Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart of Stone (5 page)

“’Morning, ma’am,” she greeted Maya as she heaped dark orange, fluffy scrambled eggs onto her tray.

“’Morning, Penny. You got any of your famous cin
namon rolls?” Maya lifted her nose and sniffed. “I can smell ’em. Any left?”

Penny blushed a bright pink. “Yes, ma’am. I managed to save a couple for you and Ms. Klein.” Penny turned to retrieve the rolls, revealing how the white apron she wore over her green fatigues hung to her knees due to her short stature. Sometimes, when she moved too quickly, the apron would become tangled around her short legs and nearly trip her.

“So you didn’t let the condors eat them all,” Maya said, pleased. She watched as Penny opened the oven and drew out two big cinnamon rolls slathered with white frosting.

“Oh, we’ve got a buncha buzzards here, no doubt, ma’am,” Penny laughed. She placed a roll on each officer’s tray. “But I know they’re your favorite, so I told my crew to keep their hands off them, threatening that they’d lose their fingers if anyone stole ’em.”

Maya grinned. “Thanks, Penny. We appreciate your being a watchdog.” Maya poured some coffee from the tall steel canister into a white ceramic mug and then went over to an empty table. She wanted time to talk to Dallas alone before the flight. Every time she thought of Dane York, her gut tightened. And yet there
was
something else troubling her. Maya couldn’t shake the feeling…the premonition that Kamovs were around and hunting them. Sometimes they did. Sometimes Faro Valentino, a very rich Colombian drug lord, who had money to burn and could buy the latest in Russian weaponry and aircraft, would deliberately try and hunt them down to kill them. Most of the time he was making cocaine runs over their jungle and mountains. But sometimes…he turned the tables on them. Sometimes the hunted became the hunter. Was today the day?

Dallas sat down opposite her. “You’ve got that look in your eyes,” she said as she eagerly dove into the scrambled eggs. They had Penny to thank for the fresh eggs. A farm girl from Iowa she had long ago bought a bunch of hens in Aqua Caliente, and built them a chicken coop. Penny had her “girls” laying eggs for the entire squadron. Everyone appreciated farm-fresh eggs. They had a much better taste than any store-bought variety, which were sterile in comparison, Dallas thought. Maya always urged her women to be creative, to make this base more a home than a military warehouse. Little touches like Penny’s made staying here survivable. Since Lieutenant Ana Luca Contina had married Jake Travers, and Jake had come to stay with her at the base, he had created a huge vegetable garden that yielded wonderful lettuce salads and other hard-to-get items. Jake also took care of supply and Maya was grateful for the ex-Army Ranger’s presence on their base. While Ana flew missions, Jake took care of things on the ground. Everyone, including Maya, was happy with the arrangement.

“What look is that?” Even though Maya was far from hungry, she knew today’s flight required her to be alert, and that meant feeding her body. Brain cells needed food to work, and in her business of flying the deadly Apache assault aircraft, she needed every iota of intelligence to stay on top of things.

Dallas sipped her coffee after putting a dry creamer into it. “That ‘we’re gonna get jumped by Kamovs’ look.”

“Oh.”

Dallas set the cup down. “You always have a sixth sense for this stuff. Are you too exhausted to be in touch with it this morning?”

Having known Dallas for the three years that they’d been at the base, Maya trusted the Israeli pilot with her life. On loan to them from her country, Dallas was a tough, no-nonsense warrior who had many times saved Maya’s butt when they’d come up against the Black Sharks that would hide and jump them. And Dallas knew her better than anyone at the base. As executive officer—X.O.—she had almost as much responsibility for this base operating as Maya did. And Dallas was someone she could blow off steam to without it getting around. Giving her a narrowed look, she muttered, “Okay, I have a feeling.”

Lips curving ruefully, Dallas said lightly, “Couldn’t be that Black Jaguar Clan stuff you’re connected with?”

Maya didn’t often talk about her spiritual heritage or training. Dallas knew more than most, but Maya’s affiliation with the Clan wasn’t for public consumption. Over the years, Maya’s intrepid and loyal pilots and crews had learned there was something “different” about her, but not
what
was different. Of course, Maya didn’t have anywhere near the metaphysical talents her sister, Inca, did. No, the only thing she was good at, when in the right space, was teleportation. And in her line of business, Maya was rarely in the right space to use that talent because it required her to be in perfect harmony within herself in order to initiate it. Nope, on any given day, she was painfully human like everyone else. The other talent she had was intuition. She’d get these “feelings” and when she did, she was rarely wrong.

Maya realized Dallas was patiently looking at her with those golden eyes.

“Okay…I got a bad feeling. I think Faro is going to
turn the tables on us again. He’s going to be the hunter and us the hunted today. Satisfied?”

Pursing her full lips, Dallas said, “Yep, I am. I’m gonna tell my copilot to play heads up then, more than usual. Damn, I wish we could get a radar signature off them.”

Maya nodded in agreement. The Russian helicopter was able to somehow dodge their massive radar array and capabilities. Because it could, the Kamov had the ability to sneak up on them and blow them out of the sky—literally. That meant Maya and her pilots had to stay even more alert than usual. They were fighting one of the most deadly helicopter opponents in the world. Their own sensor equipment was useless against the Kamov unless it showed itself, which wasn’t often. The mercenary Russian pilots Faro Valentino hired were hardened veterans of many campaigns and knew the ropes of stealth and combat—just like Maya’s crew did.

Each Apache had two HUDS, or heads-up displays—small, television-like screens—in each of its two cockpits. Maya’s pilots could use IR—or infrared—a television camera or radar. The HUDs had saved the lives of Maya’s crew innumerable times, as well as helped them find the heat of bodies beneath the jungle canopy so they could stop drug runners in their tracks as they carried heavy loads of cocaine toward the Bolivian border. In the sky, the Apache’s ability to find its target was legendary. Except the Kamovs had their own arsenal of commensurate hardware, and on any given day, a Kamov could jump one of their Apaches without warning. That was when Maya used her sixth sense to the optimum. She’d not lost a helo crew yet, and she wasn’t about to start now.

Maya pulled the warm cinnamon roll apart with her long, spare fingers. “This is one of those days I’d just as soon tell the Cosmos I pass on this mission, you know? That’s okay, you don’t have to answer on the grounds it may incriminate you, Klein.” She grinned and popped a piece of the soft, sweet bread into her mouth.

“Well,” Dallas said with a sly look, “I’m glad I’m not in your boots today, Captain. Whatta choice—Kamovs or Major Dane York.”

“Humph, with our luck, we’ll get hit with both.”

Chuckling, Dallas finished her coffee. “Yeah, that’s what I call Black Jaguar luck at its finest.”

That was true, and Maya nodded as she chewed on the roll. “If we didn’t have bad luck, we wouldn’t have any at all.”

Dallas’s eyes gleamed with laughter. “And if I’m reading you right, you’d rather face Faro’s Kamovs today than York.”

“Bingo.”

“Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.” Dallas rose, picked up her empty tray and said, “Meet you out on the apron. Time to turn and burn.”

Maya sat there, feeling glum. The soft sounds of women talking and laughing made her feel a little better. The mess hall was always a happy meeting place for her and her hardworking crews. They pulled twelve hours on and twelve off when Faro and his Kamovs decided to take to the sky and make run after run of cocaine to the Bolivian border.

Rubbing her neck ruefully, Maya grimaced. Today was going to be one helluva day, and she wasn’t looking forward to any of it.

J
ust the act of climbing up the metal rungs that doubled as a ladder, and then onto the black metal fuselage before ducking into the front cockpit of the Boeing Apache, soothed some of Maya’s initial anxiousness. Dawn had yet to break in the east. The cockpit canopy opened on the left side, folding upward and back so that both pilots could climb into their respective positions at once. The crew chief was Sergeant Elena Macedo from Peru. Maya could hear her copilot and gunner, Chief Warrant Officer 2 Jessica Merril, settling into her position directly behind her. Jessica hailed from California. Her nickname was Wild Woman. Though she was twenty-six, she had the look of an impish pixie, her blond hair dyed with streaks of red. The splashes of color were Jess’s way of donning war-paint and going off to battle, in a sense. Everyone’s got a big bang out of Wild Woman’s wild “do.” She
more than symbolized the highly individualized rebel attitude of the base. Maya liked it and approved of it.

The Apache was a big, ugly looking dog with a bulbous nose that housed the infrared, television and radar equipment. The cockpits rose upward on a metal frame, the front cockpit Plexiglas hardened to take a 30 mm cannon hit as well as bird strikes. The seat felt welcoming to Maya, the space narrow, with the cyclic positioned between her legs, the collective by her left, gloved hand. Between her and her copilot was a blast shield; in case they took a hit and one pilot was killed or wounded, the other would be protected so they could fly the chopper home.

Settling the helmet on her head, Maya lifted her hand and twirled it in a clockwise motion, signaling the ground crew to start up the Apache. The first thing that came on in the assault gunship was the air-conditioning, designed to cool the miles of circuitry that were bundled along the sides of the prehistoric-looking craft beneath the black metal fuselage. The blast of air from the ducts in the front panel, along with the high-pitched whine of the air-conditioning cranking up, surrounded Maya. She watched all the instruments in front of her start to blink and flicker on. The two HUD’s came to life, glowing a pleasant green color that was easy on the eyes and didn’t contribute to night blindness. She pressed some buttons, making sure the related systems were operational. Positioning the mouthpiece within an inch of her lips, she tested communications with her copilot.

“Wild Woman, how are you reading me?”

“Loud and clear, Captain.”

“Roger.”

Looking up, Maya saw the constant wisps of clouds
that embraced the ten-thousand foot inactive volcano where their base was located. The two Apaches faced outward, having been pushed into position from beneath the cave’s overhang by the crews earlier. The lip of lava extended out a good four hundred feet in front of them and made an excellent landing and takeoff spot for the birds. Squinting above the cockpit console, Maya noted the lava wall that rose directly in front of them a thousand feet high, like a big rock curtain. The only way in and out of this cave complex was through the “Eye of the Needle,” as they called it.

The Eye of the Needle was a natural geologic wonder—a hole in the lava wall sixty feet high and eighty feet wide, just large enough for an Apache or Cobra to move very carefully through it. The rotor diameter on an Apache was forty-eight feet, so they had very little clearance at any time.

Clouds also helped hide the base from prying eyes. Far below them flowed the mighty Urubamba River, a continual source of moisture rising upward in the tropical heat. As this humid air rolled up the mountainside, it met and mixed with cooler, descending air—exactly where the cave and their base was located, creating a fog that was nearly constant all year-round.

This morning was no exception. They would be required to lift off and fly out on instruments and radar in order to thread the Eye squarely and not take off a chunk of their titanium-edged rotor blades, risking a crash. The operation wasn’t for fools or anyone not paying attention to her flying. After logging three hundred miles on a mission, the pilots were often tired coming back, and this obstacle became even more dangerous in their exhausted state.

Glancing down, Maya positioned her chicken plate,
the bulletproof vest across her chest and abdomen, so that it rode as comfortably as possible. The radio in her helmet crackled to life.

“Black Jaguar One, this is Two. You read me?” It was Dallas Klein’s whiskey-smooth voice.

“Roger, Black Jaguar Two. Read you loud and clear.”

“Looks like we got split pea soup out there as usual, Saber.”

Maya smiled as she hooked up her harness. Saber was her nickname, given to her upon graduation from army basic aviation school, when she’d gotten her wings. Everyone got a nickname. She’d earned hers because her company said she was like a fine-bladed army ceremonial sword, slicing through any situation with finality. The name Saber had stuck. Maya liked living up to it. “Roger that, Dallas. Nothing new. The boys comin’ up from Lima oughta be real impressed if this stuff hangs around the Eye like it usually does,” she chuckled darkly. She made sure the knee board on her right thigh was adjusted, in case she needed to jot anything down.

Continuing her checks, Maya felt her left thigh pocket to make sure that her sister’s medicine necklace was in there. Inca had given her the protective necklace soon after they’d met, and Maya always kept it on her during a mission. She couldn’t wear jewlery, so she tucked it into a side pocket. It felt warm and secure in there and she gave it a pat of affection. In a way, it reminded Maya that now she had a sister to come home to, and to be careful out there in the skies over Peru.

Chuckling, Dallas said, “Oh, I’m sure they’re gonna be
real
impressed, anyway.”

“We’ll see just how tough the good ole boys from
Fort Rucker are when they encounter the Eye. I’d give my right arm to see the looks on their faces when they approach it.”

“They’ve been given prior info on it, right?” Wild Woman interjected from the rear cockpit.

Maya nodded. She was ready. They were ready. Excitement thrummed through her. “Roger that, Jess. But looking at it on paper and seeing it in person, and knowing your forty-eight-foot blade has no room for error, despite the winds that are always whipping up from the river, is gonna make it real interesting for those boys.”

Laughter filled Maya’s earphones. She grinned mirthlessly. Yes, she’d like to see York’s face when he came up against the Eye wrapped in thick clouds that were subject to the whim of the winds in this mountainous region. He’d learn to respect Eye real fast. Maya could hardly wait until they returned and she saw the two new Apaches thread it. There wasn’t a pilot around that didn’t approach it slowly and with a lot of trepidation.

The crew chief moved toward the ladder. “You’re ready to go, Captain,” she said, and snapped a salute to the two pilots.

Maya snapped off an answering salute. “Thank you, Sergeant Macedo.”

Macedo then brought down both canopies and locked them into position, making the cabin of each cockpit secure.

Maya rested her gloved hands in plain sight of the crew below. Until everyone was clear, Maya would not start the massive engines of the helo or endanger her ground crew. As the three of them stepped away, their faces shadowed by the low lighting provided by a
nearby generator, Maya lifted her hand and twirled her index finger in a circular motion, which meant she was going to start engines.

“Let’s get down to work,” she told Wild Woman, her voice turning businesslike. Maya flipped the first switch, which would engage the engine on the starboard, or right side of the fuselage. Instantly, a high whine and shudder worked through the aircraft. Eyes narrowing, Maya watched the engine indicator leap like active thermometers, bobbing up and down. When the engine was activated to a certain level, she thumbed the second engine switch. The gunship was awakening. In some sense Maya always thought of it as an ugly and ungainly looking thing. The image of a Tyrannosaurus rex came to mind: king of the dinosaurs and a mean bastard who ruled its turf—just like the Apache did. She could feel the sleek shudder that ran through it as the gunship gained power.

To Maya, her helicopter was a living being consisting of metal, wire circuitry, software and engine parts. She found her own power in that machinery. Whatever nervousness she’d felt about the coming encounter with Major Dane York was soothed away. When she was in the cockpit, the world and all its troubles dissolved. Her love of flying, of handling this remarkable machine, took over completely.

As the engine indicators leveled out, Maya engaged the main rotor. The four blades began to turn in a counterclockwise motion, slowly at first, then faster and faster as she notched up the power with the cyclic grasped in her fingers. Her entire left forearm rested comfortably on a panel so that her hand wouldn’t cramp up and the cyclic became a natural extension of her hand.

“Jess, switch on the radar. I need to thread the needle here in a moment.”

“Right…We’re up…go for it….”

Maya saw the full sweep of a bright green set of lines on the right HUD. It looked like a slice of pie as the long, green needle of radar swept ceaselessly back and forth, clearly revealing the hole in the wall directly in front of them, despite the cloud cover beyond.

“Let’s go over our checklist,” Maya ordered.

“Roger,” Jess returned, and they began to move through a sequence they had memorized long ago. Maya reached for her knee board, systematically checking off each station as it was called out. There was no room for sloppiness in her squadron. Things were done by the book. It improved their chances of survival.

They were ready. Maya devoured the excitement still throbbing through her. The Apache shook around her, the noise muted to a great degree by her helmet. She tested the yaw pedals beneath her booted feet. Everything was functioning properly. Proud of her hardworking ground crews, Maya lifted her hand to them in farewell as they moved back to watch the two assault helicopters take off, one at a time, to thread the needle.

“Black Jaguar Two. You ready to rock ’n’ roll?” Maya asked.

Dallas chuckled indulgently. “Roger that, Saber. My girl is checked out and we’re ready to boogie on down the road with you. I want to dance on a Black Shark’s head today.”

“Roger. Let’s go meet those good ole boys from Fort Rucker first, shall we? They might have the new D models, but us girls have got the guns.”

Chuckling, Dallas said, “I don’t think Gunslinger is ready for us.”

Gunslinger was Dane York’s nickname, Maya remembered starkly. He was an aggressive, type A individual who lived to hunt and kill in the air. Of course, so did anyone who got assigned to Apaches. They were a breed apart, bloodhounds in the sky, looking for quarry. Grinning, Maya notched up to takeoff speed and gently lifted the fully armed Apache off the lava lip. Smoothly, she nudged the helo forward into the swirling clouds. Within moments, they were completely embraced by the thick moisture.

“On glide path,” Jess called out.

Maya flew by instruments only. Her eyes were narrowed on the HUD, watching the swiftly moving radar that whipped back and forth on the screen to create a picture of the approaching Eye. The winds were erratic at this time of the morning, because when the sun rose, the land heated up and made air currents unpredictable—and dangerous. Raindrops splattered across the windshield of her aircraft, falling from clouds which carried moisture from the humid jungle below. The Apache eased forward, closer and closer to the opening in the lava wall.

“On glide path…”

Compressing her lips, Maya tensed a little, as always. The aircraft was within twenty feet of the Eye. Right now, the wrong wind current, the wrong move with her hands or feet, would crash them into the wall.
Easy…easy…
She moved the aircraft smoothly through the hole and out over the jungle far below. They were at eight thousand feet now, and Maya eased away from the cliff to allow Dallas’s aircraft to exit in turn.

“Switching to radar to hunt for the bad guys,” Jess called.

“Roger.” Maya looked up briefly. She could see nothing but the thick, white mists all around them. It was dark and the Apaches ran with no lights on them. Their instruments were all they had. “Keep a lookout for Kamovs. I got a bad feeling on this one, Jess.”

“I thought you might. Scanning beginning now…”

Of course, Maya knew that even with their advanced radar, Kamovs had a certain type of paint on their fuselage that absorbed the Apache’s radar signal, so that what little pinged back to the instruments on board was negligible, and therefore unreadable. A Kamov could spot them in fog like this, providing the cloud cover wasn’t too thick, and nail them. Plus, their radar could send out a strong signal through thinner clouds and get an equally strong returning signal back from its target. Right now, they were sitting ducks and Maya knew it.

“We’re out, Saber,” Dallas said.

“Roger,” Maya replied. “Let’s split up, make less of a target of ourselves. Leave a mile between us and head for the meeting point. Keep your eyes and ears open, ladies.”

“Roger that,” Dallas said.

Inching up the throttles, Maya felt the Apache growl more deeply as it rose higher and higher. She wanted out of this cloud cover, to get on top of it so her 360-degree radar could detect and protect them from any lurking intruders. The Apache felt good around her. It was sleek and smooth compared to many other helicopters she’d flown. With a full load of ordnance on board, she felt the lethal power of it as well. At a flick of a switch on her collective, the stick between her
legs, she could send a fiery hell to earth in a matter of moments.

As they rose to nine thousand feet, they suddenly popped out of the cloud cover. Above, Maya saw the familiar sight of the Southern Cross. She smiled a little at the peaceful looking stars as they glimmered across the ebony arc above them. And yet here they were in a cat-and-mouse game with killers who’d just as soon see them dead as alive. The incongruity of it all struck her.

The helicopter dipped its nose forward as Maya poured in more power, and they swiftly moved along the top of the ever-moving clouds.