Two minutes out.
Monica's plane approached, dimly visible through the night and approaching sandstorm.
"Runway secure," Colonel Cullen responded. "All clear for them to continue."
The Rangers had taken the airfield and the compound with no fatalities on their side and minimal injuries. Now Monica's plane descended below him, neared the dirt runway, ready to treat the wounded and to assess the freed hostages.
Meanwhile he flew the mobile command post over the airfield. His comm equipment in back on pallets provided radio relay for the short-range information transmitted from the ground. He'd just tool around up here in the sky until the AWACs arrived to take over communications.
All was hunky-dory, right? He'd flown through hotter zones than this. Still he couldn't shake the fear that some Gomer a few miles out with a launcher on his shoulder would pop Monica's plane with a missile. Something even the Rangers couldn't control.
Hell. At least now he acknowledged his fears were a screwed-up backlash from losing Tina. Acknowledging didn't do much for making those demons go away.
Probably for the best that he had at least another twenty-four hours to get his head level before talking to her again. Monica would land and he would leave. No chance for chitchat until the sandstorms passed and she headed back to base. Not that he was a hundred percent certain how he would make up for his obvious omission just before takeoff.
Three important words left unsaid, dumb ass. Damn, but he wanted to thump himself upside his head.
Whoomp.
The plane shuddered. The thump too close on the heels of his thought stunned him silly with confusion before he realized...
Something was seriously wrong.
"What the hell was that?" Rodeo's voice snapped through the headset.
Wind whipped over him. From the side. Tiny holes peppered the plane.
Jack twisted, looked out the windscreen. Found. Flames streaming from his left wing.
The inevitable conclusion nailed him. The Gomer with a missile launcher on his shoulder had hit him instead. And Monica's plane was already descending toward the runway. A pop to her craft would be fatal without the altitude to recover.
Dread pinging over him, he keyed up the private interphone. "Rodeo, we've been hit."
And so have I. Words he held back.
Stunned numbing eased. Reality seared through his skin. Hot. But he couldn't think about that. Later, he'd worry about the shitload of shrapnel lodged in his thigh. Right now, he didn't have the time to waste on extra words.
Anticipation tingled through her. From her jump seat behind Crusty piloting the medivac, Monica watched the dirt runway come closer. Closer. Back wheels touched down, then the nose, buildings sprawling in front of her.
One holding her sister.
Only a few more minutes and she would see Sydney. The hostages were all safe and accounted for, the airfield and compound in American hands. And she had Jack to thank.
They had problems, but they weren't quitters. Some things in life were worth fighting for and she was beginning to trust in herself enough to let down her defenses.
She was finally learning to trust Jack. If only she didn't have to wait so long to start her campaign to get him to expose his feelings to her.
The open-frequency channel crackled. "This is Budweiser two-one, we took a missile in the number two engine."
Jack? His voice echoed over her headset. A buzzing started in her brain. Loud. Like someone let loose a hive of bees. This wasn't supposed to happen. Jack, of the jokes and killer smile, was invincible, damn it, and they all knew it. His cocky arrogance was obnoxious as hell sometimes, but everyone believed in him.
"This plane's pissing gas out all over the place," he continued with more of that calm confidence. "We're gonna have to put her down here. Alpha, is the runway clear?"
"Hold, Budweiser two-one," Colonel Cullen replied over the radio waves. "We have a plane on the active runway—Budweiser two-seven."
Crusty reached for the throttles. "This is Budweiser two-seven. I'll be clear of the active runway in thirty seconds at the south end."
The engine whine increased, almost as deafening as the buzzing in her brain. The plane surged forward to taxi out of the way. A tight turn in the parking area cranked the C-17 around to face the incoming craft.