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- Herausgeber: Buchman Bookworks, Inc.
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
-a Night Stalkers 5E romance story- Royal Air Force Colour Sergeant George Hayman’s year flying with the Night Stalkers 5E ends in three days. His final mission starts well—but then goes terribly wrong. He finally feels he has some grip on American idiom, but being shot was “no picnic.” The biggest shock? Nothing in his training prepared him for the nameless but lovely French dragoon who falls into his lap—literally. Their missions flying with the Americans are over, but that only begins the tale of Sergeant George and the Dragoon.
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Sergeant George and the Dragoon
a Night Stalkers 5E romance story
M. L. Buchman
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1
One year minus three days.
Colour Sergeant George Hayman was counting the days, but not for the reasons he had expected. When his commander had told him that he was to be a foreign-military exchange liaison with the Americans of the 160th Night Stalkers 5th Battalion E Company, his protests fell on deaf ears.
“They’re the most advanced helicopter company the Yanks have flying, sergeant. Besides, you are one of the very few who has the security clearance they require.”
Because of your family connections, he didn’t say.
George’s father was an unspecified, but very highly placed official in MI-6, the foreign intelligence service. It had made Father’s life easier for George and Mother to be cleared to SC status or better. It had let Father sit in the parlor with them while reading through his less classified files. George’s own work with the Special Forces 7th Squadron RAF had led him to get the DV—Developed Vetting—the UK’s highest-level clearance as well.
To this day, Father never spoke about anything he was working on. Or even precisely who he worked for. It remained rather unclear whether that was due to information compartmentalization or to Father being a taciturn bastard—George felt he was finally getting a good ‘handle’ on American euphemism after a year minus three days. He favored the latter conclusion.
Either way, his DV clearance meant that he had what the Yanks were after. And his commander had chosen him for the assignment.
“But, sir, they are always so…full of themselves.”
“Bottle it, I believe the Americans say.”
“I think it’s ‘Jar it,’ sir.” (He knew better now.)
“Jar it, then. Cowboys or not, I need to learn what they know. So, gather your hounds and drain your stirrup cup, or whatever you types do.”
“Saddle up, sir.” He was going to America, after all.
And one-year-minus-three-days ago, he’d landed in the sweltering wilderness of Fort Rucker, Alabama. Such places were fit for neither man nor beast, but they were fit for perhaps the finest crew he’d ever served with. He was going to be sorry to go back home. The weather had turned out to not be an issue because the 5E’s mission tempo was so high that they were rarely at Fort Rucker. Instead they were in places sufficiently awful to make Mother Rucker (as the fort was known) appear actually palatable.
Even stranger, the lead pilot on the Calamity Jane II—a huge MH-47G Chinook helicopter—was indeed a cowboy, a real one. Captain Justin Roberts came from a long line of Texas horse breeders and wore his Stetson whenever he wasn’t wearing his flight helmet. The others on the crew had come from wildly varied backgrounds—each incredibly impressive in his own way. Or her own way.
He’d landed as their starboard-side gunner and second crew chief to Sergeant Carmen Parker. A talkative, funny, and outspoken redhead who knew more about how and why helicopters worked than anyone he’d ever met. Working with her hadn’t been a honing of his craft; it had been a Level 8 doctoral program in its own right in both operations and strategy.
And now there were only three days left before his return to the UK.
“Last mission,” he meant it for himself, but he still wasn’t used to the always-live intercom that this team favored.
“I don’t know, gang,” Carmen called out. “We gonna miss him?”
He’d finally learned to not be hurt by Carmen’s teases, but it had taken a long time to understand that she only teased people she liked—and to them she was merciless.
A chorus of “Nah!” “Nope!” and “Not a chance!” sounded over the headphones in his helmet.
“Right back to you, you undeserving lot.” They were the most deserving team he’d ever met. A Brit nuanced their feelings. The Americans were possessed of no nuance at all. Their use of a single emphatic word, where five would do nicely, made it terribly difficult to isolate sarcasm from forthright intent.
