“We have a while before we land, probably an hour.” Not nearly long enough. “How about you tell me names for the other ones in the helicopter, the ones you’re obviously close to.”
He thumbed her wrist. “Jose ‘Cuervo’ James, self-explanatory. Ironic though, since he doesn’t drink.”
“Oh, and let me guess about the guy that scowls in the corner cleaning his gun all the time, never speaks.”
“Gavin Novak.”
When had she turned sideways in her seat until their feet almost touched? “His must be something dark like Dracula or Darth Vader.”
“Not even close.” A smile flickered, lightening his beard-stubbled face. “We call him Bubbles.”
She laughed. How could she not? “Oh my God, that’s great. Too funny. I never would have pegged you all for much of a sense of humor.”
“We can read and cipher too, ma’am.”
Preconceptions were rude, and unwise. She should remember that. For the first time she questioned how much of her perceptions of the military may have been skewed by her brother’s experience. “What happens if Bubbles wants to change his call sign?”
“For the most part names don’t change. Well, other than Fang, which stands for ‘Fuck, another new guy,’ who keeps that name until a new ‘Fang’ comes in. But back to your question, if someone like Bubbles insists on a new call sign, then we’ll throw a keg party and give him a new name.”
Didn’t sound like much fun for Jose. Then she caught a nuance in Wade’s words. “Give Bubbles a new name? He doesn’t get a say in it?” She held up a hand. “Forget I said that.”
“There are three rules to the call sign system that are universal in the different services and units. Number one, if you don’t have a call sign by the time you’re assigned to your rescue squadron, you will be given one by your pals. Rule number two, you almost certainly will not like it. And rule number three, the most important of all, if you piss and moan about it, we will promptly give you a new call sign that you will hate even more.”
“All righty then. I’m guessing Bubbles has learned to live with it.”
“How would we ever know?” His big shoulders shrugged. “He doesn’t talk.”
She looked at him, really looked at him, sprawled in the airplane seat in his uniform, but cracking jokes to calm her in spite of his obvious reservations about being here. Wade the warrior merged with Wade, the man who cradled her injured dog so carefully.
Wade, the tender lover.
She clasped her other hand on top of his, needing to deepen their connection. “You’re so different than I expected when I first saw you.”
“You’re not what I expected either from a tree-hugging granola girl.”
“Wade…” She leaned across, closer, until a simple jostle of the aircraft would have had her mouth against his. “You’re being so un-PC my teeth hurt.”
His mouth curved at her whispered taunt.
“I could distract you from your pain,” he offered confidently.
“I’ll bet you could.”
“And yet I can’t get you to answer the simplest of questions. How damn ironic is that?”
The sensual thread between them snapped. She saw in his chilly eyes that he hadn’t for a moment lost sight of his focus on finding out more about her life. She’d won her victory by getting on the plane.
Now she owed him the truth once they landed.
***
With the Cessna cruising on autopilot, Brett kept one eye on the darkening sky and the other on the strategically placed mirror that allowed him to monitor the two passengers behind him. He searched the horizon, clearing for other aircraft. With so many seaplanes zipping through the skies, it wasn’t unusual to skip filing a flight plan.
That made his trip easier to hide, but did require extra vigilance piloting. The landscape filled with shadows, the water, the valleys and canyons going pitch-black well ahead of dusk because of the mountains hiding the setting sun.
His eyes dropped back to the instrument panel for a quick check of altitude, air speed, heading. He was organized. In control.
Intercepting Sunny Foster’s email to her brother had been a piece of cake. And Sunny’s email to her brother sure as hell hadn’t gotten through. Setting up this flight was even easier since, like most Alaskans, he had his pilot’s license.