From the comfort of his porch, J.T. watched Bo's Jeep inch down the street, hesitate at the stop sign for opposing traffic. The white cast gleamed in the sun, stark, but not as harsh as the metal rods that had poked from his skin during the early days of reconstructive surgery after their release.>"Whatever." Bo's fingers continued to stretch, crook, stretch, crook until the strain lines erased from around the corners of his mouth. The old Bo slid back into place as smoothly as his smile. "Nikki sure has grown—"
"Watch it, sir," J.T. growled. "That's my daughter you're talking about."
Bo swallowed his laugh. "Damn, but the old master sergeants know how to make 'sir' sound like an insult."
"Then I guess we're even for the old comment."
"Guess so."
Tension eased from his spine. "If you're thinking you owe me something, pay me back by keeping away from my daughter."
"You can relax. Just yanking your chain. Jesus, man, you've got hot buttons so big, it's tough not to push 'em sometimes. No worries, though. I want to keep my other hand out of a cast for a while anyhow, only just got the damn thing off. As fun as it was having those nurses feed me, give me sponge baths…" His baby blues twinkled with devilish intent. "Well, eventually I gotta act, and two casts can get in the way."
"Just so you're not acting with my daughter. She's still a kid in a lot of ways. I want her to have the chance to stay that way a while longer."
"Life has a way of throwing curves fast enough."
J.T. sure as hell agreed, but hadn't expected a heavy comment from the carefree lieutenant. Bo Rokowsky had a rep around the squadron. Never serious. Edgy. Great set of flying hands, but reckless.
As much as J.T. respected restraint, a part of him grieved to see that free spirit stomped out of the young man. Only four or five years older than Nikki in years, but so damn much more in experience now. All the more reason for the copilot to keep his distance. "It's nothing personal. I just don't want any crewdogs sniffing after my baby girl."
Baby girl. What about the new baby? Boy or girl? God willing, healthy.
"Message received about Nikki. I really was just razzing you. Lighten up. I'm totally hung up on my flight attendant."
"This week."
Bo thumped his chest with a fist. "But with my whole heart, dude."
Lightness reestablished. Comfort zone reclaimed. "Well, then, get your sorry ass out of my yard and go call her or something."
"Will do." Bo gripped the steering wheel, fingers poking from the cast while he downshifted gears with his good hand.
He was smiling again, but the new partial cast gleamed white in the afternoon sun. A reminder that hell no, J.T. didn't want his daughter marrying a crewdog like Bo, like himself, just going through the motions since coming home. Both still stuck overseas in their minds…
J.T. flung aside the seat-belt harnesses strapping him into the downed C-17. Through the windscreen, desert, scrubs, jagged peaks, dunes sprawled ahead, offering minimal options for hiding after an emergency landing in potentially hostile territory.
But no sign of rebels or troops yet, either.
Tearing off his headset, he looked to the copilot, Bo, for the prepared evasion plan. Different stages of the mission called for different contingencies to escape until pickup by rescue forces. Forces hopefully already en route.
Bo cinched his survival vest tighter. "We'll run to the right, north, toward the outcropping. Haul ass until we drop. Put distance between us and the plane."
Then they would set up a rescue signal. And pray. "Roger." The affirmation echoed in triplicate from the other crew members.
Scorch, the aircraft commander, cleared his seat and headed out first, followed by Spike—the faux-loadmaster, their undercover OSI special agent and personal time bomb.
J.T. tucked into the narrow stairwell behind Spike, down into the belly of the craft, popped the side hatch. Critical seconds ticked away. His heartbeat ticked faster, louder. His boots pounded down the metal steps. Still no sign of anybody.
One after the other, four pairs of boots landed on hard-packed desert, already sprinting, each man taking only what he carried in the survival vest. A knife. A pistol. Piss-poor protection against the elements and the enemy.
Fear pounded through him as hard as his heart and running steps. Only an idiot wouldn't be scared. And only a bigger idiot would let it immobilize him.
Sun baked his back, his head, his brain. Rays reflected off sand, even February hot as hell during the day here. If they could only buy enough time for a U.S. rescue chopper to locate them…
Grounding in training, he reviewed the facts on his ISOPREP card—isolated personnel report on file. The ISOPREP gave answers to questions a rescue crew would ask over the radio to positively ID them, to confirm the chopper wasn't being led into a trap.
Questions.