Page 61 of Gryphon

“Don’t be too certain. I have seen many good soldiers reach their limit and make drastic choices.”

Like her quitting SASR by attempting to brain the Australian Governor General with her bare fists before walking out the door?

Shit, no question on that one. She’d loved Special Operations, had really come into her own as part of the Australian Defence Force. Yet she’d walked.

The only true indication she had of how they thought of her was that they hadn’t dragged her back for going AWOL. Being away without leave ranked right down there with disobeying a direct order in a combat situation.

The out-processing officer—who’d finally tracked her down for the paperwork—had clearly been tempted to throw the desertion book at her. Instead, with a lot of brow-beating relish, he’d given her the heavy-handed reminder about what specifically and everything in general that fell under the umbrella of Australia’s eight hundred-odd secrecy acts and related laws and regulations ad nauseum mandated by her security clearance.

However, the Governor General, after deciding she wasn’t going to kill him, had granted her an honorable exit from the ADF for services rendered to the nation. She signed on the bottom line under: Class C, partial invalidity, unfit for ADF employment but capable of performing own job outside the Australian Defence Force.

Her invalidity was a bloody tearing rage.

They compartmentalized all the information she’d had valid need-to-know in the field because they were all territorial power-addled idiots. And it had gotten her entire team killed and buggered the mission so that they’d died for no purpose.

“Mike wouldn’t do that,” she told the general to reassure herself. Neither of them would win a game of Two-up with that play. “You’re really not being a ray of light here, General.”

“I have other concerns,” he nodded toward the window.

“Like World War III.”

He didn’t deny it though she wished he had.

47

Holly wanted, needed to get off the plane at Pápa Air Base. Just five minutes. The small plane had begun to squeeze in on her as they covered the two hours from Sweden to Hungary.

No one on or off, the ground team had informed them when they landed.

She’d forgotten this was where the Stinger missiles used in Sweden had been stolen from.

Out the window, the guy overseeing the refueling had no relation to maintenance or even regular security forces. Special Operations—like recognized like. Besides, not a lot of teams carried HK416 rifles or were outfitted with fifty-thousand-dollar L3Harris night-vision goggles. Even fewer managed to look scruffy while doing it. The US Army’s Delta Force often wore long hair and grew beards to blend in during undercover operations. And also because no one dared stop them if they were in the mood to grow one.

She’d like to go out and chat with the guy just for the hell of it.

She’d also like to dig for what else they’d unearthed on base. It must have been bad to stop her from even climbing down to stretch her legs.

Asking Kurbanov didn’t gain her anything except an uncertain shrug. He kept his window shade down and his attention on the files he’d been reading since wheels up in Sweden.

With nothing to read, she watched out the window. Fuelies, ground controller…all normal-normal except for Mr. Delta watching silently from ten yards back.

And then it struck her, the reason that Special Operations Forces were so successful at what they did. They didn’t talk to outsiders, but they thrived on internal communication. Whatever reason he was there, it wouldn’t be some poor uninformed sentry bloke. A Delta would know exactly why he was posted there and what he was guarding against.

It was cold out there. Spindrift blowing over the tarmac beneath a clear night sky that guaranteed at least five degrees below freezing to keep the snow loose like that and a brisk windchill. At least this time she pulled on her parka before clambering down the steps against the order not to disembark.

She ignored Mike’s “Hey,” at her back.

The Delta didn’t unlimber his HK rifle as she approached. He didn’t have to; he held it at the ready. Didn’t say a word, even when she stopped three meters out—far enough to not be a threat, close enough that no one else would hear them over the roar of the fuel truck and the wind.

“Watch from hell.” She’s stood guard duty plenty of times in her past and it was boring as counting sand grains—except for the need to remain vigilant for every second.

He didn’t answer, but scanned the air base and the plane to make sure she wasn’t being a distraction.

“Former SASR.” The Australian Special Air Service Regiment was their own version of the US’s Delta Force.

He grunted an acknowledgment. He’d have already seen her training by how she walked.

“We’re the team saddled with chasing the missing Stingers. Outside the fence.”

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