Joint Forces (8 page)

"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.

The street from his childhood home.

His mother's maiden name.

Rena's first car. A sleek silver blue BMW, where they'd made out. Made a baby.

Damn it. He spit curses out with sand. He couldn't think about her. About being with her.

Run. Harder. Focus on the three most important elements of survival.

Maintain life.

Maintain honor.

Return.

His feet drummed a steady beat across the desert floor in time with everyone's huffing breaths
exhaling more grit-filled curses. Each man's favorite cussword chanted, powered feet faster. His
own favorite of the moment spilled free—just like when baby Chris had parroted it back at him
from his high chair, Rena behind their son, her hand clamped over her mouth to subdue laughter.

Her face, her smile, even her voice so incredible, exotic, different from the monochromatic world
he'd grown up in.

Eyes sparkling, she'd brought more of that light of hers to their tiny apartment filled with babies
and plants. She'd subdued her smile then into a parental reprimand and skirted around to the
front of the high chair to tell their son, "Truck. Your daddy said tr-uck."

Well, he sure as hell was truck, truck, truck on his way as far as he could get across this desert.

God, how long had they been running? Years? Minutes? He didn't dare spare the energy for a
look over the shoulder.

Spike slowed as they neared a clump of brush, a slight swell of dune. Damn pathetic coverage.

The OSI agent stopped, braced his hands on his knees while the others drew up, halted as well.

"Don't think," Spike said between panting exhales, "it's going to get any better than this, guys."

Scorch, as senior-ranking crew member, could disagree. But Spike's counterintelligence
experience, his days deeply undercover during his CIA stint prior to joining the Air Force as a
civilian employee of the OSI, offered weight to his opinion.

And the set of his face told them well this seasoned agent thought their odds sucked no matter
where they hid their asses. But that wouldn't stop them from trying to buy time for the good guys
to get as close as possible.

J.T. dropped to his knees on the desert floor along with the others, scooping out sand, fashioning
a trench behind brush. He dropped flat on his belly beside his crewmates. Sweat soaked his flight
suit, caking sand to his skin.

Silence.

His heart tried to slow to a regular beat, exertion complete. Adrenaline kept him revved. How
long would they wait?

"Damn," Spike whispered. "I'd kill for a ghillie suit right now." Camouflage made of strips of
either desert-colored fabric or jungle hues, the ghillie suit was nearly undetectable to the eye.

Instead, they lay with only the scant cammo of desert tan flight suits, better than their regular
green, at least. The Rubistan government, American troops and local warlords would all have
picked up their landing. Who would arrive first?

The answer came quickly, rumbling from the hazy horizon. Clouds of sand puffed a toxic
premonition before the vehicles cleared into sight.

Vehicles. Not an aircraft. Not Americans.

He swallowed more gritty air. Okay. Rubistan's military? Police? Or local warlord rebels?

The sand swirl parted to reveal … a caravan of crappy jeeps, trucks, RVs. Nothing organized
about their approach to indicate military training. Damn.

J.T. slipped his emergency beacon off his survival vest, dug a hole in the sand. Tossed it inside.

Pitched brush over it. If they were taken, at least rescue troops would have some point of
reference and tracks to follow.

"Keep your head down," Spike instructed. "Don't move. Don't even look at them. With some luck
they'll drive right by us."

Bo whispered out of the side of his mouth, "Unless they have dogs."

"Zip it, sunshine," Scorch interjected. "We can do without the gloom and doom."

The drone of engines increased with the cloud of sand spitting behind the vehicles, drawing closer,
eating up the miles, becoming clearer as they broke through the rippling heat waves. A half-dozen
vehicles, as best he could tell by sneaking peeks through peripheral vision. He couldn't risk
looking at them directly, but God, it felt as if they were right on top of them. Still driving though.

J.T. quit breathing. His heart slammed his ribs until it seemed ready to explode out his ears.

The vehicles jerked to a stop, one after the other. The pounding in his ears stopped as well.

Everything stopped inside him. Stilled.

Maintain life. Maintain honor. Return. Only that mattered. Survival. Returning home.

Voices shouted in Arabic. Movement flickered to the right. At least twenty or so men.

Honor. Life. Return.

Boots appeared in his line of sight. Paused. Stayed. They'd been found. Spit dried inside his mouth.

A shout sounded from above him. J.T. allowed himself to view through peripheral vision. No
direct eye contact. No sudden movements or aggressive action to provoke.

The men looming over them weren't wearing uniforms. Mismatched weapons confirmed his fears.

Russian-made AK-47 assault rifles. M-16s. Uzis. All weaponry of the very sorts of people they'd
been sent to gather intelligence about. Underworld types dealing in opium trade to funnel money
to terrorist camps.

J.T. knew. He was in a crapload of trouble.

His fingers jabbed into the sand as if to anchor himself for what would come next. Their captors
would establish dominance and control from the start, pummel them to obtain information ASAP

to maximize its utility.

He just needed to hold on, stay alive until rescue could come. He stayed on his stomach beside his
three crewmates. Flattened his palms by his head, in the sand.

Keep calm.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw it. The betraying twitch from Bo, just seconds before– ah
hell, don't do it, kid—the young copilot looked up.

Like making eye contact with the stalking lion.

The man over him shouted, stepped on Bo's right hand. Crunching.

J.T. swallowed down bile. Grit his teeth. Struggled for restraint.

Before Bo's echoing curse faded, the rebel raised his AK-47 above his head. Brought the butt
down, fast, hard.

On Bo's other hand.

A strangled scream ripped along the roaring wind. Bo rolled to his side, cradled his mangled
fingers, distorted wrist to his chest with his other abused hand. His face screwed up in agony even
as defiance blazed from his too-young eyes.

Inviting the worst.

The crunch of breaking bones reverberated in J.T.'s brain, breaking something inside him, as well.

He didn't remember making a decision to move, act, intercept. Just flung himself sideways while
those cracking-bone sounds rattled around in his head.

Stupid. Reckless. Useless. But already the rifle was raised to come down on Bo again and J.T.

couldn't stop the man. But he could control the damage.

J.T. shielded his copilot. His comrade in arms. Launched his body between the young soldier and
the shouting rebel. Took a rifle butt to the shoulder. Caught a boot in the ribs.

Focused on the big three. Life. Honor. Returning home…

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.

J.T. held tighter to the wooden railing until splinters cut into his fingers with grounding reminders that he existed in the present. In the States. At home.

Easier said than done.

God, he needed to get his head out of the desert. He told himself Shakespeare had it right again in Othello by asking, "What wound did ever heal but by degrees?"

But he wanted this hell over now. Instead, his brain and his soul were still stuck in that time. Which left him less than half here when more than ever he needed his head on straight to fix his life. Salvage whatever was left of his marriage.

Bo's Jeep, his cast, if not the memories, disappeared around the corner. They'd maintained life throughout their capture. They'd maintained honor until their rescue.

Who'd have thought the toughest part would be figuring out how to return?

R
ena propped her foot on an extra dining-room chair and peered across the sturdy oak table at her family. Everyone was together for the first time since the weekend of J.T.'s return from Rubistan. Even if J.T. was in major brood-mode since he'd come in from seeing Bo off, her heart hungered to hold on to the moment more than her pregnant body craved chicken wings.

And that was mighty damned much.

She'd been so grateful to have him home and alive that nothing else seemed to matter. Not even their split.

She'd met him at the base with their children, never discussing where he would go afterward. Both knew and accepted he would come home instead of returning to the studio apartment he'd leased after she tossed him out.

All through that family dinner months ago, they'd sat together amid balloons and banners and favorite foods. And once the dishes were scraped clean of lamb chops, again there'd been no question but that he would follow her into her room. Their room.

Their bed. Two minutes later, they'd been naked.

Now her eyes met his over the Crock-Pot of chili, the platter of chicken wings and—oh yeah—her husband remembered, too, the night they'd made this baby nestled inside her.

J.T. shot to his feet, grabbed his empty plate and glass before hotfooting it to the kitchen, leaving her at the mercy of more memories.