Wait Until Dark (The Night Stalkers) (8 page)

“Tell me about the last time you almost got your squad killed. What did you do wrong?” Connie watched as John drilled his question at the guy on the left of the line standing at parade rest. She and John sat behind a bare steel table facing them in a gray concrete room with no leavening decoration other than the U.S. flag.

Connie hadn’t known that day three was unscripted. She remembered the round robin of SOAR fliers who had pounded her with questions, she just hadn’t known they were making it up as they went along. It made sense. Yesterday had been the scripted psychological profile questions. Today was twenty hours of unscripted real-world tests.

The four applicants looked ragged. They’d probably been on their feet since midnight, and lunch was long gone with no break. Two were actually weaving with exhaustion and hunger. Three men—white, black, and Asian—and the one woman, Irish with red-orange hair and immensely blue eyes. A real mixed cadre.

“Answer, soldier!” John snapped out. His voice rang in the unpainted concrete room with its white T-hung ceiling and no windows. Four cameras lined up behind Connie, four cyclopean antagonists, one focused on each candidate. In the next room a psych board would be watching. The group assessment was to add the stress of performing in front of your potential future colleagues. She and John kept the questions negative, aggressive, and potentially embarrassing.

Mr. White Guy’s reply came out in a growl. And directed at John. Even when she asked the question, he always answered John as if she weren’t there. Connie didn’t wear any insignia. She could just be another psych tech for all the guy knew. Or a bird colonel. Either way, he was more and more aggressively not answering the questions she asked.

After three hours of it, she was ready to fail him without waiting for the end of the week. Not her call. And none were ever told during the week if they failed or not. They could quit or give up. But they never knew anything about their success or failure until they did or didn’t get the order to leave their unit and come to SOAR. By keeping the person who’d already failed in the process, it kept the other candidates from getting any gauge on their own progress.

If she had her way, this one would be getting the lowest grade. “Failed, not approved.” There would be no recourse after that. No way to reapply.

There was also “Failed with reason.” Those folks were given a chance to work on an identified weak skill and reapply if they could face the process again. Then there was “Approved.” Ten to twenty percent of each applicant pool made it to that golden ring. Once there, very few dropped out in the six months to two years of training that followed before they were declared mission-qualified.

She cut off Mr. Misogynist halfway into his justification about a mistake he’d made of under-hydrating. Connie’d seen that in the desert heights of Afghanistan. A significant danger to the rest of the team. Dehydration clouded judgment and slowed reactions, endangering your squadmates. It also made your urine far more pungent and much more likely to give away your position during an extended hideout.

Connie drilled the same question at the other two guys, leaving him at a loss as to what to do with the rest of his story. The other two did better. At least they looked at both her and John when they answered. One principally answered her chest, despite the vest and jacket that hid most of her form, but maybe he’d been in-country too long and had forgotten what a woman looked like.

When your application passed Packets, you received an order to show up. If that meant getting your ass out of a Colombian jungle and flying through the night to get to Fort Campbell for Assessment Week, that’s what you did.

Or maybe he was just a jerk.

John turned for the woman to answer, but Connie cut her off and aimed her next question at Mr. Chest-Starer. She didn’t even give the woman the opportunity to answer most of the questions.

John had caught on quickly to what Connie was doing. Between them, they now let the woman answer about one question in five.

He sent Connie a look of sadness that she could just read through his poker face. He was too soft at heart, funny thing for such a top-notch soldier. The same generous heart that had held her out at the fence. She considered patting his thigh under the table but was afraid of being too forward, especially with a superior rank.

By the third time they cut the woman off, Connie could see the simmer forming. Over the following hour and a half, the woman’s steam pressure rose to near explosion, but it hadn’t come out yet. Best way to piss off an aggressive warrior? Ignore them as if they didn’t matter. And in a female warrior, that was even more of a button. That’s probably how she’d been treated more often than not throughout her Army career. And to have another woman treat her that way would be particularly galling.

Connie had only taken action against a superior officer once in her career. She had reported a critical deficiency and had her report dismissed because she was female. The Staff Sergeant had ignored her and signed the “Flight (Combat) Airworthiness Certification by Mechanic” release on a Cobra attack chopper.

Connie had reported it directly to the man’s commanding officer. Upon investigation, the Staff Sergeant had been handed an immediate general discharge for intentionally endangering his squad with unsafe aircraft. After being caught threatening Connie’s life, he’d been bumped to “dishonorable” and tossed in jail for six months. They hadn’t treated him well on the inside, and he’d scampered for the hills when they let him out.

Connie wanted to know how this Trisha O’Malley, who Major Beale wanted, would handle being treated with so little respect.

“Permission to speak, ma’am?”

“Denied!” Connie snapped and she could see the woman’s jaw clench hard. She fired off the next question. At least the woman had addressed her request to Connie. Smart enough to see who was baiting her.

“If we’re downed behind enemy lines and have to lie low in a mudhole for a week, what am I really going to hate finding out about you?” Same pattern as the squad failure question, spread wider.

The guys came up with personal habits. Mr. Chest-Starer had tried to start a riff about the stink of his farts killing anyone who came too close. He almost got a laugh from Mr. Nasty-Misogynist-White Guy until they’d all glanced at Connie and her waiting silence. She let the silence drag out. The pair of them looked at the floor. Two failures in her book. Guy number three was honestly trying and might get a pass from her for this round. Have to compare notes with John.

At length she nodded for the woman to answer.

Her gaze locked on Connie’s, her voice rock steady despite her knuckles being bloodless white where her fists clenched tightly at her sides.

“You’re going to hate learning that I’m the one who will still be alive at the end of the week. And you’ll really, really hate learning that I’m the one who will be the toughest bitch in the mudhole, ma’am.” The thin smile she offered was as much challenge as triumph. But despite the anger, her control of her voice and physical actions, other than her hands, had been complete.

Connie learned two things in that moment.

She could absolutely trust Major Beale’s judgment, no matter what happened.

And Trisha O’Malley would be a shoo-in.

Connie couldn’t have answered the question better herself.

John found Connie sitting on the cold ground with her back against the fence, out across Nightstalker Way. She looked okay. She was just sitting quietly. She appeared calm. The emotional cap was back on, screwed down tight, but he’d bet the internal war still raged somewhere deep inside. He put his own back to the fence and slid down beside her.

The afternoon sun was warm here despite the cold day. In minutes he could feel an ease roll over him. Being with Connie Davis was a quiet place for him. He didn’t need to chat or joke or entertain. They could just sit together and watch the midday activity unfold across the base. The occasional chopper in and out. Some mechanics taking a short turn around the field to flight-test a newly serviced bird.

“I learned something today.” Her voice wouldn’t have carried more than a pace or two past him, but she wasn’t whispering. It was a soft, inviting comment.

“What was that?” John shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the fence.

“I’m a stronger woman than I thought I was.”

That snapped his eyes open. He studied her profile, She too had closed her eyes and leaned her head back to enjoy the sun. He suspected that she might well be the strongest woman he’d ever met. Major Beale was a hard-ass warrior despite her runway beauty. Kee Smith was as tough and stubborn as any man around her, except maybe her new husband. But Connie…

She was a woman first and a warrior second. Maybe third. Second was that amazing mind of hers. And all three of her aspects, he was learning, were incredible. She fought remarkably well, not with Kee’s natural flair but as a highly accomplished soldier.

That brain. The one that thought up the roll in an Afghani mountain pass. He might have come up with that in a day. Or five. She’d done it in under ten seconds with exactly the same data he had.

The woman. That was the one that was blowing him away.

She looked amazing. Trim without being petite. Generous curves that bespoke wonders to explore. Now there was a thought that pushed against a man’s imagination. Her long hair, falling feather-cut over her shoulders in waves so soft that a man would never be sure when he first shifted from not touching to touching.

Even with that, her face was what captivated him. The ultimate poker face of exquisite form. Unreadable until she smiled, and then she’d been struck alight. Her eyes sparkled, her quiet mouth developed into a kiss he hadn’t erased from his mind despite three days of trying. And eyes he wouldn’t mind staring into for a day or two or three, just to learn their shades and emotions.

John suspected that most people saw Connie Davis in the reverse order: warrior, technician, then woman. He had himself, now that he thought of it. Actually, pain-in-the-ass first, then all the others.

Now he had glimpsed beneath the hood of what drove her, seen her shattered in her fight with whatever was going on inside her head, and seen her beat it back down into submission. That was a strength he’d never witnessed before. He wished he knew what she faced. Could reach in and somehow fix it for her. Replace the broken part.

He didn’t usually do that. People had their issues. As long as they didn’t make those issues his, he was fine with them. He’d roll along with the good times. Not that he abandoned friends. He’d paste them back together, let them sleep it off on his couch, but they could find their own damn breakfast in the morning. That’s all the guys usually needed.

Your girlfriend broke up with you? Fine. John would be there to thump you on the back, stand you back on your feet, but it was up to you to deal with the mess inside your head or get back together with the woman. Some asshole insulted you? Who cares? That’s their little world of hurt. You didn’t have to buy into it, and you certainly didn’t waste John’s time trying to make him buy into it.

But how could a woman as powerful as the one leaning on the fence beside him not know she was strong?

Apparently taking his silence as interest, Connie continued.

“It was while sitting in on that Assessment Week interview.”

“No shit?” He’d hated Ass Week, as the few survivors usually referred to it. The failures didn’t refer to it at all. He’d hated it then and he’d hated it today. Being on the other side of the table didn’t help; it only reminded him of how impossibly hard it had been. He ached for every poor SOB who’d crawled through his and Connie’s sights. It was not a time he’d wanted to revisit in any manner, shape, or form. Seven days with no feedback. You always had feedback. School teachers, friends, family, your squad, your instructor, your flight… always.

For seven days, the only feedback was a dozen other guys all freaking out just like you. No idea if you were a success or a screwup. Even having Crazy Tim in the same test group hadn’t helped, because they’d both felt so totally lost. They’d waited in fear for three weeks after testing before they received the approval to join SOAR, thankfully at the same time. He didn’t know how he’d have taken it if one of them made it and the other didn’t. The orders came long after he was convinced he’d failed and maybe should just quit the Army to save everyone the embarrassment of dealing with him. Only Tim’s upbeat nature had kept his hopes afloat.

They treated you differently back in your old unit after a failed SOAR test. You no longer belonged where you were. You had wanted to leave your squad, tried to leave them behind, and then you failed. No one had to say it. You’d been tested and found wanting. They hadn’t been tested, but they also hadn’t failed. They still could have passed. Maybe.

Jumping to another unit wouldn’t help either, they’d want to know why.

“Because I failed at SOAR.”

He’d talked to some of the guys who had failed the different Special Forces tests, another place where a cut rate of fifty percent or more was normal. He learned that he was one of the few people who would talk to them.

“Damn, that was brutal for me. What could you possibly like?” he asked Connie, still sitting quietly beside him.

“I found I liked being on the other side. Having made it. Not that I was better than them, though there were a couple where that was absolutely true, which didn’t hurt my ego much.”

He hadn’t thought of it that way. They had made it. Crossed over to the other side.

“To know that as we sat with group after group, the smart ones, at least, wanted to be like me. They really wanted what I already had. And not just the validation of their skills. The good ones wanted to serve with the very best.”

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see with her eyes still closed to the bright sunlight.

“I understood that these people, and several of them were really exceptional, were fighting for even just the chance to achieve what I’ve already done.”

John leaned his head back against the fence and thought about his own view of himself. He knew his own skills were topflight; they had to be to survive on Major Beale’s crew. Yet, in a way, Connie was right. He hadn’t really acknowledged that. He’d simply worked his way up and was afraid half the time of disappointing the Major or of letting down his team.

Maybe that was the reason he hadn’t yet.

“God, John. You’re so damned handsome when you smile like that. Does any woman resist you?”

“Not many,” was his lazy answer before he caught himself.

He glanced over at Connie Davis, still sitting in the sun. Her gentle waves of hair glittering in the sunlight. Her expression was open and easy. Her smile was there, not blinding, but bright enough to make him feel he hadn’t just been stupid beyond belief. There was no invitation, but there was a zone of safety here.

That wasn’t something a SOAR flier was particularly used to.

He liked the way it felt.