Target Engaged

Chapter 8-1

8

Carla was not ready for this. At all.

HALO jumps were fine. Jumping out of a speeding jetliner at thirty-five thousand feet was close to the rush of s*x with Kyle. Well, no, it wasn’t that good, but it could sure make a girl feel happy in a lot of ways.

Her problem was that she hadn’t slept in over thirty-six hours and they were headed into their first live op on no notice. Well, technically on twenty-three minutes notice, which didn’t help a whole lot.

Carla had been unable to sleep the night before their OTC graduation exercise; she’d been too wound up about it. At least that’s what she thought it had been. The more she’d lain there inside the curl of Kyle’s sleeping arms, the less she believed her first assessment.

Was she worried about the exercise itself? No. They’d practiced a hundred variations on the living room scenario. Delta had started them off with learning to shoot while walking, then at a target behind them while they walked. Then an elevated target, then an elevated target behind them while they were running. Despite being a thousandth the size, Delta fired more training rounds than the entire Marine Corps, and she had the calluses between her thumb and forefinger to prove it.

Was she worried about disappointing Kyle or the team? Wasn’t gonna happen.

Was she worried about disappointing the Delta leaders who had let her in? No.

She had slid from Kyle’s arms, leaving her pillow in her place for him to wrap himself around, and gone to sit in a chair by the bedroom window streaming with moonlight and look out at their crap view of the apartment’s parking lot where their motorcycles rested side-by-side.

She’d wanted to wake Kyle and slip down the road in the moonlight. Go back into the Uwharrie to their idyll in the wilderness, which had been so rudely interrupted by a thunderstorm that had sent them scrambling to a motel, laughing like lunatics all the way.

Carla wanted to run away from…nothing! It wasn’t her style. She faced every problem head-on. So she’d ignored the moonlight and focused back on the night before OTC graduation.

Had she been worried about what would happen to the team after graduating from OTC?

Desperately.

Crap! There it had been.

In the past, Carla had shifted fireteams as easily as changing her billet; it wasn’t that big a deal. But Delta had forced her to new levels in team integration, and she’d hate to lose any of these jokers.

And Kyle. She’d really, really hate to lose Kyle. She never got attached; it didn’t happen. Having Mom gone when Carla was fourteen and Clay gone when she hit eighteen had taught her the danger of that.

But if she and Kyle were separated, she’d just…

She shouldn’t be attached, but she…was! And she hated it. And at the same time loved it. Damn him to hell! She wasn’t making any sense to herself. She’d barely managed to suppress the scream of frustration that would have had Kyle leaping from the bed and grabbing for a weapon before he was fully conscious.

By sunrise she’d found no answer, nor by the start of the final exercise.

Afterward, Carla had frozen up solid waiting for the hammer fall; everyone pretending to be so casual as they sat there in the simulated aircraft waiting for their first orders.

Then she’d looked at Kyle and wondered if she’d ever see him again.

Memorize his face! Memorize this moment! So casual, so exceptional, sitting in an aircraft’s First-Class lounge, armed against the world’s evil. She stored that image deep and hated her weakness for doing so. She didn’t need anyone, but she needed Kyle as badly as she needed air to breathe.

Then Colonel Gibson had said they’d continue to fight together and the world had come back to life like a hard slap.

She was so happy that she’d wanted to jump up, scream, do a dance. Instead, she’d mimicked Kyle’s salute, adding all the respect she could into it, and followed her team out the door.

They’d flown commercial to Miami, and they were now squatting in the cramped tail section of a 757’s cargo hold and she was no closer to understanding why she was so happy.

The CIA had come up with a plane that had a jump gate buried in her tail. They’d done a last-minute substitution for a Delta airlines flight with a jet labeled “Air Leasing—Delta.” She’d bet the paint job would be scrubbed and gone in hours. Meanwhile, regular passengers rode on her, stewards did their steward thing, and five Delta operators crouched beneath them, waiting in a small separately pressurized space in the tail and reviewing the mission profile.

At three minutes to jump: they pulled on their breathers that held ten minutes of air, and checked each other’s gear.

At two minutes: the lights went red, the pressure began dropping, and everyone began holding their noses to pop their ears like diving at sea.

At one minute: the CIA pilot opened the pressure door and they were exposed to the air at altitude—too thin to breathe and cold enough to create instant frostbite at minus sixty centigrade, an average South Pole midnight. They were about to add another hundred degrees of wind-chill factor, so Carla triple-checked that there was no exposed skin.

At zero: they stepped into space and were slapped with a hammer blow. The plane had slowed to four hundred miles per hour from its normal five fifty, but it was still like being kicked by a Jack the Giant Killer–sized boot. The trick was not to spit out her air supply during the kick. The other option was to pass out as you fell. She knew she’d regain consciousness when she hit thicker air, but it was not a fun ride.

Once she’d decelerated below two hundred miles per hour and could breathe again, she switched on her night-vision goggles and did a slow somersault. The plane was an apple-green trace of heat already fading into the distance. The rest of the team flew along with her.

HAHO was more fun, a High-Altitude jump followed by a High Opening of the parachute. With the right winds, it was easy to fly twenty, possibly thirty miles to a chosen landing. The problem with HAHO was that in countries possessing better radar systems, if someone was being sharp, they could see a soldier coming and might send a fighter jet to investigate. Then they’d be dangling there under their chutes like so much target practice.

In situations like this, the solution became HALO—High-Altitude jump and Low-Opening parachute. Basically jump and don’t pull the cord until the moment before cratering in. Plummet through the sky fast and small, so if someone noticed their passage, they’d be long gone before anyone could react.

All well and good.

The only drawback this time was that it was 2200 local time—pitch bloody black—and what lay below them were the particularly rugged Sierra de Portuguesa mountains of northern Venezuela. Every bit of which was blanketed by the dense trees of Yacambú National Park. A lot of them twenty stories tall. About the worst jump conditions there were… She supposed she should be thankful their first operation wasn’t in a hurricane or a whiteout blizzard.

Chad was the best jumper, so he took the flight lead. The blond, round-faced staff sergeant always sported an easy smile. He could have been mistaken for a big, simpleton fourteen-year-old unless she looked carefully into his bright blue eyes. There was absolutely nothing easygoing about his eyes.

So they formed up and aligned on Chad. Carla ended up fourth in the flight, with Kyle bringing up the rear. They fell at near terminal velocity of two hundred miles per hour from seven miles up. Two full minutes of roaring free fall. Nothing on the ground to see where they were. Caracas was a long way to the north and there were no lights in the national park. All she could do was keep her head pointed straight down, fall, and think.

Couldn’t she have gotten her thinking done during the hour-and-a-half flight to Miami to catch the flight to Rio de Janeiro? Nooo. She’d been seated beside Richie, who was dense enough to be a Dallas Cowboys fan despite growing up in New York. The man had been in serious need of a reeducation. Denver Broncos ruled without question. Neither of them had slept, nor convinced the other they were an i***t, but it had made the time pass while they were sitting on a civilian flight and couldn’t discuss anything important.

Then at Miami, a CIA spook had handed them a mission file on a USB for their tablet computers. Once they’d uploaded it, he’d locked them into the cargo bay of the CIA 757. She wound up sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Kyle Reeves. There was so little space that there was no way not to be touching—leaving no chance of sleep, considering how his mere presence raised her pulse rate.

Worse, a part of her thought more clearly when around him. Like the vent in the training shoot room. She only had to indicate that there was something of interest high up in the darkness, and he’d done telepathy on her, offering perfect positioning and assistance to boost her up. They took each other to a higher level in combat.

When they had s*x, her thinking was both clearer and foggier. He was far and away the best lover she’d ever had. She could never predict what was going on behind those brown eyes. Sometimes a friendly wrestle was simply that—sweaty sheets and groans and happy smiles. Other times what had started as a quiet dinner left her prostrate under the dining room table, wondering if she’d ever move again. And that thing with the chocolate sauce… Damn!

She wanted to look over her shoulder at Kyle as they plummeted through the third mile down, but if she did, she would catch the wind, side-tumble, and break the formation.

Then there were the moments like now, when there was a bit of distance between them—like the fifty meters of free fall, about a half second apart—and he was as confusing as hell.

They were more than f**k buddies. She’d finally figured that out on her own during the long, sleepless night. But she didn’t want a lover. Hell, she didn’t even want a boyfriend, especially not now. So, how had she acquired one in the middle of Delta Selection and the Operator Training Course?

The whole boyfriend thing never worked well for her anyway. She’d lived with guys before; one back in high school had made it six months. But none of them had been serious. They’d been convenient and compatible. When Jerome got the terminal hots for a fiddle-playing singer chick and wanted to go on the road with her, Carla had kissed him good-bye and wished him luck, though she’d passed on his sweet offer of a farewell tumble. That’s what a girl did, wasn’t it?

In the Army, she’d kept her relationships short, hot, and pretty much civilian.

So what the hell was up with fricking Sergeant Kyle Reeves? He fought like a god and made love like a demon, and she wanted both more than she’d ever wanted anything other than Delta—or to see her big brother walk through the door again.

They were entering the last mile, so she shifted from her head-down bullet position into a skydiver’s belly-down spread. That slowed them from two hundred miles per hour down to one twenty; fifteen seconds to chute deployment.

Couldn’t she have exactly that: happy s*x and nothing more?

She saw those sly looks of Kyle’s. He’d talk about his mom and dad or a chick he’d dated for two years of high school—no normal person did that—and she’d see that look creeping into his eyes to peer out at her. He never said anything, he was a smart man, but she could see it there. A psychotic desire for more.

She liked living with him. He was an easy guy to live with, right down to the position of the toilet seat, about which she didn’t give a damn. It was convenient too. They got a place of their own. It was much preferable to being on base, saved money together, and there was no one looking over her shoulder when she felt the sudden urge to jump him in the shower.