Hamilton stood there thinking through his options over her insult. The noise around them was a dull, constant roar. Doctors were yelling orders, orderlies were scrambling and nurses were hurrying at optimum speed as more injured were being brought in through the doors. Rachel was pale. She sat there coughing, her long, beautiful fingers pressed against her slender throat. Some of his anger over the insult dissolved. Without a word, he turned on his booted heel and left.
Rachel continued to cough. Relief sped through her as Hamilton exited. She watched him stalk angrily out of the dispensary, shoving the door open. It slammed against the building, he was that furious. Grabbing the glass, she poured water into it from a nearby container. She gulped the cooling liquid down her raw, burning throat and closed her eyes. She felt guilty. She shouldn’t have, but she did. That bastard deserved every bit of hatred she had stored up within her. She opened her eyes and set the empty glass back on the stand.
“Captain, are you ready to leave?” A nurse with the name tag Morayta, L. came in. She had long, brown hair wrapped up in a knot behind her head, a stethoscope hanging around her neck. She had large, brown eyes that sparkled as she drew near.
“More than you could ever know,” Rachel muttered. She had seen Lauren Morayta over at the chow hall from time to time. “You got my orders cut?”
Laughing, Lauren said, “I do.” She scribbled her name on a piece of paper on her clipboard. “Dr. Henson wants to see you in three days. By then—” she turned to look around at the busy place “—we should be back to normal.”
Taking the folded piece of paper, Rachel thanked her. “How many died in this attack?”
Lauren’s smile disappeared. “Three so far. All burn casualties.” She patted Rachel’s hand. “You were the lucky one. The doctor wants you to rest for seven days.”
Rachel didn’t feel lucky. She slid off the gurney, thanked the petite nurse and walked out of the chaotic dispensary. Outside, she gratefully breathed in the hot August air. Turning, Rachel walked back to her Black Jaguar Squadron headquarters. There was no way she was resting now. Black, oily smoke hung over the base like a funeral pall. Rachel could hear the roar of fire trucks over in the Ops area. She wondered if they needed help.
As she entered the busy tent, Rachel noticed how every office clerk was frantic and busy. Women were running here and there. It was an intense energy in the place as she stood just inside the door. To her relief, Rachel spotted her copilot, blond-haired Lieutenant Susan Cameron.
“Susan!” she called, hurrying over to her desk. “Are you okay?”
“Hey, Rachel. Yes, I am.” She came around the desk and gave Rachel a hug of welcome. “Are you all right? I was in Ops when the attack came. I got the hell out of there and tried to find you. I never could. And then we got word from the clinic that you had suffered smoke inhalation but were going to be fine. I stayed here because they really needed me.” Susan released her, relief in her gray eyes.
Rachel smiled. “It’s going to take more than smoke to keep me down. Is anyone else from our squadron injured?”
“No. We’re fine. Major Dallas Klein is going crazy, though.”
“Why?”
“Because we’ve lost two Apaches.”
“That sucks.”
Shaking her head, Susan returned to her desk. “The major has her husband on the phone to the Pentagon right now. She’s trying to find replacement Apaches for us. They aren’t easy to find.”
Rachel liked Major Mike Murdoch. He had joined the Army once again when his wife, Dallas, was given the BJS command in Afghanistan. “Well, if anyone can tear some Apaches loose, it’s him.” She rubbed her hands together. “I can hardly wait to get back in the saddle.”
“Right now, we’re two helos short,” Susan murmured, worried. She sat down and pulled a pen from the pocket of her flight uniform. “I just hope the Pentagon doesn’t screw us with wait time to get replacement Apaches. We keep our reflexes sharp because we’re flying all the time.”
Nodding, Rachel saw Major Klein emerge from her small office at the other end of the huge tent. She appeared grim. And when Dallas spotted her, some of that grimness fled from her expression for a moment. She seemed relieved to see her. The CO walked over.
“How are you, Rachel?” Dallas demanded.
“Fine, ma’am. Just some smoke inhalation. Nothing more.”
“Good, good.” Dallas looked around at the beehive of activity. “Helluva attack.”
Rachel nodded. “Yes, ma’am, it was. The Taliban is really threatened by this base. It won’t be the last time they try to move us out of their territory.”
Dallas put her hands on her hips. She wore her usual one-piece green uniform. The BJS patch, a black jaguar snarling, was attached with Velcro on the left upper arm. The American flag was sewn on the left front of her uniform along with her last name. Embroidered yellow wings denoted she was an Apache pilot. “They screwed us royal, this time,” she muttered, looking down at Susan and then over at Rachel. “They’ve never hit Apaches before.”
“They got lucky,” Susan said, lifting her head from her paperwork. “Before, they always lobbed grenades at the airstrip.”
“Well,” Rachel said, frowning, “they timed their attack better. We’d just landed and rolled to a stop in front of Ops. We use evasive tactics, change our flight path every day, but they got lucky this time.”
“Unfortunately,” Dallas agreed. “And I’ve got some bad news for you.”
Rachel blinked. Her CO appeared grim. “Ma’am?” What on earth could this be about?
Susan looked up, surprise written on her face.
Dallas said in a low voice, “Major Murdoch just got off the phone with the Pentagon. He talked to Colonel Maya Stevens to see if we could get replacement Apaches for the two we just lost.” Her thin brows fell. “We aren’t getting replacements. All the new Apaches coming off Boeing’s line are going directly to the Helmand Province in the south where all the action’s at right now.”
“But, ma’am, surely there are two somewhere,” Rachel stammered, her mind spinning. If not, then she would be flying once a week. They were pilot rich right now, but with the loss of two birds, that would drastically change the pilot rotation.
“Tell me about it,” Dallas griped. “What it comes down to is this—the four pilots who last flew those destroyed Apaches will be transferred out of BJS for six months. Instead, because all of you are CH-47 trained, you’ll be sent to the new, incoming Chinook squadron that just arrived today. They’re pilot poor and in need of more person power. They got the choppers but not enough qualified pilots. You four will fill in the ranks and help them out until we can get the two new Apaches in here.”
“But …” Rachel choked out.
“But nothing,” Dallas snapped. “You four are going to suck it up and do the dirty work.”
“It wasn’t our fault that our Apaches got targeted,” Susan argued, distressed.
Of course, Dallas knew that no gunship pilot wanted to be relegated to a slow-moving, clunky transport helicopter. But it was clear she had no choice in the matter.
“You knew coming over here to our squadron that you could pull duty in the Chinooks. Now, you will.” She turned to Rachel. “And you’re on seven days’ sick leave. That will give you plenty of time to refresh your knowledge