Wait Until Dark

Chapter 6

6

They flew the two hours to Kabul high enough that John and Connie didn’t need to man the guns. They could leave the flying to Beale and Clay for this trip.

First thing in the air, they ran systems tests and calibrations that could only be done in flight. But when it took John three tries to punch the right keys to run the wideband satellite-ground tactical system loopback test, he knew it was time to bag it.

“Major,” he called on the intercom, “we’re hammered.”

“Crash out,” was all the response he wanted or needed. He released his harness, snapped in the monkey line out of habit, though the cargo doors were slid shut, and stretched out on the hard deck.

“Connie, let it go, girl.”

“In a minute.”

He watched her in the instrument glow, hunched forward, focused. Despite wearing a helmet, flight suit, and full SARVSO survival vest, there was no mistaking her for a man. She wasn’t like the major, too willowy to be a man, or Kee, too generously proportioned to be masked by a mere flight suit. Connie’s standout feature despite full gear: she simply moved in a way that no man would, or could. A neatness. A lack of wasted motion. A… He wasn’t sure.

He puzzled at it as sleep overwhelmed him and took him under.

Connie stretched, and every joint popped or cracked. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been this tired. Not since the five-week hell of Green Platoon training. Or perhaps during her SERE course. She’d survived, evaded, and resisted for the two full weeks of the field test. She’d never been captured, so she hadn’t needed the fourth letter of the acronym, escape. She also hadn’t slept more than thirty minutes at a time in fourteen days.

She leaned back in and squinted, but her eyes were too tired to determine if the readout was a “4” or a “9.” She gave it up.

“Let it go,” as John had said.

Glancing forward revealed Major Beale in rear quarter profile. Clay was invisible in his armor-wrapped copilot seat six inches forward from Connie’s right shoulder. She could lean on the back of his seat and she’d be asleep in seconds.

The major rarely spoke as they flew. Emily Beale ran a quiet ship, which was fine with Connie. The air waves were silent as well. They were ferrying to Kabul. Too high to be susceptible to enemy ground fire. If there had been a briefing about their mission, she’d missed it while working on the helo.

As if sensing her attention, the major turned to face her through the gap between the seats. With a sharp nod, then a soft shrug, she communicated her thanks for fast repairs and her lack of knowledge regarding the reason for the move. No briefing missed. All communicated without the risk of waking John by using the intercom.

She turned to look at John. He’d stretched out, his feet propped on their duffels strapped to the rear cargo net. His head reached most of the way to his seat. You could fit a stretcher and a doctor in the space he took. Maybe two.

But there was room beside him. Not as much as you’d expect in the cargo bay of a Black Hawk. If it weren’t for all of the mods and extra ammo for a DAP Hawk, you could fit eleven troops, or six with serious in-country gear. But despite the DAP’s unique load, there was room for her. She could see that he had moved to the side before passing out. Leaving more space.

For her.

She felt uneasy sitting there, looking down at the open space left by the kindness of a man still in helmet and full gear, unrecognizable if not for his physical scale.

But she didn’t sleep well beside others. Too much of her life alone. Mother gone early, Dad on assignment. Her fading grandmother had made sure she was fed, but the rest of her life had been up to her. To her alone.

In the Army it was easy to be alone. To simply be quiet. Stay out of the jokes, the pranks, the incessant rivalry to be the best at something. A person could be accepted for their proven skills, which was the only test that mattered once past the lowest units. Being excellent also meant that she’d had a minimal requirement to interact with others.

Women were typically afforded more space to sleep in the Army. Often cots when guys had hard ground. Or at least they were put with other women. And her time hadn’t been frontline hardship. Except for frequent weeklong exercises and war games, most of her career had been in helicopters. Helos returned to a base at night. If your bird was parked in the wild, a person didn’t sleep. She hunkered down wide-eyed, rifle at the ready, and watched for bad news crawling through the high weeds.

Her body begged her to lie down beside him.

Finally too tired to think, she did stretch out beside the sleeping Staff Sergeant.

Hard against the opposite cargo-bay door.