Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart of Stone by Lindsay McKenna Page A

snapped a salute to the two pilots.
    Maya snapped off an answering salute. “Thank you, Sergeant Macedo.”
    Macedo then brought down both canopies and locked them into position, making the cabin of each cockpit secure.
    Maya rested her gloved hands in plain sight of the crew below. Until everyone was clear, Maya would not start the massive engines of the helo or endanger her ground crew. As the three of them stepped away, their faces shadowed by the low lighting provided by anearby generator, Maya lifted her hand and twirled her index finger in a circular motion, which meant she was going to start engines.
    “Let’s get down to work,” she told Wild Woman, her voice turning businesslike. Maya flipped the first switch, which would engage the engine on the starboard, or right side of the fuselage. Instantly, a high whine and shudder worked through the aircraft. Eyes narrowing, Maya watched the engine indicator leap like active thermometers, bobbing up and down. When the engine was activated to a certain level, she thumbed the second engine switch. The gunship was awakening. In some sense Maya always thought of it as an ugly and ungainly looking thing. The image of a Tyrannosaurus rex came to mind: king of the dinosaurs and a mean bastard who ruled its turf—just like the Apache did. She could feel the sleek shudder that ran through it as the gunship gained power.
    To Maya, her helicopter was a living being consisting of metal, wire circuitry, software and engine parts. She found her own power in that machinery. Whatever nervousness she’d felt about the coming encounter with Major Dane York was soothed away. When she was in the cockpit, the world and all its troubles dissolved. Her love of flying, of handling this remarkable machine, took over completely.
    As the engine indicators leveled out, Maya engaged the main rotor. The four blades began to turn in a counterclockwise motion, slowly at first, then faster and faster as she notched up the power with the cyclic grasped in her fingers. Her entire left forearm rested comfortably on a panel so that her hand wouldn’t cramp up and the cyclic became a natural extension of her hand.
    “Jess, switch on the radar. I need to thread the needle here in a moment.”
    “Right…We’re up…go for it….”
    Maya saw the full sweep of a bright green set of lines on the right HUD. It looked like a slice of pie as the long, green needle of radar swept ceaselessly back and forth, clearly revealing the hole in the wall directly in front of them, despite the cloud cover beyond.
    “Let’s go over our checklist,” Maya ordered.
    “Roger,” Jess returned, and they began to move through a sequence they had memorized long ago. Maya reached for her knee board, systematically checking off each station as it was called out. There was no room for sloppiness in her squadron. Things were done by the book. It improved their chances of survival.
    They were ready. Maya devoured the excitement still throbbing through her. The Apache shook around her, the noise muted to a great degree by her helmet. She tested the yaw pedals beneath her booted feet. Everything was functioning properly. Proud of her hardworking ground crews, Maya lifted her hand to them in farewell as they moved back to watch the two assault helicopters take off, one at a time, to thread the needle.
    “Black Jaguar Two. You ready to rock ’n’ roll?” Maya asked.
    Dallas chuckled indulgently. “Roger that, Saber. My girl is checked out and we’re ready to boogie on down the road with you. I want to dance on a Black Shark’s head today.”
    “Roger. Let’s go meet those good ole boys from Fort Rucker first, shall we? They might have the new D models, but us girls have got the guns.”
    Chuckling, Dallas said, “I don’t think Gunslinger is ready for us.”
    Gunslinger was Dane York’s nickname, Maya remembered starkly. He was an aggressive, type A individual who lived to hunt and kill in the air. Of course, so did