Private Maneuvers (Wingmen Warriors 4)

Baker snorted. "Funny."

"What kind of flying they call that?"

"Good," Baker quipped without hesitation. "We're talking real, warrior flying, in case you didn't recognize it when you saw it. The kind that makes lesser men hurl."

"Well, go easy on your wren. Wouldn't want her ralphing up her lunch."

Darcy thumbed the mike button. "Not a chance of that."

Laughter filtered over the headset as the other plane held steady, one of the C-17s from McChord AFB. The Washington squadron had deployed a detachment unit to assist with the relief effort, packing Guam with cargo crewmen. Today Bronco crewed with his old buddy Major Grayson "Cutter" Clark, a dual qualified pilot and flight surgeon.

Crusty tore the wrapper off a Snickers bar with his teeth as he flew. "Guam approach, Reach one-four-five-two, lead aircraft level at twenty-one thousand feet, wingman level at twenty-two thousand. Request one turn around the island before landing."

"Roger, Reach one-four-five-three," the control tower acknowledged. "You are the only traffic in my scope. Cleared for one turn around the island. Call me when ready for landing instructions."

Darcy pitched aside her apple core just as they descended to seven hundred feet for a low-level approach to the island. She enjoyed this part of her job, seeing the world at its best from a primo box seat. Bird's-eye views didn't come any more magnificent than this. Waves crashed in foaming white breakers against the shoreline of the dormant volcano land base.

Crusty was a blast to crew with, fun and edgy in the air, likely a holdover from his test-pilot days. He knew just how far to push performance boundaries for his craft. Like a kid gripping a joystick, he guided the C-17 in a soaring low-level approach that rippled the surf. Transparent water revealed the wreckage of a Japanese freighter below.

Crusty circled around a cove, a speedboat easing into sight. "Well, lookie there." The boat bobbed as a diver hauled himself up the back ladder. Sun glinted off the water as the diver combed his hand through his spiky hair.

"Three guesses as to who that is." Crusty shot Darcy a piercing, curious look. "Hey, you remember the dolphin dude, don't you?"

"Uh-huh." Tough to forget about a guy when she bumped into him every time she turned around. Who'd have thought the island was so flippin' small? Everywhere she went, she felt like someone was three steps behind her.

Crusty waggled the wings in greeting. Max stretched a hand in greeting, bringing his other hand to his mouth. To whistle?

A dolphin exploded from the water, arcing over the bow of the boat, followed quickly by the second. Regret whispered through her over things not meant to be. Worse yet, she'd made things awkward between them so she couldn't even enjoy talking to him about his work.

"Hey, Wren," Crusty said over the headset as he angled into the turn to circle the island. "Do you have anything in there besides apples? Preferably something with lethal fat content."

Darcy pulled her gaze off Max and back to her job. "How about a PBJ?"

"Not chocolate, but it'll do in a pinch."

Why couldn't she have been attracted to Captain Snickers Bar instead? His rumpled good looks garnered a steady supply of women wanting to "fix" him. Smooth his disheveled, coffee-brown hair. Iron his rumpled flight suit. Bring him meals so he didn't die from junk food overload.

Crusty jammed the last half of the candy bar in his mouth. He definitely made a better fling candidate. Except for a few minor problems: she didn't date military men; she wasn't attracted to Crusty.

And she still wanted Max.

Darcy opened her fight bag and pitched aside her checklist. Digging deeper, she shoved through charts, an orange, the gun she'd been issued prior to the first flight to Taiwan because of looting riots after the earthquake. Finally she found the half-mashed peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Pain stabbed her hand. Up her arm.

"Ouch!" She whipped her hand out. A spider scurried across her wrist. A big, ugly spider the size of a small dog—or a half-dollar—latched on. Darcy flicked her hand.

"Holy crap!" Crusty shouted. "What's that?"

She didn't want to think about what it was. She just wanted it the hell off her.

Now.

Darcy grabbed her checklist. A quick swipe sent the spider to the floor. The hairy eight-legged spawn of Satan scuttled toward the rudders.

Toward her feet.

The last thing she needed was that minimonster climbing up her leg during landing. Darcy stomped. Hard. Ground the toe of her boot until spider guts oozed.