Night Is Mine (15 page)

The strangest feeling was freedom of motion. No heavy, flame-retardant flight suit. No thirty-pound survival harness and flak armor. No machine gun strapped across her chest with a half dozen ammo clips in her vest’s ammo rack. Flight suit and vest were still in the bag, now tucked in an actual baggage compartment. The only item she’d kept out was her helmet. Well worn from hard use sporting the sword-wielding Pegasus beneath the crescent moon. Silver on a field of sunset purple. And only two words; “Night Stalkers.” It was her single proudest possession.

She’d stroked it once for luck as she did before every flight. And caught General Arnson staring at her intently. Maybe he didn’t like the Night Stalkers. A lot of regular Army didn’t either, she was used to it. Well, she did, and that’s what mattered. Chef or bodyguard or whatever to the First Lady was not her. Night Stalker. That was her.

In moments they were off the wheels and hovering along at three feet as she slid out of the hangar. It wasn’t until she was clear that she spotted the soldier just inside the doors with a small tow cart. She glanced over at the General, but he didn’t make any sign that you weren’t supposed to lift off inside a hangar.

No little tow carts in Forward Ops scenarios. And you didn’t taxi out even if you had wheels because you wanted to be accelerating hard when you first became visible from your hidey-hole, usually a camo net strung between trees, or aluminum poles if you were above tree line.

She kept her three-foot hover and floated across the taxiway. Settled back to the tarmac for a quick run-up and control test before she called the tower for clearance to go. When it came, they went. No radio contact needed once clearance was issued. The tower just wanted to see your tail feathers moving out of their traffic pattern. Fast.

This machine weighed barely a third of her Black Hawk armed and manned for serious havoc, light on her rotors and remarkably responsive. The foot pedal control was practically delicate, more a ballet step than the rock ’n’ roll downbeat of the Huey or the badass hip-hop of the Hawk. They slid out over Chesapeake Bay and, receiving a nod from the General, Emily laid down the hammer.

She climbed, stalled, simulated turbine failures, clawed her across the sky, and even managed to coax the bird through a loop. You never got to fly a DAP Hawk for fun, whereas this machine had been made for nothing but fun.

Not offering a word, the general finally pointed her down the Chesapeake and out toward sea.

The sun glistened off the shining water as if it went on forever, not merely to the shores of Europe and Africa. If she had the fuel, she’d fly straight across and drop in on her unit. Fly some missions, if Major Jerk weren’t such a prick.

First she’d kick his butt around the field for putting her in such a damned awkward spot. Then once more for making her feel as if she were less of a pilot. Then once more for kissing her and screwing with her head.

“My nephew speaks well of you,” General Arnson’s first comment since they’d left the hangar.

After she’d kicked his butt good… An image of Mark Henderson lying back on the sand, looking up at her with those soft gray eyes. Waiting for… something. That smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Traveling up to his amazing eyes. Wanting… something.

“Your nephew, sir?” Emily shook her head for a moment to clear away thoughts of what her body apparently would like to do to Mark Henderson. She definitely didn’t want to talk about that.

And it was a checkout ride after all; she needed to control her chopper and her hormones. But how did he keep sneaking out of her mental footlocker?

“Major Mark Henderson says you are an exceptional pilot.”

The collective actually slipped from her nerveless fingers. The blade angles flattened, and the chopper plunged a couple hundred feet before she regained control.

“Major Henderson? Your nephew?” Was this whole disaster a setup by Henderson? No, that didn’t scan. He’d been furious about her orders.

“He said you were the first pilot, even over his wing commander, he would choose if he had to go in somewhere really nasty. My nephew doesn’t give compliments lightly.”

She opened her mouth. And closed it again. Nothing had come out. She wished she could restart her brain as easily as a turbine engine.

“Major Henderson? He doesn’t give compliments ever.” Her spine felt positively tingly. The major thought she was good? So careful not to compliment the female to avoid showing bias. It fit. Nothing underhanded about it. Emily decided that the compliment was intentional.

“Said you had a real habit of coming back with your bird and your crew intact from really messy places,” the General continued.

Most likely, that meant the kiss was equally intentional.

“I like that in a pilot.”

So did she.

Henry turned out to be Henry Sullivan, now seated in the back of the Bell 430, airborne and bound for New York. A mild-mannered milquetoast of a man in charge of the First Lady’s image. And a very successful man he was. She’d been on the cover of
Time
,
Vogue
, and half a dozen others. Even a nearly nude one on
Vanity
Fair
that had drawn almost as much other press as it had direct sales.

“More covers than the main man himself,” Daniel had informed Emily in his cheerfully conspiratorial whisper before closing them inside the helicopter and trotting back to the White House.

From the White House lawn, it was exactly one hour and seven minutes until Emily landed at the Downtown Manhattan Heliport on the New York City waterfront. Exactly one hour and seven minutes of absolute privacy as Katherine and Henry conferred in the back over the roar of the rotor blades. One hour and seven minutes interrupted by only five radio contacts with air traffic control, each lasting under fifteen seconds. They’d cleared the airspace ahead of her so she had little to do but watch the autopilot.

And think.

Major Mark Henderson had inducted her exactly as she would have initiated an unknown. First as his copilot, then on simple missions, then a series of escalating sorties culminating in more flights to more dangerous places than any other pilot in the squad. Until that last flight, he’d simply grunted and given her the next mission. That’s what made his compliment—“Nice flight, Captain”—stand out so completely.

Emily turned at Staten Island, out over the muddy swirl where the Hudson River met the dark blue of the Atlantic. Air control aimed her for Long Island before turning a dogleg toward Manhattan.

But then Major Henderson had kissed her and changed her personal kiss-rating system completely. Imagine if any of 3rd Company ever heard that Mark had the softest, gentlest, and far away the finest kiss she’d ever enjoyed. Despite the raw steel and fire that lurked so close beneath. Perhaps because of it. It would ruin his reputation. Or maybe not, they were guys after all.

She chatted briefly with Heliport control and they plopped her out at the very end of the pier. Not the greatest amount of courtesy to show the First Lady, but the extra security was fine with Emily.

Two men in black materialized from nowhere to guard the helicopter. Two more escorted Katherine and Henry to a limo. Moments later they were gone to shop in New York’s finest boutiques and salons, and Emily was cooling her heels in one of the dullest air terminals on the planet.

The last thing she wanted to do was mix with a bunch of New York heli-tourists waiting for their fun, oh-isn’t-this-just-so-friggin’-cute helicopter ride to the airport when they could hop on the subway for two bucks instead. And she wasn’t about to mess with the pilot’s lounge where bored corporate geeks with two hundred flights to Hartford, Connecticut, and back thought they were God’s gift to the skies and women.

But there were no books or magazines in her chopper to distract her from Mark thoughts, and it only took her so long to memorize the emergency-procedures manual. This bird might be sleek, but it was far simpler than an Apache or a Black Hawk.

Worst of all, like its more aggressive siblings, the Bell boasted no bathroom.

She’d have to brave the terminal.

Emily was washing her hands when a military woman walked in. No mistaking the stance, despite the pantsuit. The black pantsuit. The woman sized her up in a moment and, after a quick squat to discover that the two stalls were empty, came to rest beside the next washstand over.

“Captain…” she offered after inspecting the lapel of Emily’s dress uniform, “Beale. Assigned to the First Lady’s detail.”

It wasn’t a question, though Emily nodded anyway. And spotted the radio earpiece beneath the woman’s hair.

“Do you have any ID?”

“The blue-and-white Bell 430 helicopter out front with the presidential seal on its nose isn’t sufficient for you?”

Not a hint of a smile. Blacksuits. Emily slipped her White House photo ID from a breast pocket and handed it over.

After a moment’s close inspection, it was returned. One more scan of the room, this time actually popping the stall doors in case someone was squatting on the toilet in her high heels totting an Uzi, and the woman was gone with as little fanfare as she’d arrived.

Emily followed her out into the terminal’s waiting room. It was too early for the First Lady to be back unless something had gone wrong.

Clusters of plastic chairs with minimal padding were bolted in neat groups of a dozen. Twice that number of blacksuits where circulating as she became aware of the noise.

Despite the double sets of doors and obvious sound insulation, nothing disguised the heavy, four-blade hammer beat of the Sikorsky Black Hawk. Moments later, through the glass doors, Emily watched the VH-60N White Hawk, painted the white and moldy-bread green of Marine One, land in the center of the pier. A half-dozen dress Marines materialized as if teleported and surrounded the aircraft. Maybe they’d sprung up directly from the tarmac where they’d been stored years before awaiting this very moment. One opened the passenger door and folded down the two stairs. President Matthews stepped onto the landing pier.

Even through the double doors he looked tall, powerful, in control. He cast a quick glance at the blue-and-white Bell copter.

His face remained unreadable through the glass doors, though he turned again to inspect the craft. Well, Emily guessed it was unreadable to anyone else, but she knew him far too well. President Peter Matthews was not happy to see his wife’s transport perched on the pier overlooking the East River.

Didn’t he like his wife coming to New York?

Maybe she herself was his problem. Was he unhappy about her dropping Frank Adams? Maybe he regretted asking her to come and wished her back in her far-away desert. Well, she couldn’t agree more. If she was quick, she could blend back into the women’s restroom with no one the wiser.

But she’d hesitated too long.

As soon as he entered the terminal, Marine One hammered back into the sky. Good pilot, she judged by the takeoff. Not SOAR, but good. Gone off to hide somewhere more secure until needed. A phalanx of blacksuits was keeping everyone back as Peter and Chief of Staff Ray Stevens moved through the center of the terminal.

“Emily?” He stopped right in front of her. His foul expression slid slowly toward a smile. A real one. So, at least she wasn’t the issue. But that meant that the First Lady was. Which made no sense at all.

“What are you doing in New York?”

“I, uh…”
Breathe, Emily, just breathe.
“Flew up on the First Lady. Flew up the First Lady on…” She blew out an exasperated breath. “I know how to fly, but you knew that. Just not how to talk.”

He laughed. An easy, friendly, old pal’s laugh that melted her insides several stages closer to normal.

“Ray, you go on and see the guys at IndieTech. Tell them that they have until Thursday if they want to be listened to. Make sure they get that loud and clear before you leave. 12:01 a.m. on Friday and they’re out and we’ll broker the Internet-2 without them. I’ll be at the U.N. for about three hours. If you’re back in time, you can join me. Otherwise you’re stuck on the commuter train.”

“I’ll be here.” The Chief of Staff waved and moved off. Just two agents followed him. The rest remained in a loose circle and watched the tourists who gawked and snapped photos.

“If the First Lady is shopping, she’ll be hours. Come with me.”

“With…” But he’d already moved off. “…you?”

When he realized she wasn’t with him, he turned and smiled back at her. “C’mon, Em. It’ll be fun.”

Last time he’d said that had been the night before he went off to Yale. And it had been. Though she doubted today’s expedition would include root-beer floats for two on the Mall while sitting on the grass across from the White House. He assuredly feeling the big brother and she the twelve-year old girl with the hopeless crush.

That night Peter had talked of dreams. Dreams of serving his country. Dreams of working in the White House. Little knowing he’d sit behind the Roosevelt desk rather than stand in front of it. Or maybe he did know.

That night was the first time that she’d thought of the larger world about her. It was the night she knew her crush was never going anywhere and that she was always going to be too young to do anything about it.