Way of the Warrior (Troubleshooters #17.5)(86)

The “GO!” came just as she racked up on the collective, getting her off the dirt and airborne without a wasted instant.

Whatever was happening in the cargo bay was no longer her problem. They could do everything that most field hospitals could do. If you were alive when CSAR got you, your life expectancy was very high. And sometimes even if you weren’t.

Lois punched through the dust brownout kicked up by her own rotors and headed back the way she’d come. She slewed hard to clear the first turn in the road as the battle behind her moved toward the other end of the pass.

She climbed enough to keep her rotor blades clear of the ground and leaned into the first turn in the ravine.

She barely had time to see the white-hot streak coming in her direction. “RPG!” the warbling tone of the threat detector screeched out. The rocket-propelled grenade impacted her Number One turbine engine with no chance of an evasive maneuver. Dusty pulled the overhead Fire Suppress T-handle as Chuff’s minigun announced he was taking care of whoever had gotten them. That was no longer the problem.

The problem was she was in a turn that needed four-thousand horsepower to recover from, and she now only had twenty-six hundred. She cranked the Number Two engine right into redline and yanked up hard on the collective.

Not enough. The steep rock wall of the pass loomed before them. The night-vision gear gave her a perfect, crystalline view—as well-lit as if it were broad daylight—of the boulder field that was going to kill her Hawk.

And her crew.

No! There!

Normally, she’d pull up on the collective and let the tail hit first and then belly flop the bird down—worked well on a flat landing area. The Hawk could take a lot of abuse that way and could often be bounced off its wheels and they’d be on their way.

But not with these boulders. The very worst of the damage path would be right through the center of the cargo bay where she had four injured, two medics, and two crew chiefs.

She slammed over the collective and rammed down hard on the right rudder pedal, intentionally driving the pilot’s side rotor blade into the cliff wall.

They would tumble in a hard roll, but it offered the best chance of the crew’s survival.

Only one problem.

She’d known it even before she’d slammed over the collective and didn’t shy away.

U.S. Army Captain Lois Lang’s position was the very first point of contact in the developing crash.

? ? ?

Lois jerked awake in a cold sweat.

No cockpit!

Crisp white sheets. Soft pillow.

She let out a long, slow sigh of relief. If the damn dream insisted on waking her every single morning, why did it have to be so utterly accurate. And real. Her adrenaline was through the roof, her heart rate only now cascading down through stratospheric flight levels.

She was in her own apartment in Fort Lewis post housing. She was still here, housed with the rest of the SOAR 5th Battalion. Like most single soldiers in post housing, her possessions were not a major burden. Most of them were hanging on the white walls: the line of pictures of people she’d served with, the ones she’d dragged out of hell and the pictures of them back in the air or back with their families, and most importantly, her different crews over the years—the ones she’d shed blood and sweat with. Her ROTC graduation certificate and the letter signed by the president to commission her as an officer in the U.S. Special Forces were framed at the center of the wall. She belonged here.

At least this time she’d woken before the final crash, which she often relived in agonizingly slow motion. She’d count that as a good start to the day.

She swung up to a sitting position and stared at her options. Start the day on crutches or crutches with the prosthetic. She wanted to ignore the damn foot, but reminded herself that “Night Stalkers Don’t Quit.” NSDQ was a motto commonly heard during tough times, and she’d been saying it a lot lately. Well, if they didn’t quit, that also meant they didn’t shy away from the hard choices.

Fine. As of this moment, no matter what the medicos said, she was done with the crutches. She reached for the foot and began putting it on.

Two layers of anti-abrasion sock that rolled up over her knee, at least that was still hers. She’d always been told she had great legs, had enjoyed wearing shorts to the inevitable volleyball or beach gatherings to show them off. Now, not so much.

She slid on the socket and strapped it into place. She’d tried the suction mount but never liked the slick feel of it. So, socks and straps. They’d offered her two different right-foot prostheses, but she’d only taken the one. She didn’t need some dandied-up version of cosmesis. Her right foot was gone; a transtibial shear-off right at mid-calf as she’d kept the rudder pedal rammed down throughout the entire crash to buy every last ounce of safety she could for her crew. And it had worked. Other than a few broken ribs and a concussion, hers was the only injury. If she had to deal with a false foot, then people would have to accept her as she was.

For the first time since the crash, she didn’t pull on pants, but chose a skirt instead. If you’re gonna do it, girl, you’re gonna do it all the way. So, no false camouflage either.

The leg came with a fake, skin-toned covering shaped like a human foot. She considered throwing that in the garbage disposal for good measure, but it would just clog the thing up. Hell, lettuce would clog her damned disposal. She chucked the offending plastic covering—with its fake big-toe gap so she could wear a sandal—in the garbage. She had a custom sneaker that would hide most of the prosthetic’s mechanics, but she bypassed that as well, opting to clip on just the rubber toe and heel pads that left the mechanical foot exposed.