Thank God Rodeo took the hint, not that he really had a choice as the junior crew member. He twisted in his seat, reaching for a chart. "I'll have the answer for ya in a second."
"A second isn't good enough. You should already know at any given time." He always needed a lock on the best place to land and evade until pickup. Even in "safe" Rubistan, local tribes could still nab them first. "And, Rodeo, the answer is Thumrait. We'd land there."
If only the answers with Monica were as easy to calculate. >Monica waved her sister by without answering. Yasmine walked past, so damned quietly it was spooky sometimes. The tail end of her turquoise scarf fluttered gently.
Memories, unwelcome but persistent, nudged through of Yasmine as a child running down the airplane gangplank, whipping off her scarf and trailing it behind her like a kite.
"Yasmine?"
Her half sister turned. Waited. The scarf settled along with memories. "Yes?"
"I want to believe you about why you're here. Really I do." God, she was already in danger of losing one sister and Sydney would tell her to be kinder. Of course, Sydney always had been the bleeding heart in their family. "But I don't want it bad enough to close my eyes."
"Is that supposed to frighten me?''
Regret nicked that walls were so high between them. Yet as much as she wished they could be closer, wished they could cry together for Sydney, Monica couldn't risk doing anything that might expose the rescue mission. "It's not like we have that much history for some deep bond or sisterly trust. I don't know you. You don't know me. As long as you're straight up, there's not a problem."
Yasmine tucked the bag and shirt closer to her chest. "I guess that means I will not be bunking at your place when I get to the United States."
A scary thought. Regret scratched deeper. "Did you plan to?"
"No. After I arrive, I will call Sydney." Yasmine turned and left, scarf fluttering defiantly behind her.
Monica accepted the emotional stab delivered with Sydney's name as a reminder of priorities. And dealing with emotional baggage from Yasmine just couldn't be a priority with life-and-death stakes in the balance.
Blake drew heavy hits off the oxygen mask plugged into the C-17 cruising at high altitude out over the gulf. Chuted up and ready to roll, he regulated his breathing in time with the steady drone of engines. His fifteen SEAL buddies sat in file beside him.
Red lights bathed the metal tunnel with a hellish glow. Figures blotted the image. Dark. Moldy. Like in the countless caves in Afghanistan where he'd worked SSE—sensitive site exploitation. Then the endless tunnels under Baghdad. Constant risk of cave-ins and booby traps whittled away at nerves until a man finally figured out how to shut down feeling altogether.
A skill he longed for now.
The metal walls threatened to close in on him, to fill his brain and nose with cobwebs until it shut off air. He forced oxygen in. Out. Routine.
How many times had he done this? Flown in countless cargo holds of C-17s, C-130s, even dropping out of the bomb bay of a B-52 once for a HALO.
Today's agenda: a HAHO—high altitude, high opening, on oxygen while they cruised. Guide the chute for over an hour for a covert insertion. Land a couple miles shy of the terrorist compound.
He breathed. In. Out. Always remembering their axiom.
Quitting is not an option.
His head fell back and he stared up at the tangle of cables and wires tracking the ceiling. If only he could recapture the numbness. Instead, memories stalked him, slipping past his defenses...
He didn't want much from the afternoon at Virginia Beach. Some beer. Sun. Maybe luck into a woman's smile directed his way.
After five months of no sex, no alcohol and a belly full of MREs mixed with SSE cave crawling in Afghanistan, he was due a little R and R during his two weeks of leave. And Virginia Beach's annual Neptune Festival seemed the perfect place to start.
Weaving through the crush of tourists at the outdoor booths, Blake walked silently alongside two of his team buddies while Carlos talked and scoped babes in bikinis. Silence suited him fine. Alwayshad. Sometimes he and his uncle could go days without saying a word during the summer. Work on the farm. Eat. Read. Go to sleep.
No need for conversation.
Sex, on the other hand. He sure as hell wouldn't mind some of that in the near future.
Twins with matching belly button rings glided by on Rollerblades. Hoo-ya.
And apparently, from his buddies' conversation, they wouldn't 't mind, either—both recently divorced. Military deployments wreaked hell on relationships. A guy was better off not expecting the sex to turn into anything more, only to find out he'd been dumped while deployed and didn't even know it until port call.
He wasn't in a hurry to settle down, and when he did it would be for keeps. White picket fence, wife, kids, a forever haven.