Course of Action: Out of Harm's WayAny Time, Any Place Read online

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  ANY TIME, ANY PLACE

  Merline Lovelace

  This story is for all who have served their country, in uniform or in civvies. And most especially for the Air Commandos who blazed their way into history during WWII and still fight the good fight!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Excerpt

  Chapter 1

  USAF Master Sergeant Dave “Duke” Carmichael leaned against the scarred Formica bar, and took a long pull from his beer. As the cold brew slid down his throat, he acknowledged the simple truth. He was a leg man. Always had been. Probably always would be.

  Some of his Special Forces pals vectored straight in on a woman’s breasts. A few might try to claim they’d been hooked by a seductive smile or a glance from laughing eyes. Duke had never bothered to disguise the fact that slender, curvaceous legs displayed to perfection in tight jeans stirred the beast in him.

  He suspected that had a lot to do with growing up in West Texas and spending his horny teen years surrounded by nubile young females in stone-washed jeans with rips and tears in all the right places. That, and being one of the infamous six Sidewinders—so dubbed due to their lightning speed and ability to strike without warning on the football field. Duke and his pals had ruled the Rush Springs High School babe scene.

  They hadn’t done all that bad in the years since, either. All six Sidewinders had joined the military right after high school. Although they opted for different branches of the service, they all eventually ended up in special ops. Their paths had crossed often enough that they could still keep up a joking, running count of who’d scored the most over the years. Duke didn’t top the chart, but he was damned close.

  Despite that vast reservoir of expertise to draw from, he had to admit the legs he now perused were in a class by themselves. And they came packaged with a nice, trim butt, a hand-spanable waist and a waterfall of glossy, mink-dark hair.

  The front view was just as good as the rear. Duke should know. He’d scoped it out the first day he’d arrived in Colorado Springs to serve as the USAF adviser for the first joint Russian-U.S. exercises to be conducted on American soil in more than a decade.

  Adviser. Christ!

  His fist tightened on his dew-streaked beer bottle. The noise of the bar faded. His gaze shifted to a flickering neon sign across the room, and Duke felt it take him to another time, another place. He could almost see the red tracers streaking down from dark, forbidding peaks a half a world away. Hear the shouts, the deadly whir. His stomach knotted, and he cursed again the machine-gun round that had carved off a piece of his hip bone.

  He should be with his squad high in the mountains east of Kabul, dammit! Coordinating air strikes against entrenched Taliban positions. Conducting helicopter infiltrations with the Afghan commandos he’d helped train. Instead he’d been shipped back to the States for long weeks of rehab, followed by more weeks of light duty at Air Force Special Operations Command headquarters in the Florida Panhandle.

  Then a tour he’d served at the American embassy in Moscow almost a decade ago had jumped up to bite him in the ass. Some weenie at headquarters remembered he’d attended the Defense Language Institute prior to his Moscow assignment, and that he’d picked up a more-or-less working knowledge of Russian during his tour. He’d forgotten most of it, but that didn’t matter to the desk jockeys at headquarters. Now he was playing nursemaid to a bunch of Russians until the docs reviewed his latest medical eval. Then Duke would either be returned to full duty or...

  A burst of laughter jerked him back to the noisy present. His grip on the beer easing, he skimmed a glance over the crowd. Pete’s Place was even more jammed tonight than usual. The ramshackle bar was popular with Special Forces troops attending the advanced mountain operations school here at Fort Carson, just outside Colorado Springs. With a senior mountaineering class due to graduate tomorrow, the air inside the bar reverberated with the raucous relief of those who’d made it through the brutal four-week course.

  Duke listened with only half an ear to the mildly exaggerated tales of rappelling ice-coated cliffs and packhorses sliding ass-backward down impossibly steep slopes. He knew from personal experience the high-Alpine hell these guys had endured. He’d attended the course himself what seemed like a lifetime ago. When he was young and studly and totally immune to fear.

  Now...

  With a fierce effort of will, he concentrated on the brunette. She was slinging her purse over her shoulder, heading for the door.

  Time to make his move. Again.

  Duke pushed away from the bar and bit back a wince. The pain had dulled to a sharp ache, but if he twisted the wrong way it could still put a hitch in his stride. Even with the hitch, he got to the exit two steps ahead of his target.

  “Allow me, ma’am.”

  He accompanied his best West Texas drawl with a slow grin and an even slower reach for the push-bar. She was forced to stop and wait, and flicked him an impatient glance. When the door finally yielded to a blast of cold, she skewered him with a look that said she knew exactly what kind of game he played.

  “Thanks.”

  Undaunted by her less than friendly attitude, Duke followed her into the rapidly deepening dusk. This wasn’t the first time he’d been shot down. Although he still held the record among the Sidewinders for finessing a woman into bed in the shortest time, he’d long ago learned to accept defeat at female hands gracefully and move on to the next challenge.

  He’d also learned from his friends’ mistakes. His buddy Travis’s ex-wife had carved out his heart with a dull knife. Travis was doing just fine now with feisty Madison Duncan, but he’d trekked a long, painful road to get there. Duke didn’t plan on going down that same road.

  He would sure as hell consider a side trip with someone like Anna Solkov, though. The woman had intrigued him from day one with her high, slashing cheekbones and ripe mouth. Her tip-tilted chin hinted at a stubborn streak, but he was willing to take that minor defect in stride.

  She was also smart as hell. A civilian analyst with the Defense Intelligence Agency, she specialized in central and eastern European languages. Duke had checked her credentials, knew she was fluent in Polish and Ukrainian and spoke four or five Russian dialects. The woman had earned her pay and then some these past few weeks by facilitating communications between the Americans and Russians. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been as willing to facilitate with Duke on a person-to-person basis.

  He knew she wasn’t married or recently divorced. He had enough contacts in Washington to have confirmed those basics. One of those contacts thought there was a boyfriend or fiancé somewhere in the background but she didn’t wear a ring. That made her fair game in Duke’s book.

  Determined to break through the professional barrier she insisted on maintaining, he caught up with her at her car.

  “I know a great rib place not far from here. How ’bout we grab some dinner?”

  She paused with her lock clicker in hand and looked him up and down. Inch by deliberate inch. He rolled his shoulders under the down vest he wore to counter the chill of late September in the Rockies. Pretty much like a cock puffing out his chest and ruffling his feather to impress a hen, he acknowledged in silent amusement.

  This one remained unimpressed. She finished her inspection and finally got around to responding to his invitation.

  “How ’bout we don’t grab anything, cowboy.”

  Duke blinked. She’d echoed his deep baritone and Texas drawl with uncanny precision. It sounded as though one of the Sidewinders was channeling through this luscious, long-legged brunette.

  “If I didn’t know better,” he said in real admiration, “I’d swear you hail
ed from Rush Springs.”

  Anna almost laughed at his look of surprise. Probably would have, if the man didn’t irritate her so much. It wasn’t his looks that bothered her. Those were just short of spectacular. Assuming, of course, you were into buzz-cut blond hair, skin weathered to dark oak by the sun, white squint lines at the corners of electric blue eyes and a collection of cut muscles that not even Air Force BDUs could disguise.

  Anna wasn’t. Nor was she attracted by the cocky male confidence so endemic to the special ops community. Particularly when it came wrapped in blatantly sexual overtones.

  For a moment, a blind moment, she let herself remember the kind of man that did attract her. Quiet, funny, self-deprecating Jeremy South was the exact opposite of Duke Carmichael. Or rather, he had been the exact opposite. The ache that three long years couldn’t erase stripped away any desire to be polite.

  “Do me a favor, Sergeant Carmichael...”

  “Duke.”

  “Do me a favor, Sergeant Carmichael, and drop the aw-shucks act.”

  A sun-bleached brow hooked. He looked more amused than offended. “What makes you think it’s an act?”

  “I’m a linguist. I’m trained to recognize individual speech pattern.” She should have left it there, but honesty compelled her to add a kicker. “I also watched the video of when you were awarded the Air Force Cross.”

  The Air Force Cross was that service’s second highest award for valor in the face of the enemy, ranking right below the Medal of Honor. Carmichael’s speech after the commanding general of the USAF Special Operations Command pinned the award on his chest had been brief and incredibly moving. He’d played down how he’d exposed himself to withering enemy fire to call in an air strike, paying tribute instead to the men who’d died trying to take out entrenched enemy positions. The speech had also been crisp, clear and articulate.

  “You didn’t drop a single G or roll one diphthong,” she remarked.

  “I didn’t, huh?”

  The twinkle reappeared. With a vengeance. Anna swallowed a sigh. “You did not. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll...”

  The sharp buzz of a cell phone cut her off. Carmichael fished his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the number on the screen. Despite the rapidly deepening dusk, Anna caught the leap of excitement in his eyes.

  “’Scuse me. I’ve been expecting the results of my medical eval board. I need to take this call.”

  He moved away, the phone pinned to his ear. The message he received was short and succinct and evidently had nothing to do with his medical status. She was trying to interpret his flat, unrevealing expression when she also received a call.

  Her conversation was even briefer than his. Frowning, Anna disconnected. “There’s a Code Six inbound tomorrow at oh-seven-hundred,” she said slowly. “We’re supposed to meet him at base ops. You and I.”

  “Yeah, I just got the word.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  * * *

  Dawn was beginning to streak the horizon when Duke left his quarters at Fort Carson the next morning. He wore his uniform, but not the ninety plus pounds of combat gear he and his fellow combat controllers carried on missions. His woodland camo BDUs blended with the shadows. His rubber-treaded boots barely disturbed the quiet as he let himself out and into the frigid predawn air.

  The dark bulk of Cheyenne Mountain loomed directly ahead as he drove across the sprawling Army post. Established during WWII and named for General Kit Carson, the legendary Army scout and frontiersman, Fort Carson was home to a host of units. Among them was A Company, Second Battalion, First Special Warfare Training Group, Airborne. The battle-tested veterans of A Company were the U.S. Army’s elite mountaineers. The best of the best. They taught Special Forces from all branches of the service and a good number of foreign countries how to conduct—and survive—mountain warfare. For the past few weeks, they’d served as the host unit for the counterterrorism exercise being conducted jointly by U.S. Special Forces and Russian Spetsnaz troops.

  Duke had been working out of A Company during that time. So had Anna Solkov. This morning, though, that strange phone call had instructed them to meet an incoming Code Six—military jargon for someone with the rank of colonel—at Butts Army Airfield. Like Fort Carson, the airfield was named for another Army hero. Medal of Honor winner Second Lieutenant John Butts had died in Normandy in June 1994 after exposing himself to intense fire so his men could make a flanking movement and overrun the enemy position.

  Courage was pretty much duty supercharged by sheer guts, Duke thought as he pulled into a parking space in front of base ops. The credo of special operations. The need to be with his unit hit him again, hard and raw. The dead weight of it went with him into the base ops.

  Anna was already there, pacing the small waiting room with coffee in hand. “Have you learned any more what this is all about?” she asked by way of greeting.

  “Negative.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Nodding, Duke tugged off his scarlet beret. A badge of distinction, the beret was awarded only to combat controllers—the small, tight breed of warriors inserted behind enemy lines first so they could lead the way for other forces to follow.

  Combat controllers went through much the same training as Navy SEALs and United States Army Special Forces. Duke could put a 7.62 NATO rifle round dead center at nine hundred yards, free-fall from twenty-five thousand feet, rappel or fast-rope sheer cliffs, scuba into hostile areas and perform emergency medical procedures with the same skill as an EMT.

  What distinguished combat controllers from other branches of special ops, however, was that they were also certified at FAA level to direct air traffic. Being inserted behind enemy lines to establish assault zones and airfields was a tough job at the best of times. Directing air traffic in those zones was even dicier with enemy fire raining down and 500-pound bombs cratering the earth all around.

  Folding the scarlet beret into a leg pocket of his ABUs, Duke snagged a cup of thick, black sludge from base ops’ coffee maker and joined Anna. Last night’s jeans were gone. He mourned their snug-fitting loss, but couldn’t fault her pleated black slacks, turquoise blouse and neat charcoal blazer. She looked cool, composed and all business.

  Appreciating the view, Duke took a swig of what the airfield guys obviously mistook for coffee. “Good God. This is worse than the stuff my granny used to pour down my throat when she thought I was coming down with the croup.”

  For the first time he could recall, Anna relaxed into a genuine smile. It softened her face, and hit Duke about six inches below the belt line.

  “You’ve got one of those grandmothers, too?”

  “Granny Jones was the terror of my youth. Still scares the snot out of me every time I go back to Texas,” he admitted ruefully.

  “Ha! You should meet my babushka. She could go ten rounds with your granny and never break a sweat.”

  Duke had to laugh. The rich, deep chuckle seemed to crack some of the ice between him and this brown-eyed honey. With a little luck and some good, old-fashioned persistence, he might just punch right through it.

  * * *

  The small, sleek jet swooped out of the clouds mere moments later. Its engines had barely shut down before the side hatch popped up and Colonel Lloyd Haggarty hit the tarmac. A command pilot with twenty-three years in special ops, he was known and pretty much feared on five continents. Ramrod-straight, flinty-eyed, he strode across the apron as Duke and Anna stepped outside to greet him.

  Duke had served under the colonel a number of times, the latest during his stint of enforced light duty at USAF Special Ops headquarters. The possibility that Haggarty had flown out to Colorado to deliver the results of the medical eval in person settled like a pile of bricks on Duke’s chest.

  The colonel’s first words after he’d returned Duke’s salute added another brick to the load.

  “You still on meds?”

&
nbsp; “No, sir.”

  “Good.”

  The crushing weight lifted. Haggarty seemed to understand because he gave Duke a brief nod before his razor glance cut to Anna. “We have a situation brewing, Ms. Solkov. The DIA says you’re the best person to help defuse it.”

  She had to be as curious as Duke but knew better than to ask for details out here in the open. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “Come inside. I’ll brief you both while the plane refuels.”

  The C-21’s pilot had obviously radioed ahead. The major in charge of flight ops met them at the door and ushered them to his private office. After producing coffee for the three of them, he retreated. Haggarty waited only until the door closed behind him to strike.

  “What do you know about the terrorist known as Nikolai Varno?”

  Anna sucked in a sharp breath. “Aka Vasili Fedak, Petr Burda, Maurel Baranski and a half-dozen other aliases. No one knows his real name, only that he has ties to both the Russian mafia and Chechen extremists. I’ve read the dossier on him but it’s far from complete. He’s as elusive as he is vicious.”

  “One of our listening posts intercepted a brief cell-phone transmission. It hinted that he may be en route to a village called Rasliva, high in the Carpathian mountains.”

  “That’s in the Ukraine! My grandmother was born in a village nearby.”

  “So I’ve been informed.”

  “I visited that area once with my grandparents.” Her forehead creased. “I was only a kid at the time, but I remember the villages are small and remote. Why would Varno go there?”

  Haggarty held Anna’s intent gaze. “Intelligence indicates he may be recruiting disgruntled locals to help blow up a section of the Soyuz pipeline.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  Her shocked response had Duke dredging through his memory bank. The Soyuz line was one of three or four monster pipelines that ran from Russia through the Ukraine to different parts of Europe. Best he could recall, those lines supplied something like 80 percent of Europe’s oil and natural gas. A disruption in that flow would have devastating consequences for those EU nations already teetering on the brink of economic disaster. Worse—or better from a terrorist’s view—blowing up such a huge pipeline could cause horrific loss of life if the explosion occurred in a populated area.