Part 29 (1/2)
”I was thinking”-her thumbs hooked in her waistband, and she continued to back away toward the sh.o.r.e-”that we could go skinny-dipping and check out each other's tattoos.”
”Skinny dipping sounds great, but we've already seen each other's tattoos.”
She s.h.i.+mmied out of her skirt, a fresh hint of color flas.h.i.+ng on her hip and reminding him he hadn't been with her the entire time at the tattoo parlor.
Blowing him a kiss, she sprinted toward the water. ”All of our tattoos? That's what you think, Hotshot.”
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the next Dark Ops Novel by Catherine Mann
RENEGADE.
Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!
TONOPAH TEST RANGE, NEVADA: PRESENT DAY.
For Tech Sergeant Mason ”Smooth” Randolph a great flight was a lot like great s.e.x.
Both brought the same rush, sense of soaring, and driving need to make it last as long as absolutely possible. On the flip side, a bad flight was every bit as c.r.a.ppy as bad s.e.x. Both could quickly become awkward, embarra.s.sing, and downright dangerous.
As Mason planted his boots on the vibrating deck of an experimental cargo plane, his adrenaline-saturated gut told him that today's ultra-secret mission had the potential to rank up there with the worst s.e.x ever.
The top-notch engines whispered a seductive tune, mingling with the blast of wind gusting through the cargo door being cranked open. Whoever came up with the idea to drop supplies out of the back of a fast-moving aircraft must not have stood where he was standing now. Of course for that matter, n.o.body had stood in his boots on this sort of flight. That was the whole purpose of his job in the air force's highly cla.s.sified test squadron.
He did things no one had tried before.
On today's mission, he would offload packed pallets from a test-model hypersonic cargo jet, a jet that could go Mach 6, far outpacing the mere supersonic speed of Mach 1. The deck of this new baby gleamed, high tech and totally pristine, without the oil and musty smell that acc.u.mulated over the course of many successful missions.
The metal warmed beneath his boots as the craft ate up miles faster than the pilot up front-Vapor-could plow through a buffet. If the plane completed testing as hoped, future fliers could travel from the U.S. to any point on earth in under four hours. Entire deployments could be set up and ready to roll in the matter of a single day, rather than the weeks-long buildups of the past.
No doubt, the price tag on this sleek-winged sucker was huge, but for forward thinking strategists, it saved the expense many times over by shortening deployments. Of course, money had never meant d.i.c.k to him.
However, he did care about all those marriages collapsing under the strain of long separations.
Radio talk from the two pilots up front echoed in his headset as he checked his safety belt one last time, then raised his hand to hover over the control panel. His empty ring finger itched inside his glove. Yeah, this test in particular struck a personal note for him. It was too late for him since his own marriage had already gone down the tubes, but maybe he could save some of his military brethren from suffering the same kick in the a.s.s he'd endured six years ago.
Without slowing, the cargo door cranked the rest of the way open, settling into place with an ominous thunk. Wind swirled inside, the suction increasing with the yawning gap. No more time to consider how the drop shouldn't even be possible. Not too long ago, going to the moon hadn't seemed possible. It took test pilots, pioneers. All the same, this was going to be spotty.
Mason tightened his parachute straps just in case and keyed his microphone in his oxygen mask to speak to the pilots in the c.o.c.kpit. ”Doors open. Ramp clear.”
”Copy.” From the flight deck, pilot Vince ”Vapor” Deluca acknowledged. ”Thirty seconds to release.”
Mason scanned the cargo pallets resting on rollers built into the floor. Everything appeared just as he'd prepped for this final run before next week's big show for select military leaders from ally nations around the world. Pallets were packed, evenly balanced, and lined up, ready to roll straight out over the Nevada desert. Muscles contracted inside him as the pilot continued the countdown over headset.
”Jester two-one,” Vapor continued, ”is fifteen seconds from release.”
Mason focused on the bundle at the front of the pallet. A void of dark sky waited only a few feet away, ready to suck up the offload. He mentally reviewed the steps as if he could somehow secure the outcome. A small parachute would rifle forward, air speed filling it with enough power to drag out the pallet. That chute would tear away, sending the pallet into a free fall until the larger parachute deployed.
”Five,” Vapor counted down, ”four, three, two, one.”
A green light flashed over the door.
The bundle shot its mini-chute into the air behind the door. As it caught the supersonic air, the first pallet began to move, rolling, rolling, and out. One gone. The second rattled down the tracks, picture perfect, and then the next in synchronized magnificence as the mammoth load whipped out at a blurring speed.
Mason's gut started to ease. Next week's s.h.i.+ndig for their visiting military dignitaries could be a huge win for the home team and move this plane into the inventory. A flop, however, could mean death to their government funding, an abrupt end to the whole project. He keyed up his mic.
The last pallet bucked off the tracks.
Oh s.h.i.+t. The load slammed onto its side with hundreds, maybe thousands of pounds of force. The cargo net ripped, flapping and snapping through the air. Gear exploded loose, catapulting every-f.u.c.king-where. He ducked as a piece of shattered pallet flew over his head.
”Smooth?” Vapor's voice filled the headset. ”Report up.”
Mason grappled for the b.u.t.ton to respond while sidestepping a loose crate cartwheeling his way. The mesh net whipped around his leg and jerked him toward the open back. His feet shot out from under him.
”Smooth, d.a.m.n it, radio up-”
His mic went silent. The cord rattled useless and unplugged. His helmeted head whacked the deck, sparking a fresh batch of stars to his view of the night sky.
He slapped his hands along the metal grating, grappling for something, anything to slow the drag toward the back. Would the safety harness hooked to the wall hold? Under normal circ.u.mstances, sure. These weren't normal circ.u.mstances. Everything was a first-ever test at unheard of speed.
He vise gripped the edge of a seat. The pallet dragged at his leg. He kept his eyes focused ahead, squeezing down panic, hoping, praying Vapor or Hotwire would come back to check. His arms screamed in their sockets and his legs burned from being stretched by the weight of the pallet teetering on the edge of the back hatch.
Don't give up. Hang on.
The bulkhead opening filled with a shadow. Thank G.o.d. The copilot-Hotwire-roared into view, his mouth moving as he shouted words swallowed up by the vortex of wind.
Mason's fingers slipped. The weight, the force, the speed, it was all too much. ”Oh, s.h.i.+t.”
He pulled his arms in tight as the pallet raked him along the metal floor like a hunk of cheddar against a grater. Ah d.a.m.n, what about his safety harness? The strap around his waist pulled taut. An image of his body ripped in half came to mind, a snapshot that would forever stay in safety manuals to warn others of the hazards of f.u.c.king up. Not that he knew what he'd done wrong. That would be for others to decide after they buried the two halves of him in a wooden box.
Hotwire hooked his own safety belt on the run and reached. So close. Not close enough.
Mason's harness popped free from around his waist. Whoomp. The air sucked at him like a vacuum. He flew out of the back of the plane at hypersonic speed only to stop short when he slammed against the pallet, his leg still lashed by mesh. Pain detonated throughout him. Then his stomach plummeted faster than his body.
Happy f.u.c.king New Year.
Instincts on overdrive, he wrapped his arms around the pallet. The pressure on his body eased as the pallet continued a free fall downward into the inky night. His flight suit whipped against him. Images of his ex-wife flashed though his head along with regret. A s.h.i.+ver iced through his veins. Was he dying?
No. The wind and alt.i.tude caused the cold. Think, d.a.m.n it. Don't surrender to the whole-life-review death march.