Free Arisen, Book Nine - Cataclysm by Michael Stephen Fuchs Page B

they all appeared to be living ones.
    But if she found any that weren’t… well, backing up the high-tech optics was a 30mm autocannon which fired high-explosive dual-purpose (HEDP) rounds, ten per second – the gun also slaved to her head, and pointing wherever she looked.
    She knew how to use the sensors, she was damned deadly with the autocannon, and moreover she knew how to track down squirters. Mostly, these had been Taliban and al Qaeda in Afghanistan, escaping from infantry assaults or air strikes – bad guys hauling ass away from bullets or bombs, scattering in ones and twos into the surrounding hills or forests. Charlotte had cleaned up a lot of squirters on her two deployments to brutally contested Helmand Province.
    But it definitely hadn’t been her favorite part of that job.
    What really got her up in the morning was zooming in to support beleaguered British squaddies on the ground – protecting her boys. It was always about keeping them safe, and never leaving one behind. Today, as usual, it was the ground-pounders – in this case the Royal Marines of Lieutenant Jameson’s One Troop – who had borne the brunt of the fighting. But Charlotte’s overwatch, mobility, and aerial firepower had been a critical component.
    And Charlotte knew that more men were alive down there now because of her being up here then.
    And just as she found herself thinking of Jameson – the unassuming yet formidable Royal Marine officer she had pulled out of that vortex of collapsing building and swarming runners in Dusseldorf – his voice spoke aloud in her ear. At this point, she’d know that voice anywhere.
    “Wyvern Two Zero, CentCom Actual, how copy?”
    Even if she didn’t recognize the call sign. Technically, Wyvern Two Zero wasn’t her call sign anymore, either, as this was a different mission, and even a different aircraft, than in Germany. But she knew what he meant. His call sign, on the other hand, was a little harder to get her head around.
    “CentCom Actual, Wyvern Two Zero copies. But, fuck me, Lieutenant, they didn’t put you in charge of this whole cock-up, did they? Over.”
    “That’s exactly what they did. And it’s Major now.” Jameson’s tone said that on another occasion he might enjoy this witty badinage, but at the moment he actually didn’t even have time to scratch his privates, and he wasn’t calling now for a friendly chat. He also didn’t need her taking the piss about his rank or new job, about which no one was more surprised, or less happy, than him.
    He got right back to the reason for his call. “Are you the only operational helo pilot we’ve got on this base? Over.”
    “Negative. The majority are deployed and flying in theater across the south. But there are a handful of rotary-wing and fixed-wing pilots on standby here.”
    “Received. What is their location?”
    “Pilots’ ready room, adjacent to the main hangar.”
    “Good. Let’s keep them there.” Jameson sounded relieved. “I need you to RTB and get down there, too. The time may soon come when we need you to save our asses again, so I want to keep you safely in storage. How copy?”
    Charlotte hesitated and considered her response, while she zoomed in on some movement in a copse of trees and banked around to get behind it. “All received, Major. But, with respect, I’d like to request permission to stay on station. I’ve still got fuel and armaments. I can be your eyes and quick-strike capability.” She paused. No response. “I’m a piece you want on the board, not in a drawer. And assuming this place was secure was what almost lost it in the first place.”
    There was the briefest of pauses on the other end. “Roger that. Permission granted. Jameson out.”
    Charlotte had no trouble reading between the lines on that one, either. It said: Whatever . Basically, he didn’t have time to micromanage every decision. He was already totally overwhelmed with what was on his plate at that moment in the Joint