Page 48 of Vaquero
Chapter Nineteen
“Sir, we’ve got company straight ahead,” the Blackhawk’s pilot advised Charlie Brown.
“We know who and how many?”
“Negative on the count, but Air Force reports a luxury class helo holding at our LZ. Could be sightseers. Could be media.”
Charlie nodded, then clapped his pilot’s shoulder. “No worries. We’ll fast rope in and stay out of sight. No one will ever know we’ve been there. Drop us as close to the edge of the pit as you can. Then radio Dooley, tell him we may encounter enemy combatants.” He waved Hazelton toward the open door. “Looks like we’re going in hot. I’ll touchdown first. You ready?”
“Always,” she answered, her equipment loaded on her back and her hands already gloved for the drop. Charlie packed the larger equipment, as well as his usual ammo and weapons. He’d already climbed out and onto the helo’s skid. But that was Charlie. Always ready to go.
Meg bit her tongue to keep from answering. Yes, she was ready, too, just wasn’t the expert her Ranger friend wanted at his side. Damn this stroke for reducing her to an invisible woman and a burden.
The helo aimed toward the bluffs overlooking the São Francisco River, which would put them about two clicks from the gravel pit. Charlie and Hazelton would have to hump through the trees and brush to rendezvous with whoever had beaten them to the warheads. This could go bad in so many ways.
Meg’s heart skipped a beat as the gravel pit came into view below. Sliding her hand along her waistband, Meg let the feel of cold steel hidden at her back soothe her nerves. She wasn’t helpless, and she would do what was needed. Even if it meant disobeying orders. She wasn’t GI anymore. Charlie needed to remember that.
The pilot broke in with, “Sir, I’ve got incoming communication from—”
He never finished. Like Meg would have, Charlie had already stepped off the helo’s skid and was sliding down the heavy-duty rope to ground zero. Hazelton quickly followed his lead. Damn, but she’d stepped into space with the same degree of confidence as he had. Who was she, besides the UK’s best nuclear engineer? Meg wanted to know Hazelton’s backstory. She certainly handled herself like a Ranger.
“Damn it,” the pilot cussed into his mic. “Captain Dooley will have your ass for this.”
CB came back with, “No can do, Hotrod. He’s too late to the party. I was already one step into thin air when you picked up his comm. Keep your ears on. Got a bad feeling about this one.” Charlie was now headed due east toward the cloud of smoke with Hazelton, straight into danger.
“Christ,” Hotrod muttered. “We’ve got company. I’m picking up chatter. There’s more activity straight ahead.”
“At the pit?” Meg asked.
He nodded grimly, then relayed that intel to Charlie.
“Copy that. We’re almost there. Will get back to you when we engage.” Typical Charlie Brown. All ego. He planned to take on whoever was out there all by himself.
In minutes, the helo was skids to the ground in a wide clearing overlooking the river gorge, its huge rotors powering down. Meg’s heart had lodged high in her throat. Charlie and Hazelton were now in a race to get to the ICBMs before anyone else did. Would they get there in time? And if they did, would they survive what sounded like two enemy forces also intent on acquiring those nukes?
Her hands felt the adrenaline first. Soon, the entire left side of her body was trembling as hard as her fingers. Damn that stroke for turning her into an old woman with palsy. She moved to the chopper door, gripping the frame to keep her hands still, and peering across the clearing toward the pit. Searching for Pepe. Praying for Julio. Charlie might even need backup support. Damned straight.
Just that fast, her trembling ceased. She’d entered that twilight zone where a trained soldier’s system automatically converted to high alert and higher awareness. It was almost mystical when it happened, when she became one with the universe. Her nostrils flared to inhale every passing message written in the breeze. Every pheromone. Every wayward molecule of sweat, tobacco, cordite, or the odd alcoholic hint of some idiot’s aftershave.
Her vision narrowed on the most direct route that would get her swiftly to Charlie should things go bad. Through the winding stand of trees. Around the upright columns of granite beyond those trees. Along the high ledge above the river.
Her ears tuned to far-off footfalls of boots and the steady rumbling hum of vehicles’ wheels and motors. There were soldiers in the forest between her and the pit, moving stealthily over animal trails, through shrubbery and dry crackling twigs, branches. She’d have to avoid them for as long as it took to get to Charlie.
Knowing full well that Hotrod was watching, Meg drew her pistol from the back of her waistband and asked, “You got something more lethal than my Beretta on this chopper?”
“You’re not going out there, ma’am,” he intoned solemnly. Out of his seat now, he blocked her way forward, his muscled arms crossed over his chest in that stereotypical,‘I’m the boss,’alpha male stance that her brothers had often tried on her. Dressed in OD fatigues that matched CB’s, he did make an imposing sight hiding behind those dark glasses. But why, oh, why, did men even think intimidation would keep a smart woman in line?
Hotrod wouldn’t hit her. He wasn’t that big of an ass. And nine times out of ten, women were not only smarter than the tough guys bossing them around, they were better snipers and more thorough strategists. They followed through, and they got things done. At least, as much as they’d been allowed to in the all-boy black-ops clubs of military service. Were there female Navy SEALs? Maybe not yet, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be. Soon, damn it.
Now Meg was cussing like she used to in the Army. Well, so be it. This was serious shit, and she’d had enough of men thinking they knew better than she did. Sucking in a deep breath, she told Hotrod, “You are not the boss of me, and I wasn’t made to keep the home fires burning, bucko. Either come with me or stay the hell out of my way. But I’m going. I’ve got a mission to defend.”
“Bucko?” His lips pursed. It was hard to know what he was thinking behind the dark lenses of his Aviators, but he seemed to be channeling Tom Cruise. Only Hotrod was at least a foot taller than that short stack of blustering ego.
Determined to make a difference, Meg stuck the Glock back into her belt and grabbed the gear bag Charlie had left for her off the floor. It felt heavy enough. Hurriedly, she unzipped the top and could have cried. Damn him, he’d known about her Glock. He’d packed extra mags and plenty .45 caliber ammo. Her very own sat phone. Water. First-aid kit. Protein bars. He’d thought of everything, even a clean change of underwear, a scarlet red leather thong. The dog. She could’ve kissed him.
The thought that she might never see him alive again, hurried her need to leave. Meg stared Mr. Top Gun down. She tried one last time. “Please get out of my way, Hotrod. I have to do this, and you know it.”
“Boss is gonna be pissed.”
