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Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart of Stone
Lindsay McKenna
They had met before. Battled before. And Captain Maya Stevenson had never again wanted to lay eyes on Major Dane York–the man who had once tried to destroy her military career. But she was ready for him now. This time, they were on her turf–on her mission.Dane knew this assignment was his last chance to save his career. And Maya wasn't going to make it easy. Even though he sensed she knew she needed his expertise. And even though there was something happening behind the flash of her eyes that spelled wanting, and tenderness, and danger.



“You’re not going to give me an inch, are you?”
“Not a chance,” Maya replied, her green eyes blazing. “I know you. I suffered under your command. This time, you’re the one on the edge of the sword.”
Dane held her gaze. “I promise not to let our past get in the way of this mission. Is that enough? Or do you want a pound of my flesh while you’re at it?”
“You don’t have anything I want,” Maya replied, shaking with fury. Why did Dane York have to be such a bastard?
And yet, although she hated to admit it, she was powerfully drawn to the army officer….

Morgan’s Mercenaries: Heart of Stone
Lindsay McKenna


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
A homeopathic educator, Lindsay McKenna teaches at the Desert Institute of Classical Homeopathy in Phoenix, Arizona. When she isn’t teaching alternative medicine, she is writing books about love, She feels love is the single greatest healer in the world and hopes that her books touch her readers on those levels. Coming from an Eastern Cherokee medicine family, Lindsay has taught ceremony and healing ways from the time she was nine years old. She creates flower and gem essences in accordance with nature and remains closely in touch with her Native American roots and upbringing.
For Hal Klopper, Boeing public relations,
Todd Brown, Boeing Apache test pilot,
and Philip Mooney, Boeing aviation expert.
Thank you for your help, your dedication
and your passion for the Apache helicopter.

Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue

Chapter 1
“Morgan, I’ve got to warn you. Captain Maya Stevenson is a modern-day woman warrior,” Mike Houston said as he sat down with his boss at a round table beneath a red-and-white-striped umbrella. “She kicks butt and takes names later.”
Morgan sipped his fragrant Peruvian coffee, his gaze restless as he looked down the narrow, red tiled walk toward the entranceway of the India Feliz Restaurant, where they were shortly to meet the clandestine and legendary Maya Stevenson. Directly in front of them rose the massive, loaf-shaped dome of Machu Picchu. It was December, summertime, and the landscape was dotted with orchids.
Morgan and Mike had arrived a half hour earlier by helicopter from Cuzco. Agua Caliente was a small, bustling tourist town, the closest community to the archeological wonder that was Machu Picchu.
“She’s kind of like a real-life Lara Croft,” Mike continued, using the action heroine and the popular video game to describe Maya.
“My son, Jason, is in love with Lara Croft, the female archeologist in his Tomb Raider game.” Morgan chuckled. “He’s fourteen years old and plays that game every chance he gets.” Quirking one eyebrow toward Mike, he said, “A living Lara Croft. That’s saying a lot.”
Mike, dressed in the typical tourist gear of a Machu Picchu T-shirt, jeans and hiking boots because he didn’t want to draw attention to himself, grinned and sipped from his china coffee cup. “You know, for years while we were out here chasin’ the bad guys—the drug dealers—my soldiers and I would come busting into the area north of Machu Picchu. We’d fly in with helicopters, then drop down and start raiding. Our goal was to stop shipments from getting into Bolivia. Every once in a while we’d get outnumbered and out-gunned, trapped by the druggies, who were trying to take us out. I knew there was no help coming to save our butts. We performed our missions alone, with the government’s approval, but they didn’t have the money to bankroll us like we needed. So if we got into trouble, we were on our own.”
Mike’s eyes sparkled. “And out of nowhere would come these black Boeing Apache assault helicopters. Two of them. And I mean out of nowhere.”
“You’ve told me about these unmarked black helos coming in and saving your neck from time to time,” Morgan acknowledged. “Way back when, we didn’t know it was a spec ops—special operations—that was behind them. Now we do.” He looked up at the late morning sky, a pale blue with thin white clouds silently wafting overhead. Every now and again a snakelike wisp would coil around the top of one of the towering mountains that literally surrounded Agua Caliente. At six thousand feet in altitude, the small Peruvian town looked to Morgan like a mystical Shangri-la, hidden deep in the mountainous jungle, in the middle of nowhere. The roar of the mighty Urubamba river, less than a half mile away, was clearly audible from the restaurant patio.
Watching the ceaseless flow of tourists passing the India Feliz, Morgan heard snatches of German, French, Italian, as well as British and American accents. It was a Tower of Babel, quite literally, a baby United Nations.
Morgan had boned up on Machu Picchu and found out that what drew people from around the world was the spiritual nature of this old Incan temple complex. It was said to be the center of feminine energy on the planet, just as the Tibetan Himalayas, on the opposite side of the globe, were considered the masculine center. New Agers came here, from the looks of it—many on some kind of spiritual quest, he supposed.
“This is a very peaceful place,” he murmured. “And drop-dead gorgeous. Look at the thousands of orchids clinging to that lava cliff face in front of us. That’s pretty astounding.”
Mike grimaced. “Yeah, it is. On the surface it’s peaceful.” He pointed at the hazy, mist-shrouded canyon, where a whole series of mountains nestled shoulder-to-shoulder along the raging, unharnessed Urubamba. The mountains looked like soldiers at attention to him. “Go twenty miles north or east or west, and you’re going to meet drug runners trying to get their cocaine crop across the Peruvian border into Bolivia, where they know they won’t be pursued by us.”
“At least the Peruvian government let Maya come in here with U.S. support. The records suggest she and her squadron of women pilots are slowing the trade out of Peru more than a little. Fifty percent reduction isn’t a bad figure considering what she’s up against.”
Mike nodded and lifted his chin. “Yeah, she’s done one helluva job on a shoestring budget. Normally, spec ops get money thrown at them. Millions of dollars, as a matter of fact. But not her program. It was her idea to start an all-women squadron hidden deep in the mountain jungles to take out the bad guys. The only reason the idea took off was because her father’s an army general and backed it. If he hadn’t been, she wouldn’t be here today or done the incredible job she and her band of women rebels have done.” Mike grinned, respect in his tone.
“My wife, Laura, who is a military archivist and history buff, is very taken with Maya’s legend.” Morgan waved his hand. “Not that I’ve told her that much, but Laura is gung ho about what she knows, and glad we’ll be supporting Maya’s mission now, in place of the CIA.”
Rubbing his jaw, Mike sat back and stretched out his long legs. Two local dogs came up to the table and lay down between them. One was a black-and-white terrier type and the other looked like the descendant of a golden retriever who’d met an ugly mutt in one of the back alleys of Agua Caliente one night. The dogs sat contentedly near their feet, hoping for a few handouts. “Personally, I think the spooks wanted Maya to fail,” he stated.
“Of course they did.” Morgan chuckled as he finished his coffee. “She’s a woman. And she has a band of women doing a ‘man’s job’ better, probably, than any male squadron would do it. Doesn’t look good to the Pentagon to have women outshining men in spec ops, you know?” He smiled across the white-linen-draped table at Mike, who was also grinning like a fox.
“I think she’ll be happy to hear that her squadron has been transferred over to you.”
Raising his thick black brows, Morgan said, “I hope so. You’ve met her, right?”
“Yes, a number of times.”
“Anything I should know so I don’t put my foot into it with her? I’d like to get off to a good start with Maya, since I’m going to be her new boss.”
Mike smiled hugely. “She doesn’t suffer fools gladly or for long. She shoots straight from the hip, doesn’t waste words. She was raised an army brat, flew civilian helicopters when she was just a teenager, and went directly into the warrant officer program the army offered. Took her training in Apache combat helicopters at Fort Rucker, Alabama, which is where everyone takes their training to fly an assault helo. When she volunteered for this spook spec ops, she suggested a very provocative idea to the head honchos—let her choose a band of trained women Apache pilots, hand-pick the crews, and come down here to stop the cocaine drug trade from getting into Bolivia. They promoted her from the warrant ranks and made her a captain because she was going to be C.O.—commanding officer—for this mission. She makes Indiana Jones look like pabulum compared to what she and her women pilots do down here.”
“And why does she have such determination to do this? That’s what I don’t understand,” Morgan murmured. “It’s the one piece of her background I can’t integrate.” He gazed over at Mike. “Do you know why she would scuttle a potentially brilliant army career and go into a spec ops mission like this?”
Mike moved uncomfortably. “I know some of it. The rest, you’ll have to ask her.” He propped his chin on his folded hands and placed his elbows on the table. “I know you have Maya’s personnel records. She was adopted as a baby. General Stevenson was an attaché in São Paulo, Brazil, for the U.S. ambassador. At that time, he was a light colonel. He and his wife hadn’t been able to conceive a child. They’d tried everything and nothing worked. One day, a Brazilian Indian woman came to the embassy asking for Eugenia Stevenson. She carried a baby girl no more than two weeks old in her arms. When Mrs. Stevenson came to the back gate to see the Indian woman, she found the baby lying on the walk, alone. That’s how Maya was adopted—she was dropped on the U.S. Embassy’s doorstep. Eugenia fell in love with her, and they went ahead with formal adoption, giving her the name Maya, which means ‘mystery.’” Mike smiled a little. “No one knows Maya’s real origins. I’d say she was part Brazilian Indian and part Portuguese aristocracy, judging from her features and skin color.”
“So, Maya has a stake down here in South America because of her bloodlines?”
“Yes, I’d say so. Just like bloodhounds need to hunt, she needs to be down here with her people, would be my guess.”
“That makes sense with what I know. From what I understand, Inca is her fraternal twin sister,” Morgan said. “They were born in the Amazon. Somehow, Maya was taken to the city, while Inca was left behind in the jungle to be raised.”
“Yes, and Inca didn’t know she was a twin until just recently, when you worked with her on that drug mission in the Brazilian Amazon jungle.”
“Which is how we learned of Maya and her spec ops,” Morgan murmured. “If she’d never shown up that night after Inca got wounded, we’d still been in the dark about her and her mission.”
“I think we got lucky,” Mike said. “Fate, maybe.”
“What else can you tell me about her?”
“I think you know that Inca belongs to a secretive spiritual group known as the Jaguar Clan?”
“Yes. Does Maya, too?”
“Yes and no. She’s a member of the Black Jaguar Clan, a branch of the main clan.”
“What does that all mean? I know you have Quechua Indian blood running through your veins, and you’re more educated about this mystical belief system than I am.”
Mike avoided Morgan’s incisive gaze. He knew more than a little, but he wasn’t willing to bet the farm that Morgan was ready for the bald truth. Mike’s wife, Ann, had had enough trouble grasping what it meant to be member of the Jaguar Clan, when she’d learned her husband was one. Mike hedged. “As I understand it, genetically speaking, there’s a strong spiritual mission bred into the people who belong to the Jaguar Clan. They’re here to help people. To make this a better world to live in. The Black Jaguar Clan is the underbelly, so to speak. They do the dirty work with the ugliness of our world, handle the confrontations in the trenches.”
“And you think that’s why Maya sacrificed her army career to become a pain in the ass to the drug lords down here in Peru?”
Chuckling, Mike nodded. “Would be my guess.”
“She’s more like a laser-fired rocket,” Morgan murmured. “Almost a zealot or fanatic.”
“Isn’t that what it takes to be successful at something like this?” Mike questioned. “And aren’t you a little bit of a fanatic yourself? Didn’t your own background, your unsavory experiences in Vietnam, turn you into a do-gooder for those who couldn’t fight and win for themselves?”
Lifting his hands, Morgan said, “Guilty as charged. I’m the pot calling the kettle black.”
“Glad you can see that you and Maya have the same jaguar spots.” Mike chuckled. “It takes one to know its own kind.”
Morgan raised his chin, suddenly alert. “Is that her?”
Mike cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. There, turning into the entrance of the French restaurant, was a woman who stood six foot tall. Her long black hair, slightly curled from the high humidity, swung loosely about her proud shoulders and full breasts. She wore khaki-colored shorts and hiking boots with thick black socks peeking over the tops. Her dark brown T-shirt had a picture of a cream-colored Condor, its wings spread wide, across it. Over her left shoulder hung a fairly large olive-green backpack. A pair of sunglasses on a bright red cord swung between her breasts.
“Yeah, that’s her,” he told Morgan in a low tone.
Morgan watched Maya with a keen, assessing eye. He knew warriors, and he knew how to size up someone astutely. Captain Maya Stevenson looked like a tourist, plain and simple. She was dressed in what rich travelers from foreign countries wore around here. Only her golden skin and long, rippling black hair suggested that she might be South American. Morgan liked the way she moved; on those firm, long legs of hers—with a bold, confident stride. Maya’s eyes were wide and alert. Their emerald depths showed interest, excitement and wariness all at the same time as she pinned her gaze directly on Morgan.
There was no wasted motion about this army aviation officer. Morgan found himself smiling to himself. The energy, the power, the confidence around Maya Stevenson was something to behold. She was at least a hundred feet away from them, yet Morgan could swear he felt her stalwart presence, as if the sun itself was shining directly upon him. No photo did her justice, he thought. She was beautiful and looked very similar to Inca, her fraternal twin sister. But there were dissimilarities, too. Maya was six foot tall and a big-boned woman. She had a slight cleft in her chin, and Inca did not. Her face was oval, cheekbones high, shouting of her Indian heritage. Yet the aristocratic thin nose, flaring nostrils and full mouth were very similar to Inca’s features.
Morgan was fascinated with this story of twins separated at birth, one becoming an environmental warrior in the Amazon jungles for the rights of the Indians, and the other a maverick military helicopter pilot. While Inca was calm, proud and quiet there was an edginess to Maya, he noted. Maya wore her brazenness, her strength, without fear. He admired that. Getting to his feet, Morgan was glad he was over six feet tall. Yet as she approached him, he saw Maya’s eyes narrow speculatively on him, as if she was using x-ray vision to see right through him. Did she read minds, as Inca was purported to do? Morgan hoped not. If Maya knew that he thought her statuesque and possessing a bold, primal quality few women willingly showed, she’d probably deck him where he stood. This was a woman who brooked no bull from anyone—ever. No, she was an equal and it was obvious in every step she took that she expected to be treated as such.
Mike rose. He moved forward, his hand extended toward Maya.
She glared at him and halted. Glancing back toward the street, she whispered, “Follow me. And don’t look so damned obvious, will you?”
Morgan looked at Mike, who lowered his hand, a contrite expression on his features. They both watched as Maya headed into the restaurant. It was 11:00 a.m. and there were few people in the usually popular place.
“Let’s go,” Morgan murmured, a cockeyed grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.
Mike good-naturedly grinned back and gestured for Morgan to go first.
Inside the restaurant, Morgan saw the owner, Patrick, standing behind the mahogany bar. Maya was leaning up against the counter, speaking to him in fluid French. As they approached, she swung her head in their direction. Her eyes grew slitted.
“Come on. Patrick has a table he reserves for me and my friends when I come into town.” She brushed between them and moved up the mahogany stairs, taking the steps two at a time to the second floor.
The restaurant was light and airy, with many green jungle plants and bright red, pink and yellow bromeliads in brightly painted pots here and there. Each table had a starched and pressed white linen cloth across it, and there were fresh flowers on every one. As Morgan climbed the stairs, classical music, soft and haunting, wafted through the restaurant. He shook his head, finding it odd that a five-star French chef would come to Peru and set up a gourmet restaurant in such a little backwater town. He wondered what the man was running from.
Maya was sitting at a rectangular table at the rear of the second floor of the restaurant, her back against the wall. It was a good position, Morgan thought. From her vantage point she could see everyone coming up and down those stairs. She’d put her pack down beside her chair and was speaking in Quechua to the waiter. As they approached, she looked up at them.
“Patrick makes the best mocha lattes in Peru. You two want some?”
“Sounds good,” Morgan said, making himself at home across from Maya. “Mike? How about you?”
“Make it three,” Mike said in Spanish to the Peruvian waiter, who was a Quechua Indian. The waiter nodded and quickly moved to the bar nearby to make the drinks.
Maya held Morgan’s glacial blue gaze. She knew he was sizing her up. Well, she was sizing him up, too, whether he knew it or not. As she folded her long, spare hands on the white linen tablecloth, she said, “Mike said you’re my new boss. Is that right?”
Nodding, Morgan said, “I’d prefer to say that you’ve joined our international team and we’re glad to have you on board.” He stretched his hand across the table toward her. “I’m Morgan Trayhern. It’s nice to meet you.” She took his hand. Not surprised by the strength of her grip, he met her cold, flinty eyes. She reminded him of a no-nonsense leader capable of split-second decisions, with a mind that moved at the speed of light, or damn near close to it. Already Morgan was feeling elated that he’d fought to get her spec ops as part of his organization, Perseus.
“Don’t bite him, Maya,” Mike intoned humorously as they released their mutual grip. “He’s the only junk-yard dog in town that’s friendly to you and your squadron.”
Taking the napkin, Maya delicately opened it and spread it across her lap. “It looks like I owe you some thanks, Mr. Trayhern. Mike, here, tells me that my number was up at spook HQ and with the boys over at the Pentagon. You certainly look the part of a white knight. Where’s your horse?”
Grinning, Morgan met her humor-filled eyes. Her laughter was husky and low. “I can’t ride a horse worth a damn. My daughter, Katy, now, she can,” he answered. “I like to watch her, but that’s as close as I get to a four-legged animal.”
“Got a picture of her?”
Taken off guard, Morgan nodded, moved his hand to the back pocket of his chinos and took out his well-worn, black leather wallet. Opening it on the table, he noted Maya’s sudden, intense interest. Her gaze was pinned on the color photos he kept within his wallet. Taking them out, he turned them around for her to look at.
“This is my oldest son, Jason. He’s fourteen.”
“He looks a lot like you,” Maya murmured. “That same dark, handsome face.”
Morgan warmed beneath her praise because he could tell already that Maya wasn’t one to make small talk or say things just to be polite. “Thanks. This is Katherine Alyssa, my oldest daughter. She’s riding her Welsh pony, Fred. And this last one is of my wife, Laura, holding our latest children, fraternal twins….”
Maya picked up the photo, her brows arching with surprise. “So, you have twins….” She studied it with renewed intensity. “You have beautiful children.”
“Thanks. My wife and I agree, though we are a little partial toward our children.” He said nothing more, realizing that because Maya was a fraternal twin, she would make a positive connection with his children. He liked the fact that despite her being a hardened military veteran, she had a soft heart, too. The more he got to know Maya, the more he liked her.
Handing him back the photos, she looked up. “Ah, here are our lattes. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this….” And she reached out to take a cup and saucer from the waiter, thanking him warmly in his own language. He bowed his head and shyly smiled at her.
Mike thanked him also. When the waiter left, he chuckled quietly and sipped his mocha latte. “See? I told you Trayhern wasn’t the typical male bastard that you’re used to working with.”
Wrinkling her nose, Maya again met the solid blue gaze of her new boss. She sipped the rich coffee with delicious slowness and allowed the sweetness to run delectably across her tongue. Placing the flowered china cup on the saucer, she folded her hands on the table.
“I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, Mr. Trayhern.”
“Call me Morgan. I don’t stand on ceremony with my people.”
“All right,” Maya murmured. “Do you know anything about us or did you buy us sight unseen, Morgan? A pig in a poke, maybe?”
Her direct and uncompromising gaze would have been unsettling had Morgan not liked that kind of straight-across-the-board honesty. When she lifted her lips and smiled, it was with a carnivore’s grin. She was playing with him, like a jaguar might with its helpless quarry. Houston was right: she shot from the hip. Good. “Yes, I saw the bottom line.”
“And the fact that I used to have three Boeing Apaches, but because spookdom decided to strangle me slowly by cutting my budget yearly, I had to cannibalize one to keep the other two flying?”
“I saw that.”
“And that I’ve got twelve overworked pilots who need some help and relief?”
“Yes, I saw that, too.”
“And that the men don’t like us women showing them up?” Her eyes glinted and she leaned forward slightly.
Morgan wasn’t intimidated by her low, furious tone or her directness. He met and held her stare. “I saw that, too, Maya.” When he used her first name, rolling it gently off his tongue, she recoiled. At first, Morgan wondered if she didn’t like his informality with her. And then, intuitively, he figured it out: Maya was expecting a hard-nosed bastard to show up and try to push her around, keep her outside the circle, like other men had before him. The look in her eyes was one of surprise—and then naked suspicion. Morgan knew he was going to have to sell himself to Maya. He would have to prove that, although male, he was trustworthy. That he would fully support her and the hardworking women comprising the secret squadron hidden in the mountains of Peru.
Leaning down, Morgan pulled out several papers from his own backpack. He looked around. The place was deserted. He wanted no other eyes on the material that he was going to lay out before her.
“Don’t worry,” Maya said. “Patrick knows who we are. He and I are good friends. He protects me and my women when we come into town and need a little R and R. This is our home away from home. He’ll make sure no one comes up here during lunch. We’ve got this place all to ourselves.”
“Good.” Morgan placed the first sheet of paper in front of Maya. “This is an acquisition form showing that two Boeing Apache Longbow helicopters have just been purchased for your squadron by me.” He put a second paper in front of her. “This is a Blackhawk helicopter to replace the Vietnam era Cobra that you’re flying.” He put a third document in front of her. “Within a week, you will be receiving three I.P.s—instructor pilots—to train you and your team on the new Apache D model, and three enlisted men who will train your crews in software, armaments and mechanics. And lastly—” he put a fourth piece of paper in front of Maya “—here’s your new budget. As you look it over, you’ll see the financial strangulation your squadron has been experiencing is over.”
Maya took all the papers, intently perusing them. Did she dare believe her eyes? Was this really true? She’d gone for three years with so little, watching her people bear the brunt of their financial distress. The task before them had seemed almost impossible, and yet they’d managed to strangle the drug trade to Bolivia by fifty percent, despite the odds, despite the fact that the U.S. government had practically choked off the mission through lack of funding. Looking up, Maya regarded Morgan through her thick, black lashes. He was at ease, almost smiling. She knew the sparkle in his eyes was not there because he was laughing at her. It reflected his pride in the job he’d done getting her the aircraft and help she so desperately needed.
Cutting her gaze to Houston, she growled, “Is this for real, Mike?” After all, Mike was one of her kind, a Jaguar Clan member, and she relied on him heavily at times like this. No clan member would ever lie to another.
“It’s for real, Maya. Every word of it. Morgan is your sugar daddy.” And he gave her a playful, teasing grin.
Maya grimaced. “What a sexist you are, Houston.”
He scratched his head ruefully. “I was teasing you, Maya. Morgan Trayhern runs a first-class operation known as Perseus. You and your squadron are officially moved under his wing and command.” Mike tapped the budget paper. “Look at the bottom line. That’s money. U.S. funds, not Peruvian soles.”
Maya looked at it. Her heart thudded with excitement. “I’m afraid to believe this,” she whispered as she looked through the pages again. “We’re really going to get two new D models? The ones with radar? I’ve heard so much about them…. I tried to get them, but they kept telling me they didn’t have the budget to let us have the upgraded model.”
Morgan tempered his excitement over the joy he saw in Maya’s face. This woman was used to running her squadron her way. And he respected that. Still, he needed to be able to gently move her in the direction that he saw her duties down here heading, now and in the future. Maya’s plan had been a greenhouse experiment—an all-woman military contingent doing some of the most demanding, most dangerous work in the world. Despite the difficulties of going up against drug runners who flew the Russian Kamov Black Shark assault helicopters, which were nearly equal to an Apache, and flying in this nasty, always changing weather at some of the highest altitudes on the planet, she’d been more than successful. She’d never lost a helicopter or a pilot in the three years since she’d started this operation, and that was a phenomenal record of achievement in Morgan’s eyes.
He knew that it was Maya’s careful selection of the right women pilots and crews that made this mission successful. Furthermore, she was a charismatic leader, someone people either hated or loved on sight. Morgan understood that, because he had that quality himself. Only Maya was a much younger version of him; she was only twenty-five years old. She had a lot going for her. And he admired her deeply for her commitment to Peru and its people.
“There’s just one hitch,” Morgan told her quietly. He saw her eyes narrow speculatively on him.
“What?” she growled, putting the papers aside.
Seeing her tense, Morgan said, “I know you have an all-woman squadron. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find women IPs to come down here to upgrade you on flying the Apache D models. Do you have a problem with men coming in for six weeks and staying at your base to teach your people?”
“I don’t have a problem with men, Mr.—Morgan. They have a problem with me. If you can guarantee they won’t be gender prejudiced, I won’t kick and scream about it.”
“Good,” Morgan said, breathing a sigh of relief. He turned and dug into his pack again, producing a set of orders that had been cut by the army. “Here’s the list of men who will be coming in shortly. We haven’t been able to tell them they are coming down here yet, but that’s a mere formality. I give you my personal guarantee that they are the best. The army’s cream of the crop of teachers, to move your people into the D models as rapidly as possible. Because you are so shorthanded, you can’t afford to send your pilots back to Fort Rucker for training. Instead, we’re bringing the training to you, so it won’t interfere with your ongoing missions.”
Taking the list of names, Maya frowned as she rapidly perused it. She knew just about everyone in the training field. The Apache team was a small unit within the army as whole—a tight, select family, for better or worse.
Morgan started to lift the cup to his lips when he heard Maya curse richly beneath her breath. She jerked her head up, her green eyes blazing like the hounds from hell. Her glare was aimed directly at him. His cup froze midway to his lips.
“There’s no way I’m letting this son of a bitch anywhere near me or my pilots,” she hissed, jabbing her finger at the paper she flattened between them. “You can take Major Dane York and shove him where the sun never shines, Mr. Trayhern. That sexist bastard is never going to step foot onto my base. Not ever!”
Houston scowled and took the paper. “Major Dane York? Who is he?”
Maya breathed angrily and sat back in the chair, her arms folded across her breasts. “You didn’t do your research, Mr. Trayhern. I’m really disappointed in you.”
Carefully setting the cup down in the saucer, Morgan allowed a few moments to stretch between them. The anger in her eyes was very real. Her nostrils were flared, her full lips flattened and corners pulled in with pain. Taking the set of orders, he stared at the name.
“Major York is the most accomplished I.P. in the Apache D model instruction unit.”
“Yeah, and he could walk on water, too, and it wouldn’t mean a damn thing to me.”
“You have words with this guy back at Fort Rucker?” Mike asked, a worried look on his face.
“Words?” Maya clenched her teeth as she leaned toward Morgan. “That bastard damn near had me and all the other women going through Apache training five years ago washed out! Why? Because we were women. That’s the only reason.” She jabbed at the paper Mike held. “I’m not letting that Neanderthal anywhere near me or my crews. Over my dead body.”
“Hold on,” Morgan murmured. “Major York’s credentials are impeccable. I wanted the best for you and your pilots, Maya.”
“I can’t believe this!” Maya suddenly stood up, energy swirling around her. She moved abruptly away from the table and walked over to the row of windows that overlooked the busy street below. Hands on her hips, she said, “He’s gender prejudiced. He didn’t like me. He didn’t like my flying skills. He didn’t like anything I did because I was a woman. Well—” Maya turned around and glared at them “—I had the last laugh on him and his not-so-subtle tactics. He didn’t know my father was an army general. When York was unable to acknowledge some of the women’s superior flying skills and wouldn’t grade them accordingly, I got angry. When he did nothing to stop his other instructors from harassing us with innuendos, I called my father.”
Morgan frowned. “What happened then?”
Moving slowly toward the table, Maya tried to settle her rapidly beating heart. “You know, York is like a black cloud that follows me around.” She laughed sharply. “Here I am in backwater Peru, and he manages to find me anyway. What kind of karma do I have?”
Houston glanced at Morgan and noticed the worry in his boss’s eyes. “Maya, what happened?”
“My father had a ‘talk’ with York’s commanding officer. I don’t know what was said. I do know that from that day forward, York straightened his act out. He doesn’t like women. At least, not military women pilots.” Her nostrils quivered. She stood in front of them, her legs slightly apart for good balance and her arms crossed. “He was never fair with any of us. I challenged him. I called him what he was to his face. I’d like to have decked him.” She balled her hand into a fist. “Just because we were women, he wanted to fail us.”
“But you didn’t fail,” Morgan said.
With a disgusted snort, Maya moved to her chair, her hands gripping the back of it as she stared malevolently down at him. “Only because I had my father’s influence and help. Otherwise, he’d have canned every one of us.” Maya jerked a thumb toward the windows where Machu Picchu’s black lava sides rose upward. “And you know the funny thing? Every woman in that company volunteered to come down here with me and take this spec ops. They didn’t like the odds, the army’s obvious gender preference toward males getting all the good orders and bases, while the women got the dregs. Screw ’em. I said to hell with the whole army career ladder and came up with a plan for this base. My father backed it and I got it.”
Maya’s voice lowered with feeling. “I’m sure the army was glad to see all of us go away. Out of sight, out of mind. Well, that’s okay with us, because we have a higher calling than the army. We couldn’t care less about our career slots or getting the right bases and orders to advance. We love to fly. All any of us wanted was a chance to fly and do what we love the most. We’re linchpins down here, holding the balance between the good people and the bad guys, and we know it. What we do makes a difference.”
Morgan stood and placed his napkin on the table. “I’m sorry to hear how tough it was on you and your women friends, Maya. I’m sure the army realizes what assets you are. Your stats speak for themselves.” He held her angry green gaze. “But York is the best. You have my personal promise that when he arrives, he will not be the same man you trained under before.”
“I will not allow him to step foot on my base.”
Morgan held her challenging stare. He heard the low, angry vibration in her tone. “You’ve got to learn to trust me, Maya,” he said huskily. “I want only the best for your squadron. You’ve earned that right. If Major York steps out of line, you call me and I’ll take care of it. I promise.”
“I don’t want him back in my life!”
Her explosion of anger and pain echoed around the room.
“If you don’t accept him as your I.P., you forfeit everything on those papers.” Morgan pointed to the table where they lay.
Still glaring, Maya looked from him to the papers. She desperately needed those new D models. Her pilots deserved to have the safety the new copters would afford them. And she was dying without the necessary funds for spare parts for her old Apaches. Swallowing hard, she looked slowly back up at Trayhern.
“Very well,” she rasped, “authorize the bastard to come down here.”

Chapter 2
“Major York, if you don’t want to be kicked out of the U.S. Army and asked to resign your commission, I suggest you take this temporary duty assignment.”
Dane stood at attention in front of his superior’s desk. “Yes, sir!”
“At ease,” Colonel Ronald Davidson said, and gestured toward a chair that sat at one side of his huge maple desk. The winter sunshine of December moved through the venetian blinds and painted shadows throughout his large office. Was it an omen of things to come? Dane had a gut feeling it was.
Dressed in his one-piece, olive-green flight suit, Dane took the orders and sat down. Davidson’s gray eyes were fixed on him and he knew why. Trying to choke down his fear, he tucked the garrison cap he’d been wearing into the left shoulder epaulet of his flight suit. He sat at attention. The tone in his C.O.’s voice made his heart beat harder. Dane knew he’d screwed up—again—with a woman Apache pilot in training to upgrade to the D model. Was this his death sentence? He tried to concentrate on the neatly typed set of orders before him. Reading rapidly, he felt a little relief began to bleed through him.
“Sir, this is TDY for six weeks down to Peru, to teach some spook ops pilots D model characteristics?” He tried to keep the surprise out of his voice. Dane thought the colonel had called him to this office to tell him to resign his commission because of his latest mistake. Obviously, he’d been wrong, and more of the tension leaked out of him. The last thing he’d expected was an assignment like this.
“That’s right,” Davidson informed him in a growl. Getting up, his body thin and ramrod straight, he tapped his fingertips lightly on the desk before him. “You’ll see I’ve assigned two other I.P.s and three enlisted men to accompany you down there to train these pilots. You’re to head it up—unless you don’t want the assignment, Major.”
Dane looked up. He got the gist of his commander’s warning. Yesterday, Warrant Officer Kathy Juarez had filed a gender complaint against him. Dane had been warned it was coming. Swallowing against his constricted throat, he scowled down at the orders. He’d opened his big mouth without thinking first, and the words had flown out. Dane was trying very hard to think before he spoke after his lesson four years earlier with another student, Chief Warrant Officer Maya Stevenson, and the group of women going through training with her. He’d cleaned up his act quite a bit, but sometimes, when he was dog tired and stressed out from the heavy demands on his shoulders, he’d slip up. And he had.
Davidson was giving him one last chance to shape up. There was no choice and Dane knew it. He either took this TDY or Davidson was going to make sure that this most recent complaint from a female pilot was going in his jacket. And once it got in there, his career was over. He would be better off resigning and saving them the trouble of putting the complaint into his permanent military record. It would be a black mark that would follow him until the day he died, a stain he did not want on his record. The army was on a crusade to make itself genderless. Male and female no longer existed. Just bodies. Just human beings. Well, Dane was having real problems adjusting to that new perspective.
“Just to give you a little background on this spook ops group,” Davidson continued in a milder tone, “it’s been shifted to Perseus, a Q-clearance organization within the CIA family. They operate on a need-to-know-basis by only a handful of people within the government. Morgan Trayhern is the boss. He’s asked the army for the best I.P.s we’ve got. The detachment known as Black Jaguar Base has twelve pilots who need upgrade training. The work they do down there is crucial to stemming the flow of cocaine from Peru into Bolivia. Because they cannot spare their people to come up here to Fort Rucker for training, you’re going to go down there and train them, instead.”
“I see, sir.” Well, Dane really didn’t, but that didn’t matter, either. What mattered was that his C.O. was yanking him out of this messy and potentially embarrassing situation and tucking him quietly away. Out of sight, out of mind. And out of trouble, as far as he was concerned. Because of Dane’s jaded past, Davidson, who was in his fifties, didn’t particularly care for him, though he respected his abilities as a teacher and pilot. It was a good thing, for Dane knew his career would have been over with this latest charge set against him.
Not that he didn’t deserve it. Warrant Officer Juarez was Hispanic, and he’d made the off-the-cuff remark that no South American could fly as well as a North American one. Stupid, yes, but he’d shot off his mouth to his new class of Apache pilots first without thinking about the consequences. And Davidson wasn’t happy about it or he wouldn’t be sending him away for a long time to let the situation cool down. Dane’s ill-timed comment reflected directly back on the colonel, too. Davidson was protecting his own hind end in this. He was up for general’s stars in another month. If this incident took off and the newspapers ran with it, Davidson’s stars were down the toilet.
“Sounds interesting, sir.” And it did. Dane had never been to South America, although he was born in Del Rio, Texas, a little border town, and grew up bilingual, even though they moved from base to base frequently.
“You’re getting the assignment because you speak Spanish, Major,” Davidson said heavily. “Everyone chosen is bilingual. This spook ops has Peruvian, and other South American pilots, as well as some on loan from overseas. Mr. Trayhern needed someone who could handle the different languages and get the job done. That is why you’re getting this TDY.” Davidson glared down at him. He picked up another paper. “And perhaps, while you’re gone, Major, I can sweet-talk Warrant Officer Juarez into dropping her legitimate charge against you. I’m sure you won’t make the same mistake twice, will you? After all, you’re going to South America to find out just how good the pilots are down there.”
Swallowing hard, Dane said, “Sir, I’ll make sure it never happens again.”
Scowling, Davidson glared at him. “You’re old guard, Major. You’re a lot younger than me, but you sound like the army back in World War II. Well, those days are gone and you’d better get with the new program of gender neutrality or your butt is history. You’d best make good on this mission, Major. I’m expecting a glowing report back from the C.O. of that ops about you and your men’s white glove behavior. Do you read me loud and clear?”
“Yes, sir, I hear you.” Dane stood up at attention beneath the man’s drilling, cold look.
“Sit down.”
Dane sat. He felt the C.O.’s anger avalanche him.
“I’ll be damned lucky if this warrant officer doesn’t go to the press with your remarks. Our women pilots are just as good—probably better—than our male pilots. They’ve distinguished themselves time and again, and you keep working against them. I don’t know what your agenda is, Major, but on this TDY, you’d better stuff it and work with the people down there four square.”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
“You and your contingent are leaving tomorrow at 0800. You’re taking a navy helicopter carrier down to Lima, Peru. The capital city sits right on prime beach-front property. You’re also taking two D model Apaches and a Blackhawk with you. You’ve got three I.P.s, one for each aircraft. One of the three enlisted instructors will fly with each of you. The aircraft, once assembled inside the carrier when it arrives at Lima, will be flown off it and you’ll rendezvous with elements of Black Jaguar at an agreed-upon time.”
“I see, sir.” Dane felt a little excitement. He’d never been on spook ops before. His world revolved around teaching pilots about the deadly beauty of the Boeing Apache. He lived to fly. And he was a good teacher, to boot—at least with male pilots.
“We’ve got an agreement with the Peruvian government, Major. Once those D models are assembled and brought up to the deck of the carrier, you will fly them on specific coordinates that will be preprogrammed into the flight computers. You will not, under any circumstances, be carrying hot ordnance on board. The Peruvian government wants those three aircraft to leave under cover of darkness, just before dawn. They don’t want any nosy newspaper reporters to get wind of us coming into their country or the president will have a lot of explaining to do.
“You will meet two Black Jaguar Apaches at a specific location deep in the mountains, far from the capital. They will then escort you to their base. As I understand it, it is dangerous where you will be flying. There is a drug lord, Faro Valentino, who has two Russian Kamov Ka-50’s assault helicopters that ply the same area. If they see you, they’re going to try and blow you out of the sky. It will be up to the C.O. of the base and their Apaches to protect you and fly shotgun. They will be carrying hot ordnance on board, in case the Kamovs jump you. There’s no guarantee they will. But the C.O. has informed us that you should expect attack. You need to review the terrain of the area and be ready to cut and run if that happens. You need to know where the hell you’re going and what you’re going to do to make sure these new D models aren’t downed before they get to their new base.”
Frowning, Dane said, “No hot ordnance for us in a dangerous situation? Isn’t that stupid, sir?”
Davidson grimaced. “Major, choose your words more carefully, will you? Didn’t you just hear me? The Peruvian government will not allow you to bring these assault helos over their territory with missiles, bullets or rockets. What if you crash into homes and kill people? They’re afraid that if the combat helicopters are seen, word will leak back to their press, and all hell will break loose. Having U.S. military aircraft flying in Peru is a political hot potato, anyway. We’re stepping on eggs. There is no way to get where you’re going, except by helicopter. The jungle where the drug lords produce their cocaine is wild, dangerous, country.”
“But they’ve got Apaches carrying ordnance.” Dane tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Why is it all right in one place in Peru, but not another? Why should I open up my crews to possible confrontation with a Kamov and get shot all to pieces?”
“We have a lot of political toes we just can’t step on,” Davidson said slowly, obviously at the limits of his patience with Dane. “Once you get the D models to the base, you’ll be able to train the pilots there. When everyone is up to speed, the D models will join the A models already there, and you can fly with hot ordnance.”
“So, we risk three helos and six people trying to get them to this jungle base?” Dane frowned.
“You will have two Apache A’s escorting you in, Major. Just follow the C.O.’s instructions, and things should go well. But as mission commander on this TDY, you need to realize that if the Kamovs attack, you have to have a plan on outrunning and outmaneuvering them because they can outgun you. The only thing standing between you and them will be those two A models rigged for combat.”
Unhappily, Dane nodded. “I see, sir.”
“Good.” Davidson reached for a folder and handed it to him in a brisk manner. “Here’s more info. Take a look at it.”
Opening the file, Dane nearly choked. The color photo of the C.O. of the Black Jaguar Base stared back at him.
“Problems, Major?”
Heat shot up his neck and into his face. Dane tried to squelch a curse as he sat there, pinned in place by his C.O.’s gaze.
“Sir…” he rasped, half standing, pointing at the photo in the file “….this is impossible…this can’t be…. I mean—”
“Captain Maya Stevenson is the C.O. of Black Jaguar Base, Major. And she’s your commanding officer on this mission.”
No! Dane sat down, before his knees buckled beneath him, disbelief thrumming through him. Those cool, half-closed emerald eyes, eyes that reminded him of a jungle cat, stared back at him. Maya Stevenson was the biggest thorn he’d ever had in his side. She’d nearly scuttled his career so many years ago. After she’d graduated into the Apache A model, she’d quite literally disappeared. Not that Dane was unhappy about that. He wasn’t. She was the in-your-face kind of woman who made him see red with great regularity. He didn’t like her independence. Or her chutzpah. She’d call him out every time he said something wrong—or politically incorrect. There wasn’t a day that went by when she was his student that they hadn’t flared up and had words, angry words, with one another. Worse, she’d reported him and he’d damn near lost his status as an I.P., had been threatened with losing his army career.
Davidson moved quietly around the desk, trailing his fingers along the highly polished edge of it. All the while, his gaze remained on Dane.
“A word of warning, Major York,” he whispered.
Dane looked up. “Sir?”
“Mr. Trayhern of Perseus, and myself, are all too aware of the dog-and-cat fight you got into with Captain Stevenson four years ago. If either of us hear a word from her that you or your crew are not being perfectly behaved down there, then things are really going to hit the fan. Big time. You will be training twelve women pilots, Major. And it’s well known you don’t get along well with women in the military. The crew you’re taking down is going to behave just as you do. So I suggest you clean up your act, accept that women make just as good pilots as men, and get on with your teaching and training down there.”
Dane stared down at the photo again, disbelief bolting through him. He felt as if he’d been struck by lightning. Maya was in a black, body-fitting flight suit. There were no insignias on the uniform, nothing to indicate her country of origin or that she was a pilot, much less in the U.S. Army. Her hair, as black as the uniform, was in a chignon at the nape of her slender neck. The look of pride in her raised chin, that confidence he’d always disliked about her, now radiated from the photo. He felt hot and sweaty—an adrenaline reaction. Davidson stood within a few feet of him, and Dane could feel his C.O.’s icy gaze drilling into his back as he looked at the photo.
“I feel like I’m being fed to the lions…sir.”
Davidson chuckled. “Maybe you are, Major, but this is going to be your final test to see if you can achieve gender neutral status. You pass this test, and I’m sure your career will continue. If you don’t, well…this is your last chance. Do you understand that?”
Bitterness flowed through Dane. He glared up at the colonel, whose gaze was unwavering. “I get the picture, sir. Frankly, this is a no-win situation.”
“It doesn’t have to be, Major, if you let your prejudice against women in the military dissipate. This can be a real turn-around mission for you. But it’s up to you. If you want to keep your caveman mentality about women, that’s your choice. Or you can see this as a golden opportunity to drop some old, archaic attitudes and embrace and support women in the military. They pay with their lives just like a man does. They deserve equal treatment and respect. It’s that simple.”
Sure it is. Dane clenched his teeth, his jaw tightening. Great. Just great. Not only would he have a woman C.O. lording over him, it was his nemesis, Maya Stevenson. And her father was still in the army and still a general. Dane felt hemmed in and no way out. Wiping his thinned mouth with the back of his hand, he closed the file abruptly.
“My secretary has everything you need for the trip south, Major. You’re to meet your crew at 0800 tomorrow morning at base ops. You’ll take a C-130 Hercules flight from here to San Diego. There, you’ll board the USS Gendarme, one of our navy helicopter carriers. They’ve already got the two Boeing Apaches and the Blackhawks disassembled and on board. Questions?”
Dane stood. He came to attention. “No, sir.”
“Very well, dismissed. Oh, and good luck, Major. I hear that Captain Stevenson has been giving a good account of herself and her women pilots down there. This just might be the eye-opening experience you need to convince you that women can do a job just as well as any man.” Davidson’s mouth lifted slightly. “And maybe better. But you go down there with an open mind and see for yourself.”

“Looks like a right purty city,” Chief Warrant Officer Joe Calhoun said in his soft Texas drawl as he stood, his hands resting on his hips. “Never been this far south before.”
Dane stood next to the other instructor pilot on the deck of the navy helicopter carrier anchored off the coast near Lima. Because the carrier was so large, it could not go near the shallow coastline. A thick gray blanket of fog had lifted hours earlier, and the sparkling lights of Lima, the largest city and capital of Peru, blinked to welcome them.
“Looks are deceiving at night,” he muttered. His stomach was in knots. The last week had been hell on him. Dane hadn’t been looking forward to this moment. Below, the mechanics were giving a final check on the Boeing Apaches before they were lifted by elevator to the deck where they stood. Glancing at the watch on his hairy wrist, he saw that in an hour they would be taking off.
Although it was December, it was summer in the southern hemisphere. A slight, humid breeze wafted by them. Around them, navy sailors worked quietly and efficiently, preparing the deck for the forthcoming helicopters. Joe, a Chief Warrant Officer 3, and Craig Barton, a CWO4, were under his command, and would be flying the other two helos. Craig, who had experience flying Blackhawks as well as Apaches, would take the Blackhawk into the base.
“Wonder if the women are as beautiful as they say they are,” Craig said, coming up to them and grinning.
Dane scowled. “This isn’t a party trip, Mr. Barton.”
“Hey,” Craig murmured, “I’m only kidding. You’ve been uptight ever since we came on board, sir.”
Warrant officers made up the ranks of most of the army’s helicopter pilots. Dane had been a West Point graduate and gone into helicopters aviation as a full-fledged officer, so the other men were beneath him in rank. They stood halfway between enlisted personnel and officers such as himself. They were sharp people with fine skills and had shown their capability to fly these deadly machines. The warrants had a long and proud history.
Dane managed a one-cornered smile. “I’m worried about the Kamovs jumping us.”
Joe snickered. “What’s there to worry about? We got two Apaches to protect us if things get dicey. From what you said, those lady pilots have had plenty of practice shootin’ at the bad guys, so I’m sure they can handle a little action, if need be.”
Yeah, like a bunch of women were going to protect them. Dane kept the acid comment to himself. He didn’t dare breathe a word of his prejudice to these two warrant officers. He’d worked with them for over a year and neither felt the prejudice against women that he did. Joe was half Commanche, born in Texas and twenty-six and Craig twenty-eight, both single, competitive, type A personalities. So was Dane, but he was twenty-nine and feeling like he was eighty right now. If only Maya Stevenson was not in this equation. Dane was still reeling from the shock of it all. Was she as mouthy and in-your-face as she’d been years ago? God, he hoped not. How was he going to keep his inflammatory words in his mouth?
“Well,” Joe said in his Texas drawl, “I, for one, am gonna enjoy this little TDY. I mean, dudes, this is a man’s dream come true—an all-ladies base.” And he rubbed his large, square hands together, his teeth starkly white in the darkness on the deck of the ship.
Craig grinned. “Roger that.” He was tall and lean, almost six feet five inches tall. And when he scrunched his frame into the cockpit of an Apache, Dane often wondered how the man could fly it at all. The cockpit of an Apache was small, the seat adjustable from about five feet three to six feet five inches. Being from Minnesota, from good Swedish stock, Craig was big-boned, even though he was lean. His nickname was Scarecrow. Dane liked his patient nature and softness with students. He was an excellent instructor.
Joe, who was a fellow Texan, was an exceptional instructor because he became so impassioned about the Apache helicopter and passing on that excitement to the trainees. Joe lived, ate and breathed the Apache. Maybe because he was half-Commanche he spoke Apache in his sleep—and made the bachelor officer quarters shake and shudder with his ungodly snoring. Grinning in the darkness, Dane admitted to himself that he had good people around him, and maybe, just maybe, that would make the difference on this nasty little TDY.
The other three crewmen, all sergeants, were experts in the new software, the ordnance and the handling of the “doughnut” or radar dome that was on the D model Apaches. Those three men, Barry Hartford, Alphonse “Fonzie” Gianni and Luke Ingmar, would teach the women crew chiefs and mechanics at the base the fine points of the new model. They were all married, so Dane had less to worry about in that respect. However, judging from Joe’s gray eyes and the sparkling look of a hunter in Craig’s brown ones, Dane would have his hands full with these two lone wolves running around loose in the sheep’s pen.
“Well, let’s turn and burn,” Craig said, as he lifted his hand and started for the hatch that led down to the deck where the helicopters were being prepared.
“Roger that,” Joe seconded, following quickly on his heels.
Dane stood alone. He felt alone. Watching the last of the fog disperse, he saw the twinkling of stars above him. It struck him that he was seeing the Southern Cross for the first time in his life. It was as famous here as the Big Dipper was in the Northern Hemisphere. Snorting softly, he hung his head and looked down at the highly polished flight boots he wore with his one-piece flight uniform. Alone. Yes, he’d been alone for a long, long time. Ever since his mother had abruptly left him and his father, he’d felt this gnawing ache in his gut and heart. His brows drew downward as memories assailed him. His mother was a red-haired, green-eyed, vital woman who had exuded a confidence he rarely saw in females. She’d had enough of being a “housewife” and had made an ultimatum to his military pilot father to either let her work outside the home or face a divorce.
Only twelve at the time, Dane recalled the fear he’d felt when he’d heard them arguing hotly one night in the living room after he’d gone to bed. His father’s shouting had awakened him. Dane had lain on his belly at the top of the stairs, head pressed to the wood, hands wrapped around the banister, as she began screaming back at Dane’s father just as loudly. She was tall, athletic, brainy, and had no fear of speaking her mind—ever.
“Damn…” Dane forced himself to look up…up at the Southern Cross, which glimmered like diamond droplets against an ebony sky being edged with the first hint of dawn. His mother had left. She’d tried to explain it to Dane, but at twelve, the message he got was that he wasn’t lovable enough for her to stay and be his mother. And from that day onward, he’d felt alone. Well, at twenty-nine, he still felt that way, and nothing would probably ever change it. Or the way he felt about his mother. When he was eighteen, about to graduate from high school and enter West Point, she’d left him forever. His mother had been coming to his graduation, driving from San Antonio, Texas, where she’d settled, and a drunk driver had careened into her car and killed her. Dane would never forget that day. Ever.
He heard the whirring of the elevators that would soon bring the Apaches and the Blackhawk to the deck where he stood. Moving his shoulders as if to rid them of an accumulated weight, Dane turned. As he did so, he saw a bright trail streak across the sky toward the east, where they would be flying shortly. It was a meteorite.
Dane didn’t believe in omens. He believed only in what his eyes saw, his hands felt and his ears heard. Scowling deeply, he turned on his heel. Screw it all. Did the meteorite foretell of his demise? Would it be because of his mouth? His feelings about women? Or were they going to be jumped by Kamovs? Or left at the mercy of a bunch of renegade Amazon women warriors who thought they knew how to fight?
“Be my luck that it’s the latter,” Dane grumbled as he jerked open the hatch door and went below to his fate.

“It’s time, Maya….” Dallas Klein poked her head through the opened door of her commanding officer’s office. Dallas, who was the executive officer for the base operations, raised her dark brown brows as she looked across the wooden floor at Maya’s pitiful excuse for a work area—a dark green metal, military issue desk that was battered from years of use. Maya was pouring over several maps spread across it, her face intense, her hand on her chin as she studied them.
“What? Oh….” Maya looked up. She nodded to Dallas. Glancing down at the watch on her left wrist, she blew a breath of air in consternation. “Yeah, it’s time all right.”
Dallas moved inside the office and shut the door. She was dressed in the uniform of the day—a black, body-fitting Nomex fire retardent flight suit. Her black flight boots gleamed in the fluorescent light from a fixture above the desk. Running her fingers briskly through her short sable hair, she met Maya’s gaze. “Did you sleep at all?”
“What do you think?” Maya grimaced, then straightened and opened her arms, stretching languidly like a large cat. “I’ve got the nightmare from hell visiting us for six weeks. I couldn’t catch a wink.” Maya quickly wrapped her loose ebony hair into a chignon at the nape of her neck placing a thick rubber band around her tresses to keep them in place.
“Hmm.”
“You aren’t upset about York coming?” Maya took her knee board, which she used to write things down if she needed it, and strapped it to her right thigh with Velcro. She reached into a glass sitting on her desk and took out several pens, placing them in the left upper sleeve of her uniform.
“Upset? Yeah. Lose sleep over the guy? Not a chance.” She grinned wolfishly.
“You Israelis are one tough lot,” Maya grumped. “Has Penny got the coffee on in the mess hall? I desperately need a cup before we take off.”
“Yeah, everyone’s up and around,” Dallas murmured as she opened the door for her C.O. “Edgy is the word I’d use….”
Maya grinned tiredly. “Edgy? As in on edge dancing on the edge of a sword? No kidding. Come on, I need my intravenous of java before we blow this joint and meet our male comrades in arms.”
Chuckling, Dallas, who at five foot eleven inches was almost as tall as her C.O., followed Maya down the dimly lit hall of the two-story building. Their headquarters sat deep in a cave, well hidden from any prying eyes that might try and find the complex. Maya grabbed her helmet on the way, stuffed her black Nomex gloves into it and then picked up her chicken plate, which was the name for the bullet proof vest they each wore when they flew a mission. Though they were normally called flak jackets, the army slang name was more commonly used.
Maya moved rapidly down the stairs and out the door. If not for the lights hung far above them on the cave’s ceiling, finding their way out of the place would be impossible. Familiar sounds—the clink of tools, the low murmurs of women’s voices from the maintenance area—soothed Maya’s fractious nervousness. She felt wired—and suspected it was because she would have to meet her worst enemy today.
“You’re jumpy,” Dallas observed, coming up and matching her long stride. “You sensing something?”
With an explosive laugh, Maya said, “Oh, yeah. Trouble with a capital T in the form of Major Dane York. How’s that for a mouthful, Klein?”
Chuckling, Dallas opened the door to the Quonset hut structure that housed the mess hall and kitchen facility. “Mmm, it’s more than that. You usually get this way when you smell Kamovs around.”
As Maya made her way into the small mess hall which was lined with a series of long picnic tables made of metal and wood, she saw that about half of her crews were up and eating an early breakfast. She called to them, lifting her hand in greeting, and then picked up a metal tray to go through the chow line. The flight crews had been up and working for several hours. There was ordnance to load on the Apaches, fuel to be put on board and a massive amount of software to be checked out to ensure it was working properly before any pilot sat in the cockpit. Today, Maya wanted a full array of Hellfire missiles on the underbelly of each Apache, rockets as well as a good stash of 30-millimeter bullets on board.
Penny, a red-haired army sergeant with lively blue eyes who was the head chef for their base stood behind the line, spoon in hand.
“’Morning, ma’am,” she greeted Maya as she heaped dark orange, fluffy scrambled eggs onto her tray.
“’Morning, Penny. You got any of your famous cinnamon rolls?” Maya lifted her nose and sniffed. “I can smell ’em. Any left?”
Penny blushed a bright pink. “Yes, ma’am. I managed to save a couple for you and Ms. Klein.” Penny turned to retrieve the rolls, revealing how the white apron she wore over her green fatigues hung to her knees due to her short stature. Sometimes, when she moved too quickly, the apron would become tangled around her short legs and nearly trip her.
“So you didn’t let the condors eat them all,” Maya said, pleased. She watched as Penny opened the oven and drew out two big cinnamon rolls slathered with white frosting.
“Oh, we’ve got a buncha buzzards here, no doubt, ma’am,” Penny laughed. She placed a roll on each officer’s tray. “But I know they’re your favorite, so I told my crew to keep their hands off them, threatening that they’d lose their fingers if anyone stole ’em.”
Maya grinned. “Thanks, Penny. We appreciate your being a watchdog.” Maya poured some coffee from the tall steel canister into a white ceramic mug and then went over to an empty table. She wanted time to talk to Dallas alone before the flight. Every time she thought of Dane York, her gut tightened. And yet there was something else troubling her. Maya couldn’t shake the feeling…the premonition that Kamovs were around and hunting them. Sometimes they did. Sometimes Faro Valentino, a very rich Colombian drug lord, who had money to burn and could buy the latest in Russian weaponry and aircraft, would deliberately try and hunt them down to kill them. Most of the time he was making cocaine runs over their jungle and mountains. But sometimes…he turned the tables on them. Sometimes the hunted became the hunter. Was today the day?
Dallas sat down opposite her. “You’ve got that look in your eyes,” she said as she eagerly dove into the scrambled eggs. They had Penny to thank for the fresh eggs. A farm girl from Iowa she had long ago bought a bunch of hens in Aqua Caliente, and built them a chicken coop. Penny had her “girls” laying eggs for the entire squadron. Everyone appreciated farm-fresh eggs. They had a much better taste than any store-bought variety, which were sterile in comparison, Dallas thought. Maya always urged her women to be creative, to make this base more a home than a military warehouse. Little touches like Penny’s made staying here survivable. Since Lieutenant Ana Luca Contina had married Jake Travers, and Jake had come to stay with her at the base, he had created a huge vegetable garden that yielded wonderful lettuce salads and other hard-to-get items. Jake also took care of supply and Maya was grateful for the ex-Army Ranger’s presence on their base. While Ana flew missions, Jake took care of things on the ground. Everyone, including Maya, was happy with the arrangement.
“What look is that?” Even though Maya was far from hungry, she knew today’s flight required her to be alert, and that meant feeding her body. Brain cells needed food to work, and in her business of flying the deadly Apache assault aircraft, she needed every iota of intelligence to stay on top of things.
Dallas sipped her coffee after putting a dry creamer into it. “That ‘we’re gonna get jumped by Kamovs’ look.”
“Oh.”
Dallas set the cup down. “You always have a sixth sense for this stuff. Are you too exhausted to be in touch with it this morning?”
Having known Dallas for the three years that they’d been at the base, Maya trusted the Israeli pilot with her life. On loan to them from her country, Dallas was a tough, no-nonsense warrior who had many times saved Maya’s butt when they’d come up against the Black Sharks that would hide and jump them. And Dallas knew her better than anyone at the base. As executive officer—X.O.—she had almost as much responsibility for this base operating as Maya did. And Dallas was someone she could blow off steam to without it getting around. Giving her a narrowed look, she muttered, “Okay, I have a feeling.”
Lips curving ruefully, Dallas said lightly, “Couldn’t be that Black Jaguar Clan stuff you’re connected with?”
Maya didn’t often talk about her spiritual heritage or training. Dallas knew more than most, but Maya’s affiliation with the Clan wasn’t for public consumption. Over the years, Maya’s intrepid and loyal pilots and crews had learned there was something “different” about her, but not what was different. Of course, Maya didn’t have anywhere near the metaphysical talents her sister, Inca, did. No, the only thing she was good at, when in the right space, was teleportation. And in her line of business, Maya was rarely in the right space to use that talent because it required her to be in perfect harmony within herself in order to initiate it. Nope, on any given day, she was painfully human like everyone else. The other talent she had was intuition. She’d get these “feelings” and when she did, she was rarely wrong.
Maya realized Dallas was patiently looking at her with those golden eyes.
“Okay…I got a bad feeling. I think Faro is going to turn the tables on us again. He’s going to be the hunter and us the hunted today. Satisfied?”
Pursing her full lips, Dallas said, “Yep, I am. I’m gonna tell my copilot to play heads up then, more than usual. Damn, I wish we could get a radar signature off them.”
Maya nodded in agreement. The Russian helicopter was able to somehow dodge their massive radar array and capabilities. Because it could, the Kamov had the ability to sneak up on them and blow them out of the sky—literally. That meant Maya and her pilots had to stay even more alert than usual. They were fighting one of the most deadly helicopter opponents in the world. Their own sensor equipment was useless against the Kamov unless it showed itself, which wasn’t often. The mercenary Russian pilots Faro Valentino hired were hardened veterans of many campaigns and knew the ropes of stealth and combat—just like Maya’s crew did.
Each Apache had two HUDS, or heads-up displays—small, television-like screens—in each of its two cockpits. Maya’s pilots could use IR—or infrared—a television camera or radar. The HUDs had saved the lives of Maya’s crew innumerable times, as well as helped them find the heat of bodies beneath the jungle canopy so they could stop drug runners in their tracks as they carried heavy loads of cocaine toward the Bolivian border. In the sky, the Apache’s ability to find its target was legendary. Except the Kamovs had their own arsenal of commensurate hardware, and on any given day, a Kamov could jump one of their Apaches without warning. That was when Maya used her sixth sense to the optimum. She’d not lost a helo crew yet, and she wasn’t about to start now.
Maya pulled the warm cinnamon roll apart with her long, spare fingers. “This is one of those days I’d just as soon tell the Cosmos I pass on this mission, you know? That’s okay, you don’t have to answer on the grounds it may incriminate you, Klein.” She grinned and popped a piece of the soft, sweet bread into her mouth.
“Well,” Dallas said with a sly look, “I’m glad I’m not in your boots today, Captain. Whatta choice—Kamovs or Major Dane York.”
“Humph, with our luck, we’ll get hit with both.”
Chuckling, Dallas finished her coffee. “Yeah, that’s what I call Black Jaguar luck at its finest.”
That was true, and Maya nodded as she chewed on the roll. “If we didn’t have bad luck, we wouldn’t have any at all.”
Dallas’s eyes gleamed with laughter. “And if I’m reading you right, you’d rather face Faro’s Kamovs today than York.”
“Bingo.”
“Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.” Dallas rose, picked up her empty tray and said, “Meet you out on the apron. Time to turn and burn.”
Maya sat there, feeling glum. The soft sounds of women talking and laughing made her feel a little better. The mess hall was always a happy meeting place for her and her hardworking crews. They pulled twelve hours on and twelve off when Faro and his Kamovs decided to take to the sky and make run after run of cocaine to the Bolivian border.
Rubbing her neck ruefully, Maya grimaced. Today was going to be one helluva day, and she wasn’t looking forward to any of it.

Chapter 3
Just the act of climbing up the metal rungs that doubled as a ladder, and then onto the black metal fuselage before ducking into the front cockpit of the Boeing Apache, soothed some of Maya’s initial anxiousness. Dawn had yet to break in the east. The cockpit canopy opened on the left side, folding upward and back so that both pilots could climb into their respective positions at once. The crew chief was Sergeant Elena Macedo from Peru. Maya could hear her copilot and gunner, Chief Warrant Officer 2 Jessica Merril, settling into her position directly behind her. Jessica hailed from California. Her nickname was Wild Woman. Though she was twenty-six, she had the look of an impish pixie, her blond hair dyed with streaks of red. The splashes of color were Jess’s way of donning war-paint and going off to battle, in a sense. Everyone’s got a big bang out of Wild Woman’s wild “do.” She more than symbolized the highly individualized rebel attitude of the base. Maya liked it and approved of it.
The Apache was a big, ugly looking dog with a bulbous nose that housed the infrared, television and radar equipment. The cockpits rose upward on a metal frame, the front cockpit Plexiglas hardened to take a 30 mm cannon hit as well as bird strikes. The seat felt welcoming to Maya, the space narrow, with the cyclic positioned between her legs, the collective by her left, gloved hand. Between her and her copilot was a blast shield; in case they took a hit and one pilot was killed or wounded, the other would be protected so they could fly the chopper home.
Settling the helmet on her head, Maya lifted her hand and twirled it in a clockwise motion, signaling the ground crew to start up the Apache. The first thing that came on in the assault gunship was the air-conditioning, designed to cool the miles of circuitry that were bundled along the sides of the prehistoric-looking craft beneath the black metal fuselage. The blast of air from the ducts in the front panel, along with the high-pitched whine of the air-conditioning cranking up, surrounded Maya. She watched all the instruments in front of her start to blink and flicker on. The two HUD’s came to life, glowing a pleasant green color that was easy on the eyes and didn’t contribute to night blindness. She pressed some buttons, making sure the related systems were operational. Positioning the mouthpiece within an inch of her lips, she tested communications with her copilot.
“Wild Woman, how are you reading me?”
“Loud and clear, Captain.”
“Roger.”
Looking up, Maya saw the constant wisps of clouds that embraced the ten-thousand foot inactive volcano where their base was located. The two Apaches faced outward, having been pushed into position from beneath the cave’s overhang by the crews earlier. The lip of lava extended out a good four hundred feet in front of them and made an excellent landing and takeoff spot for the birds. Squinting above the cockpit console, Maya noted the lava wall that rose directly in front of them a thousand feet high, like a big rock curtain. The only way in and out of this cave complex was through the “Eye of the Needle,” as they called it.
The Eye of the Needle was a natural geologic wonder—a hole in the lava wall sixty feet high and eighty feet wide, just large enough for an Apache or Cobra to move very carefully through it. The rotor diameter on an Apache was forty-eight feet, so they had very little clearance at any time.
Clouds also helped hide the base from prying eyes. Far below them flowed the mighty Urubamba River, a continual source of moisture rising upward in the tropical heat. As this humid air rolled up the mountainside, it met and mixed with cooler, descending air—exactly where the cave and their base was located, creating a fog that was nearly constant all year-round.
This morning was no exception. They would be required to lift off and fly out on instruments and radar in order to thread the Eye squarely and not take off a chunk of their titanium-edged rotor blades, risking a crash. The operation wasn’t for fools or anyone not paying attention to her flying. After logging three hundred miles on a mission, the pilots were often tired coming back, and this obstacle became even more dangerous in their exhausted state.
Glancing down, Maya positioned her chicken plate, the bulletproof vest across her chest and abdomen, so that it rode as comfortably as possible. The radio in her helmet crackled to life.
“Black Jaguar One, this is Two. You read me?” It was Dallas Klein’s whiskey-smooth voice.
“Roger, Black Jaguar Two. Read you loud and clear.”
“Looks like we got split pea soup out there as usual, Saber.”
Maya smiled as she hooked up her harness. Saber was her nickname, given to her upon graduation from army basic aviation school, when she’d gotten her wings. Everyone got a nickname. She’d earned hers because her company said she was like a fine-bladed army ceremonial sword, slicing through any situation with finality. The name Saber had stuck. Maya liked living up to it. “Roger that, Dallas. Nothing new. The boys comin’ up from Lima oughta be real impressed if this stuff hangs around the Eye like it usually does,” she chuckled darkly. She made sure the knee board on her right thigh was adjusted, in case she needed to jot anything down.
Continuing her checks, Maya felt her left thigh pocket to make sure that her sister’s medicine necklace was in there. Inca had given her the protective necklace soon after they’d met, and Maya always kept it on her during a mission. She couldn’t wear jewlery, so she tucked it into a side pocket. It felt warm and secure in there and she gave it a pat of affection. In a way, it reminded Maya that now she had a sister to come home to, and to be careful out there in the skies over Peru.
Chuckling, Dallas said, “Oh, I’m sure they’re gonna be real impressed, anyway.”
“We’ll see just how tough the good ole boys from Fort Rucker are when they encounter the Eye. I’d give my right arm to see the looks on their faces when they approach it.”
“They’ve been given prior info on it, right?” Wild Woman interjected from the rear cockpit.
Maya nodded. She was ready. They were ready. Excitement thrummed through her. “Roger that, Jess. But looking at it on paper and seeing it in person, and knowing your forty-eight-foot blade has no room for error, despite the winds that are always whipping up from the river, is gonna make it real interesting for those boys.”
Laughter filled Maya’s earphones. She grinned mirthlessly. Yes, she’d like to see York’s face when he came up against the Eye wrapped in thick clouds that were subject to the whim of the winds in this mountainous region. He’d learn to respect Eye real fast. Maya could hardly wait until they returned and she saw the two new Apaches thread it. There wasn’t a pilot around that didn’t approach it slowly and with a lot of trepidation.
The crew chief moved toward the ladder. “You’re ready to go, Captain,” she said, and snapped a salute to the two pilots.
Maya snapped off an answering salute. “Thank you, Sergeant Macedo.”
Macedo then brought down both canopies and locked them into position, making the cabin of each cockpit secure.
Maya rested her gloved hands in plain sight of the crew below. Until everyone was clear, Maya would not start the massive engines of the helo or endanger her ground crew. As the three of them stepped away, their faces shadowed by the low lighting provided by a nearby generator, Maya lifted her hand and twirled her index finger in a circular motion, which meant she was going to start engines.
“Let’s get down to work,” she told Wild Woman, her voice turning businesslike. Maya flipped the first switch, which would engage the engine on the starboard, or right side of the fuselage. Instantly, a high whine and shudder worked through the aircraft. Eyes narrowing, Maya watched the engine indicator leap like active thermometers, bobbing up and down. When the engine was activated to a certain level, she thumbed the second engine switch. The gunship was awakening. In some sense Maya always thought of it as an ugly and ungainly looking thing. The image of a Tyrannosaurus rex came to mind: king of the dinosaurs and a mean bastard who ruled its turf—just like the Apache did. She could feel the sleek shudder that ran through it as the gunship gained power.
To Maya, her helicopter was a living being consisting of metal, wire circuitry, software and engine parts. She found her own power in that machinery. Whatever nervousness she’d felt about the coming encounter with Major Dane York was soothed away. When she was in the cockpit, the world and all its troubles dissolved. Her love of flying, of handling this remarkable machine, took over completely.
As the engine indicators leveled out, Maya engaged the main rotor. The four blades began to turn in a counterclockwise motion, slowly at first, then faster and faster as she notched up the power with the cyclic grasped in her fingers. Her entire left forearm rested comfortably on a panel so that her hand wouldn’t cramp up and the cyclic became a natural extension of her hand.
“Jess, switch on the radar. I need to thread the needle here in a moment.”
“Right… We’re up…go for it….”
Maya saw the full sweep of a bright green set of lines on the right HUD. It looked like a slice of pie as the long, green needle of radar swept ceaselessly back and forth, clearly revealing the hole in the wall directly in front of them, despite the cloud cover beyond.
“Let’s go over our checklist,” Maya ordered.
“Roger,” Jess returned, and they began to move through a sequence they had memorized long ago. Maya reached for her knee board, systematically checking off each station as it was called out. There was no room for sloppiness in her squadron. Things were done by the book. It improved their chances of survival.
They were ready. Maya devoured the excitement still throbbing through her. The Apache shook around her, the noise muted to a great degree by her helmet. She tested the yaw pedals beneath her booted feet. Everything was functioning properly. Proud of her hardworking ground crews, Maya lifted her hand to them in farewell as they moved back to watch the two assault helicopters take off, one at a time, to thread the needle.
“Black Jaguar Two. You ready to rock ’n’ roll?” Maya asked.
Dallas chuckled indulgently. “Roger that, Saber. My girl is checked out and we’re ready to boogie on down the road with you. I want to dance on a Black Shark’s head today.”
“Roger. Let’s go meet those good ole boys from Fort Rucker first, shall we? They might have the new D models, but us girls have got the guns.”
Chuckling, Dallas said, “I don’t think Gunslinger is ready for us.”
Gunslinger was Dane York’s nickname, Maya remembered starkly. He was an aggressive, type A individual who lived to hunt and kill in the air. Of course, so did anyone who got assigned to Apaches. They were a breed apart, bloodhounds in the sky, looking for quarry. Grinning, Maya notched up to takeoff speed and gently lifted the fully armed Apache off the lava lip. Smoothly, she nudged the helo forward into the swirling clouds. Within moments, they were completely embraced by the thick moisture.
“On glide path,” Jess called out.
Maya flew by instruments only. Her eyes were narrowed on the HUD, watching the swiftly moving radar that whipped back and forth on the screen to create a picture of the approaching Eye. The winds were erratic at this time of the morning, because when the sun rose, the land heated up and made air currents unpredictable—and dangerous. Raindrops splattered across the windshield of her aircraft, falling from clouds which carried moisture from the humid jungle below. The Apache eased forward, closer and closer to the opening in the lava wall.
“On glide path…”
Compressing her lips, Maya tensed a little, as always. The aircraft was within twenty feet of the Eye. Right now, the wrong wind current, the wrong move with her hands or feet, would crash them into the wall. Easy…easy… She moved the aircraft smoothly through the hole and out over the jungle far below. They were at eight thousand feet now, and Maya eased away from the cliff to allow Dallas’s aircraft to exit in turn.
“Switching to radar to hunt for the bad guys,” Jess called.
“Roger.” Maya looked up briefly. She could see nothing but the thick, white mists all around them. It was dark and the Apaches ran with no lights on them. Their instruments were all they had. “Keep a lookout for Kamovs. I got a bad feeling on this one, Jess.”
“I thought you might. Scanning beginning now…”
Of course, Maya knew that even with their advanced radar, Kamovs had a certain type of paint on their fuselage that absorbed the Apache’s radar signal, so that what little pinged back to the instruments on board was negligible, and therefore unreadable. A Kamov could spot them in fog like this, providing the cloud cover wasn’t too thick, and nail them. Plus, their radar could send out a strong signal through thinner clouds and get an equally strong returning signal back from its target. Right now, they were sitting ducks and Maya knew it.
“We’re out, Saber,” Dallas said.
“Roger,” Maya replied. “Let’s split up, make less of a target of ourselves. Leave a mile between us and head for the meeting point. Keep your eyes and ears open, ladies.”
“Roger that,” Dallas said.
Inching up the throttles, Maya felt the Apache growl more deeply as it rose higher and higher. She wanted out of this cloud cover, to get on top of it so her 360-degree radar could detect and protect them from any lurking intruders. The Apache felt good around her. It was sleek and smooth compared to many other helicopters she’d flown. With a full load of ordnance on board, she felt the lethal power of it as well. At a flick of a switch on her collective, the stick between her legs, she could send a fiery hell to earth in a matter of moments.
As they rose to nine thousand feet, they suddenly popped out of the cloud cover. Above, Maya saw the familiar sight of the Southern Cross. She smiled a little at the peaceful looking stars as they glimmered across the ebony arc above them. And yet here they were in a cat-and-mouse game with killers who’d just as soon see them dead as alive. The incongruity of it all struck her.
The helicopter dipped its nose forward as Maya poured in more power, and they swiftly moved along the top of the ever-moving clouds.
“Beautiful out tonight,” Wild Woman murmured as she scanned her instruments carefully.
“Yeah, it is,” Maya said. “I was just thinking how peaceful it looks up there, above us. And how Faro Valentino probably has his Russian merc pilots in their Kamovs hunting for us right now.”
“Ain’t life a dichotomy?” Jess chuckled.
Scowling, Maya kept moving her head from side to side and looking above her—“rubbernecking,” a term coined by World War II pilots. The Black Sharks were deadly hunters in their own right. When the Soviet Union broke up, Faro Valentino had marched in with his millions, purchased two state-of-the-art Kamovs and hired a cadre of out-of-work Soviet pilots, who liked being paid big bucks to fly cocaine in South America. The pilots were considered mercenaries for hire. And Faro had his pick of the best, waving his drug money under their noses.
Grimly, Maya kept switching her gaze from her instruments to the space around them. Somewhere off to her left was Dallas and the other Apache. Because the gunships were painted black, she could not see them at all. And because of their stealth duties, they ran without outboard lights.
“This time of morning there should be no other aircraft around,” Maya said to Jess.
“Roger that. The civilians are still tucked in their beds, sleeping in Cuzco.”
Chuckling, Maya returned to her duties. She could fly the Apache blind; she knew each movement and each sensation of this stalwart warrior they flew in. The Apache was a killing machine that responded to the most delicate touch. And had a heart that beat strongly within her. The soothing vibration of the engines moved throughout Maya’s body, and to her, it was like a mother holding a child and rocking it; it gave her that sense of completeness and wholeness. The Apache was one of the most marvelous inventions of the air, as far as she was concerned. It had been built by Boeing to protect the pilots, first and foremost, and secondly, to become a sky hunter that had no equal. And it did. The Kamov’s ability to sneak up on them was the one Achilles heel of this magnificent machine. And because of the type of flying they did, it was a constant threat. The Russian mercenary pilots were the cream of the crop, and they were hunters just like Maya. They lived to fly, hunt and kill. There was no difference between her and these pilots except that they were on the wrong side of the law, in Maya’s eyes. Greed ran those pilots. Morals ran her and her people.
Beneath them, Maya knew, there was thick, continuous jungle. She and her teammates had to constantly fly among precipitous peaks covered in greenery. Most of the mountains were at least ten thousand feet high, some higher. Whatever the altitude, flying was not easy and required intense concentration in order not to crash into one of the unseen obstacles. The radar kept the shapes, elevation and height of the mountains on the HUD in front of Maya so that she could fly around them accordingly.
“Hey, look at that red stripe on the eastern horizon,” Jess called out. “Bummer.”
Dawn was coming. Maya scanned the bloodred horizon.
“Think it’s a sign of things to come?” Jess asked.
Maya took the natural world around her seriously. Maybe it was her background with the Jaguar Clan. Or her innate Indian heritage. It didn’t matter. There were signs all around them, all the time. The trick was in reading them correctly. “Damn,” she muttered.
“Black Jaguar One, this is Two. Over.”
Flicking down the button on the collective, Maya answered, “This is Black Jaguar One. Over.”
“See the horizon?”
Mouth quirking, Maya glared at the crimson ribbon. “Yeah, I see it.”
“Not a good sign. Over.”
“No. Keep your eyes peeled, ladies. I’m betting on more company than was originally invited.”
“Roger. Out.”
Jess chuckled. “Wouldn’t those good ole boys from Fort Rucker die laughing if they heard us looking at a red horizon as a sign of a coming Kamov attack?”
Maya knew that there would be radio silence maintained between them and the new Apaches and Blackhawk coming in to meet them. Only once they met would they all switch to another radio frequency to speak for the first time. Ruthlessly grinning, she said, “Yeah, they’re gonna pee in their pants when they start flying with us in those new D models. It will shake up their well-ordered little male world.”
Laughing, Jess said, “Speaking of which…here they come. Got three blips on radar and…” she peered closely at her HUD “…yep, it’s them. It’s showing two Apaches, and a Blackhawk bringing up the rear. What do you know? They can navigate.”
Maya laughed. It broke the tension in her cockpit. “Well, we’ll give them an A for meeting us at the right time and place. Let’s just loiter here until they arrive.”
Placing the Apache in a hover at nine thousand feet, Maya watched her HUD with interest. The radar clearly showed the three aircraft speeding toward them. The lead one was flown by Dane York, no doubt. Her mouth compressed. Maya held on to the anger that she still had toward him. Every woman pilot at her base had had the misfortune of being under his training command. That was why, when the idea for this base came about, they had all left with Maya. They wanted no part of the continuing prejudice they knew would be thrown at them. At least down here they were graded on their abilities, not their sex.
The crimson ribbon on the horizon was expanding minute by minute, staining the retreating blackness of the starlit sky and chasing it away like a gaping, bleeding wound. Maya kept looking around. She could feel the Kamovs lurking somewhere near…but where? All she needed was to have three unarmed gunships jumped by fully loaded Kamov Black Sharks, with only two Apaches standing between them. Her mind raced. If the Kamovs were near, just waiting for the right moment to jump them, she wondered how they had found out the meeting location in the first place? Was there a leak in intelligence? How could Faro Valentino have gotten hold of this information? Maya frowned. Her gaze moved ceaselessly now. Her gut was tightening. She smelled Kamovs. Where? Dammit, where?
“Black Jaguar One, this is Rocky One. Do you read? Over?”
Maya instantly flinched. It was Dane York’s deep, controlling voice rolling in over the headset inside her helmet. Her heart leaped at that moment, beating hard. With fear. Old fear that she had felt at the school so many years ago. Anger quickly snuffed out her reaction. Thumbing the cyclic, she answered, “Rocky One, this is Black Jaguar One. Welcome to our turf.” She grinned recklessly because she wanted to let him know from the get-go that he was on her turf, her base and under her command.
There was a brief silence. Then he answered, “Roger, Black Jaguar One. What are your instructions? Over.”
Her eyes slitted as she saw the three aircraft coming out of the fleeing darkness. They were all painted the mandatory black, with absolutely no insignias on them. Her lips lifted away from her teeth and she said, “We’re worried about Kamovs jumping us. No sign of them yet, but we feel them out there. You know the routine if we’re jumped? Over.”
“Roger, Black Jaguar One. How do you know there’re Kamovs around?”
It was just like York to question her. Maya rolled her eyes. “Major, just accept it as a reality. Over.”
“Roger, Black Jaguar One. We know the routine in case we are attacked. Over.”
“Roger.” At that point Maya, gave them the heading for the base. “Stay above the cloud cover. We’ll be flying about a mile on either side of you. Over.”
“Roger.”
“He hasn’t changed one bit,” Dallas said over their private frequency. “Maybe you oughta tell him you looked into your crystal ball this morning before you got into the Apache, Maya. Tell him you saw Kamovs in your future.” And she giggled.
Maya didn’t think it was funny at all. Already York was trying to assert control over her by questioning her authority and ability. “No, I’d rather tell him the truth—that we’ve got a red sunrise and that means Kamovs are hunting us. Think he’d buy that instead?” Maya heard the other three women laughing hysterically in her headset. The laughter broke the tension among them. They knew from three years of experience that red sunrises were an ominous sign.
The light of day shone dully across the sky. Off to Maya’s left, she saw the three new aircraft flying in a loose formation, staying far enough apart that they couldn’t be hit as a unit by a missile and destroyed. At least York was smart enough not to fly in a tight formation—she’d give him that. Maya could barely make out Dallas’s aircraft, positioned a mile on the other side of the group. They had an hour to go before they reached the base. And an hour would feel like a lifetime when she knew the Kamovs were up and hunting them.
“Break, break!” Dallas called. “We’ve got a visual on a Kamov at eleven o’clock!”
Instantly, Maya thumbed the radio. “Rocky One, hightail it out of here. We’ve got company. Over.”
“Roger. Over and out.”
Maya sucked in a breath and cursed as she saw the long shape of the Black Shark with its coaxial rotors coming down out of the sky toward the fleeing aircraft.
“Damn! Come on, Jess, let’s get with it!” She punched fuel into the Apache engines. The aircraft instantly responded, the motors deepening in sound as they flew toward the attacking Kamov, which was trying to get a bead on one of the escaping U.S. aircraft. Right now, Maya thought, York was probably pissing in his pants over this. He was a combat pilot in a combat aircraft with no ammunition. Nada. And he was probably hotter than a two-dollar pistol about it. She didn’t blame him.
“Whoa!” Jess yelled. “Another Kamov at nine o’clock, starboard!”
That was two of them. Maya thumbed the radio. “Dallas, I’ll take the one at nine. You take the one at eleven. Over.”
“Roger, you got it. Out.” Dallas’s voice was tight with tension.
Maya banked the screaming Apache to the right. She spotted the sleek Russian machine trying to go after the escaping Blackhawk below it. The U.S. aircraft had scattered in three different directions like birds that had been shot at. The Blackhawk had dropped quickly in altitude and was making for the cloud cover. The only problem was that once the Blackhawk entered the clouds, the pilot would have to go on instrumentation in an area he didn’t know, while being pursued by a Kamov pilot who knew this territory like the back of his hand.
“Damn,” Maya whispered. She sent the Apache into a steep dive. The machine screamed and cranked out, the beating pulsations of the rotors thumping through her tense body. Gripping the controls, Maya grimaced, her lips lifting away from her clenched teeth.
“Put a rocket on ’em, Jess.”
“Roger. I got a fix!”
“Fire when ready.”
They were arcing at a steep, banking dive toward the Kamov, which was closing in on the slower Blackhawk. Maya knew the shot would be wide. She hoped it would be close enough to scare off the Kamov. Or at least make him turn and pick on them instead of an unarmed helicopter.
“Fire!” Jess cried.
There was a flash of light from the starboard wing where the rocket launched. Maya followed the trail of the speeding weapon as it careened toward the Kamov.
“Fire two more!”
“Roger. One sec…firing now!”
Two more rockets left the pod on the right wing of the Apache.
Maya watched as all three streaked toward the Kamov. Satisfaction rose in her as the first one dived in front of its nose. The pilot had seemed so intent on pursuing the Blackhawk that he wasn’t aware of them—until now. The problem with the Kamov was that it was a single seater, and the pilot not only had to fly the damn thing, but work all the instruments, as well. That led to attention overload, and Maya was betting the pilot had been so engaged in downing the Blackhawk that he hadn’t had time to check who else might be around.
The Kamov suddenly banked sharply to the left. The other two rockets flew harmlessly past it.
Good. Maya sucked air between her teeth as she pushed the diving Apache to the left now, to follow the fleeing Kamov. In her headset, she could hear Dallas and her copilot talking excitedly back and forth to one another as they engaged the other Kamov. It sounded like they had everything under control.
“We’re going after this son of a bitch,” Maya muttered to Jess. “Hang on.”
The Kamov pilot knew it. In a split second, the gunship suddenly moved skyward in an awesome display of power and agility. It was trying to do an inside loop over Maya’s Apache so that it would come down behind her “six” or the rear of her machine and put a rocket into her. The Kamov turned a bloodred color as it arced high into the dawn sky, the twin blades a blur as it rose swiftly and then turned over. Maya knew that few helicopter pilots in the world could accomplish an inside loop. But she was one of them. Gripping the controls, she pushed the power on the Apache to the redline. The engines howled. The machine shuddered like a frothing monster, chasing after its quarry. It shot up well above where the Kamov was making its own maneuver. With a deft twist of her hands and feet, Maya brought the Apache into a tight inside loop. All the while she kept her eyes pinned on the Kamov below her.
Within seconds, the Apache was shrieking into a somersault, the pressure pounding against her body. Breathing hard, Maya felt the sweat coursing down the sides of her face beneath her helmet. The Apache was handling well, the gravity rising as she kept the loop tight.
“I’m going to make that bastard’s day,” she said through gritted teeth. Snapping the Apache out of the loop, she ended up behind the Kamov.
“Jess?” It wasn’t truly a question; it was an order. Her copilot knew what to do: arm a missile and fire at the Kamov.
“I’m on it. Firing one, two…”
Eyes gleaming, Maya watched as rockets on either side of the Apache lit up and sped off toward the Kamov, which was now diving for the cloud cover. They were wild shots, but Maya wanted to let the pilot know that she’d pursue him. It was a ruse, of course, because her first duty was to the three unarmed helicopters.
The Kamov dove into the clouds and raced away. The rockets missed their intended target because of the Kamov’s rapid response.
“I think he’s gone,” Jess said, studying the radar.
Maya blew out a breath of air. Looking above her, she rapidly climbed to gain altitude.
“Black Jaguar Two. What’s your status? Over.”
Dallas came on moments later, her voice tight. “Black Jaguar One, we just routed the second Kamov. He’s heading back north. And you? Over.”
“Same here. Let’s catch up with our unarmed children. Over.”
Dallas’s laugh was tense and explosive. “Yeah, roger that, One. Out.”
Turning the Apache back toward base, Maya didn’t for a moment think that the game with the Kamovs was over, but she kept a sharp lookout as they flew homewards. Adrenaline was making her feel shaky now. It was a common reaction after combat. Wiping her face, Maya saw that the bloodred ribbon along the horizon had turned a deep pink color. Now it looked more beautiful than deadly.
“You think our boys peed their pants yet, Captain?”
Maya chuckled over Jess’s comment. “Well, if they haven’t, they probably thought about it.”
“Helluva welcome to the killing fields,” Dallas intoned.
“Yeah, well, it will put them on warning that this is a hot area and they can expect this anytime, day or night.”
“Probably killed York to have to run. You know how aggressive he is in the air,” Dallas said.
Maya laughed fully. “He probably feels like a coward about now. And gee, he had to leave it to four women to protect his behind. That is probably eating at him more than anything.”
Jess giggled. “Can you imagine his horror that he’s still alive and flying and that we didn’t drop the ball?”
“Yeah, what’s he gonna do,” Dallas said, “when he has to stare us in the face and admit we saved his bacon?”
The laughter felt good to Maya. She knew the let-down after a tense combat situation was necessary. Fortunately, they could talk on a private channel between the two Apaches, so that no one else could pick up their banter. She was sure York would have a hemorrhage if he’d heard them just now. No, it was going to be fun to watch the good ole boys from Fort Rucker get a look-see at the Eye of the Needle. It was going to be even more enjoyable to watch them sweat their way through it for the first time. That made any pilot, no matter how experienced, tense up big time.
“Well, ladies, let’s go home and see these guys pucker up.”
The laughter was raucous.

Chapter 4
Dane York was nervous as he stood aside, watching the all-women crews hurriedly move the three new helicopters into the maw of the huge cave. His heart was still pounding in his chest from barely squeaking through that damned entrance they called the Eye. His other pilots and crew members stood off to one side on the rough rock surface of the lip of the cave, out of the way, tense looks on their faces. Only one person had welcomed them, a woman with short red hair who introduced herself as Chief Warrant Officer Lynn Crown before hurriedly running off to direct the crews as to the placement of the new gunships.
As the clouds around the high lava wall thinned, Dane gazed at the Eye. He heard the approaching Apaches on the other side of it. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he settled his garrison cap on his head and waited. As the morning sun burned off some of the thicker clouds he could see the entrance better. Shaking his head, Dane realized just how tight that aperture really was. How many times a day did Maya fly her Apaches in and out of that thing? What a helluva “needle” to try and thread. Dane wondered how anyone, man or woman, could muster enough brain power and concentration after an exhausting mission to slip through it without nicking the blades of their Apache on the unforgiving lava walls. His admiration for Maya’s pilots rose.
Joe and Craig moved to his side. They all watched as another woman, dressed in an olive-green T-shirt and fatigues, trotted out with red-orange flare sticks in her hands and stood at attention opposite the Eye. One of the Apaches was coming through. The crewmember raised her hands above her head to direct the helicopter into a landing spot once it flew through the opening. Dane’s eyes narrowed as he watched. Though he and his men had crawled through, literally, this first Apache came through like the pilot was on a Sunday drive!
“I’ll be go-to-hell,” Joe gasped in amazement. “That’s some purty flying. Will ya look at that? Whoever the pilot is, she just flew through that opening like it wasn’t there!”
“No kidding,” Craig muttered, scowling.
Dane said nothing, his mouth flattening. The first Apache landed opposite where they stood, on the other side of the massive lava lip. Bruising waves of air buffeted them, kicked up by the rotor blast as the gunship landed. The lip was at least four hundred feet wide and about one-quarter of a mile long, from his estimates. The maw of the gigantic cave was simply mindboggling. Inside the shadowy space, crews were running at full tilt as they positioned the three new helicopters in the maintenance area.
The second Apache flew through smoothly in turn, as if the Eye weren’t there, either. It landed so close to the first one that Dane held his breath momentarily. The punctuation of the rotors pounded the entire area; the wall across the cave opening acted like an echo chamber of huge proportions, until his eardrums hurt from the reverberations. Wind kicked up by the rotor blades slammed like a boxer’s gloves against his body. Still, as Dane watched the two crews hurry toward the Apaches that had just landed, he was critical of everything.
He didn’t think Maya Stevenson could run a squadron. However, from the way the crews worked in almost balletlike precision, that prejudice was blown away, too. As the engines were shut down, the high, ear-piercing whine echoing from the wall began to lessen. The rotors began to slow, and finally came to a stop. Instantly, one crew woman ducked beneath the nose of the first Apache and hooked up the device used to pull it inside. He watched as the left-sided canopies were opened to allow the two pilots from each helicopter to exit.
Morning sunlight shot through the Eye in gold streamers that lit up the murky depths of the cave. Dane ignored the surprised murmurs of his I.P.’s, his gaze fastened ruthlessly upon the two flight crews. Maya Stevenson would be there. His heart squeezed a little in anticipation. What was she like now? Even more sure and confident? More mouthy? He scowled. Why did he have to hold such a grudge against her? If the truth be known, and it wasn’t something he liked to think about often, from the first time he’d met Maya he’d been powerfully drawn to her. But once he’d come up against her willful nature, he’d instantly rejected the primal attraction.
The wisps of clouds thinned. He saw fragments of the constantly moving mist weave through the Eye, then dissipate beneath the rays of equatorial sunlight that was growing stronger by the minute. Dane saw the legs of the returning women pilots as they gathered close to one another behind the carriage of the last Apache. They were probably talking over their fight with the Kamovs. That would be typical of any group of pilots, male or female. Impatience thrummed through him. He wanted to see her. As repelled as he was by the assignment, there was something in him that ached to see Maya once again. That surprised Dane more than anything else. How could he miss someone who had been such a thorn in his side? Challenging him? Confronting him daily as she’d done at school?
The crews hurriedly took the two Apaches farther into the cave, where they would be unseen from the air. When they’d slowly rolled by, Dane saw the four women pilots, helmets tucked beneath their arms, standing in a circle, talking animatedly. One of them, to his surprise, was a blond with red streaks through her hair. What kind of base did Maya run that she’d let one of her pilots look like that?
The women were all heights and body builds, but it was easy to pick out Maya, because at six foot tall, she stood above all of them. The body-hugging black flight suits they wore had no insignias on them. They were long-sleeved despite the heat and humidity. He knew the suits were styled that way because in the event of a fire in the cockpit, the Nomex material would protect them against burns. He saw that Maya wore knee-high, polished black boots, while the others had on regulation flight boots that fit snugly up to their ankles. Maya looked every inch an Amazon warrior—formidable in her own right.
The drift of women’s laughter made him tense. And then he saw Maya lift her head and look directly at him. Dane felt a heated prickle at the base of his neck—a warning—as her eyes settled flatly on him. He was the tallest in his own group, so he would be just as easy to spot as she was. Unconsciously, Dane wrapped his arms across his chest as he locked onto her gaze. At this distance, he couldn’t make out her expression. He could feel the coming confrontation, however. And he saw that a number of crew women were casting furtive looks as if to see when, not if, a fight might break out. The tension was thick. Even he could feel it. Joe and Craig moved restlessly, sensing his unease.
Mouth going dry, Dane watched as the women pilots broke from their huddle and walked toward them. Maya strode with her chin up, her black hair flowing across her proud shoulders, the black helmet beneath her left arm. The other three pilots walked slightly behind her, in a caliper formation. They looked like proud, confident, fierce warriors even though they were women. As they passed through the bright shafts of sunlight, now shining strongly though the Eye, he watched the golden radiance embrace them.
For a moment, Dane thought there was even more light around them. He blinked. Was he seeing things? He must be rattled from being chased by the Kamovs and then having to get through that hole in the wall to land here in the cave. Mouth compressing, he watched as Maya closed the distance between them. There was nothing wasted in her movements. She was tall, graceful and balanced. The chicken plate she wore on her tall, strong body hid most of her attributes. Locking into Maya’s assessing emerald green gaze, he rocked internally from the power of her formidable presence.
She was even more stunning than he could recall. In the four years since she’d left the school where he’d been her I.P., she had grown and matured. Her black hair shone with reddish tones as the sunlight embraced her stalwart form. Her skin was a golden color, her cheekbones high, that set of glorious, large green eyes framed with thick, black, arching brows. But it was the slight play of a smile, one corner of her full lips cocked upward, and that slightly dimpled chin and clean jawline, that made him feel momentarily shaky.
The high humidity made her ebony hair curl slightly around her face, neck and shoulders. Still, she could have been a model strutting her elegant beauty down a Paris runway instead of the proficient Apache helicopter pilot she was. The snug-fitting flight suit displayed every inch of her statuesque form. She was big boned and had a lot of firm muscles beneath that material, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat anywhere on her that he could see. She seemed all legs, and slightly short waisted as a result. All Thoroughbred. All woman—a powerful, confident woman such as Dane had never known before now. With the sunlight radiating behind her as she walked toward him, she looked more ethereal than real.
Blinking a couple of times, Dane looked down at the rough black lava cave floor, then snapped his gaze back to her. The corner of her mouth was still cocked. He saw silent laughter in her large green eyes, and he felt his palms becoming sweaty. His heart raced as she closed the gap between them. He felt like they were two consummate warriors, wary and distrustful and circling one another to try and see the chinks in each other’s armor, their Achilles heel, so that one of them might get the upper hand, and be victorious.
Maya felt laughter bubbling up her long, slender throat as she approached York’s group. The expressions on their faces made her exuberant. All but York had an awed look as they stared open-mouthed at her and her pilots. The men didn’t look angry or challenging. No, they looked all right to her. But Dane York was another matter. Her gaze snapped back to him. Her heart thumped hard in her chest. Her hand tightened momentarily around the black helmet she carried.
He looked older. And more mature. In Maya’s eyes, he’d always been a very handsome man, in a rugged sort of way. He had a square face, a stubborn chin that brooked no argument, a long, finely sculpted nose, eyebrows that slashed straight across the forehead, shading his large, intelligent blue eyes. Eyes that used to cut her to ribbons with just one withering look. Well, that was the past. Maya locked fully on to York’s challenging, icy gaze. He stood with his arms across his chest, his feet spread apart like a boxer ready to take a coming blow. His full lips had thinned into a single line. Those dark brown eyebrows were bunched into a disapproving scowl. There was nothing friendly or compromising about York. His hair was cut military short, a couple of strands out of place along his wrinkled brow. The dark olive green flight suit outlined his taut body. At six feet tall, he had the broadest set of shoulders Maya had ever seen. York was a man who could carry a lot of loads before he broke. And that stubborn chin shouted of his inability to change quickly. Flexible he wasn’t.
Maya came to a halt. So did her women pilots, who created one solid, unbroken line in front of the contingent of men. She snapped off a crisp salute to him.
York returned her salute.
“Welcome to Black Jaguar Base, Major York.”
Dane saw the gleam of laughter lurking in Maya’s eyes as she stood toe-to-toe with him. He admired her chutzpah. Maya knew how to get into a man’s space real fast. She knew she was tall and powerful. Confidence radiated from her like the sun that had embraced her seconds earlier.
“Thank you, Captain Stevenson. I can’t say the welcome was what we’d anticipated.” Dane decided to keep things professional between them at all costs. He saw the glint in Maya’s eyes deepen. Her lips curled upward—just a little. Her husky voice was pleasant and unruffled.
“Get used to it. Around here, we’re on alert twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”
He nodded and dropped into an at-ease position, his hands behind his back. “The report didn’t say that.” Maya stood easily, her booted feet slightly apart. The other women pilots were looking his crew over with critical eyes. He felt as if they were all bugs under a microscope.
“The report,” Maya said crisply, “was meant to be brief and to the point. My X.O., Lieutenant Klein, here—” she motioned toward Dallas, who stood at her right shoulder “—did warn you of possible altercations with druggies once you entered our airspace. And it happened, unfortunately.”
Dane held back a retort. “If you’ll get someone to show my men to their quarters and where we can set up our schooling facility, I’d appreciate it, Captain.”
All business. Okay, that was fine with Maya. It was better than York taking verbal potshots at her pilots. Turning to Dallas, she said, “Take them to their quarters. Feed them. And then have Sergeant Paredes take them to our Quonset hut, where we’ve set up shop for them to teach.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Dallas smiled hugely at the cluster of men in green flight suits. “Gentlemen? If you’ll follow me, I’ll give you a quick tour of our base and get you some quarters.”
York didn’t move as his men left with Dallas. He remained rigidly where he stood. Maya frowned.
“Aren’t you going with them?”
“We need to talk, Captain. Somewhere private. Your office, perhaps?”
Smiling suddenly, Maya got it. Okay, York was going to have it out with her in private. Fine. She turned to her other pilots. “Let’s call it a day, ladies. You all have reports to fill out, plus your collateral duty assignments. Wild Woman, see to it that the crews refuel the Apaches and let’s get them on standby. Any problems, see me.”
Jess came to attention. “Yes, ma’am!” And she turned on her heel and hurried into the cave with the other copilot at her side.
Turning her head, Maya looked at Dane, the ice between them obvious. The sunlight was suddenly shut out as a thick cloud slid silently over the Eye. “Well, Major? You ready?” Her voice was a dangerous rasp, a warning that if he thought she was an easy target in private, he was mistaken. She saw York’s eyes widened momentarily and then become slits. Maya felt him harness his anger.
“Ready whenever you are, Captain,” he said coolly.
Turning, she moved into the cave’s murky depths. Within moments, York was at her shoulder, matching her stride, his profile grim and set. Maya could feel the tension within him. As they walked into the maw, the lights overhead illuminated the way, giving the cave a grayish cast with heavy shadows.
“Let me give you a quick idea of our layout, Major,” she said, gesturing to the right. “Over there is our HQ. My office and all other collateral offices are located in that two-story building. Just ahead of us is the maintenance area for the helicopters. As soon as they land, we get them inside. Faro Valentino always has his Kamovs snooping around. Luckily, we’ve got that lava wall between the cave entrance and the jungle out there. Otherwise, I’m sure he’d have come in here a long time ago and tried to use his rockets or missiles on us. The wall prevents that from happening.”
York looked back at the landing area. “It’s a perfect, natural defense position,” he murmured, awe in his tone. “How thick is that rock?”
“Thick enough to stop radar from getting through it.” Maya grinned wickedly as she gestured toward it. “We got lucky with this place. On the other side of this inactive volcano is an old mining operation and a shaft that connects us to it. There’s no way Faro and his pilots can get access to us. Of course, if we were stupid and left our helicopters out on the landing lip, they might drop a bomb or two, but we don’t give them that kind of an opportunity.”
Dane looked around. He felt a little of the tension ease between them. Seeing the sudden pride and excitement in Maya’s eyes as she talked about her squadron facilities was refreshing to him. So far, she hadn’t lobbed any verbal grenades at him. He was waiting, though. There was too much bad blood between them, and he knew she hadn’t forgotten a thing he’d said or done to her back in flight school. The depths of her emerald eyes were very readable. Or maybe she was deliberately letting him see her myriad emotions.
“I’m going to look forward to checking out your facility, Captain. Seeing it on paper doesn’t do it justice. Seeing it in person…well, frankly, it’s overwhelming. Who would ever think you could get a base like this inside a mountain?”
“It took a year for Navy Seabees and a lot of helicopter flights to bring in everything you see here.” Maya stopped at the door to the two-story metal building. She took off her gloves and stuffed them into the right thigh pocket of her flight uniform. A number of electric golf carts whizzed around the buildings, coming and going in ceaseless activity. They were the workhorses of the facility.
“And you were here that first year?” Dane found it hard to believe.
She straightened and placed her long, spare fingers over the doorknob, her movements full of grace, like a cat’s. “Of course.”
He heard the sting in her husky tone. She opened the door and he followed. They climbed quickly up the metal stairs. Looking around, Dane was once more impressed. There was fluorescent lighting in the ivory-painted hallway. The highly polished white tile floor made it even brighter. He saw a number of doors to offices as they walked by—every one of them open. Women dressed in army-green T-shirts and fatigues were busy inside. There were computer monitors, telephones on the desks—just like any other busy squadron HQ. Only this one was situated inside a cave in a mountain. Blown away by the facility, he felt his respect for Maya inch upward.
“In here,” she said, and stood aside, gesturing for him to enter the open office.
Dane scowled. “You leave your office door open like this all the time?”
She heard the censure in his tone. “Why not? Who’s going to come in here and steal top secret info? One of my people?” She laughed.
“Still,” Dane said stubbornly, “it’s not a good policy.”
Snorting, Maya followed him into the office. She turned and shut the door. The tension between them was there again. Placing her helmet on a nearby table, she shrugged out of her chicken plate and hung it up on a wall hook. Ruffling her hair with her fingers, she moved around her metal desk, which looked like a disaster had hit it, and went to the coffeemaker sitting on a makeshift table behind it.

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