12 Days of Ficmas - Day One: Surviving the Trap
*waves*
My first 12 Days of Ficmas post is the opening chapters to Surviving the Trap, my novella published through Red Rose Publishing.
Tomorrow's will feature the same characters so I thought this would be a good intro.
Enjoy!
SURVIVING THE TRAP
Chapter One
Year 2952, Deep Inside US Space Territory,
Aircraft Space Carrier Mythos
Hell Week
The landing bay swam in and out of focus.
Not a good thing when someone wanted to land two tons of aircraft and hit the trap.
Frustrated and more than a wee bit pissed off, Max Cutter aka ‘Ripper,’ wondered if there was a way to get his hands on the morons who put this little endeavor together. And not get court-martialed for strangling them. A court-martial meant automatic grounding and that was something Cutter couldn’t live with.
From as early as he could remember, he’d looked to the sky. When he got older…beyond the blue expanse to the heavens that surrounded it. Inter-atmo, deep space - he’d wanted to experience everything involved in leaving the ground behind to soar in almost limitless freedom.
All he’d ever wanted to do was fly.
But this?
Hitting trap after trap, over and over? Sure as hell wasn’t flying.
It was a teeth-jarring, brain-scrambling, headache-inducing nightmare. The planes weren’t designed for it…hell, the pilots even less so. He’d never heard nor read about anything like this in the scores of military history books he devoured. It was beyond him what the brass was hoping to prove by tying flight quals to this display of madness.
Unless they were attempting to discover which gave out first…the pilot or the plane?
His opinion? It was a dead heat.
Planes were like women. The more respect you showed them, the more you dug down deep to understand how they worked and what they needed, the more you could make them hum with satisfaction. Flying was almost as good as sex. Almost. There was something that thrummed in his blood when he flew. The precision, the instinct, the ebb and flow, the give and take of response - all of it heightened the experience. Exerting just enough control to bend the plane to his will while at the same time giving himself over. To become one with the machine.
Okay…so flying wasn’t as good as sex but the practical concepts were comparable. Treat a machine with finesse and care and it wouldn’t let you down. The same could be said for the human physique. Stress, lack of sleep, and minimal food and water rations took its toll, making it difficult to treat anything with respect, including superior officers.
Lame ass morons.
Shifting in the cockpit, Max cursed himself for letting his mind drift. He made his fuzzy brain go blank, calling on whatever reserve he had left to visualize the landing bay in his head. It was the only way he’d pull off hitting the trap. And it needed to be solid. Not only were his quals on the line, he had a reputation to maintain.
Which would remain intact. He hit the mark without even opening his eyes.
While he waited for the deck crew to haul his plane to the hangar, he tried to remember the last time he’d been this tired. Closing his eyes, he smiled as the memory hit him. It was when Maggie “Magpie” Harper had dragged him on a cross-country trek to…where? He couldn’t recall at the moment, but it was the best and worst three days he’d ever experienced. The best because Maggie was like a firecracker waiting to explode, all bundled up in a highly attractive package. She was entertaining as hell. The worst because once she had her mind set on something, there was absolutely no stopping her. You either went along for the ride or got mowed down, and Max refused to be left behind.
He’d learned that valuable lesson while they were still at the academy, during the first week no less. He quickly discovered that tagging along with Maggie usually kept her out of trouble, since she had a talent for leaping smack in the middle of something before scoping out all the details. If fact, that was how they met.
He’d been celebrating with some mates. They’d made it through the first week of flight training. Max stayed behind to finish his beer after they’d taken their leave. He wasn’t sure how it happened, but a group of rowdy off-worlders decided he was going to be their entertainment for the evening. Not one to back down from a fight but not wanting to be expelled for brawling, Max attempted to talk his way out of the situation.
Apparently his efforts were more amusing than anything else. Before he could extract himself, four guys had him cornered and worse yet…they called over a couple of friends. Max was about ready to screw the odds and go for the biggest of the bunch when it happened.
He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, turning in time to see a lone figure leap onto a table and use it to launch themselves at two of the burly men. To his surprise, they managed to take out both in one go but the landing wasn’t pretty. His rescuer crashed into the wall and bounced backwards to drop and hit the floor hard. Jumping up - holy hell, it was a woman - she said nothing as she put her back to his. They left the stunned and disappointed group behind, making their way out of the bar with minimal fuss.
Standing outside in the cold air, he turned toward his mystery woman. “Thanks.” How inadequate? Considering she’d just saved his ass…and didn’t even know his name.
Shrugging, she accepted it. “Anytime.” Then she winked at him before heading down the sidewalk.
Intrigued, Max quickly caught up with her. “Wait…why’d you jump in? You don’t know me.” This was a gross error he intended to rectify.
His new friend paused at the corner of an intersection and grinned. “You’re military, right? Fleet Academy?” She cocked her head sideways, awaiting his answer.
Max stopped next to her, jerking his head in surprised acknowledgment. “Yeah…what gave it away?” Damn. She was good.
The woman laughed. “The hair. Every time.” With casual grace, she propped herself against a lamp pole. “I grew up on military bases. Standard issue cuts haven’t changed much over twenty years. And, I’ve spent the last week in a regulation ponytail myself.” Scooping her hair back, she held it at her nape.
It didn’t take away from her looks. Standing under the light allowed Max to drink in the sight of her. She was tall and lithe with long blonde hair that curled around her shoulders. Her eyes were her best feature though. They sparkled with humor and just a touch of wickedness. Max pretty much fell in love with her on the spot. And she was fleet, too. That meant he’d be seeing her around.
Sticking his hand out, he introduced himself. “Max Cutter. First year.”
She stood and shook it, giving him a wide smile. “Maggie Harper. Same.”
From that moment on they had each other’s backs. They’d ended up in the same flight class and became fast friends, hanging out, getting to know each other and challenging the rest of the plebes to follow their lead as they crashed through the rigorous training taking turns in the top two spots. His immediate infatuation tempered itself when he quickly realized Maggie didn’t ‘do’ relationships. Nor did she sleep with people she considered friends, and she regarded him as the best one she had. Sometimes life kicked you in the face that way.
At least she acknowledged the sexual tension that pinged back and forth under the surface between them. Her honesty about it was pretty much the only reason he’d been willing to suck it up and settle into a true friendship with her. He didn’t have any regrets.
After hearing about some of her past experiences, he realized Maggie was a complex woman with what she considered enough baggage to fill an entire spaceport. While he didn’t agree, he wouldn’t be able to change her mind either. And it’s not as if he lacked for female companions. Pilot groupies were abundant in every port of call.
Pulled from his reverie by a deck hand popping the canopy of his plane, Max shook his head. Regardless of the lack of sleep, he really needed to stop zoning out and pay attention. Handing off his helmet, he climbed out of the cockpit and nodded wearily at the crewman before stumbling down the steps to the deck to head for the ready room. If he were lucky, he’d be able to catch a brief nap before the next launch in - he checked his watch - about an hour.
Entering the ready room, he sank into one of the plush seats, kicked back and closed his eyes, willing himself to not think about Maggie. He’d end up dreaming about her and as tired as he was, Max didn’t doubt what kind of images his head would conjure of her…them. Sighing deeply, he made a conscious effort to push everything from his mind, letting sleep claim him.
Chapter Two
Coming in off a hard landing that would cost her in both the ratings and standings, Maggie Harper charged through the corridors while she silently multi-tasked. She was in the middle of heated discussion with her stomach. For some reason, it didn’t want to believe her when she said it could survive two more days with the crappy rations it was receiving for sustenance. Next, she promised her aching body a well-deserved massage at her earliest convenience if it would only hang in there for a few more days. She saved her overly tired brain for last, swearing she’d let it sleep for at least two straight days if it would cooperate just a little longer and, you know, not let her kill herself by doing something stupid.
She simultaneously cursed the utter stupidity of her superior officers and the military in general. Hell Week was the brainchild of some bigwig admiral. It had to be to have qualifications tied to it. Some pencil pusher who thought their wonderful theory on paper would translate beautifully to real life scenarios. Maggie snorted. It was funny how it never seemed to work out that way.
The guy couldn’t possibly have flight experience. If he did, he’d know how ridiculous this little exercise was.
Today’s military pilots provided escort for diplomatic dignitaries during interplanetary travel. On a good day, they occasionally dispelled unrest or maybe a border dispute on one of the raucous outer rim planets. If they were really lucky, they might get attached to an exploratory carrier for an opportunity to push out past the charted territories into the unknown.
Those plum assignments were few and far between. They’d been in peacetime for over seventy years. Scuttlebutt had it that Hell Week was all a set-up to downsize the active flight rosters. A trap, so to speak, to weed out everyone but the best. If that was the case, why the hell did they need this preparedness bullshit?
Making your pilots run launch after launch while being deprived of food and sleep was beyond stupid. And really? How the hell did that prepare anyone for a mass assault? The key component to surviving in a situation like that was adrenaline, and that was in short supply when no enemy was actually shooting at them! Duh!
Let the brass come out to the fringes of the solar system and fly around playing war games with non-existent opponents. Find how many traps they missed when they were exhausted, hungry, and cranky, dammit. If her flight status weren’t tied into completing this lame ass training exercise, she’d be in the showers, eating pizza and sleeping…probably at the same time.
Sleep. Stars above, she really wanted to sleep. She’d be willing to kill for some rack time. All she needed was a target.
Okay…not a viable option. Yet, she needed some kind of outlet, a way to battle the fatigue. Fight or fuck. The thought popped into her head and she couldn’t shake it. Maggie didn’t have the energy or mental capacity to work up a good head of anger. Sleeping with someone was the best bet but she’d be hard up for was a willing candidate.
Everyone else was as wiped out as she was.
Stalking into the ready room, she flopped down on the closest seat, leaning into the softness for a few moments before scooting to the edge. She didn’t want to get too comfortable, couldn’t afford to fall asleep right now. Too much was riding on the outcome of this week.
Surviving the trap…that’s what she should be thinking about. It was insane to get distracted when she had to launch again in less than an hour. Thinking about sleep, food, and sex would only make her want them and she still had days left to go without.
The lack of slumber was taking its toll on her. Arms resting on the seat in front of her, Maggie hung her head, trying to stifle a yawn when she felt it.
She wasn’t alone in the ready room.
Popping her head up, she scanned the area and caught sight of Max sitting on the other side of the room, kicked back and from what she could tell, sleeping.
Max.
It figured.
As two of the best pilots, she and Max almost always ended up being on the same training rotations. They were at the top of their game and stayed there because they challenged each other, pushing against their own boundaries. Pilots were a competitive bunch on a good day but so far, none were able to knock either Max or her from the pinnacle.
Maggie firmly believed it was because they were so in tune with each other. Max could literally finish sentences for her when they were together off base. In the air? No one could anticipate what she would do except Max. Not even the flight instructors. He knew her better than anyone ever had or would. And he always let her drag him into whatever mess she deemed worthy. It was no wonder people constantly thought they were an item.
How many times had other women - and sometimes men - stopped to ask her whether she had a thing for Max? And how often had she declared him fair game, even though she kinda did? Sometimes being terrified to admit how she felt about him sucked. She would not be jealous when they made a beeline straight to Max; because it was her own damn fault he was footloose and fancy-free. She shouldn't be envious. Max had made it more than clear when they first met that he'd love to pursue something more with her.
But she was green with envy, even if she told herself she wasn’t. Cutter was damn near perfect in her eyes; he even understood why she kept him at arms length. Her childhood, moving around from base to base, made forming friendships difficult for her. Combine that with a very nasty break-up, as in stalker nasty, and Maggie was understandably gun shy.
She'd done the friend before lover thing. Trusted enough to let the guy into her life and bed and he'd taken every intimate detail he knew, twisted and turned it all around and used it against her. She'd moved twice only to be followed. The guy made her life a living hell until base security finally ended up shooting him for trespassing. It was a nightmare Maggie refused to go through again.
She'd formed a solid rule of never sleeping with someone she regarded as a friend. Sex was a physical release that involved the exchange of bodily fluids and mind-numbing pleasure. It didn’t mean she gave a damn about who she exchanged them with.
And that was the reason Maggie had never hooked up with Max…because she gave a damn about him. Sex with emotion made things complicated and complications weren’t her thing. Not anymore. So Maggie kept things casual and never made promises she wasn’t going to keep. That way she didn’t lose friends, no matter how much sexual tension there was.
And there were bucketsful with Max. He was a stand-up guy and loyal to a fault. He had a laid back attitude that fooled a lot of people into complacency until they crossed him. Then watch out. Cutter came out swinging and was usually the last one standing.
He was one of the best friends she had, and there weren’t that many. Maggie knew she didn’t make things easy. She had a habit of putting people through their paces and Max was no different. He’d pulled her out of some embarrassing scrapes and still came back for more.
And the best thing? Once he’d gotten to know her and realized she wouldn’t break her rule, even though they were both aware of the tension that simmered between them…he backed off…content to be a friend.
He made Maggie feel safe.
Problem was…Max was hot. As in smokin’, drop dead gorgeous hot. And right now the sleep-deprived part of Maggie’s brain was hard pressed to remember why she usually ignored that fact. Like a kid who needed a nap, she only knew that she wanted him, and wanted him right this very moment.
Naked. Hard. Hot.
Damn.
She wasn’t seriously considering it, was she? Hooking up with him?
Oh, yes…she was.
Holy hell.