Jayhawk Down (15 page)

Her indignation seemed a little forced. Pink color infused her cheeks, bringing him up short. “I can’t believe it. You’re embarrassed.” Uh-oh. That made her mad.

She turned away with a little snort and leaned closer to the panel. “Ignore the idiot beside me. He doesn’t understand.”

He shook his head in disbelief, then saw something out of the corner of his eye. “Hey, my music box,” he said and reached over the console to touch the little plane she’d clipped to the dash.

She smacked his hand away. “
My
music box. It was given to me as a gift, so it’s mine.”

“Excuse me. You
are
in a mood.” He sat back on his heels to contemplate this unknown woman. Her gaze swept the cockpit with a look he could only describe as love. “Caitlyn, it’s just a machine.”

She shook her head and blinked rapidly. Son of a—”You’re not going to cry, are you?” he asked.

“No, of course not,” she said in a voice choked with emotion.

Shit. He glanced away when she took the back of her hand to her eyes. If he offered to hold her would she take his head off?

“It’s not ‘just a machine.’
Fly Baby
got me a commendation.” She ran her hand along the cyclic. “We flew ‘round-the-clock flood rescues in Georgia two years ago.” Her fingers danced over the switches and relays on the center console. “She’s seen births and deaths onboard. And everything in between.

“So excuse me if I mourn her possible demise at the hands of a madman. She’s taught me a hell of a lot about being a damn good pilot.” With that, Caitlyn swung the door open and hopped out.

Stillman sat back on the floor. Handled that with sensitivity, hadn’t he. He looked around the helicopter and thought of the missions he’d flown—the blood, and fear, and triumphs. He closed his eyes. She was right. Somewhere along the line, they stopped being machines and became a best friend or worst enemy, depending on their nature.

“
Fly Baby
, you’d better take care of her tonight. Or you’ll answer to me.”

The Gulf, thirty miles north of Egret Isle, FL, Saturday, 24 September, 1700 hours

Atwah pushed the boat’s throttle forward another notch. He was running late, which meant he’d have little time to verify the helicopter’s fuel level. He gritted his teeth till his jaw felt like it would shatter. Ali loved jerking him around.

The cigarette boat hit a wave and plowed sideways until he put his attention back where it belonged. Sinking the boat wouldn’t get him the revenge he craved.

If there wasn’t enough fuel, he could radio ahead and have barrels delivered to the pickup site. He eased his grip on the wheel. Yes, his brother would make
that
arrangement for him.

He glanced at his watch. And smiled past the spurt of nervous anticipation. Too bad he wouldn’t get to see Ali’s expression when the helicopter skimmed over the line of cypress trees heading toward his pool. All those people looking up, annoyed at the noise, then the split second of awareness right before the heat from the explosion melted the skin right off their shocked faces.

The pilot wouldn’t know her apparent escape had been meticulously planned and executed. She wouldn’t know the bomb in the belly of her helicopter would detonate by remote control exactly when and where he wanted it.

Jacksonville, FL,
Saturday, 24 September, 1800 hours

Valerie tapped in to another search engine. She’d been upgraded to computer hack in the last hour. Granted she had her own little junior G-man watching over her shoulder suspiciously, but he hadn’t stopped her from making progress. She’d discovered two probable sources of radioactive material. Easy-peasy, since both had arrived on container ships. Because she never wanted any of her ships involved in smuggling, she’d taken great pains to learn how it was done. She probably knew more than any of the customs agents did, and had some very loyal and well-paid watchdogs looking out for her, as well.

She watched the data scroll across the screen, her practiced eye catching and releasing bits and pieces of words and phrases until something caught her attention. “Well, what have we here?” she said softly.

Junior sat up. “Did you find something?”

Valerie highlighted a page and a half then copied and pasted it into the open Word document. “Just another piece of the puzzle,” she replied. She smiled to herself. A rather large piece. But she’d save that information for her pal Munson.

A half hour later Valerie walked into Munson’s temporary office, escorted by Junior, of course, and laid a file folder on his desk in front of him.

He eyed her without touching the folder. “Net it out.”

“Strontium-90 and cobalt-60. My source said the quantities we’re talking about will affect at least a ten-mile radius if exploded with any kind of sophistication, and calm winds. A wider area if windy, smaller area if the explosion is equally small. I’ve narrowed down the likeliest assembly points to three—maybe four, if that site’s security is better than I think.”

Munson sat back. “Son of a bitch.” He grabbed his phone and began barking orders into it.

Valerie settled her hip against the corner of his desk and smiled. It was so nice to see a man who knew when to take a woman seriously.

Chapter Thirteen

Egret Isle,
FL,
Saturday, 24 September, 1945 hours

Caitlyn pulled green tarps from the fuselage of the Jayhawk while Stillman stood on the maintenance ladder and helped Yasin free the rotors from their camouflage netting. Dusk was upon them and Atwah didn’t seem concerned about being spotted so late in the day.

She hadn’t been able to eat dinner. Stillman packed it away without any problem. He was used to going into battle; she was used to going into storms. Another glance skyward convinced her there wasn’t any convective activity for miles. Just her luck to have clear weather and smooth seas.

Her stomach kicked up its own wave action. She ran a hand along
Fly Baby
’s tail section. She would do whatever she could to protect her helo.

Another section of netting fell to the concrete and she began gathering it up. They’d have to stow everything they removed from the Jayhawk in the block building, or risk having it tangle in the rotors when she fired up the engines.

It was sweaty, dirty work with no wind to cool them. Mosquitoes ran sneak attacks on her exposed flesh, despite a liberal dousing of bug spray. She slapped her arm as another one landed and immediately drilled for blood. “Ouch! How come I’m the only one getting bit?”

“Must be that floral scent you’re wearin’,” Stillman called from his perch above her.

“I seem to recall your naked butt in those same bubbles,” she shot back.

Yasin laughed from the far side of the helo. “Do I hear a lovers’ spat?”

Shit, she’d forgotten he was over there.

“When I
showered
, I used plain soap,” Stillman clarified.

Well hell, she’d used the flowery shower gel because she liked the tropical smell. Apparently, so did the mosquitoes.

Twenty minutes later they had the helo uncovered, the netting and tarps stowed and sat waiting. Like they’d spent most the day.

The crunch of gravel announced Atwah’s return before his harsh voice. “We go in ten minutes. Do you have enough fuel to fly three hundred kilometers?”

She and Stillman had checked fuel that morning. Now she did a quick conversion from kilometers to nautical miles. “Yes, if we don’t run into a headwind or storms. We wouldn’t have more than a half-hour reserve.” Not that anyone really cared about reserves.

“You won’t need it.” His smile matched the bleakness of his eyes. “There will be fuel at our final destination.”

Yeah, and she’d love to buy any bridges he might be selling too.

Stillman was already buckled in when she climbed into the pilot’s seat. She slipped on her helmet and they went through the preflight check sheet with methodical precision. She needed to know now if she had any instrument failures or malfunctions to contend with.

Yasin and Atwah were in the back with their collection of automatic weapons. Both sliding doors were closed and locked.

“Radio check. If you can hear me, answer affirmative,” Caitlyn spoke over the intercom.

After everyone checked in, she hit the starter button. The twin GE turbines kicked on and began their slow power delivery to the four rotor blades. Stillman read the liftoff procedures and verified the still-working instrument readings as the engine and oil temperatures came up.

The Jayhawk shuddered and shook as the rotors spun faster. Caitlyn closed her eyes and sent a little prayer to Johnny. She could use his years of experience, especially if her plan worked and she dumped Stillman when they picked up the bomb.

Soon they were airborne without incident. Atwah gave her a heading and altitude to fly to, but nothing else. She glanced at Stillman. His expression looked harsh in the red glow of the cockpit’s night lighting. They were flying low and without running or identification lights. Stillman was her only experienced set of eyes, besides her own, looking for other aircraft.

Atwah had his handheld radio tuned to Approach Control, but anything flying low wouldn’t show up on radar. They just had to hope there weren’t any drug runners doing the same thing—or any birds unlucky enough to be in their path.

Sweat dampened Caitlyn’s armpits and dripped between her breasts. Over open water they could easily spot other aircraft. Once they headed inland, they’d have to dodge a jungle of TV and radio towers. Other aircraft marker beacons would get lost in the myriad of traffic, house and commercial lighting that covered the inhabited areas.

Atwah gave Caitlyn another fix. It only took a second to realize he was using a GPS to direct her. The little shit refused to give any hint of the final destination. She could only pray the Coast Guard had a C-130 following their unique radio signal from above.

Well, hell and damnation. She wanted to smack her hand to her forehead. If the good guys were following from the air, wouldn’t they be communicating with law enforcement on the ground? Once she landed, they could send in a SWAT team, or something. They’d capture Atwah, the bomb and any of the bad guys helping them on the ground. She wouldn’t have to sacrifice
Fly Baby
.

Her plan to crash-land would only be a worst-case scenario, just like Yasin had said. She grinned as tension eased from her muscles. Suddenly flying low and without lights was kinda fun—like flying in really bad weather.

Jacksonville, FL,
Saturday, 24 September, 2105 hours

Scott Munson tracked Valerie when she walked to the window overlooking the glowing cityscape. She’d refused to go back to the hotel. He rubbed his burning eyes and shifted his shoulders trying to ease tight muscles. Tension in the conference room had climbed steadily after nightfall. They all knew the hijacked helicopter would only fly at night, most likely without lights.

Valerie continued to surprise Scott with her unfailing support and uncanny knack for ferreting out bits and pieces of information. Information that had eclipsed anything the FBI’s geek gang had unburied. Then again, she probably had more people on her payroll than the FBI and Homeland Security combined. A smile nudged his bad mood aside. She had ruffled more than a few feathers.

A buzz of excitement escorted one of his aides into the room. “Sir, the Coast Guard confirmed the helicopter took off from the island at eight forty-five. There are two or three possible warehouses in the area they’re heading to. Ground teams are en route now.”

“I want those warehouse addresses marked on the map,” Scott said and glanced toward the wall papered in maps of the Gulf, the Keys and South Florida.

Valerie shifted to stand across the mahogany table from him. She leaned forward, her hands straddling yellow pads and reams of computer printouts. “What happened?”

She cared. About the pretty redheaded pilot she’d seen pictures of in his file. About the doctor who had the bad luck to be on a training flight. And about the dirty bomb that would create more panic than actual damage but devastate an exclusive community and do God knows what to the environment for the foreseeable future.

He repeated what he knew and saw her cautious sigh of relief, a general softening of the strain that bracketed her eyes and mouth.

“Maybe this thing will end tonight.” She straightened and smiled, reminding him again how damn sexy she was.

“With any luck, that bastard Atwah will get his ass blown away by the US Coast Guard.” She winked and sauntered back to her station by the window.

Scott ignored his aide’s snide comment, his attention locked on the shapely backside of Valerie Wooten. Her tailored slacks and simple knit top weren’t clingy but they didn’t hide her feminine curves either. Foolishly, he was beginning to believe the attraction he felt wasn’t only one-sided.

Yeah, she might be a nutcracker, but damned if he wasn’t willing to put his on the line to see what came of it. He waited for the usual bite of guilt. Nothing. Not even a nibble. He sat back in his chair. Maybe Harp was right, maybe it was time he shed his hair shirt.

The Gulf near Naples, FL,
Saturday, 24 September, 2135 hours

“You want me to do
what
?” Caitlyn couldn’t believe what Atwah had just said. She looked at Stillman, but his grim expression as he looked through the night-vision goggles only made her stomach cramp. She’d already seen the ship’s lights; she knew it was under them all right.

“Land on the boat. What is so difficult?” Atwah asked with total lack of understanding.

“She can’t do it,” Stillman interjected over the intercom.

“Hello, I’m still here. I haven’t left the helo!” Caitlyn yelled into the headset.
She can’t do it
, his ass. She reached across the console and smacked his arm. He lowered the NVGs and glared back.

“How many carrier landings have you done?” he demanded.

“Zero. How many ship, not carrier landings, have you done?” she countered.

“None, but I have landed on carrier decks. Trust me, it’s not the same as landing on the ground. Especially at night.”

Okay, the night thing was a bit problematic, not that she had never done them, it had just been a while. But the seas were flat and there wasn’t much of a wind. Hell, she’d just hover lower and lower till she found the deck. She looked at the ship below them. “What size ship is it? What’s her length and width?”

Atwah sounded like he was talking to someone else, and it occurred to her he might have a cell phone. She also realized her hope of a SWAT team intervention had just gone down for the count. Unless they’d arranged for a SEAL team, she was back to her worst-case scenario.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Stillman demanded over the intercom.

“Dr. Of-Little-Faith, I’ve landed on cutters before. It’s part of our training. That’s how we refuel on a long SAR missions or on drug interdictions in the Caribbean. Trust me. I do know what I’m doing.”

He stared at her for several long seconds. “What size cutter?”

“Two seventy by thirty-eight. We have a couple in Key West. I’m required to stay current.”

“At night?”

Of course he’d ask that. “Nooo. I haven’t done that in a while, but I have done it, so don’t give me that look.”

Atwah came back on the intercom with the comforting news of a ship length of three hundred twenty with a forty-eight-foot beam.

She grinned at Stillman. Piece of cake—as long as they didn’t have any guy-wires or vent stacks in the way.

* * *

Stillman kept his hand on the collective, and his feet on the pedals. Light enough pressure not to interfere, but there in case she needed him. Of course she didn’t. Her landing rivaled the first one he ever saw her do. Without the raging storm to keep her focused.

“Excellent job, lieutenant,” he said with real relief when she gently touched down.

“Keep the rotors spinning,” Atwah interjected before Caitlyn cut power.

“Why? Someone could get hurt if they’re not careful.” People respected main rotors but routinely walked into deadly tail rotors.

“Leave them turning. And stay in your seat. We may have to leave quickly,” he said. He motioned to Stillman. “Come with me. I’ll need you and Yasin to help load.”

Stillman’s gut protested right along with his head. He didn’t want to leave Caitlyn. But telling a man with an automatic weapon no didn’t seem like the smart thing to do. He unbuckled his safety harness and pulled his helmet off. He opened the door, then turned back to Caitlyn. She was staring at him with every emotion he was feeling shining from her wide eyes: fear, hope and God, he could only pray he saw love returned.

He leaned across the console, pushed her mic out of the way and kissed her hard. “I love you,” he shouted over the turbine noise. Her shocked expression wasn’t quite the reaction he’d hoped for, but if something happened, and he didn’t make it back onboard, he wanted her to know how he felt.

What she meant to him.

He turned from her before he did something even more insane. Like ask her to marry him. Yeah, that would get him high marks for timing, wouldn’t it? He slid out of the helo and slammed the door shut. Mindful of the swirling rotor wash, he bent low and ran to the clutch of men standing near Atwah.

They seemed to be arguing about something. Of course. Why should this go smoothly when nothing else had? He looked at Yasin to try and get a read on what was happening. The noise from the helicopter, their accents and faster speech patterns made it impossible to catch all but a few words. None of which gave him a clue about the current problem.

He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to look around the ship with as much disinterest as he could fake. Lights illuminated containers stacked on the sections not dedicated to the landing zone. The LZ sat in the middle of the ship, ringed with white marker lights. From the antenna array, he guessed they had sophisticated electronics to guide visiting guests during bad weather. Or, more likely, when operating outside the law.

Except for the spectacular landing pad, the old and rusted bucket looked like any of the thousands of container ships that traversed the seas every day of the year.

No lights glowed on the horizon in any direction he looked. He hadn’t studied enough air charts of his new home state to be familiar with the terrain they’d flown over. And of course, Atwah hadn’t had them fly a direct course either.

He counted ten men standing around with assorted automatic weapons held awkwardly, as if they had little experience with them. Only a couple looked capable of shooting with any kind of accuracy. Gestures and shouts escalated, making his
something’s wrong
radar glow. Yasin looked as uncomfortable as Stillman felt. Not a good sign.

Finally, four of the men trudged away, presumably for the bomb. Atwah sent Yasin toward Stillman with a wave of his hand, then walked from the remaining crew with two of the more formidable men. Stillman liked that even less. Splitting up was not a good thing. And God, he wished he had a gun in his own hand.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Stillman demanded when Yasin stopped near him. They both turned sideways to the buffeting winds put out by the Jayhawk’s rotors, but where they could keep an eye on the depleted reception party.

Yasin shrugged, but Stillman noticed he held his MAC-10 ready for use. Up till now, his normal, rather casual grip had been more for show than deadly intent.