Free Flash of Fire by M. L. Buchman

What’s not to like?”
    Then he walked away to see what Steve’s drone would show of the fire.
    No steps rustled through the knee-high grass behind him—neither the run-up to an attack or any sign that Robin was following at all.
    He’d have to remember to tell Dad that he’d been right.
    * * *
    For a moment, Robin wished she’d flown to Leavenworth with Gordon. Him she understood: nice guy, too polite for his own good, probably shy, and if you dug deep enough, plenty smart.
    Mickey Hamilton she didn’t understand at all.
    She had hit him, failed to thank him, and tripped him—and he’d told her she was strong and capable. He’d seen her in a state of tired, sweaty, disheveled mess at the end of a long flight—and he’d complimented her on her posture and called her beautiful.
    If he was messing with her, she couldn’t spot it. If he was trying to bed her, giving her a brief shoulder massage without the slightest inappropriate gesture was an odd way to let her know it.
    The man was a puzzle, which only made him more intriguing. Maybe that was his nefarious plan…but she wasn’t buying that explanation either. The man hadn’t played a single game that she could spot yet. He either had a masterful poker face or was genuinely decent and plainspoken.
    Yeah, right! Since when had there ever been a man like that?
    Fire. She’d focus on the fire.
    Sure, it was clear she didn’t know MHA’s routines, but she’d seen plenty enough burns to know she understood those. Even if Mr. Smug Hamilton’s expression had warned her she was in for some surprises.
    The sun was headed for the horizon. Time to learn all she could tonight, so that she’d be ready for tomorrow’s flight.
    She hurried to Firehawk One to see what Steve and Carly could teach her. Another piece of Emily’s instructions clicked back into place; they were part of her information flow.
    And while she was learning what she could about the fire, maybe she could figure out a little more about Mickey Hamilton.

Chapter 3
    Robin arrived at the open cargo bay door of her Firehawk One in time to hear Steve cursing.
    She stopped and stared at the setup. She hadn’t paid as much attention as she probably should have to what was in the back of her helicopter—as in none at all other than chucking in her gear bag.
    The cargo bay on a Black Hawk was six feet wide, a dozen long, and four and a half high. The two big side doors slid backwards on each side to expose the center of the bay, making it almost feel like outdoors. The rear held about what she’d expected: fire safety gear, spare supplies, and some camping equipment. She’d seen Mickey dump his own camp gear behind his bird, so she snagged hers and tossed hers to land clear of her tail rotor.
    It took her eyes several moments, and a lot of blinking, to focus on what Steve had set up in the forward four feet of the bay. In the AANG birds, that was where the two crew chiefs sat in sideways-facing chairs close behind the pilot’s and copilot’s seats. From those, they each controlled an M240 machine gun sticking out of the side windows.
    Instead of nine hundred rounds per minute of flying 7.62 mm death, Steve had a pair of keyboards with a joystick to one side and a trackball to the other. Bolted to the sidewall and the back of Robin’s pilot seat was an array of four laptop-sized screens. Like the Firehawk’s cockpit, it was an electronic wonderland.
    Carly sat intently in the only other chair close beside her husband.
    Mickey squatted—which was necessary in the low cargo bay—easily behind Steve.
    Robin’s shoulders felt fine, but her legs were still stiff enough from the long flight that she didn’t want to squat. Maybe Mickey gave leg massages as well. Now there was an interesting thought.
    She opted for leaning on the door frame and looking over Steve’s shoulder.
    In moments,