Danielle was ready for the job, in her own, inestimable opinion. But she wasn’t going to get there until the trainers signed off that she’d reached fully mission-qualified proficiency. FMQ was the gold star of the Night Stalkers pipeline.
The Fort Campbell training course was never set up the same from one flight to the next, but it always had a time limit. The time would be short and they didn’t tell you what it was. So she drove the Chinook for all it was worth like Regina Jaquess waterskiing her way to U.S. Ski Team Female Athlete of the Year.
The Night Stalkers were a damned secretive lot, and after two years of training, she understood why. With seven years flying for the 10th, she’d thought she was good.
She’d been repeatedly lauded as one of the top pilots at Fort Drum.
The Night Stalkers had offered an education in what it really meant to fly. In the two years of training, she’d flown more hours than in the seven years prior, despite two deployments to Iraq. And spent more time in the classroom than her life-to-date accumulated flight hours.
But she was ready now. It was très viscérale, right down in her bones she could feel it. The Chinook was as much a part of her nervous system as breathing.
Too bad they didn’t build men the way they built the big Chinooks—especially the MH-47G which were built specifically to SOAR’s requirements. The aircraft were steady, trustworthy, and the most immensely powerful helicopters deployed in the U.S. Army—what more could a girl ask for? But finding a superhero man to go with her superhero helicopter was just a fantasy for a lonely girl who’d once had dreams of more.
She dove down into a canyon and slid to a hover mere inches over the reservoir inside the thirty-second window laid out on the flight plan.
Danielle resisted a sigh. She was ready for something to happen and to happen soon.
Pete’s Chinook and his two escort Black Hawks crossed into the mountainous province of Sikkim, India ten feet over the glaciers and still moving fast. It was an hour before dawn, they’d made it out of China while it was still dark.
“Thirty minutes of fuel remaining,” Nicolai said it like a personal challenge when they hit the border.
“Thanks, I never would have noticed.”
It had been a nail-biting tradeoff: the more fuel he burned, the more easily he climbed due to the lighter load. The more he climbed, the faster he burned what little fuel remained.
Safe in Indian airspace he climbed hard as Nicolai counted down the minutes remaining, burning fuel even faster than he had been while crossing the mountains of southern Tibet. They caught up with the U.S. Air Force HC-130P Combat King refueling tanker with only ten minutes of fuel left.
“Ram that bitch,” Nicolai called out.
Pete extended the refueling probe which reached only a few feet beyond the forward edge of the rotor blade and drove at the basket trailing behind the tanker on its long hose.
He nailed it on the first try despite the fluky winds. Striking the valve in the basket with over four hundred pounds of pressure, a clamp snapped over the refueling probe and Jet A fuel shot into his tanks.
His helo had the least fuel due to having the most men aboard, so he was first in line. His Number Two picked up the second refueling basket trailing off the other wing of the Combat King. Thirty seconds and three hundred gallons later and he was breathing much more easily.
“Ah,” Nicolai sighed. “It is better than the sex,” his thick Russian accent only ever surfaced in this moment or in a bar while picking up women.
“Hey, Nicolai,” Nicky the Greek called over the intercom from his crew chief position seated behind Pete. “Do you make love in Russian?”
A question Pete had always been careful to avoid.
“For you, I make special exception.” That got a laugh over the system.
Which explained why Pete always kept his mouth shut at this moment.
“The ladies, Nicolai? What about the ladies?” Alfie the portside gunner asked.
“Ah,” he sighed happily as he signaled that the other helos had finished their refueling and formed up to either side, “the ladies love the Russian. They don’t need to know I grew up in Maryland and I learn my great-great-grandfather’s native tongue at the University called Virginia.”
He sounded so pleased that Pete wished he’d done the same rather than study Japanese and Mandarin.
Another two hours of—Thank God—straight-and-level flight at altitude through the breaking dawn and they landed on the aircraft carrier awaiting them in the Bay of Bengal. India had agreed to turn a blind eye as long as the Americans never actually touched their soil.
Once standing on the deck—and the worst of the kinks had been worked out—he pulled his team together: six pilots and seven crew chiefs.
“Honor to serve!” He saluted them sharply.
“Hell yeah!” They shouted in unison and saluted in turn. It was their version of spiking the football in the end zone.
A petty officer in a bright green vest appeared at his elbow, “Follow me please, sir.” He pointed toward the Navy-gray command structure that towered above the carrier’s deck. The rear admiral of the entire carrier strike group was waiting for him just outside the entrance. Not a good idea to keep a one-star waiting, so he waved at the team.
“See you in the mess for dinner,” he shouted to the crew over the noise of an F-18 Hornet fighter jet trapping on the #2 wire. After two days of surviving on MREs while squatting on the Tibetan tundra, he was ready for a steak, a burger, a mountain of pasta, whatever. Or maybe all three.
The green escorted him across the hazards of the busy flight deck. Pete had kept his helmet on to buffer the noise, but even at that he winced as another Hornet fired up and was flung aloft by the catapult.
“Orders, Major Napier,” the Rear Admiral handed him a folded sheet the moment he arrived. “Hate to lose you.” He saluted, which Pete automatically returned before looking down at the sheet of paper in his hands. The man was gone before the import of Pete’s orders slammed in.
A different green-clad deckhand showed up with Pete’s duffle bag and began guiding him toward a loading C-2 Greyhound twin-prop airplane. It was parked Number Two for the launch catapult, close behind the raised jet-blast deflector.
His crew, being led across in the opposite direction to return to the berthing decks below, looked at him aghast.
“Stateside,” was all he managed to gasp out as they passed.
A stream of foul cursing followed him from behind. Their crew was tight. Why the hell was Command breaking it up?
And what in the name of fuck-all had he done to deserve this?
He glanced at the orders again as he stumbled up the Greyhound’s rear ramp and crash landed into a seat.
Training rookies?
It was worse than a demotion.
This was punishment.
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Target of the Heart
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About the Author
M.L. Buchman started the first of over 60 novels, 100 short stories, and a fast-growing pile of audiobooks while flying from South Korea to ride his bicycle across the Australian Outback. Part of a solo around the world trip that ultimately launched his writing career in: thrillers, military romantic suspense, contemporary romance, and SF/F.
Recently named in The 20 Best Romantic Suspense Novels: Modern Masterpieces by ALA’s Booklist, they have also selected his works three times as "Top-10 Romance Novel of the Year." His thrillers have been praised noting, “Tom Clancy fans will clamor for more.”
As a 30-year project manager with a geophysics degree who has: designed and built houses, flown and jumped out of planes, and solo-sailed a 50’ ketch, he is awed by what's possible. More at: www.mlbuchman.com.
Also by M. L. Buchman
* also in audio
Thrillers
Dead Chef
Swap Out!
One Ch
ef!
Two Chef!
Miranda Chase NTSB
Drone*
Thunderbolt*
Condor*
Romantic Suspense
Delta Force
Target Engaged*
Heart Strike*
Wild Justice*
Midnight Trust*
Firehawks
Main Flight
Pure Heat
Full Blaze
Hot Point*
Flash of Fire*
Wild Fire
Smokejumpers
Wildfire at Dawn
Wildfire at Larch Creek
Wildfire on the Skagit
The Night Stalkers
Main Flight
The Night Is Mine
I Own the Dawn
Wait Until Dark
Take Over at Midnight
Light Up the Night
Bring On the Dusk
By Break of Day
and the Navy
Christmas at Steel Beach
Christmas at Peleliu Cove
White House Holiday
Daniel’s Christmas*
Frank’s Independence Day*
Peter’s Christmas*
Zachary’s Christmas*
Roy’s Independence Day*
Damien’s Christmas*
5E
Target of the Heart
Target Lock on Love
Target of Mine
Target of One’s Own
Shadow Force: Psi
At the Slightest Sound*
At the Quietest Word*
White House Protection Force
Off the Leash*
On Your Mark*
In the Weeds*
Contemporary Romance
Eagle Cove
Return to Eagle Cove
Recipe for Eagle Cove
Longing for Eagle Cove
Keepsake for Eagle Cove
Henderson’s Ranch
Nathan’s Big Sky*
Big Sky, Loyal Heart*
Love Abroad B&B
Heart of the Cotswolds: England
Path of Love: Cinque Terre, Italy
Where Dreams
Where Dreams are Born
Where Dreams Reside
Where Dreams Are of Christmas*
Where Dreams Unfold
Where Dreams Are Written
Deities Anonymous
Cookbook from Hell: Reheated
Saviors 101
SF/F Titles
The Nara Reaction
Monk’s Maze
The Me and Elsie Chronicles
Non-Fiction
Strategies for Success
Managing Your Inner Artist / Writer
Estate Planning for Authors*
Character Voice
Narrate and Record Your Own Audiobook*
* * *
Don’t miss a thing! Get a free starter library!
www.mlbuchman.com
Copyright 2019 Matthew Lieber Buchman
Previously published in An Interpretation of Moles anthology.
Published by Buchman Bookworks, Inc.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the author.
More by this author at: www.mlbuchman.com
Cover images:
Silhouette of soldier with rifle © kaninstudio | Depositphotos
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