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It was three a.m. as the Little Bird helicopter bucked its way through the early October storm, Lieutenant Mick The Mighty Dozer Quinn wasn’t worried—it wasn’t that much of a storm.
Especially not by Gulf of Alaska standards.
But it did think that slapping their helicopter Linda about the sky was good sport, and that was making him work for it. It churned enough salt into the air that inside the cabin smelled like being home. The air was unique in the Gulf: salt, air fresh off the tundra, moisture whipped so hard it tasted alive—he’d missed it to the core of his soul.
Thirty, twenty, and two.
Thirty-knot winds—thirty-five miles-an-hour to landlubbers. Twenty-foot waves—not even enough to slow down his family’s commercial crabbing operation. And two miles visibility—if it hadn’t been the middle of the night. The storm they were flying into would soon cut that to thirty, twenty, and thirty yards.
As usual, the Aleutian Islands were wrapped in crappy weather and ice-cold water that always found a way down the back of his neck. He didn’t miss that, but he still missed working on one of the family’s boats—occasionally. Like, when he wasn’t flying his helicopter.
“This is nuts! Like way worse than even cashews or walnuts.”
The storm was, however, pissing off his copilot. Ready to take on Mother Nature womano-a-womano, Chief Warrant Officer Patty Boston O’Donoghue snarled at her opponent through the windscreen. Patty was always on the attack and she’d be immensely irritating if she wasn’t so funny about it. And so damned competent.
“It’s—squall line in a hundred yards—doing this to spite us,” she fed him critical information slipstreamed in tight with her grousing.
As far as he knew, he was still the only one who could extract the critical details from her flow when she was on a roll. Of course, they worked very closely together.
Their Little Bird helicopter was the smallest manned rotorcraft in the US military’s arsenal. It fit two and only two people, and it was a good thing that Patty wasn’t as wide-shouldered as he was or they’d be crammed in the tiny helo’s side-by-side seats. Though she wasn’t a slip of a thing either; just right, he supposed, for a sassy, kick-butts-now-and-take-names-later Army aviator.
The rear seat could have held two more people. Except the Linda was the attack version of the Little Bird—which was why he’d named her for Linda Hamilton in Terminator II. The back seat had been replaced by large ammunition cans with feed belts running out to the guns mounted to either side of the fuselage. Like Sarah Connor, their helicopter was trim and dangerous as all hell.
“It isn’t nuts. I used to work on the Alaskan crab boats,” Mick nodded down at the roiling sea fifty feet below them. “My family’s probably out there working right now.”
“Big whoop, Quinn. I worked the boats on the Grand Banks outta Gloucester.” Then she laughed, “No wonder”—it came out one-de; her accent always cracked him up—“we went Ah-mee. Still say this hee-ah mission is nuts.” The accent that JFK imitators had turned into a national joke was apparently still alive and well in Patty’s corner of the country.
The reasons he’d gone Army had nothing to do with the sea. Or maybe everything to do with the sea, but not in the way Patty meant.
“I mean seriously nuts,” she waved a hand at the rain-swept darkness ahead then cycled through checking all the helo’s systems again. “Five percent falloff in power due to the damp air. Compensating fuel flow.”
“Damp air?” They had plunged into the leading edge of the storm with a sharp slap. Rain now pounded against their windscreen as they hustled along at a hundred and fifty miles an hour. They’d mounted the doors, rarely used on the Little Bird, which emphasized the small size of the cabin. The pounding rain and engine noise vied for which could be louder.
“Barely worth pulling on a sou’wester for, Quinn.”
“This mission is no nuttier than you, Boston.” Much to his copilot’s irritation, their commander’s nicknames stuck and stuck hard. When Major Pete Napier tagged a grunt, it stuck even harder than those of his second-in-command, Captain Danielle Delacroix. Danielle’s previous tag for her had been Irish Patty but Napier had changed that to Boston. All of Patty’s protests that she was from Gloucester were dismissed out of hand. Mick saw no reason to ease up on her simply because they’d flown together for two years of training and the three months since.