Blaze of Glory (3 page)

Sorry,
pal,
but
I
can’t
help
you
out
there.”

Bobby
evened
out
his
pulse
and
stared
through
the
windscreen
at
the
lush
jungle
surrounding
the
field,
so different
from
the
desert
landscape
last
time
he’d
seen
Gracie.

Here
they
were,
together
in
Cantou.
What
a
major
thorn
in
the
U.S.’s
side.
One
minute
the
countries
were best
buds
with
lucrative
trade
agreements.
Then
the
nuclear
weapon
rumors
started,
with
hints
of
terrorist camps
setting
up
in
those
jungles.

However,
nothing
could
be
concealed
in
the
rotting
vegetation
from
this
plane
and
its
infrared
sensors.

Bobby
twisted
in
his
seat
toward
Face.
“No
worries.
I
meant
it
figuratively.
I
guess
a
more
apropos
request would
be
for
you
to
kick
me
in
the
ass.”

“Now
that,
I’m
glad
to
do
anytime.
But,
uh,
is
there
a
particular
reason
for
the
asskicking,
so
I’ll
know
how hard
I
should
apply
my
boot?”

“It’s
not
like
we
were
actually
in
danger,
but
I
probably
was
a
bit
heavyhanded
with
the
maneuvers.”

“Uh,
hello,”
the
flight
engineer,
Shane
“Vegas”
O’Riley
barked
from
the
seat
slightly
behind
and
in
the middle.
“Don’t
the
rest
of
us
get
a
vote
in
this?
I’d
like
to
weigh
in
with
my
opinion.” Bobby
bristled.
“I
had
the
craft
under
control
at
all
times.” Vegas
coughed
once
with
theatrical
flair.
“As
soon
as
I
get
over
my
testicles
thumping
my
ribs
I’m
going
to have
some
words
for
you,
Captain.”

Face
started
running
the
shutdown
checklist.
“So
why
show
off
for
a
bunch
of—
Ah.
It’s
not
just
a
bunch of
support
pukes.
It’s
psyops,
including
Grace
Marie
Lanier.
You
were
showing
off
for
a
woman.” Bobby
unstrapped.
“An
A
plus
for
our
very
own
fucking
Sherlock
Holmes.”

“A
woman?”
Through
the
headset,
rear
gunner
Sandman
chimed
in
from
the
back,
so
named
because
of catching
a
woman’s
eye
and
being
in
her
bed
when
she
woke
up
in
the
morning.
He’d
been
teased
many
a time
at
bars
when
karaoke
renditions
of
the
song
“Mr.
Sandman”
started.
“Well,
why
the
hell
didn’t
you
say so
from
the
start,
sir?
I’d
have
been
applauding.”

Face
finished
running
the
plasticsleaved
checklist.
“Consider
your
hindquarters
safe,
dude.
Any
of
us
would have
done
the
same
for
a
woman.”

Swinging
out
of
his
aircraft
commander’s
seat,
Bobby
made
his
way
toward
the
hatch.
A
lot
rode
on
his flying
right
now
as
Face
came
along
as
an
instructor.
Bobby
hoped
to
soon
complete
his
upgrade
to
aircraft commander,
but
had
to
finish
the
instructor
evaluation
from
Face.

Bobby
winced
as
he
stepped
outside.
He
shouldn’t
be
pulling
crazy
stunts
right
now.

The
world
outside
the
aircraft
filled
with
noise,
screaming
birds
and
monkeys
mingling,
nearly
drowning
out the
standard
flightline
mayhem.
Nearly.
Everything
but
a
tinkling
laugh
he
recognized
immediately,
thanks to
his
ability
to
focus
on
the
one
most
important
detail
in
the
middle
of
a
cacophony
of
stimuli.

Gracie’s
laugh
definitely
took
priority.

His
eyes
followed
the
path
directed
by
his
ears,
but
he
couldn’t
find
her
in
the
crowd
of
planes
and
troops transported
in
for
this
exercise,
Cantou
soldiers
as
well
with
their
different
colored
braids
and
medals.

He’d
brought
Army
troops
in
the
Special
Ops
CV22.
Gracie
had
come
along
with
the
gear
in
the
cargo plane
for
the
exercise
with
the
Cantou
military.
Both
sides
engaged
in
a
“you
show
me
yours
and
I’ll
show you
mine”
sort
of
deal.

Bobby
stared
at
the
cargo
plane
all
rigged
out
for
the
psyops
unit
that
had
been
sent
along
for
this
lowkey mission.

Grace
Marie
Lanier
was
sitting
inside.
No
big
deal,
since
they
hadn’t
spoken
in
months.
They’d
just
shared
a few
dates
and
an
expected
breakup.
A
smart
breakup.

A
breakup
that
he
needed
to
put
behind
him
once
and
for
all
because
crazy
him
and
uptight
her—oil
and water—did
not
mix.
He
needed
to
get
her
out
of
his
head
and
move
on,
the
reason
he’d
begged
his
butt
off to
be
a
part
of
this
weeklong
mission,
only
to
be
surprised
at
how
easily
the
assignment
came
through.

Must
be
fate—laughing
at
him,
no
doubt.

And
yeah,
there
she
was
standing
under
the
wing
of
a
C17
cargo
plane,
sun
kicking
up
sparks
off
braided notches
of
her
champagneblond
hair.
She
could
have
been
one
of
those
WWII
bombshell
poster
girls—

except
in
camo
rather
than
a
red
dress.

Well,
he
liked
life
on
the
edge
and
Gracie
certainly
set
him
on
a
razor’s
edge.
She
stepped
from
under
the wing
toward
the
yawning
opening
at
the
top
of
the
load
ramp.

Gracie.

Here.

Hell.

And
ah…
Nirvana.

THE
HELLISH
HEATcould
have
swallowed
her
ability
to
concentrate,
but
Grace
Marie
forced
her attention
off
the
heat—from
the
weather
and
thoughts
of
Bobby—and
concentrated
on
doing
her
job.
Time to
quit
relying
on
her
buddy
Rodeo.
The
C17
contained
shipping
containers
with
dismantled
satellite
dishes, printing
presses,
comm
gear,
all
packed
in
around
her
unit’s
specialty
van
and
a
Humvee.

A
Humvee
she
would
need
for
a
quick
spin
of
her
own
after
sundown,after
she’d
seen
Bobby.

She’d
realized
after
a
few
dates
that
Bobby
was
crazy
as
a
loon—okay,
not
exactly
a
technical
description given
her
occupation,
but
then
Bobby
had
a
way
of
jumbling
her
intellect.

Like
now,
as
he
filled
the
open
side
hatch.

Dark
glasses
shielded
his
eyes,
not
that
he
let
anyone
peek
inside
even
when
the
shades
were
hooked
on
the collar
of
his
Tshirt.
Nine
months
ago,
he’d
sat
in
that
bus,
knee
jostling,
as
if
he
had
better
places
to
be
than listening
to
one
of
the
toughest
things
she’d
ever
had
to
say.

Not
that
she
wanted
to
admit
how
difficult
it
had
been
to
break
up,
but
she
refused
to
participate
in
unhealthy relationships.
Of
course,
his
insanely
impulsive
and
dangerous
save
had
wowed
her
and
scared
the
pants
off her
all
at
once.

He
jogged
down
the
side
steps
and
out
onto
the
cement.
His
jetblack
hair
radiated
heat
as
much
from
the man
as
from
the
broiling
sun
overhead.
Her
hands
clenched
against
the
remembered
texture,
thick,
soft,
with a
hint
of
curl
sneaking
around
her
fingers,
insidiously
tempting
her
through
temptation
to
throw
away
reason.

Grace
Marie
pivoted
away.
She
couldn’t
do
this
now,
when
her
emotions
were
too
close
to
the
surface, worrying
that
her
unstable
father
had
gotten
himself
into
Godonlyknows
what
kind
of
trouble.

Derek
stepped
closer,
shadows
darkening
his
chocolatebrown
eyes.
“You
okay,
Grace
Marie?”

“I
have
to
be.”
She
donned
her
Army
stance
again
like
a
rigid
armor.
“Let’s
check
the
unloading
of
the printers.”

Printers
that
would
flood
the
area
with
leaflets,
propaganda,
anything
to
educate
the
other
side.
Hmm…

maybe
she
should
compose
a
few
of
those
educational
dialogues
for
herself
when
it
came
to
Bobby.

BOBBY
LEThis
dumbass
feet
keep
carrying
him
right
toward
Nirvana.

Lord,
that
woman
was
hot
and
smart
and
had
he
mentioned
hot?
He
could
get
off
on
listening
to
her
recite theFarmers’
Almanac
as
easily
as
sliding
his
hands
up
her
shirt
to
explore
the
graceful
Gracie
bounty
of
her wellendowed
chest.
No
avoiding
her
now.
Might
as
well
be
straight
up.
He
didn’t
know
how
to
play
life any
other
way,
and
this
was
his
big
chance
to
move
on.

He
stopped
at
the
base
of
the
C17’s
load
ramp,
large
crates
littering
the
runway.
“Lookin’
good,
Gracie.”

“Bobby.”
Her
eyes
went
wide,
then
shuttered
as
the
chatter
around
her
shushed
a
level.
“Captain,
thank
you.

Any
kudos
on
the
equipment
go
to
those
who
work
with
me.”

“Equipment?”
Oh,
he
burned
to
check
out
her
equipment,
all
right,
just
not
the
metalandbolts
kind
packing the
hold.

“My
van.
My
computers.”

“Sure.
Awesome
setup
you’ve
got
here.”
He
ran
his
broad
hands
over
the
roughhewn
wood
of
rudimentary packing
crates
on
his
way
over
to
where
Gracie
stood
under
the
wing.
This
woman
had
everything
she needed
to
probe
the
hearts
and
minds
of
the
enemy.

A
man
stepped
closer,
a
big
muscled
man.
The
dude
moved
closer
still
and—shit—had
the
guy
actually
put his
hand
on
her
back?
PDAs
in
uniform
were
a
nono,
for
God’s
sake.
That
spoke
louder
than
if
the
guy
had engaged
in
an
allout
Frenchkiss
howdy.

Who
was
this
guy?
This
big
fella
in
a
flight
suit
with
pilot’s
wings
and
captain’s
bars
standing
mighty
damn close
to
Gracie
with
a
protective
air.

He
couldn’t
miss
the
body
language.

Body
language?

Sheeit.
When
had
he
started
thinking
words
like
“body
language”?
He
was
beginning
to
sound
like
Gracie with
the
psychobabble.
Regardless,
the
dude
was
sending
backoff
vibes
louder
than
the
roar
of
a
jet
engine.

Might
as
well
get
right
to
it.
He
thrust
out
his
hand.
“Bobby
Ruznick—Postal.”

“Derek
Washington—Rodeo.”

They
crushed
each
other’s
hands.
If
he
squeezed
much
harder,
the
Air
Force
would
be
short
two
pilots
for about
six
weeks.
Medical
report?
Cause
of
accident:
Adolescent
posturing
over
a
chick,
like
with
the
showoff
landing.

“You
fly
this
puppy
in?”
Bobby
pointed
to
the
C17
with
a
tail
flash
indicating
it
was
based
out
of Charleston,
South
Carolina.

“That
would
be
me
and
my
crew.”
Rodeo
gestured
with
a
wave.

Even
as
good
as
Bobby
was
at
multitasking,
he
really
didn’t
need
this
woman
and
juvenile
jealousy
right now.
“Looking
forward
to
seeing
you
around
the
club—except
wait,
we’re
all
in
tents,
like
some
Army grunt.”
He
grinned
at
Gracie.
“No
offense.”

“None
taken,
pampered
Air
Force
baby
boy.”

The
guy
beside
her
still
didn’t
move
away.
What
the
hell.
He’d
never
played
it
safe.
“I
meant
it
when
I saidyou
are
looking
good,
Gracie.”

And,
ah,
her
spine
went
so
predictably
straight
he
almost
laughed.
Almost,
because,
well,
that
Rodeo
dude still
had
his
hand
on
her
back
and
he,
the
outcast
Postal,
was
still
toying
in
his
pockets
with
some
freebie leftover
tea
bags
from
his
buds’
inflight
lunches.

Joe
Greco—ever
the
honorable
gentleman—ambled
over
and
hooked
an
arm
around
Bobby’s
neck.
“Do you
want
me
to
gag
him
for
you,
Lieutenant
Lanier?
Or
better
yet,
maybe
I
could
stake
him
down
on
an anthill
in
the
jungle?”

“Tempting,
but
no
need,
thank
you
all
the
same.”
Grace
Marie
smoothed
back
hair
already
perfectly
in
place in
spite
of
the
cranking
temps.
“He
simply
complimented
me—and
my
van.
Nothing
wrong
in
that.” This
woman
always
did
have
a
way
of
surprising
him,
which
he
liked
even
when
he
knew
they
would
make each
other
crazy.
Of
course,
he’d
never
been
good
about
making
smart
choices.
“She
dumped
me,
so
she’s being
kind
now.
She’s
a
nice
lady.”

And
he
so
wasn’t
a
nice
boy.

No
big
deal,
though.
They
would
hang
out
together
for
the
next
week
on
this
lowkey
operation
that
would give
him
a
chance
to
forget
all
about
this
hot,
nice
lady
and
find…

Uh.

His
mind
blanked
on
what
plan
B
might
be.

But
he
had
one
laidback,
quiet
week
to
find
out.

CHAPTER
TWO

Cantou
University

Nuclear
science
retreat

FELICIAFRATARCANGELO
NEEDEDinformation
and
Dr.
Matthias
Lanier
had
the
answers.

She
took
her
time
storing
her
lab
supplies
while
other
younger
students
bustled
out
around
her
at
the
end
of
a brainstorming
session
that
had
run
until
well
after
dark.
A
research
group
of
a
dozen
worked
late
tonight,
so it
shouldn’t
take
long
for
them
to
clear
and
her
to
be
alone
with
Dr.
Lanier.

The
whole
symposium
of
approximately
two
hundred
were
designated
into
research
sections.
Ultimately,
all the
information
would
be
cobbled
together
in
hopes
of
developing
a
cheaper,
hybrid
form
of
nuclear
energy to
provide
power
to
parts
of
Cantou
poverty
stricken
after
a
tsunami.
Honorable.
Good
work.
If
that’s
what everyone
was
really
doing.

Seeing
Dr.
Lanier
hunched
over
his
computer
at
his
desk,
she
could
almost
feel
sorry
for
the
man.
Almost.

He
was
smart,
genius
level,
and
while
he
might
appear
the
stereotypical
absentminded
professor,
she’d learned
long
ago
not
to
trust
any
facade.

After
all,
she
wasn’t
who
she
appeared,
either.

The
other
classmates
at
the
science
retreat
thought
she
was
a
disgruntled
new
divorcée
returning
to
finish
her higher
education,
most
recently
through
a
studentexchange
program
between
the
U.S.
and
Cantou.
In actuality,
she’d
completed
her
bachelor’s
degree
and
two
more
postgraduate
degrees
in
nuclear
physics
and microbiology
well
over
ten
years
ago.

She
enjoyed
the
whole
Mata
Hari
notion
after
so
many
years
as
a
bedridden
bald
teen,
a
slave
to
doctors, meds
and
pain.
Germs
had
been
her
worst
enemy,
an
everlurking
lethal
threat
that
left
her
with
nothing
but books
for
friends
for
nearly
two
years.
An
eternity
to
a
teenager
back
then
who’d
suddenly
yearned
for
even the
confines
of
the
Catholicschool
education
she’d
once
griped
about
regularly.

Now,
she
enjoyed
her
health,
and
yes,
her
sexuality.
Men
checked
her
out,
wanted
her,
and
she
liked
it.
She really
liked
it,
especially
after
the
way
her
exhusband
had
made
her
feel
like
a
driedup
prune
because
she couldn’t
have
kids.
The
clothes
also
happened
to
give
her
confidence
as
well
as
offer
a
great
diversion.
No one
ever
suspected
a
ditz
like
her
could
be
ferreting
out
secrets.

Although
she
had
a
slight
caveat
to
that.
All
men
checked
her
out
except
this
one.

Evidence
indicated
Matthias
was
straight.
He’d
been
married—at
eighteen
no
less.
He
and
his
wife
had
a

“preemie”
daughter
born
six
months
after
the
“I
do,”
then
completed
his
divorce
when
the
girl
was
four.

From
beside
her
desk
across
the
room
from
him,
she
shifted
from
one
stiletto
heel
to
the
other,
flipping
her thick
black
hair
over
her
shoulder.
The
wild
curls
had
grown
in
after
radiation.

Just
flick
the
hair
again
and
wait…wait…

No
reaction.
Sheesh.
So
what
was
wrong
with
her?
She
might
be
pushing
forty
but
she
still
turned
heads, apparently
just
not
this
guy’s
head,
and
that
miffed
her
more
than
a
little
for
some
odd
reason.

Her
cover
as
a
newly
divorced
woman
set
on
stretching
her
academic
wings
put
her
close
enough
to
his
age range
that
he
shouldn’t
be
totally
condescending.
His
file
indicated
he
was
fortyfour
to
her
thirtyeight.

“Dr.
Lanier?”

He
flipped
a
page,
frowned,
glanced
at
the
computer
screen
and
back
down
again.
Seemed
like
he
looked everywhere
but
ather.

“Dr.
Lanier,”
she
called,
hitching
her
purse
up
on
her
shoulder,
a
purse
made
of
overlarge
sequins
that shimmered
and
jingled
softly
with
her
every
move.

Still
he
didn’t
so
much
as
peek
up
from
his
work.