His Woman in Command
Autorzy
Lindsay McKenna
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16,9K
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Chapter 1
“Twenty bucks says you can’t get that good-lookin’ woman to come over to our table and have a beer with us,” Staff Sargeant Neal Robles challenged.
Captain Gavin Jackson, leader of a ten-man Special Forces team, squinted in the semidarkness of the officers’ club—a tent on the most dangerous border in the world: between Afghanistan and Pakistan. It was the last day of their two weeks of rest between month-long assignments in the field. Tomorrow, they’d be back out in the badlands border area hunting Taliban. Gavin sat with his nine men. The pitcher of frothy cold beer in front of them went quickly.
The woman in question had just entered the spacious tent, catching the attention of every man in the room. She was about five foot eight, with short, curly black hair framing an oval face and high cheekbones. She was olive-skinned with light gold eyes. Then there was her killer mouth that Gavin wanted to capture and kiss. The frumpy green one-piece flight uniform that told him she was a pilot couldn’t hide her assets. Curvy in all the right places. Gavin felt his body harden with desire.
He didn’t know why. His relationship with another woman army pilot had crashed and burned a year ago. Gavin had sworn off women for now and women army pilots forever. Squirming in his seat, the wooden chair creaking, he shrugged as Neal Robles grinned like a wolf over the dare.
“Why her?” Gavin grunted, lifting the cold mug of beer to his lips.
Robles’s dark brown eyes gleamed as he whispered, “She’s hot, Cap’n.”
“She’s the only female in here,” Gavin drawled. Indeed, the huge dark green canvas tent was packed with men—A teams coming in for a well-deserved rest, logistics, pilots or mechanics to support their missions. Women pilots were few, but they did exist. Automatically, Gavin rubbed his chest in memory of Laurie Braverman, the U.S. Army CH-47 Chinook driver that he’d fallen in love with. They’d broken up because of their mutual inability to compromise. A war of egos had eventually destroyed their relationship.
“She might be the only one,” Robles asserted, “but you gotta admit, Cap’n, she’s something.” Robles looked at the other enlisted men around the table, all of whom bobbed in unison to agree with his observation.
Tugging on his recently trimmed beard, Gavin gave them an amused look. His team knew about his hard luck with Laurie, especially since he’d been a growly old bear for a month after their spectacular parting. “You know,” he said, “it’s damned hard enough to survive the border villages. Now, you want to collectively throw me at another driver?” Driver was a common slang expression for any pilot whether they flew fixed-wing aircraft or helicopters.
Laughter rippled through his team. Gavin was fiercely protective of his men. They’d been together over here nearly a year, and they were tighter than a set of fleas on a mangy Afghan dog. He wanted to bring all of them back off this tour alive so they could go home to their families. He had visited the base barber this morning, got a wonderful hot shower, a trim, clean clothes and joined his men at the canteen tent. Although they were in the U.S. Army, their clothes were decidedly Afghani. With their beards, wearing their wool pakols, or caps, they melted into the mountainous area less a target as a result of their wardrobe. They all wore the traditional turban. The loose, comfortable-fitting top with long sleeves had pajamalike trousers of the same color, and the traditional wool vests were worn over it.
“Naw, she doesn’t look like she’s a man-eater like the last one you tangled with,” Robles said. The table broke out in collective laughter once again. More beer was poured. A bartender came over and delivered another pitcher of cold beer, the froth foaming up and over of the top.
Gavin couldn’t disagree and his gaze wandered to the woman leaning up against the makeshift bar and ordering a cup of coffee, not beer. She was probably on duty, Gavin assumed. He watched her hands. They were long, narrow and beautiful-looking. No wedding ring. But then, what did that mean? Nothing, because military combatants were forbidden to wear jewelry of any kind. So, she could be married. Frowning, Gavin felt his assistant CO, Dave Hansen, give his right shoulder a nudge.
“Go on, Gavin,” he said in his slow Texas drawl, “she looks pretty docile. Invite her over. We’d all like the company of a good-lookin’ woman to remind us of what’s waiting for us at home. We’re harmless. Just tell her we’re voyeurs.”
Gavin scowled at his team. “Since when are you willing to throw me to the lions? Don’t I treat you right out there?”
Guffaws broke out and Gavin couldn’t help grinning. They all desperately needed a little fun. The border country was violent and lethal. They’d spent thirty days in the mountains hunting out pockets of Taliban in caves. Not that the local villages along the border ever cooperated. Most of them were terrorized by the Taliban. And the tribal people had been forgotten by the government in Kabul decades ago. Out there, Gavin knew, no fiercely independent Afghan could be trusted once your back was turned on them. They’d just as soon put a bullet between your shoulder blades as look at you because of what the Taliban had done to them. Gavin’s team had had several firefights with the Taliban on their last mission. If not for the Apache helo drivers coming in with heavy fire support, they wouldn’t be here enjoying this beer with one another.
Gavin sat up and sighed. He knew his men needed a reprieve from their deadly work. They all had PTSD symptoms. Why not waltz up to this gal and ask her to join them? “Okay,” he growled at them, “I’ll go throw myself on her mercy for the likes of all of you and see what she says.”
The men clapped and cheered as Gavin stood up. He smoothed down his vest and adjusted the thick leather belt around his waist that carried a dagger and a pistol. Out in the field, he’d have body armor on, but not now. He adjusted the dark brown wool pakol on his head. To anyone seeing these men riding up on their tough mountain-bred ponies, they looked like a group of Afghan men. Of course, here in the canteen tent, they were out of place, but everyone on base knew Special Forces A teams dressed like Afghans.
Giving his group a wink, Gavin said, “Okay, men, keep it down while I work some magic.” They all nodded solemnly, lifted their glasses of beer and beamed excitedly like little children waiting for Christmas to arrive. Gavin shook his head and walked across the creaking plywood floor toward the bar. He noticed that although men were hanging around the bar, all of them gave the woman pilot some room to breathe. Not that they weren’t looking at her. But none made a move on her. Why? They were support and logistics men and worked in the camp, so they might know something about this woman pilot he didn’t.
Coming to the bar, Gavin stood about two feet away from her. The scalding look she gave him with those lion-gold eyes surprised him. He was clean, for once. He didn’t smell of sweat and fear. His black hair and beard were neatly trimmed and combed. Maybe she didn’t like A teams or Afghans, Gavin decided. The way her full mouth thinned, her hands tense around the white ceramic mug of coffee, told him everything. She really didn’t want this intrusion into her space.
“I’m Captain Gavin Jackson,” he said, pushing aside his fear of rejection. He looked at the upper arm of her green flight suit. “We’ve never seen a patch with a black cat on it. I was wondering what squadron you’re with.” That was a safe icebreaker, Gavin thought.
Nike Alexander, at twenty-six, did not want any male attention. Just a year ago, she’d lost Antonio, an officer in the Peruvian Army who had died in a vicious firefight with cocaine dealers. She glared icily at the man, who was decidedly handsome despite his rugged appearance. “I’m with the Black Jaguar Squadron 60,” she snapped.
“I’ve been out here on the front nearly a year. I’ve never seen this patch. Is this a new squadron?” Gavin opted for something simpler than trying to get this good-looking woman to come over to their table for a beer. He was frantically searching for ways to defuse her tension.
Shrugging, Nike lifted the coffee to her lips, took a sip and then said, “We’re basically Apache pilots in an all-woman flight program. We got here three weeks ago.”
“Oh.” Gavin didn’t know what to think about that. “All women?”
Nike’s mouth twitched. “We’re black ops.” His thick, straight brows raised with surprise. While it was true there were women pilots in combat, no women-only squadrons existed. “We’re top secret to the rest of the world. Here at camp, they know what we do,” she added to ward off questions she saw in his large blue eyes.
Under other circumstances, Nike would be interested in this warrior. Clearly, he was an A-team leader. She knew these brave and hardy Special Forces teams were on the front lines, finding Taliban and stopping their incursion into Afghanistan’s space. His hands were large, square and roughened by work and the forces of the weather.
“Ah, black ops,” Gavin murmured. He saw the wariness in her gold eyes. “You’re new?”
“I arrived a week ago.”
“Welcome aboard,” he said, holding out his hand toward her. This time, he was sincere. Anyone who flew the border risked their lives every time they lifted off from this secret base.
Looking at his proffered hand and then up at him, Nike couldn’t help herself and slid her hand into his. He grinned like a little boy given a Christmas gift. Despite the neatly trimmed beard that gave his square face a dangerous look, he seemed happy to meet her. Well, they were both in the army and that meant something. Her flesh tingled as his fingers wrapped gently around hers. She admired his deeply sunburned face, laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. A wild, unexpected surge of excitement coursed through Nike. What was that all about? Why was her heart pounding? She broke the contact and pulled her hand away.
Oh, he was eye candy, there was no doubt. The boyish, crooked grin made him even more devastatingly handsome, Nike decided.
“What’s your name?” Gavin asked. He forced his hands off the bar, unexpectedly touching her olive-tone skin. The brief contact sent crazy tingles up and down his arm. The close proximity to this woman intoxicated him in quite another way. Gavin fully realized he was more than a little tipsy from the beer he and his team had been guzzling. But he was still alert, still fixated on this new person of interest.
“I’m Captain Nike Alexander,” she informed him in a clipped and wary tone. She’d just arrived with her squadron from the USA and wanted to focus only on the mission before them. As an all-woman squadron they had a lot to prove—again. They’d done it in Peru, now it would be here. She didn’t want to tangle with some sex-hungry A-team leader who hadn’t seen a woman in God knew how long. Still, a secret part of her wondered what Gavin would look like without that beard. Not that he wasn’t handsome with it; maybe she was just more interested than she cared to admit.
“Nike,” he murmured, rolling the name around on his tongue. “That’s different.” He squinted and gave her a measuring look. “Are you…American?” Her husky voice had a trace of an accent. When she frowned, he knew he’d asked the wrong question.
“I was born in Athens, Greece, Captain. I was invited from my country to train and work for the U.S. Army.” She turned and showed the American flag on the left shoulder of her uniform.
“Greek.” That made sense, although he’d said it as if he were stunned by the information. Seeing the frustration in her large, clear gold eyes, Gavin asked, “Wasn’t Nike a goddess in Greek myths?”
“She still is,” Nike said in a flat tone. “I was named after her.”
“I see.” Gavin stood there, his brows dipping. “So, you’re part of a black ops, you’re a female pilot and you’re from Greece.” Brightening, he shared a look with her, his smile crooked. “That makes you a pretty rare specimen out here in our back country.”
“You’re making me feel like a bug under a microscope, Captain. Why don’t you mosey back to your team. I’m not interested in anything but my mission here.”
Her tone was low and dismissive.
Gavin kept his smile friendly and tried to appear neutral and not the leering, sexually hungry male he really was. It was now or never. “Speaking of that, Captain Alexander, we were wondering if you might not come and join us? My boys and I are going back for thirty more days in the bush tomorrow morning. We’d enjoy your company.”
Easing into a standing position, Nike glanced over at the table. Nine other bearded men in Afghan dress looked hopefully in her direction. English-speaking women who were not Moslem were a rarity in this country. Of course they’d want her company. “Captain, I’m not the USO. And I’m not for sale at any price. If you want female entertainment I suggest you find it somewhere else.”
Ouch. Gavin scowled. “Just a beer, Captain. Or, we’ll buy you another cup of coffee. That’s all. Nothing else.” He held up both his hands. “Honest.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Nike said. She pulled out a few coins from her pocket and put them on the bar next to the drained cup of coffee. “But I must respectfully decline, Captain.” She turned and marched out of the tent.
“That went well,” Gavin said, his grin wide and silly-looking as she exited. He walked over to his men, who looked defeated.
“You crashed and burned,” Robles groaned.
Jackson poured himself another glass of beer. “She’s got other fish to fry.” He said it as lightly as he could.
The men nodded and nursed their beers.
At twenty-eight, Gavin understood that a little fun and laughter was good medicine for his men. Silently, he thanked Nike Alexander for her decision. What would it have been like to have her come over and sit with them? It would have lifted their collective spirits. They were starving for some feminine attention. Oh, she probably realized this, but didn’t get that his invitation was truly harmless. Gavin had seen a lot of sensitivity in her face and read it in her eyes. However, she was protective, if not a little defensive about sharing that side. He couldn’t blame her.
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 brother 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.”
