the time. Tending bar at The Cockpit allowed her to spend the maximum amount of time at home, working mostly while he slept. For a single parent, she considered the situation as ideal as it got. Of course, if she took her father up on his offer to move in with him, she could afford to be a stay-at-home mom again. That wasn't an option.
Jackson attended preschool five mornings a week now, allowing Casey to continue to volunteer at the local cancer center at the base hospital one or two mornings a week with breast cancer patients. She thrived on her work there with the patients and their families, and found a fulfillment she found nowhere else. The louse's departure almost took that away from her as well. Jackson's preschool allowed her to continue the satisfying work without sacrificing precious time with her son.
The clatter of a fork snapped Casey back to the present.
"Jackson Wilkes, those green beans are not going to eat themselves or magically disappear, no matter how many times they move them back and forth. Eat them."
"I don't yike green beans, Mommy."
"I only gave you four, Jackson, one for each year you are old. You need to eat vegetables if you want to continue to grow big and strong.” Not that four measly green beans counted as a serving of vegetables.
He scrunched up his face with grim determination. Casey struggled to keep the laugh welling in her throat from bursting forth. He looked so adorable as he screwed up the courage to chew the bean still dangling limply from his fork.
Wayward thoughts once again drifted to the nearly disastrous run in with the car. Where would she be right now if the driver hadn't been so attentive? A shudder ripped down her spine at the thought. She couldn't lose Jackson. She wouldn't lose Jackson.
God's Gift. Her thoughts jumped gears. What is it about him? She'd been exposed to any number of good-looking men, pilots, since she started tending bar. So why did he set her teeth on edge and send her hormones dancing like some version of I Go To Rio? His thick, dark brown hair shined; the waves gave him a rumpled look. Nothing that a comb couldn't fix. His hazel eyes gleamed. Okay, so those induced sighs. His smile caused her nipples to harden. Damn him. And his body. Greek Gods begged Zeus for a body like his. But she stood five feet eight inches in her bare feet and he barely topped her. Hah. He's not so tall. Not so perfect.
Who am I kidding?
Hot. That seemed to be the only word, an inadequate one, to describe the whole package. Regardless of how much she picked him apart, as a specimen of masculinity nothing finer existed. The simple thought of him set her pulse thrumming and her desire spinning.
And he knew it. Women openly drooled over him, brazenly in fact. She'd unfortunately witnessed him in action. He reeked of fighter jock mentality. Love ‘em and leave ‘em. To quote a once popular phrase—Been there, done that, bought the kid the shirt.
She regained control of her hormone-induced musings. Nope, for now, Jackson reigned supreme in her life. Once he graduated from high school, she'd think about dating again. Maybe she'd wait until he finished college. Graduate school? Got married? The only thing that mattered sat in front of her. The only good thing to come out of her five-year marriage.
The doorbell jarred her from her ruminations.
"It's open, Jan.” She glanced at Jackson's plate. One lone bean remained. “Finish up, Jackson. Aunt Jan is here."
The doorbell chimed again.
"It's open, Jan.” This time she called louder.
No dice. It sounded again.
She pushed back her chair, grousing the entire way down the hall to the front door. “I don't know what your problem is, Jan. All you have to do is turn the knob and come on in like you've done a hundred times before. Why is this time so dif—” She yanked on the door.
Casey's heart screeched to a halt and her breath clogged in her throat. It was as if she'd conjured him out of a dream.
Chad flashed that nipple-hardening smile as he whipped off his cap. “Good evening, Casey."
Chapter 4
He who demands everything that his aircraft can give him
is a pilot; he that demands one iota more is a fool.
"Hi ... er ... Wha—Hello, Major Monroe.” Casey snapped her gaping jaw shut.
"Chad.” He smiled. “The name's Chad."
Good. Let him think she didn't remember his name.
Casey struggled to inhale the evening air, suddenly too thick for breathing. A hint of something lingered, sandalwood and outdoors and—jet fuel—and wholly masculine. Dang, he smelled good.
"What can I do for you, Major Monroe?” Keep it formal; keep him at a distance.
He chuckled.
Damn him if he didn't sound as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. Were his eyes always so green? She'd thought they were hazel. Eyes the crisp clear green of an ocean twinkled back at her.
"I stopped by to make sure your son is none the worse for wear after our close encounter of the almost worst kind.” He held up his hand to stop her as she opened her mouth. “I know. He was fine when I stopped by The Cockpit the other night, but I wanted to make sure there weren't any delayed reactions. Post-traumatic stress or something like that.” A flick of his wrist punctuated the comment. “Do kids even get post-traumatic stress?"
Still in his flight suit, she guessed he came straight from duty. When did he plan to give up this penchant for impersonating a human? He hadn't taken the time to change, even though his hotel was closer to the base than her apartment. Not that she was complaining since he looked exceptionally fine in the one-piece garment. Her mind drifted to thoughts of what—if anything—he wore under the uniform.
"My son? Oh, Jackson. He's—"
As if on cue, Jackson made his presence known as an exuberant squeal preceded a charging mass of forward-moving energy down the hall. The look of unadulterated relief softening Chad's all-too-handsome face rocked her to her toes. This human side of him definitely scared her. It made her momentarily forget about her son. It
made her think of lost opportunities for kisses. Her gaze fell to his mouth and she couldn't help but wonder how it would feel pressed to hers. His fuller lower lip was so perfectly made to be sucked...
Jackson skidded to a stop at her side. His fisted hands rested on his hips, his puffed up cheeks and flashing eyes the perfect picture of four-year-old indignation. “You not Aunt Jan."
Chad shrugged his shoulders. “You got me there, kiddo.” He looked down at his chest and back and forth in a wordless joke. Her nipples tingled when he shifted his gaze to her chest.
"Hey. I ‘member you.” Jackson's mercurial mood shifts gave most adults whiplash. “Did you come to take me for a ride in the car?” The boy dodged around Chad for a glimpse of the Corvette, then tried to take off toward the vehicle.
With lightening quick reflexes, Chad caught the boy around the waist and playfully swung him back to her side. Squatting down, he balanced on the balls of his feet so as to be eye level with the boy. “Not tonight, kiddo. I have some grown-up stuff to do. I have an appointment in fifteen minutes or we'd go for a spin. But I promise we'll go some time soon, as long as your mom doesn't mind.” Chad's stunning green eyes gazed up at her.
Oh, he'll take us for a ride all right, her cynical side chided. Her hormones didn't care if the ride in question was a one-night rodeo. They just wanted some action.
"Pwease, Mommy?"
"I'm sure Major Monroe is being polite and has better things to do with his time.” She hoped her warning glare would succeed in chasing him away.
No such luck. Where were those back off vibes when she needed them? They worked fine the other night. Were they susceptible to his charms? Big time trouble waited for her if her hormones managed to send out the signals, overwhelming common sense.
"For this kiddo, I'll make time.” He chucked the boy under the chin as he pushed to his feet, his movement one of smooth masculine grace. She could see his thigh muscles rippling beneath the green fabric.
Call of Duty [Class of '93 Trilogy Book 3] Page 4
