before she could see him. Her awareness of him had been instantaneous ever since their long chat and second kiss by the fence. A kiss that had left her breathless and on the verge of begging for more.
She no longer needed an ADAS helmet to know when he entered a room, shifted positions in the helicopter, looked at her. She’d tried to erase that portion of her brain’s operations, but that hadn’t worked. And with each passing day she became less sure that she wanted to.
“Em,” the suit addressed the Major with a dismissive tone that would have gotten a one-star general castrated. And yet he lived. That in itself was telling.
“You’ve always told me I didn’t have any appreciation for what you do because I never served. It’s a training mission. How dangerous could it be?”
“What’s the name of the hall you’re standing in?”
The suit glanced sideways at another suit, but the second guy was nearly as powerfully built as Big John if on a slightly shorter scale.
And, as the speaker turned, Connie saw one of the most famous profiles on the planet. She snapped to attention. She didn’t think, she simply did. Felt John do the same beside her. The Commander-in-Chief, President Peter Matthews, stood there in elegant profile. She’d seen him on a tiny video monitor at a mission briefing half a year ago. But here? In person? She remembered that he and Major Beale had an ease together, but she’d never known how much of one.
“You’re in Michael Grimm Hall,” the big Secret Service agent answered him. Now that he shifted, Connie could see the gun bulge in the man’s immaculate suit. He looked good in a suit. She did a mental shift. John would look amazing in a suit.
The President turned back to the Major, and her expression shifted even darker as she continued.
“Lieutenant Colonel Michael Grimm was a pioneer of SOAR and a pioneer of the Black Route. And it killed him and almost killed his copilot. People die on this flight.”
Black Route. Rumor said that the two Majors had gotten engaged while flying a Black Route, which made no sense at all. It ranked as the most vicious test of any helicopter team on the planet. Developed by SOAR for SOAR. No one pushed the limits as they did. Nap of Earth, rarely over a hundred feet in elevation. A Black Route covered a thousand miles at night with three landings, each plus or minus thirty seconds.
“Sir…” Everyone turned to look at Connie before she knew she’d spoken. “Nine helicopters have crashed on this route. Seven of those sustained at least one death and all sustained injuries. There have also been numerous mechanical failures from the strain requiring dangerous auto-rotation landings. Sir.”
Beale nodded to her over the President’s shoulder. Over his other shoulder, Major Henderson’s smile grew. It implied a sense of humor he rarely showed, but Connie couldn’t fit it into the situation.
“Out of how many thousands of flights? Is it more dangerous than getting on an airplane?” The President’s question came fast, a quick thinker.
Connie ran some quick estimates in her head. “Less safe than an airplane. Far less safe than Air Force One, which has yet to report a single operational incident in seventy years of operation. But,” she shrugged an apology to Major Beale, “statistically, if you discount the 1980s, the first ten years of skills and equipment development, Black Route is only a little less safe than a car. The numbers change drastically for combat, but Black Route training does bring out the best in a team and no one is firing at us during a training flight.”
“There will be this time,” the Major growled.
Connie couldn’t think of what to say to that. Live fire during training?
The President turned back to face the Majors. “Only simulated rounds. We could order them only to fire at Mark. That would work for me. They could even use live ammo for that.”
Major Henderson laughed. “Still pissed about losing at
She no longer needed an ADAS helmet to know when he entered a room, shifted positions in the helicopter, looked at her. She’d tried to erase that portion of her brain’s operations, but that hadn’t worked. And with each passing day she became less sure that she wanted to.
“Em,” the suit addressed the Major with a dismissive tone that would have gotten a one-star general castrated. And yet he lived. That in itself was telling.
“You’ve always told me I didn’t have any appreciation for what you do because I never served. It’s a training mission. How dangerous could it be?”
“What’s the name of the hall you’re standing in?”
The suit glanced sideways at another suit, but the second guy was nearly as powerfully built as Big John if on a slightly shorter scale.
And, as the speaker turned, Connie saw one of the most famous profiles on the planet. She snapped to attention. She didn’t think, she simply did. Felt John do the same beside her. The Commander-in-Chief, President Peter Matthews, stood there in elegant profile. She’d seen him on a tiny video monitor at a mission briefing half a year ago. But here? In person? She remembered that he and Major Beale had an ease together, but she’d never known how much of one.
“You’re in Michael Grimm Hall,” the big Secret Service agent answered him. Now that he shifted, Connie could see the gun bulge in the man’s immaculate suit. He looked good in a suit. She did a mental shift. John would look amazing in a suit.
The President turned back to the Major, and her expression shifted even darker as she continued.
“Lieutenant Colonel Michael Grimm was a pioneer of SOAR and a pioneer of the Black Route. And it killed him and almost killed his copilot. People die on this flight.”
Black Route. Rumor said that the two Majors had gotten engaged while flying a Black Route, which made no sense at all. It ranked as the most vicious test of any helicopter team on the planet. Developed by SOAR for SOAR. No one pushed the limits as they did. Nap of Earth, rarely over a hundred feet in elevation. A Black Route covered a thousand miles at night with three landings, each plus or minus thirty seconds.
“Sir…” Everyone turned to look at Connie before she knew she’d spoken. “Nine helicopters have crashed on this route. Seven of those sustained at least one death and all sustained injuries. There have also been numerous mechanical failures from the strain requiring dangerous auto-rotation landings. Sir.”
Beale nodded to her over the President’s shoulder. Over his other shoulder, Major Henderson’s smile grew. It implied a sense of humor he rarely showed, but Connie couldn’t fit it into the situation.
“Out of how many thousands of flights? Is it more dangerous than getting on an airplane?” The President’s question came fast, a quick thinker.
Connie ran some quick estimates in her head. “Less safe than an airplane. Far less safe than Air Force One, which has yet to report a single operational incident in seventy years of operation. But,” she shrugged an apology to Major Beale, “statistically, if you discount the 1980s, the first ten years of skills and equipment development, Black Route is only a little less safe than a car. The numbers change drastically for combat, but Black Route training does bring out the best in a team and no one is firing at us during a training flight.”
“There will be this time,” the Major growled.
Connie couldn’t think of what to say to that. Live fire during training?
The President turned back to face the Majors. “Only simulated rounds. We could order them only to fire at Mark. That would work for me. They could even use live ammo for that.”
Major Henderson laughed. “Still pissed about losing at
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