"Nope," Karen said. "Took a correspondence course from an ad in the back of a comic book."

LaFavre snorted.

Great. A wise-ass pilot. He'd lived with one of those. "My ex-wife was a chopper pilot." He'd never used that line before with a woman, but it seemed the only thing he could say here to get some common ground; this wasn't exactly the bar at the officers' club.

"Lucky her."

So much for charm. Next to him, LaFavre was silently laughing his ass off.

"Yeah, real funny," Wilder said to him, pulling the mike away from his mouth. "Let's see you do better."

LaFavre looked out the door of the chopper, noting landmarks. "We're a minute out." He grabbed hold of the stanchion between the front and back doors and swung himself out and around from back seat to front, taking the copilot's seat. "You got clearance, my dear?"

"I'm not your dear, and I'm cleared," Karen said.

"I could take it in if you'd like," LaFavre said. "Tower knows me."

"I'm sure Tower does," Karen said. "But it's my aircraft."

"Whatever you say, my darling."

"I'm not your darling."

Better than TV, Wilder thought and listened while LaFavre got shot down over and over again until they were hovering about ten feet over the runway. A military Humvee drove slowly out toward them and halted, just on the other side of a red line painted around the contractor's area. A guard was manning the.50 machine gun in the Humvee's turret and there was no doubt he had live ammunition loaded in it. Wilder knew what that red line meant: Don't cross or get shot. Beyond the red line were the helicopters of Task Force 160, at least those that weren't deployed, and from the scant numbers it appeared that most were overseas. Wilder wondered how many of those Nighthawks and Little Birds parked there he'd flown in over the years. He could see a handful of people in flight suits working on the choppers. Several glanced his way, most likely wondering the same thing Wilder was: Why the hell was the right skid hanging like that?

A civilian mechanic from the contractor's hangar wheeled out a contraption that looked like a metal sawhorse. He put it on the tarmac and then he moved about twenty feet away from it and began making hand and arm signals, guiding the helicopter in. Karen positioned the chopper and then descended on the mechanic's signal. Wilder noted that the normally loquacious LaFavre was silent during the maneuver, which meant it had to be difficult. The sawhorse braced against the right side of the bird as the left skid touched down. The mechanic ran forward and used a couple of bolts to secure what remained of the right skid to the device. Done, he once more went to the front of the chopper and signaled to Karen with a finger across his throat, a signal Wilder had never been particularly thrilled with in any situation.

"Nice," LaFavre said to Karen, which amounted to an effusion of praise for him.

Karen was unimpressed. "You can get out now."

"Certainly, my sweet."

"I'm not your sweet."

LaFavre got out as Karen began hitting the switches, turning off the engine with much more vigor than was needed. Wilder hopped off and took a look at the right skid. The front skid extension from the body of the helicopter was broken, the metal twisted.

"Looks like the bolt blew out," the mechanic said.

"Happen often?" Wilder asked, having flown hundreds of hours in helicopters and never heard of it.

"Never seen it before."

LaFavre was on his knees, taking a closer look at the break point. "Anybody want to hurt your actor?"

"No," Wilder said. "Got some people might want to hurt me."

"That's a given based on your lack of charm and wit," LaFavre said. "But you weren't on the skid."

"I was supposed to be," Wilder said. "Last-minute change."

LaFavre whistled. He looked at the break point. "My friend, that is not good."

Wilder could see that Karen was not a happy camper as she joined them and stared at the twisted metal where the skid had parted from the chopper. She looked like hell without her helmet, her dark hair plastered by sweat to her head, her skin pale.

"You look quite delicious with your helmet off," LaFavre said to her.

"Can the bullshit," Karen said.

LaFavre put his hand over his heart. "I am deeply wounded. But willing to overlook, given the stress of the moment."

"Can we get another bird and finish the shoot?" Wilder asked her.

Karen gestured at the other two civilian aircraft parked in front of the contractor's hangar, both aging Hueys. "Different choppers. We need this one."

Wilder looked longingly across the field at the svelte new Night-hawks, the Special Operations version of the Blackhawk. All-weather capable, powerful, armored, and they had guns, which Wilder liked. Or even one of the four-seater Little Birds with their mini-gun pods on the right skid.

"Dream on," Karen said. "Unless the smooth talker here can get you one."

"The name is Rene LaFavre, my love." He held out his hand.

"I'm not your love."

"But you could be."

Karen rolled her eyes. "Where did you get this guy?" She turned to the mechanic. "How long to fix it?"

The mechanic let out a long spit of chew onto the tarmac. "Half an hour. Then my boss will have to test-fly it. FAA regulations, anytime a repair is done on an aircraft. Got to be test-flown and signed off."

Wilder glanced at the sky. Even with the delay, they'd still have some daylight.

"Can your boss fly it out to the film set?" Karen asked.

The mechanic nodded. "Sure. He can use that as the test flight. We'll just tack it on the bill."

Not my money. Wilder smiled. Hell, it was Finnegan's money.

"Come on in the office and fill out the paperwork," the mechanic said. Karen sighed and followed.

Wilder turned to LaFavre. "Could she put a chopper down on that bridge?"

"I don't think anybody could," LaFavre said, watching her go. "Flying between those cables or under those towers would be quite a feat. But she'd be one of the ones I'd let try. You know, she's not very friendly but I can warm her up."

"Some women just don't get your charm."

"I'll try harder."

Wilder rolled his eyes. "You said this wasn't good," he said, nodding toward the skid.

"Anytime something breaks on an aircraft, it isn't good, my friend." LaFavre put his hand where the bolt had given out. "Could be metal fatigue. Could be a heavy-caliber round punched through at just the right spot. Of course, I'm not a ballistics expert and we're not in a combat zone."

"That would be a hell of a shot," Wilder said, staring at the twisted metal.

"Yah," LaFavre agreed. "Or someone was shooting at your actor thinking it was you and made a bad shot."

The two men stood silent for several moments, staring at the skid.

"Fuck," Wilder finally said.

"Fuck indeed, my friend. Something going on that you're not talking about?"

Wilder considered letting LaFavre in on the CIA angle when someone yelled, "Major," from across the red line. LaFavre waved that he would be coming and slapped Wilder on the back. "I'll be around for a little while. You got my number. Give me a ring. I'll show you my latest investment."

"Will do," Wilder said, having no clue what LaFavre was referring to, but sure it was something off the wall and about a woman.

But LaFavre wasn't ready to go quite yet. "Who that?"

Wilder turned and saw a car pulling up, closely followed by a military police escort, and noted that Stephanie was driving. He had a feeling Ms. Lucy Armstrong wanted them back. The car stopped at the edge of the tarmac and Stephanie got out. She leaned against the car and stared at them, looking bored, her dark hair blowing back in the wind, and after a few seconds began to drum her fingers on the roof.

"Man, you just be knee deep in the good-looking women on this movie," LaFavre said.

More like neck deep, Wilder thought. He was more concerned about the possibility of a bullet hole in the chopper than LaFavre's testosterone.

An MP got out of the escort car and eyed Stephanie with interest, and Wilder remembered that she was beautiful in a deadly embrace kind of way. The man had no idea what he was dealing with, Wilder thought, and neither did LaFavre.

"She an actress?" LaFavre said.

"No, she's the Angel of Death," Wilder said.

"I've done one or two of those," LaFavre said, unfazed. "Got to use the dark swamp voodoo on them."

"Let's go," Karen said to Wilder as she came out of the hangar, catching the last of what LaFavre was saying. Then she looked over at

Stephanie and said, "Oh, God, her," and walked over to the car. She opened the back door and got in, leaving Wilder the front seat. So much for female bonding.

"That doesn't look good, boy," LaFavre said, shaking his head at the car. "Those are not happy women."

"So you're not coming with us?" Wilder said.

"My unit's just over there." LaFavre jerked his head toward the Nighthawks. "But if there's a cast party, you call me."

"You bet," Wilder said.

"Especially if that director's there. She's-"

"No," Wilder said, surprising himself.

LaFavre raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"No," Wilder said, sure this time.

"Well, good for you, boy." LaFavre slapped him on the back.

"No," Wilder said. "Not that."

"Not yet," LaFavre said. "You keep working, you'll get there. Just don't tell her about your ex-wife. Wives. I've heard some piss-poor pickup lines in my life, but that's about the worst." He tipped his hat to the two women fuming in the car. "Patience is always rewarded, my friend." Then he turned and jogged back to his unit and the real Army.