His Woman in Command

Nike Alexander, at twenty-six, did not want any male attention. Just a year ago, she’d lost Antonio, an officer in the Peruvian Army who had died in a vicious firefight with cocaine dealers. She glared icily at the man, who was decidedly handsome despite his rugged appearance. “I’m with the Black Jaguar Squadron 60,” she snapped.

“I’ve been out here on the front nearly a year. I’ve never seen this patch. Is this a new squadron?” Gavin opted for something simpler than trying to get this good-looking woman to come over to their table for a beer. He was frantically searching for ways to defuse her tension.

Shrugging, Nike lifted the coffee to her lips, took a sip and then said, “We’re basically Apache pilots in an all-woman flight program. We got here three weeks ago.”

“Oh.” Gavin didn’t know what to think about that. “All women?”

Nike’s mouth twitched. “We’re black ops.” His thick, straight brows raised with surprise. While it was true there were women pilots in combat, no women-only squadrons existed. “We’re top secret to the rest of the world. Here at camp, they know what we do,” she added to ward off questions she saw in his large blue eyes.

Under other circumstances, Nike would be interested in this warrior. Clearly, he was an A-team leader. She knew these brave and hardy Special Forces teams were on the front lines, finding Taliban and stopping their incursion into Afghanistan’s space. His hands were large, square and roughened by work and the forces of the weather.

“Ah, black ops,” Gavin murmured. He saw the wariness in her gold eyes. “You’re new?”

“I arrived a week ago.”

“Welcome aboard,” he said, holding out his hand toward her. This time, he was sincere. Anyone who flew the border risked their lives every time they lifted off from this secret base.

Looking at his proffered hand and then up at him, Nike couldn’t help herself and slid her hand into his. He grinned like a little boy given a Christmas gift. Despite the neatly trimmed beard that gave his square face a dangerous look, he seemed happy to meet her. Well, they were both in the army and that meant something. Her flesh tingled as his fingers wrapped gently around hers. She admired his deeply sunburned face, laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. A wild, unexpected surge of excitement coursed through Nike. What was that all about? Why was her heart pounding? She broke the contact and pulled her hand away.

Oh, he was eye candy, there was no doubt. The boyish, crooked grin made him even more devastatingly handsome, Nike decided.

“What’s your name?” Gavin asked. He forced his hands off the bar, unexpectedly touching her olive-tone skin. The brief contact sent crazy tingles up and down his arm. The close proximity to this woman intoxicated him in quite another way. Gavin fully realized he was more than a little tipsy from the beer he and his team had been guzzling. But he was still alert, still fixated on this new person of interest.

“I’m Captain Nike Alexander,” she informed him in a clipped and wary tone. She’d just arrived with her squadron from the USA and wanted to focus only on the mission before them. As an all-woman squadron they had a lot to prove—again. They’d done it in Peru, now it would be here. She didn’t want to tangle with some sex-hungry A-team leader who hadn’t seen a woman in God knew how long. Still, a secret part of her wondered what Gavin would look like without that beard. Not that he wasn’t handsome with it; maybe she was just more interested than she cared to admit.

“Nike,” he murmured, rolling the name around on his tongue. “That’s different.” He squinted and gave her a measuring look. “Are you … American?” Her husky voice had a trace of an accent. When she frowned, he knew he’d asked the wrong question.

“I was born in Athens, Greece, Captain. I was invited from my country to train and work for the U.S. Army.” She turned and showed the American flag on the left shoulder of her uniform.

“Greek.” That made sense, although he’d said it as if he were stunned by the information. Seeing the frustration in her large, clear gold eyes, Gavin asked, “Wasn’t Nike a goddess in Greek myths?”

“She still is,” Nike said in a flat tone. “I was named after her.”

“I see.” Gavin stood there, his brows dipping. “So, you’re part of a black ops, you’re a female pilot and you’re from Greece.” Brightening, he shared a look with her, his smile crooked. “That makes you a pretty rare specimen out here in our back country.”

“You’re making me feel like a bug under a microscope, Captain. Why don’t you mosey back to your team. I’m not interested in anything but my mission here.”

Her tone was low and dismissive.

Gavin kept his smile friendly and tried to appear neutral and not the leering, sexually hungry male he really was. It was now or never. “Speaking of that, Captain Alexander, we were wondering if you might not come and join us? My boys and I are going back for thirty more days in the bush tomorrow morning. We’d enjoy your company.”

Easing into a standing position, Nike glanced over at the table. Nine other bearded men in Afghan dress looked hopefully in her direction. English-speaking women who were not Moslem were a rarity in this country. Of course they’d want her company. “Captain, I’m not the USO.

And I’m not for sale at any price. If you want female entertainment I suggest you find it somewhere else.”

Ouch. Gavin scowled. “Just a beer, Captain. Or, we’ll buy you another cup of coffee. That’s all. Nothing else.” He held up both his hands. “Honest.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Nike said. She pulled out a few coins from her pocket and put them on the bar next to the drained cup of coffee. “But I must respectfully decline, Captain.” She turned and marched out of the tent.

“That went well,” Gavin said, his grin wide and silly-looking as she exited. He walked over to his men, who looked defeated.

“You crashed and burned,” Robles groaned.

Jackson poured himself another glass of beer. “She’s got other fish to fry.” He said it as lightly as he could.

The men nodded and nursed their beers.

At twenty-eight, Gavin understood that a little fun and laughter was good medicine for his men. Silently, he thanked Nike Alexander for her decision. What would it have been like to have her come over and sit with them? It would have lifted their collective spirits. They were starving for some feminine attention. Oh, she probably realized this, but didn’t get that his invitation was truly harmless. Gavin had seen a lot of sensitivity in her face and read it in her eyes. However, she was protective, if not a little defensive about sharing that side. He couldn’t blame her.

Gavin told them what he’d found out. His men were like slavering dogs getting a morsel tossed to them. In Afghanistan, Moslem women could not talk directly to any man. Consequently, it was a world of males with males and the women were hidden away in their homes. Gavin missed being stateside. Even though he’d crashed and burned with Laurie Braverman on his first tour here, he still hungered for conversation with an intelligent woman.

As he glanced toward the flap of the tent where Nike Alexander had marched through, Gavin lamented her departure. Clearly, she thought he was hitting on her. Well, wasn’t he? Digging into the pocket of his trousers, he produced a twenty-dollar bill and threw it across the table to his medic. “Here, Robles. Satisfied?”

Chuckling, Neal took the twenty and hoisted it upward. “You tried. Hey, Cap’n, this will give us another round of beer!”

The men clapped and hooted, and Gavin grinned crookedly. His team needed this kind of blowout before they got dropped in the badlands again. As he took one more look to where Nike had left, he wished he’d had a little more time with her. Would they ever meet again? Hope sprang in his chest. Nike was a fascinating woman, pilot or not. Gavin shrugged off any romantic thoughts and took a deep swig of beer. Chances of ever seeing Nike Alexander again were next to nothing.

“Nike,” Major Dallas Klein-Murdoch said, “sit down and relax. Welcome to BJS 60.”

Nike settled in front of her commanding officer’s desk. Every incoming pilot to the squadron did a one-on-one with the CO. This morning, it was her turn. Dallas Klein’s reputation with the original Black Jaguar Squadron, for which she had flown in Peru, was legendary. Nike was only too thrilled to be here under this woman’s command. They’d had a stint together in Texas chasing Mexican drug-runners before this latest assignment. There, Dallas had fallen in love with ATF agent Mike Murdoch. The Pentagon had then sent Dallas and her new husband to Afghanistan to oversee the latest Black Jaguar Squadron. Murdoch was now a captain in the U.S. Army and worked as a strategy and operations officer for the all-women Apache combat pilots that comprised BJS 60. And while the pilots were all female, some males in the ranks took care of the Apache helicopters. Nike was glad that Dallas was assigned here with her new husband. Taking off her baseball cap, Nike sat down and grinned. “Like old times, isn’t it?”

Dallas laughed. “Better believe it.” She reached for a file folder and handed it to Nike. “Here are your orders. We have twenty women Apache pilots here and ten helicopters assigned to us. The last two helos are being flown in today to this base. My executive officer, XO, is going to be Captain Emma Trayhern-Cantrell.”

Raising her brows, Nike said, “From the Trayhern family?”

“The very same. Shortly after you left Peru, Emma was assigned to BJS in Peru and flew Apaches down there for six months before I was able to convince the Pentagon to have her assigned here. She’s a chip off the old Trayhern block—a real woman warrior.”

“Whose child is she?” Nike wondered.

“Clay and Alyssa Cantrell-Trayhern’s oldest child. Emma has three younger sisters, two of whom are in the U.S. Naval Academy right now. They’re due to graduate next year. They’re twins. Clay and Alyssa were Navy pilots and flew P3 antisubmarine aircraft for twenty years. Emma, whom you’ll meet sometime today, is a long, lean red-haired greyhound with blazing gray eyes. I’m glad to have her on board. She’s a natural XO.”

Chuckling, Nike opened the folder. “Emma sounds perfect for this black ops.”

“Oh, she is. Her grandfather is the original black-ops figure behind the scenes,” Dallas drawled, smiling. “Let’s get down to business. I’m seeing my pilots individually to give them their orders.”

“Fire away,” Nike murmured, studying the papers.

“First of all, BJS 60 remains an all-woman U.S. Army force,” Dallas began, leaning back in her chair. “The women I chose for this new squadron have more than one flight skill. For example, you are licensed to fly fixed-wing, single-engine planes as you did on the U.S.-Mexico border with me. And you’re also certified to fly the CH-47, which is the workhorse helicopter used here in Afghanistan.” Dallas looked over at the lean, wiry pilot. “Every woman in BJS 60 has multiskills in aviation. There may be times when I want you to fly the CH-47 and not the Apache.”

“Being multitalented has never been a problem for me,” Nike said, grinning.

Dallas leaned back in her chair. “We are under General Chapman and we work indirectly with the national Afghanistan Army. BJS 60 is going to be a ‘sparrowhawk’ team that will be called upon in emergencies when the regular Apache pilots from the other two squadrons are not available. In other words, we’re going to pick up the slack to ensure that Special Forces A teams get immediate help and support out in the field. Our jobs will vary depending upon what General Chapman’s operations officer decides for us. One day you could be flying a CH-47, another, you’ll be back in the seat of an Apache helicopter. Mike, my husband, is working as a liaison between Chapman’s people and us. We’re going to try and get as much air time as possible in the Apache, but we also know our pilots will be flying other helicopters, too.”

Nike nodded. Instantly, she pictured Captain Gavin Jackson, who was a man’s man, supremely confident. Someone she was drawn to, but Nike wasn’t willing to admit that to herself now or ever. “I ran into one of the A teams over at the canteen a little while ago.”

“Yes, they’re our front-line defense here on the border,” Dallas told her. “These men go out for thirty days at a time. They are hunting Taliban and stopping terrorist insurgence from getting into Afghanistan. This is one of the most dangerous places in the world for our troops—the mountains and the border around the Khyber Pass, which connects Pakistan and Afghanistan.”

“And we thought Peru was dangerous,” Nike joked, turning the page in the file for her assignment.