Wingman Warriors - Joint Forces Part 8

What a loaded question since it would reveal the full extent of J.T.'s homecoming. Like her adult daughter wouldn't have guessed anyhow.

"Three months," Rena announced, then waited for the smart-a.s.s comeback. Grown-up kids didn't accept quite as blindly as the little ones.

A knowing smile dimpled her cheek, inherited from her father. "A baby in time for Christmas. Cool."

Rena exhaled. Off the hook for now. Nikki pushed to her feet, starting a long-legged strut out of the room. Rena s.h.i.+fted in the overstuffed chair, adjusted her throbbing ankle on the pillow. She just wanted to get through this bizarre family reunion without an argument. One peaceful gathering. Bone-weary, heart-sore and more than a little rattled by the wreck and a short ride in her husband's arms, she didn't have the energy for confrontations before a serious nap.

They could all bolt back buffalo wings and chili and pretend everything was fine. Easy enough to do after twenty-two years' practice.

Nikki paused in the archway leading from the dining area back into the hall. She glanced over her shoulder, patting her own not-pregnant belly. "Oh, and Mom? Way to go, keeping those boundaries in place with Dad three months ago."

Winking, she spun away, glossy hair swinging against her ears with each c.o.c.ky strut out of sight.

Rena wanted to call her daughter on that statement. Call herself, for that matter. But the brat had a point.

Thumping the minivan roof, J.T. stepped back from Julia Dawson's Windstar. She eased into the street and straightened, clearing the way for Bo's blocked Jeep to leave.

Which the young copilot would do, as soon as J.T. addressed one pressing matter.

J.T. jammed his hands in his pockets, dodging strategically planted clumps of flowers in Rena's tropical jungle that would put professional tour gardens to shame. He stopped beside the black Jeep. "Thanks for the help, man."

"No problem." Bo secured the canvas roof for an open-air ride. "Glad I could be here for you."

"You were more than just here for me. I won't forget." True. And he would do anything for this fellow crew member. Except give over his daughter. He wanted easier for his kid than the worries of military life.

A big part of the reason he'd left Rena, and now he had to figure out how to resolve all of that.

"Family's about more than blood relations, you know." Bo stared down at his wrist cast, flexed his scarred fingers poking out. Slowly. No wince. Not that showed anyway. His arm fell to his side heavily. "I owe you."

Spring sun baked J.T.'s head with reminders of a February desert sun in another country. "You don't owe me a thing."

G.o.d, he didn't want to talk about that time. Especially not now when he needed his defenses up in full force to work his way past his p.r.i.c.kly wife.

"Whatever." Bo's fingers continued to stretch, crook, stretch, crook until the strain lines erased from around the corners of his mouth. The old Bo slid back into place as smoothly as his smile. "Nikki sure has grown-"

"Watch it, sir," J.T. growled. "That's my daughter you're talking about."

Bo swallowed his laugh. "d.a.m.n, but the old master sergeants know how to make 'sir' sound like an insult."

"Then I guess we're even for the old comment."

"Guess so."

Tension eased from his spine. "If you're thinking you owe me something, pay me back by keeping away from my daughter."

"You can relax. Just yanking your chain. Jesus, man, you've got hot b.u.t.tons so big, it's tough not to push 'em sometimes. No worries, though. I want to keep my other hand out of a cast for a while anyhow, only just got the d.a.m.n thing off. As fun as it was having those nurses feed me, give me sponge baths..." His baby blues twinkled with devilish intent. "Well, eventually I gotta act, and two casts can get in the way."

"Just so you're not acting with my daughter. She's still a kid in a lot of ways. I want her to have the chance to stay that way a while longer."

"Life has a way of throwing curves fast enough."

J.T. sure as h.e.l.l agreed, but hadn't expected a heavy comment from the carefree lieutenant. Bo Rokowsky had a rep around the squadron. Never serious. Edgy. Great set of flying hands, but reckless.

As much as J.T. respected restraint, a part of him grieved to see that free spirit stomped out of the young man. Only four or five years older than Nikki in years, but so d.a.m.n much more in experience now. All the more reason for the copilot to keep his distance. "It's nothing personal. I just don't want any crewdogs sniffing after my baby girl."

Baby girl. What about the new baby? Boy or girl? G.o.d willing, healthy.

"Message received about Nikki. I really was just razzing you. Lighten up. I'm totally hung up on my flight attendant."

"This week."

Bo thumped his chest with a fist. "But with my whole heart, dude."

Lightness reestablished. Comfort zone reclaimed. "Well, then, get your sorry a.s.s out of my yard and go call her or something."

"Will do." Bo gripped the steering wheel, fingers poking from the cast while he downs.h.i.+fted gears with his good hand.

He was smiling again, but the new partial cast gleamed white in the afternoon sun. A reminder that h.e.l.l no, J.T. didn't want his daughter marrying a crewdog like Bo, like himself, just going through the motions since coming home. Both still stuck overseas in their minds...

J.T. flung aside the seat-belt harnesses strapping him into the downed C-17. Through the windscreen, desert, scrubs, jagged peaks, dunes sprawled ahead, offering minimal options for hiding after an emergency landing in potentially hostile territory.

But no sign of rebels or troops yet, either.

Tearing off his headset, he looked to the copilot, Bo, for the prepared evasion plan. Different stages of the mission called for different contingencies to escape until pickup by rescue forces. Forces hopefully already en route.

Bo cinched his survival vest tighter. "We'll run to the right, north, toward the outcropping. Haul a.s.s until we drop. Put distance between us and the plane."

Then they would set up a rescue signal. And pray. "Roger." The affirmation echoed in triplicate from the other crew members.

Scorch, the aircraft commander, cleared his seat and headed out first, followed by Spike-the faux-loadmaster, their undercover OSI special agent and personal time bomb.

J.T. tucked into the narrow stairwell behind Spike, down into the belly of the craft, popped the side hatch. Critical seconds ticked away. His heartbeat ticked faster, louder. His boots pounded down the metal steps. Still no sign of anybody.

One after the other, four pairs of boots landed on hard-packed desert, already sprinting, each man taking only what he carried in the survival vest. A knife. A pistol. p.i.s.s-poor protection against the elements and the enemy.

Fear pounded through him as hard as his heart and running steps. Only an idiot wouldn't be scared. And only a bigger idiot would let it immobilize him.

Sun baked his back, his head, his brain. Rays reflected off sand, even February hot as h.e.l.l during the day here. If they could only buy enough time for a U.S. rescue chopper to locate them...

Grounding in training, he reviewed the facts on his ISOPREP card-isolated personnel report on file. The ISOPREP gave answers to questions a rescue crew would ask over the radio to positively ID them, to confirm the chopper wasn't being led into a trap.

Questions.

The street from his childhood home.

His mother's maiden name.

Rena's first car. A sleek silver blue BMW, where they'd made out. Made a baby.

d.a.m.n it. He spit curses out with sand. He couldn't think about her. About being with her.

Run. Harder. Focus on the three most important elements of survival.

Maintain life.

Maintain honor.

Return.

His feet drummed a steady beat across the desert floor in time with everyone's huffing breaths exhaling more grit-filled curses. Each man's favorite cussword chanted, powered feet faster. His own favorite of the moment spilled free-just like when baby Chris had parroted it back at him from his high chair, Rena behind their son, her hand clamped over her mouth to subdue laughter.

Her face, her smile, even her voice so incredible, exotic, different from the monochromatic world he'd grown up in.

Eyes sparkling, she'd brought more of that light of hers to their tiny apartment filled with babies and plants. She'd subdued her smile then into a parental reprimand and skirted around to the front of the high chair to tell their son, "Truck. Your daddy said tr-uck."

Well, he sure as h.e.l.l was truck, truck, truck on his way as far as he could get across this desert.

G.o.d, how long had they been running? Years? Minutes? He didn't dare spare the energy for a look over the shoulder.

Spike slowed as they neared a clump of brush, a slight swell of dune. d.a.m.n pathetic coverage. The OSI agent stopped, braced his hands on his knees while the others drew up, halted as well. "Don't think," Spike said between panting exhales, "it's going to get any better than this, guys."

Scorch, as senior-ranking crew member, could disagree. But Spike's counterintelligence experience, his days deeply undercover during his CIA stint prior to joining the Air Force as a civilian employee of the OSI, offered weight to his opinion.

And the set of his face told them well this seasoned agent thought their odds sucked no matter where they hid their a.s.ses. But that wouldn't stop them from trying to buy time for the good guys to get as close as possible.

J.T. dropped to his knees on the desert floor along with the others, scooping out sand, fas.h.i.+oning a trench behind brush. He dropped flat on his belly beside his crewmates. Sweat soaked his flight suit, caking sand to his skin.

Silence.

His heart tried to slow to a regular beat, exertion complete. Adrenaline kept him revved. How long would they wait?

"d.a.m.n," Spike whispered. "I'd kill for a ghillie suit right now." Camouflage made of strips of either desert-colored fabric or jungle hues, the ghillie suit was nearly undetectable to the eye. Instead, they lay with only the scant cammo of desert tan flight suits, better than their regular green, at least. The Rubistan government, American troops and local warlords would all have picked up their landing. Who would arrive first? The answer came quickly, rumbling from the hazy horizon. Clouds of sand puffed a toxic premonition before the vehicles cleared into sight.

Vehicles. Not an aircraft. Not Americans.

He swallowed more gritty air. Okay. Rubistan's military? Police? Or local warlord rebels?

The sand swirl parted to reveal ... a caravan of c.r.a.ppy jeeps, trucks, RVs. Nothing organized

about their approach to indicate military training. d.a.m.n.

J.T. slipped his emergency beacon off his survival vest, dug a hole in the sand. Tossed it inside. Pitched brush over it. If they were taken, at least rescue troops would have some point of reference and tracks to follow.

"Keep your head down," Spike instructed. "Don't move. Don't even look at them. With some luck they'll drive right by us."

Bo whispered out of the side of his mouth, "Unless they have dogs."

"Zip it, suns.h.i.+ne," Scorch interjected. "We can do without the gloom and doom."

The drone of engines increased with the cloud of sand spitting behind the vehicles, drawing closer, eating up the miles, becoming clearer as they broke through the rippling heat waves. A half-dozen vehicles, as best he could tell by sneaking peeks through peripheral vision. He couldn't risk looking at them directly, but G.o.d, it felt as if they were right on top of them. Still driving though.

J.T. quit breathing. His heart slammed his ribs until it seemed ready to explode out his ears.

The vehicles jerked to a stop, one after the other. The pounding in his ears stopped as well.

Everything stopped inside him. Stilled.

Maintain life. Maintain honor. Return. Only that mattered. Survival. Returning home.

Voices shouted in Arabic. Movement flickered to the right. At least twenty or so men.

Honor. Life. Return.

Boots appeared in his line of sight. Paused. Stayed. They'd been found. Spit dried inside his mouth.

A shout sounded from above him. J.T. allowed himself to view through peripheral vision. No

direct eye contact. No sudden movements or aggressive action to provoke.

The men looming over them weren't wearing uniforms. Mismatched weapons confirmed his fears.

Russian-made AK-47 a.s.sault rifles. M-16s. Uzis. All weaponry of the very sorts of people they'd been sent to gather intelligence about. Underworld types dealing in opium trade to funnel money

to terrorist camps.

J.T. knew. He was in a c.r.a.pload of trouble.

His fingers jabbed into the sand as if to anchor himself for what would come next. Their captors

would establish dominance and control from the start, pummel them to obtain information ASAP to maximize its utility. He just needed to hold on, stay alive until rescue could come. He stayed on his stomach beside his three crewmates. Flattened his palms by his head, in the sand.

Keep calm.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw it. The betraying twitch from Bo, just seconds before ah