BOOKER’S MISSION

Thirteen months ago…

“If I’d known you were flying us in, Booker, I would have let that tango shoot me in the ass, the other night.”

Captain Booker Hayes shook his head as the voice boomed behind him, the familiarity of it easing the restless twinge in his gut that had taken root the moment he’d been called in. The same sensation that had been saving his butt for the past fifteen years as part of the Flight Concepts Division, affectionately once called Seaspray. The guys who ferried Black Ops wherever they needed to go. Usually in the dead of night behind enemy lines, and often under fire, but… Booker tried to live by the old adage that if he wasn’t living on the edge, he was just taking up space.

A motto, his buddy, Wyatt Bixby, also subscribed to. Though, the man took it to the next level as a seasoned Navy SEAL, and the one person who was bound to be Booker’s pain in the ass this trip. Though, that was likely because he was also Booker’s best friend.

Booker glanced over his shoulder, exaggerating his sigh as he thumbed at Gunnar Nielsen walking past. “Thinking Gunn’s the real reason that didn’t happen.”

Wyatt placed his hand on his chest. “Ouch. That hurt, buddy.”

“And here I thought you Spec Op guys only bled on the inside.”

“Bullets sure. But words…” Wyatt coughed a few times to sell it. “They cut deep.”

“Pretty sure there’s a medic on board. I bet he’s got some Hello Kitty Band-Aids in his kit.”

“Could you get him? I’m bleeding out.”

“Jackass.” Booker gave Wyatt a shove. “What are you doing here? We were supposed to be going on vacation in…” He looked at his watch. “Two hours?”

“What the hell do you think I’m doing here? I got called in, the same as you.”

“You’ve been planning this trip for months. It’s bad enough I had to back out, but why didn’t you just tell HQ to screw off when they handed out this last-minute mission?”

“Going rogue is your move, buddy. Not mine.”

Booker scoffed. “When, exactly, have I gone rogue?”

Wyatt held up his hand. “Do you want them alphabetically or numerically? Because if it’s numerically, I’ll need my toes, too.”

Booker resisted the smile tugging at his lips. Not that he purposely disobeyed orders, but being a pilot, he was able to get “creative” at times — fake bursts of static or claim the transmission wasn’t received — when his superiors wanted him to bug out and leave his team behind. Not that he officially had a team, but he considered every soldier or agent he flew into a mission, his teammate. And he didn’t leave anyone behind. 

“Christ, bend the rules a few times…”

“Two dozen. And that’s just the ones I know about.” He punched Booker in his arm. “Knowing those were to save me and my team makes it harder to call you out, though.”

“Not that hard. You just threatened to remove your boots so you could list them.” 

Wyatt sighed, looking around the carrier. “Guess neither of us is going to get lucky on that beach.”

“Please, you weren’t going to get lucky unless Kirby decided to show up.”

“What the hell are you talking about? We’re just casual. You know, friends with benefits.”

“Right, and how many other girls have you been casual with since you started dating her?” He laughed at Wyatt’s glare. “Exactly. Not that it matters because your mouth does that little twitching thing whenever you say her name. Face it, Wyatt. You’ve got it bad for the girl.”

“I really don’t. Though, speaking of having it bad…” The bugger actually lifted his eyebrows a few times. “What happened the other night with your DEA lady, Agent Jensen? Because the way you two were tangled up on the dance floor…”

Special Agent Calliope Jensen or Callie to her friends. Talented. Fierce, and what would undoubtedly be a thorn in Booker’s side for the rest of his life. The one who got away before he’d even had a chance to figure out if there was more than searing heat between them. If she might have been that once-in-a-lifetime kind of spark people always raved about. 

Soul mates.

Which was crazy. Sure, Booker had known her for over a year, and had flown her and her various Joint Special Operation teams around more times than he cared to count. With both of them stationed in Virginia, they’d also met for coffee or gone out in groups whenever possible. And he wouldn’t deny he’d worked hard to keep their relationship strictly professional — to look at her without wanting to sink his fingers into all that silky brown hair. Kiss those perfect full lips. See if she was just as feisty in bed as she was in the field. But he’d managed it — until the other night.

A few near-death experiences, and a couple too many tequilas, had resulted in some over-the-top slow dancing and the kind of kiss that shattered barriers. Demolished inhibitions. They’d managed to stumble back to her room — start getting serious — when she’d had to dart to the bathroom before slumping on the floor.

And he’d reined it all in. Carried her back to the bed then tucked her in before spending the night on the couch. Occasionally checking to ensure she hadn’t suffered from alcohol poisoning or succumbed to some kind of allergic reaction he wasn’t aware of. Getting called back to the base early — while she’d still been sleeping — hadn’t done him any favors. He’d left her a note he’d hoped would have her calling him in record time, but…

It had been two days, and his phone hadn’t so much as vibrated. Which was part of the reason his spidey sense was tingling because she’d grabbed him during one of his checks and told him how crazy she was about him. That she’d been waiting forever for him to finally make a move, and how she wanted so much more than just a quick tumble between the sheets.

He’d chalked it up to the liquor. To a life that probably mimicked his with too much work and too little time for any kind of relationship. Still, not having her call him after confessing she wanted so much more, stung.

Booker sighed. “Honestly, I don’t know if we crashed and burned or if there’s something else going on. Which implies drug dealers and secret missions. Either way, you can buy me a beer later, and I can cry into it.”

Wyatt rolled his eyes. “She probably just got called into work. You don’t always have to be so dramatic.”

Booker grinned. “At least, I’m not still ‘keeping it casual’ with the lady I’m stupid in love with but don’t have the balls to tell her.”

“I already told you. I’m not in love with Kirby.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“Just, shut up, already. Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“Who’s a bitch?” 

Booker turned, nodding at the man standing off to their left. Second Lieutenant John Calloway. FCD’s newest recruit, and Booker’s co-pilot. Though, if the rumors held any credence, the guy was cocky, arrogant, and had a severe hero complex. Not exactly the kind of pilot Booker enjoyed working with, but who was he to question the Air Force? Besides, this was a one-off for Booker. A favor when the regular pilot had contracted food poisoning and they’d been left scrambling. Why he suspected Wyatt’s team had been called in, as well. Half of the SEALs had also gotten ill.

Booker ignored the prickling feeling still tingling along his spine as he shook Calloway’s hand. “John. Good to see you, again. This is Master Chief Wyatt Bixby. Wyatt, Second Lieutenant John Calloway. He’s one of the new guys here at FCD.”

John stared at Wyatt’s hand for far too long, looking smug. “New isn’t the term I’d use. I’ve been flying for over a decade, most of that with the Air Force.” He gave Wyatt what appeared to be a reluctant handshake, all the while scowling as he scanned the ship. “Not quite what I thought it’d be. Hopefully, this isn’t another taxi run. I was promised some action.”

Wyatt glanced at Booker, arching his brow, and Booker could only shrug. He knew what his buddy was thinking. That the kid was already outing himself — playing the part of the lone wolf — the guy they should all be honored to have working with them. What would ostracize him if he didn’t wise up — understand everyone was equal once bullets started flying. And they always started flying. 

Booker cleared his throat. “Not sure how many taxi drivers get pelted with bullets, but then, I’m not from New York. And new just means you haven’t worked in this division with these teams, before.”

Calloway gave them both a scathing look. “Trust me, I’ve worked with these kinds of teams my entire career.”

Wyatt took a calculated step forward, chest pushed out, hands fisted at his side. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

The man merely snorted. “Nothing… Master Chief.”

Booker moved between them when his buddy took another step. “Easy, Wyatt.” He turned to Calloway. “Just so we’re clear. Bixby’s been running Black Ops missions for longer than you’ve been in the service. He’s commanded and survived more action than you’ll ever get a chance to see, so… Show some respect.”

When the guy just stood there, sneering, Booker leaned in. “Second Lieutenant.”

Calloway muttered a hushed, “sir,” then turned and headed inside— humming as if nothing had happened. That he hadn’t just insulted one of the Navy’s top SEAL team leaders.

Wyatt whistled, knocking Booker’s shoulder. “Who the fuck picked that guy?”

“He’s probably the hotshot son of someone important.”

“He’d better wise up before Gunnar decides he needs a lesson in manners.” He gave Booker another shove. “You didn’t have to do that. Throw your weight around. I’m used to dealing with guys like him.”

“No one disrespects one of my teammates. Period.” Booker grinned at Wyatt. “And you are. My teammate. Maybe not all the time, but I take that seriously. Not that Calloway’s attitude matters. Unless the jerk can somehow convince me in the next thirty minutes that he’s worth me taking an interest in him — that this was all for show because he’s the new kid — he’s going to spend the entire flight watching me skim the treetops.”

Wyatt laughed. “That’s what I love about you, Booker. You’re so nurturing.”

“I’m a freaking den mother.”

He motioned to the doorway, grinning when Wyatt blew him a few kisses before marching in. They gathered in the ready room, nodding at the rest of the men as everyone took a seat. Booker glanced at Calloway, shaking his head at how the guy had distanced himself. Not completely separate, but it was obvious he didn’t consider himself part of the crew — a joint task encompassing eight SEAL members and six Rangers. All highly trained, looking like death dressed in black. The kind of men no one wanted gunning for them.

Which only made Calloway’s behavior stand out. How he snubbed the gathering of men, heading for the helicopters as soon as the commander released them. Not even bothering to introduce himself or get a feel for the teams.

Gunnar sauntered over to Booker, scowling at Calloway’s back as the guy left the ready room. “Who the fuck is the asshole wearing blues?”

Booker sighed. Gunnar wasn’t one to pull punches and would definitely school Calloway if the guy didn’t pull his head out of his ass. “New guy.”

“He’s going to be the ex-guy if he doesn’t start playing nice in the sandbox.”

Booker snagged Gunnar’s arm. “I’ll have a chat with him. Promise.”

Gunnar snorted. “You’re way too nice, Hayes. And the jerk’s lucky he’s got you as his partner. Just… don’t be too sweet. I haven’t gotten a reprimand for slugging an officer in some time.”

“I’ll keep your lack of a recent scarlet letter in mind.” Booker headed out, eyeing Calloway as the guy walked around the machine, occasionally sneering at the men loading gear. 

Wyatt moved in behind him, nudging his shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll come around after he’s gotten a couple of missions under his belt. For all we know, the cockiness is his way of covering his fear.”

“Or he’s a privileged asshole.”

Wyatt laughed. “I think it’s great the way you see the best in people.”

“It’s a gift.” He headed for the machine, stopping when two men dodged in front of him, pretending they didn’t see him until he’d damn near tripped over them as they cut him off.

Hunter “Wolf” Black and Xavier Larson. Hard core Army Rangers, though Booker knew Xavier had started out as a pilot before hanging up his wings for a sniper rifle. Not something Booker would ever willingly choose, but he respected the hell out of the other man for taking the chance. 

Hunter threw himself onto the deck, rolling around for a few moments before allowing Xavier to help him up. Acting like a twelve-year old as he feigned a shoulder injury, shaking his head at Booker. “I think it’s fatal.”

“Doesn’t that act ever get old, Hunter?”

The man took a stumbling step forward, still leaning on Xavier. “Nope. Just you, buddy.”

“That so?” He inched closer. “I’m thinking the commander was wrong. I definitely feel a shit ton of turbulence rolling in.”

Hunter grinned, reaching into his pocket before removing a feather. “Then, you’re really gonna need this, Booker.”

Booker laughed. Xavier and Hunter had been pulling the same, lame Dumbo joke for the past few years. Ever since they’d discovered Booker had been orphaned as a child and grown up in the system, hopping from one foster home to another before spending his last few years with a family who owned a carnival. Booker didn’t think it was that funny, but the two knuckleheads seemed to get a kick out of it. And he knew it had morphed from a stupid prank into a ritual. What guaranteed a safe flight, including a trip home. And he’d be damned if he was the one to break the cycle. Not when it secretly made him feel better, too.

He took the feather, shaking his head. “I thought I had it inside me, all along?”

Hunter shrugged. “With the way you fly, I wouldn’t chance it.”

“Chance what?”

Booker groaned inwardly when Calloway moved in behind Xavier, hands on hips. Lips pursed. Still looking smug. “Just a friendly razzing. Xavier. Hunter. This is John Calloway. My co-pilot, today. John, meet two of the Rangers we’re flying out.”

Calloway gave them each a curt nod, not bothering to extend his hand. “Machine’s ready.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Unless you don’t trust me.”

Great. Now Booker would look like a bastard if he insisted on doing his own checks. “It’s never a matter of trust, Calloway. Just safety.”

“So, that’s a yes… To not trusting me.”

Xavier looked between them, nudging Hunter.

The other man moved forward, offering Calloway another feather. “So Booker doesn’t give you a hard time.”

Calloway took the offering, staring at it as if he thought the men were crazy until they’d sauntered off before tossing it aside. “I’ll be waiting in the chopper.”

Booker closed his eyes, silently counting to ten, before glancing over at Wyatt. “I know. I’ll deal with it before Gunnar slugs the guy.”

Wyatt shrugged. “Oh, don’t. Getting knocked to the ground might be what’s needed. And Gunn’s definitely the guy for the job. He really doesn’t give a shit.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. You ready?”

“Please… This is a cakewalk compared to our last trip together.”

“And now, you’ve jinxed it. Good thing I’ve got that feather.”

“Jerk.”

Wyatt gave Booker one final shove, angling toward the back as Booker did a quick walk around. Not that he didn’t trust Calloway, but Booker had meant what he’d said. His teammates were counting on him safely delivering them to the landing zone, and crashing because one of them had missed an easy fix was a stupid way to die.

John gave him a scathing side eye as he jumped into his seat, running through part of the checklist before donning his helmet — clicking the mike. “I suppose you’ll insist on flying.”

Booker wouldn’t yell. He had more control than that. “You got a problem with that?”

“I thought the whole reason for pairing me up with someone like you was to give me more experience.”

“Or maybe, they’re hoping you’ll learn a few things. Like how to get along with your teams.”

John scoffed. “I didn’t say anything.”

“That’s the point. These men have enough to worry about without thinking their pilot’s a jackass.”

The muscle in Calloway’s temple jumped. “Is that your official position, sir?”

“Consider it a friendly tip. How many times have you taken off from a carrier?”

The man snorted. “Plenty.”

“Simulators don’t count. I mean real world takeoffs.”

That smug grin slipped a bit. “A dozen or so.”

“So, like three.” Booker ignored the man’s glare. “I’ll make you a deal. We’re second in line. Show me you can anticipate Pierce’s movements when he takes off in front of us — follow his lead — and I might let you fly us the whole way. But… If I change my mind for any reason, you don’t hesitate to relinquish control. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When it’s just us, you don’t have to call me sir. Just don’t be a dick about it.”

Booker shook his head as Calloway nodded, still glaring, before the man ran through the rest of the checks, readying the chopper for flight. Even as he started the machine, rolling on the throttle, Booker was second guessing himself. Aware the other man was right — he needed the experience — but not wanting to give up control. Not when that prickling along his neck hadn’t eased. What felt like a full-on premonition that shit was about to go sideways.

The comms chirped, Captain Walker Pierce from the other helicopter calling in a warning light. What would either be a slight delay or a complete washout of the mission. Calloway glanced at Booker, but he merely shrugged, waiting as Pierce dealt with the situation.

Wyatt came over the comms. “Booker. Something wrong, buddy?”

Booker looked over his shoulder, keying up his mike. “Just waiting on a possible issue with Eagle One. We should know in a few minutes if the mission’s a go.”

Wyatt frowned but nodded, leaning forward to chat with the rest of his team. Normally, Booker would have been talking to the crew, laughing it up to keep them at ease, but with John scowling in the other seat, it hadn’t felt right. And Booker didn’t trust the other man not to relay anything he said to his superiors. Not that Booker really cared, but… He didn’t need some greenhorn making waves. Causing issues because the guy was more interested in climbing the ladder than actually doing his job. Harsh, but Booker had witnessed it before. And John Calloway had it in spades.

Another five minutes, then Pierce was calling the tower — getting the green light. Booker slipped on his night vision goggles, nodding at Calloway as the man made one last check, giving Booker the thumbs up.

Booker looked out the window as Pierce eased his bird off the platform, adjusting for the gusting winds and the constant pitching of the deck. The guy had gained about fifteen feet, was dipping the helicopter forward to gain speed, when the machine rocked, swinging violently to the left before starting to spin.

“Shit. Calloway, get us airborne. Now.”

Booker snapped his head toward the other man, cursing the man’s parted lips and white knuckles, before grabbing the controls. “I have her.”

He moved, yanking on the controls — countering the sudden increase in torque — as he lifted the chopper off the deck, dipping them back and sideways. Sliding left just as the other helicopter spun toward them, narrowly missing the tower before heading for the platform. Right where they’d been parked seconds earlier. What would have been a collision if he hadn’t managed to move in time. Get them clear. There was a moment of silence. Of the machines dancing around each other, the surroundings blurring into that eerie shade of green, before the deck erupted into flames, burning everything a bright white.

Booker clawed the goggles off his face, fighting the controls as Calloway snapped out of his trance, nearly reefing the cyclic out of his hand. Sending them back through the billow of smoke.

“Damn it, John, let go!”

Calloway looked his way, goggles half off his face, eyes wide. Unseeing. Booker reached over just enough to knock him off the controls before doing his best to stabilize the machine — get them clear of the smoke before they plowed into the tower. Or worse…

Not that it helped. Two seconds in and the damn machine started shaking, tipping left and right as the inputs grew heavy. Stopped moving despite his efforts.

Hydraulics. What must have been the result of a perforated line.

Was the smoke thicker? Coming from inside? He couldn’t tell. Didn’t have time to worry when alarms blared through the cockpit, several of the gauges spiking into the red as the instrument panel lit up like a damn Christmas tree.

“Shit. Hold tight.”

His voice barely registered above the noise. The shouts rising from the back. The chopper dipped, again, rocking sideways as the weight shifted, sending them sliding off to one side.

The men. That’s what had changed. They were bouncing around in the back, darting left and right, making it impossible to find any kind of equilibrium. Not with the damn hydraulics gone. Nothing but sheer force left to move the controls.

Booker chanced a look behind him, instantly regretting it. Flames shot out one side of the chopper, bits of debris littered across the back. He wasn’t sure when they’d gotten hit. If it had been when Calloway had been fighting him for control, or just now, when he’d swung back over because the machine wasn’t responding. Regardless, he had no more than a few seconds to figure out his next move before other systems started failing.

He keyed up the mike, hoping the men could hear him above the chaos. “Grab onto something, gents, the ride’s about to get bumpy—”

The chopper lurched then spun, sending them careening across the platform. 

“And that’s the tail rotor crapping out on us. No other choice but to put her in the water. When we hit, I’ll try to tip her towards me, but… be ready for her to flip.”

That’s all he had time for before he was holding tight. Using every ounce of skill to keep her level as he let her spin until they were clear of the carrier — what would have taken out the row of jets lined up on the side and likely killed them all in the crash — before sending up a prayer then bottoming the collective. The machine stabilized for one precious moment — hanging in the air in that eerie slow-motion lag time that happened in the midst of a deadly crisis — before it dropped like a damn brick as it headed for the water.

Booker held firm, yanking up on the collective as they neared the surface. Doing his best to time everything perfectly. Until Calloway grabbed at the controls, again. Tipped them sideways just enough the waves caught one of the wheels — dragged them over.

Dead. 

That’s what they’d all be in exactly three seconds. As the blades hit the water, shooting off in different directions. Pieces of one crashing through the bubble — bits of the plexiglass spraying across the cockpit. Booker took a breath, grunting when he got slammed back into the seat, just as the machine flipped, the rush of water quickly pulling them down.

Every went black, the numbing cold stealing what little air he’d gulped in. He fumbled with his harness, finally unlatching the ends only to realize he was pinned, pieces of debris impaled through his shoulder and ribs then into the seat. He pulled at the ends, his fingers barely moving as dots ate up the edges of his vision.

His lungs burned, that small gasp of air nearly gone, when the door beside him rocked open, Wyatt grabbing him by the vest. He paused long enough yank the hunks of metal free before pulling Booker out then up. Water sprayed across his face as they crested the waves, sucking in a lungful of air.

Wyatt wrapped one arm around his shoulders, keeping them both from sinking back down. “Breathe, buddy.”

Booker wanted to tell him he was trying. That he’d spent his entire life breathing, only the words wouldn’t form right. Not when it felt as if some bastard was cracking his chest open with every failed breath.

Wyatt cursed. “Fuck, you’re really bleeding. Talk to me, Booker. Can you breathe?”

He glanced over his shoulder, managing a rough, “Barely,” before closing his eyes. Doing his best to keep kicking. Keep floating. Not that Wyatt was fairing much better. Booker had gotten a glimpse of his buddy’s leg — how his knee wasn’t pointing in the right direction. Not to mention the blood on the back of the man’s hand or the obvious lump on his head.

Wyatt coughed, dipping under for a second before pushing back up. “Boats are on their way. Just… stay with me.”

Booker nodded, finally taking stock of the men bobbing in the water around him. Knowing there weren’t enough heads to account for every teammate. In fact, other than Gunnar, Xavier, and Hunter, he wasn’t sure who had made it out, not that the men were unscathed. Even half-conscious, Booker saw the burns on Gunnar. What looked like more on Hunter, though, with only their heads and shoulders out of the water, it was hard to tell if the blood and wounds were from the fire or the crash. But there was no mistaking how all the men were bleeding. Barely keeping themselves above the crushing waves. “Calloway…”

Christ, it hurt to talk. To get just that one word out.

Wyatt sighed, coughing up more water. “I couldn’t… One of the blades… He was already gone.”

The words hit Booker hard, and he had to fight not to sink back down. Join the wreckage because… it was his fault. It didn’t matter that he’d done his best — avoided getting crushed beneath the other chopper. Fought to keep it upright — to keep it together. All he knew was that he’d failed. Had broken his promise to always bring his teammates back alive.

That, when they’d really needed him, he hadn’t been enough.

Wyatt squeezed his arm. “Don’t. Don’t start second guessing everything. You kept us in the game. That’s all we can ask.”

“I should…” 

He should have done more. Knocked Calloway out or found a way to land on the damn carrier.

“Just… shut up and breathe. Because if you even think about dying on me…”

Booker nodded, aware he wouldn’t be that lucky. Wouldn’t get a quick and easy reprieve. That, for better or worse, he’d spend the next fifty years atoning for a sin he’d never be able to undo.