Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart of Stone. Lindsay McKenna

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СКАЧАТЬ other talent she had was intuition. She’d get these “feelings” and when she did, she was rarely wrong.

      Maya realized Dallas was patiently looking at her with those golden eyes.

      “Okay…I got a bad feeling. I think Faro is going to turn the tables on us again. He’s going to be the hunter and us the hunted today. Satisfied?”

      Pursing her full lips, Dallas said, “Yep, I am. I’m gonna tell my copilot to play heads up then, more than usual. Damn, I wish we could get a radar signature off them.”

      Maya nodded in agreement. The Russian helicopter was able to somehow dodge their massive radar array and capabilities. Because it could, the Kamov had the ability to sneak up on them and blow them out of the sky—literally. That meant Maya and her pilots had to stay even more alert than usual. They were fighting one of the most deadly helicopter opponents in the world. Their own sensor equipment was useless against the Kamov unless it showed itself, which wasn’t often. The mercenary Russian pilots Faro Valentino hired were hardened veterans of many campaigns and knew the ropes of stealth and combat—just like Maya’s crew did.

      Each Apache had two HUDS, or heads-up displays—small, television-like screens—in each of its two cockpits. Maya’s pilots could use IR—or infrared—a television camera or radar. The HUDs had saved the lives of Maya’s crew innumerable times, as well as helped them find the heat of bodies beneath the jungle canopy so they could stop drug runners in their tracks as they carried heavy loads of cocaine toward the Bolivian border. In the sky, the Apache’s ability to find its target was legendary. Except the Kamovs had their own arsenal of commensurate hardware, and on any given day, a Kamov could jump one of their Apaches without warning. That was when Maya used her sixth sense to the optimum. She’d not lost a helo crew yet, and she wasn’t about to start now.

      Maya pulled the warm cinnamon roll apart with her long, spare fingers. “This is one of those days I’d just as soon tell the Cosmos I pass on this mission, you know? That’s okay, you don’t have to answer on the grounds it may incriminate you, Klein.” She grinned and popped a piece of the soft, sweet bread into her mouth.

      “Well,” Dallas said with a sly look, “I’m glad I’m not in your boots today, Captain. Whatta choice—Kamovs or Major Dane York.”

      “Humph, with our luck, we’ll get hit with both.”

      Chuckling, Dallas finished her coffee. “Yeah, that’s what I call Black Jaguar luck at its finest.”

      That was true, and Maya nodded as she chewed on the roll. “If we didn’t have bad luck, we wouldn’t have any at all.”

      Dallas’s eyes gleamed with laughter. “And if I’m reading you right, you’d rather face Faro’s Kamovs today than York.”

      “Bingo.”

      “Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.” Dallas rose, picked up her empty tray and said, “Meet you out on the apron. Time to turn and burn.”

      Maya sat there, feeling glum. The soft sounds of women talking and laughing made her feel a little better. The mess hall was always a happy meeting place for her and her hardworking crews. They pulled twelve hours on and twelve off when Faro and his Kamovs decided to take to the sky and make run after run of cocaine to the Bolivian border.

      Rubbing her neck ruefully, Maya grimaced. Today was going to be one helluva day, and she wasn’t looking forward to any of it.

      Chapter 3

      Just the act of climbing up the metal rungs that doubled as a ladder, and then onto the black metal fuselage before ducking into the front cockpit of the Boeing Apache, soothed some of Maya’s initial anxiousness. Dawn had yet to break in the east. The cockpit canopy opened on the left side, folding upward and back so that both pilots could climb into their respective positions at once. The crew chief was Sergeant Elena Macedo from Peru. Maya could hear her copilot and gunner, Chief Warrant Officer 2 Jessica Merril, settling into her position directly behind her. Jessica hailed from California. Her nickname was Wild Woman. Though she was twenty-six, she had the look of an impish pixie, her blond hair dyed with streaks of red. The splashes of color were Jess’s way of donning war-paint and going off to battle, in a sense. Everyone’s got a big bang out of Wild Woman’s wild “do.” She more than symbolized the highly individualized rebel attitude of the base. Maya liked it and approved of it.

      The Apache was a big, ugly looking dog with a bulbous nose that housed the infrared, television and radar equipment. The cockpits rose upward on a metal frame, the front cockpit Plexiglas hardened to take a 30 mm cannon hit as well as bird strikes. The seat felt welcoming to Maya, the space narrow, with the cyclic positioned between her legs, the collective by her left, gloved hand. Between her and her copilot was a blast shield; in case they took a hit and one pilot was killed or wounded, the other would be protected so they could fly the chopper home.

      Settling the helmet on her head, Maya lifted her hand and twirled it in a clockwise motion, signaling the ground crew to start up the Apache. The first thing that came on in the assault gunship was the air-conditioning, designed to cool the miles of circuitry that were bundled along the sides of the prehistoric-looking craft beneath the black metal fuselage. The blast of air from the ducts in the front panel, along with the high-pitched whine of the air-conditioning cranking up, surrounded Maya. She watched all the instruments in front of her start to blink and flicker on. The two HUD’s came to life, glowing a pleasant green color that was easy on the eyes and didn’t contribute to night blindness. She pressed some buttons, making sure the related systems were operational. Positioning the mouthpiece within an inch of her lips, she tested communications with her copilot.

      “Wild Woman, how are you reading me?”

      “Loud and clear, Captain.”

      “Roger.”

      Looking up, Maya saw the constant wisps of clouds that embraced the ten-thousand foot inactive volcano where their base was located. The two Apaches faced outward, having been pushed into position from beneath the cave’s overhang by the crews earlier. The lip of lava extended out a good four hundred feet in front of them and made an excellent landing and takeoff spot for the birds. Squinting above the cockpit console, Maya noted the lava wall that rose directly in front of them a thousand feet high, like a big rock curtain. The only way in and out of this cave complex was through the “Eye of the Needle,” as they called it.

      The Eye of the Needle was a natural geologic wonder—a hole in the lava wall sixty feet high and eighty feet wide, just large enough for an Apache or Cobra to move very carefully through it. The rotor diameter on an Apache was forty-eight feet, so they had very little clearance at any time.

      Clouds also helped hide the base from prying eyes. Far below them flowed the mighty Urubamba River, a continual source of moisture rising upward in the tropical heat. As this humid air rolled up the mountainside, it met and mixed with cooler, descending air—exactly where the cave and their base was located, creating a fog that was nearly constant all year-round.

      This morning was no exception. They would be required to lift off and fly out on instruments and radar in order to thread the Eye squarely and not take off a chunk of their titanium-edged rotor blades, risking a crash. The operation wasn’t for fools or anyone not paying attention to her flying. After logging three hundred miles on a mission, the pilots were often tired coming back, and this obstacle became even more dangerous in their exhausted state.

      Glancing down, Maya positioned her chicken plate, the bulletproof vest across her chest and abdomen, so that it rode as СКАЧАТЬ