Soldier's Christmas (Wingmen Warriors 8)

"We're a hundred and fifty meters west of the target, just north of the downed chopper."

Alicia's fist clenched the stick, her eyes glued to the steering commands on the holographic images on her HUD—heads-up display. A hint of a mistake on her part and they would drop the munitions on their own troops.

No more time for questions. The call went up. Put down laser-guided five-hundred-pound GBU-12s— guided bomb units.

Circling the plane over the target, she continued her steady stream of situational awareness updates to Bud. With his head now down in the infrared scope in the back picking out targets, he needed her to keep him updated on the bigger picture. Damn, she hoped the info and her voice were steady.

Rosen put his forward-looking infrared camera on the target, squirting the laser once, locking in the range finder to compute a bombing solution. "Give me a right three-sixty. Come back to a heading of zero four zero. Bomb pickle ten seconds after roll out."

Countdown.

Everything else faded, the vibration of engines, blur of sky and trees. Only the target and Bud Rosen's voice, his breathing, remained. She drew on the confidence of this invincible aviator who never once questioned her ability even though there were times on the ground when she seriously doubted her own judgment.

When had their breathing synched up?

Rosen's bass pulsed in her headset. "Laser on. Here comes impact... Weapon impact complete. Looks like a shack."

A direct hit. She bit back her sigh of relief. They weren't through by a long shot.

"All right, Vogue. Bring us back around and line her up again."

Three more go-rounds left. She hoped his confidence in her would hold because she sure as hell appreciated the safety net. "Roger, Bud, coming around...."

"Hey, come around." Josh's voice echoed in her head, dragging her back to the bitterly cold present.

The snow-speckled horizon flickered in front of her face with a large gloved hand waving in front of her.

"Are you with me, Alicia?"

She blinked, the swirling haze so much like the clouds in her windscreen for a confusing second. Odd that she should have that memory now. She could make it on her own without Josh's strength, but she'd always appreciated it, continued to be grateful for it now. "Sure. I'm fine. Totally okay."

"You don't look okay."

"Okay's a relative term here." She planted her feet to combat the urge to sway in the wind like the towering pines.

"This sucks, big time. I'm freezing my butt off. I'm hungry. I'm exhausted. But I can keep going."

"Your skin's waxy." He tugged off an overmitten with his teeth, reaching to touch her face, the rasp of his flight glove a phantom caress to her numb cheek. "You look like hell."

"And your manners stink, Rose-Bud."

Even his light chuckle gusted a hefty white swell. Temps were dropping fast. She needed to hang tough for him.

"Well, I imagine we both probably stink by now and just don't know because the stink is frozen. Regardless, you're still pasty. We need to stop. You will not lose so much as a toe on my watch."

Uh-oh. Overprotective alert. A safety net was all well and good, but not at the cost of his own life.

Death, loss of dreams, loss of trust in happy endings had haunted her holiday season once too often. His, too.

When Josh had told her about the siege at his college, she'd wanted so much to tell him more about her past, but the words wouldn't pry free. Then or now. "My toes are fine. I'm wiggling them inside my boots as we speak and I really don't have the energy to waste arguing. So no, don't bother asking me what my socks and underwear look like."

"Fair enough. As long as you're sure. You're absolutely certain your feet are okay?" He jerked her to a stop, not much effort required on that one. As he leaned forward, his parka hood nearly met hers, sealing off the snowy world. "No faking for my benefit?"

"Damn it, Josh, I am not faking." She stomped her numb feet. "Do you hear me? Why in the world would

I fake anything?"

"You tell me."