"Ah, so the two of you just hung out and chatted about old times in that room all by yourselves with a big ole bed."
Sadly, yes. "She wanted on this flight for obvious reasons regarding her sister. Was pissed at me for not including her." Understatement. "End of story."
Humor faded from Rodeo's eyes. "Hey, man, that blows. No wonder you're cranky as hell. You know what? Why wait till the Braves' game to party? I've got a line on this great club in Germany, positively crawling with pilot groupies who can't wait to climb all over a guy in a flight suit. We'll be stopping over on our way back for at least a couple of days."
"No thanks." Depending on how things shook down with Monica, he'd either be a very happy, sated man or ready for a three-day drinking binge— his first since the night after Tina's funeral.
Which said more about Monica's importance in his life than he wanted to admit. He flicked off autopilot. "Rodeo, if you're ready to log some flight time, I'd like to step in back to check in with Colonel Cullen about new satellite feed images on the drop zone."
Rodeo wadded his empty lunch sack. "No problem."
Jack's grip tightened around the stick as he waggled it lightly. "Ready, Rodeo, do you have the jet?"
The copilot wiggled the stick in tandem response to signify control. "Copy, Cobra. I've got the jet."
"Be back in a few." He reached to unplug his headset. Monica's voice echoed again. His hand paused. Her voice swirled around in his ears and head until she might as well have been sitting next to him.
And she wasn't doing anything more than talking with a Ranger medic in one of the other planes about... what?
"Roger that," she answered. "Apply the butterfly bandages and I'll check it out once we land."
Jack thumbed the radio call button. "Budweiser two-five, this is Budweiser two-one. Is there a problem? Over."
Monica's wry laugh cut the airwaves. "No problem, Cobra. A private popped the canister on his gas mask filter and cut his hand. Doesn't sound too bad, though. I'll let you know after I see him. Over."
Over. Yeah, it sure looked that way for them.
The airwaves crackled, Monica-free. Not that it helped. It didn't matter whether she was in his plane, another plane or across the damn ocean. She was in him, with him.
Jack unbuckled and shoved up from his seat. Tucking around and into the stairwell, he gave himself a mental head-thunk. Their showdown after the wedding—once they'd sobered up—had left him positive they were through, certain enough to confirm her appointment with an attorney on the first date they were both scheduled to be back home at Charleston AFB.
Except he wasn't like her, able to segment his life and feelings into neat Ziploc bags or folded packages with clips. He didn't know what the hell he was feeling, except that so much spun inside him along with her voice that he wanted time to let it all settle out.
Boot thuds echoed down the last step, the belly of the plane sprawling, the metal cavern packed full of communications equipment and paratroopers in DCUs—desert camouflage uniforms. He had two weeks with Monica either to figure out what went wrong and fix it so they stood a chance of her being Monica Korba. Or decide how to put Monica Hyatt out of his head.
Clear mind-set. Simple enough.
Except somehow either task seemed tougher to accomplish than dodging antiaircraft fire while offloading a cargo hold of Rangers into a terrorist compound.
Clearing the last step in the aircraft stairwell, Monica stared out the yawning opening as the ramp lowered to unload the paratroopers onto the tarmac in Rubistan. That same widening portal offered a crystal-clear view of Jack's C-17 parked a few yards away. Tip to tail, 174 feet long with 169 feet of wingspan, it dominated the landscape with its impressive power and size much the same way Jack filled her mind.
She ducked through the side hatch to the stairs leading out into the blinding desert sun. A mild blast from the eighty-degree spring day hit her, preferable to the frigid temps of night or sweltering heats of high noon.
Slowly the decrepit airfield came into focus. Oil stains mottled the cracked parking area. Gritty wind howled across the endless expanse of desert and rock with gusts not daunted in the least by the two-story main building. Sand scraped against peeling paint while the sun baked until the color had blurred to nondescript beige with time. Built in the fifties perhaps, the abandoned terminal extended with rusted hangars spoking off to the sides.
Functional.
Gripping the handrail, she descended, feet finally hitting asphalt. She blinked until her eyes finished adjusting. Rubistan, where her sister waited not more than two hundred miles away. Her boots itched to storm the compound now, to save her sister from one more minute of hell. Not wise, of course.
She needed some of Jack's patience. And if that failed her, she'd lose herself in work. She plowed through the press of people. Surely the medivac team monitoring in-processing could use an extra pair of hands. Monica threaded through the crowd streaming from the back of the cargo planes, Army troopers in tan DCUs mixed with crew dogs in desert-tan flight suits.
Jack.
His flight suit might be covering every inch of him, but her memory blazed with the image of him striding away from her. Naked. Muscle and man. Once her man.
Bodies jostled around her in an organized pandemonium of sweat and voices, gear and guns. Problem was, she genuinely liked the guy. How could she not? Funny, hot, too damned courageous for his own good.
If only he could apply his attention to detail in the workplace to a relationship, but in day-to-day life, details rolled over him. Problems? What problems? For Jack, they simply didn't exist. Will it so, smile, and problems took care of themselves. >She'd won. She could see it in his eyes—angry but resigned. Scrubbing his hands over his face, into his hair, he dropped to the foot of the bed.