Vapour
By David Manoa
()
About this ebook
Maj. Chase "Tomcat" Tupou is an experienced flight instructor at Bagram Airbase in Afganistan.
He begins to develop feelings for the new addition to their squadron, Capt. Annabelle "Angel" Amber.
But Annabelle is a headstrong, independent woman, who holds back from Chase's advances.
Afraid to lose everything. Annabelle has fought hard to get where she is, overcoming barriers of gender, controversy and politics.
Is there space in Annabelle’s heart for her to accept love, that she has always hesitated on?
Contains Love Scenes.
David Manoa
I am a writer based in Auckland, New Zealand.I write mainly contemporary romance.My interests are Rugby League, Cars, Gaming and Bodybuilding.
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Vapour - David Manoa
Vapour
~~~
David Manoa
Copyright 2015 David Manoa
SMASHWORDS Edition
~~~~
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as
the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, information storage and retrieval systems, or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from the author, with the exception of a book reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
~~~~~~
Chase Tomcat
Tupou
My F-14 Tomcat jet cuts through the air at supersonic speed. In the cockpit afternoon sunlight strikes my face from the right. Droplets of water streak over the glass canopy above. A cone of grey mist circles the nose. The rumble of the twin thrust engines vibrates through my body. Strained neck muscles. A clenched jaw.
My radio frequency, linked to Capt. Annabelle Angel
Amber, relays her tense, heavy breathing, the gurgle in her throat from the evasive maneuvers and g-forces punishing her body. SAM missile launchers on the ground are tracking her furiously, launching a barrage of fire.
Hang in there, Angel.
Oh shit - 2nd SA2 launch! Angel Defending!
Two minutes and closing, I’m nearly there!
I'm breaking right. Another launch, Angel Defending.
A string of indecipherable curses and grunts signal the evasive movement.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beeeeep.
The dreaded sequence of missile lock. Annabelle wheezes violently.
You only get seconds to react. I could imagine what was going through her mind now. Pull up, Annabelle!
It was supposed to have been easy for her, to provide Close Air Support to a rescue mission for Special Air Services soldier, Cade Hunter. Then the designated JTAC (Joint Terminal Attack Controller) William Alipate called in a bomb drop.
Annabelle came in to drop her ordinates and got peppered with Triple AA (Anti-Aircraft) fire.
Angel, I got visual. Get out of there!
Angel has dodged the stream of fire flying up like fiery snakes. At 15000 ft., the mile long smoke trail of the missiles she’s evaded lingers.
The fire from below stops when I approach. Annabelle hovers at an altitude clear of the missiles and Anti-aircraft fire, the black flak rounds exploding mid-air beneath her like dull, dusty fireworks. It hurts me to know she’s been struggling with the onslaught, I hope I can make a difference because she’s told me her fuel’s already on vapour.
***
Three months earlier. Bagram Airbase - Afghanistan.
Among the symphony of roaring engines from the different types of Aircraft the scent of Jet fuel made my nose twitch as I waited to receive the recruits for training.. The airfield was strewed with the maintenance crew and pilots.
The tarmac became gritty, under my boots and a thin layer of sleet and melting ice. Spring. I angled my head up at the snow-capped Hindu Kush Mountains, now halfway receded, making me nostalgic. I've been here long enough to see them cycle from snow to rock.
The 5th generation of jets, F-35, were preparing for their test run into combat. Insurgent activity tends to pick up around this time, due to the opium harvest season ending, with workers being tempted to fight because of the riches offered by the militant groups.
A seasonal war with seasonal soldiers. And like the seasons I'd be ending in retirement at the young age of 36 in a month’s time. I smiled, then suddenly I was tapped on the shoulder by my younger wingman, Lt. John Walker, call sign Horse
.
In his southern Texan drawl, he asked, The heck you smiling at?
I shrugged, reveling in my old age.
You smiling cause of the females joining our squadron?
No, I'm smiling because I'm going home soon.
John raised his eyebrows and folded his arms. Bullshit, y’all be crawling back to ask for your job back, soon.
I flicked an eye to him,
Smirking under his worn tan cowboy hat, he smoothed his blond goatee, shaped like an upside down U, with his thumb and forefinger. He’d got his call sign Horse the moment he opened his mouth. Large gums, small teeth. Big mouth, literally and figuratively. The kind of person who says it like it is.
I snatched his hat and pointed at his flight cap tucked in his front pocket. Put it on,
I growled.
Damn it Chase! You’re no fun!
This is not the time to be showboating. These two women are the best. An honor to have them train with us.
We spotted two F-35 jets on the horizon making their descent to land on the runway. I swept the icy grit off my uniform, thinking of the opportunities, definitely a privilege, that not too many experience. Of my late father, both envious and proud I had continued the tradition long held in the family. Though I was disgusted with everything that happened at the twilight of his career.
My father flew the F-14 jets in the Vietnam War. By the time I flew out of my mother’s womb in 1979, he’d semi-retired to focus on family life. I remember from as early as three years old the stories he told and the photos he showed me. Until the year 1986 when my dad took me to the local theatre to attend the premiere of this movie called Top Gun. Six years old