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other three crewmen, all sergeants, were experts in the new software, the ordnance and the handling of the “doughnut” or radar dome that was on the D model Apaches. Those three men, Barry Hartford, Alphonse “Fonzie” Gianni and Luke Ingmar, would teach the women crew chiefs and mechanics at the base the fine points of the new model. They were all married, so Dane had less to worry about in that respect. However, judging from Joe’s gray eyes and the sparkling look of a hunter in Craig’s brown ones, Dane would have his hands full with these two lone wolves running around loose in the sheep’s pen.
    “Well, let’s turn and burn,” Craig said, as he lifted his hand and started for the hatch that led down to the deck where the helicopters were being prepared.
    “Roger that,” Joe seconded, following quickly on his heels.
    Dane stood alone. He felt alone. Watching the last of the fog disperse, he saw the twinkling of stars above him. It struck him that he was seeing the Southern Cross for the first time in his life. It was as famous here as the Big Dipper was in the Northern Hemisphere. Snorting softly, he hung his head and looked down at the highly polished flight boots he wore with his one-piece flight uniform. Alone. Yes, he’d been alone for a long, long time. Ever since his mother had abruptly left him and his father, he’d felt this gnawing ache in his gut and heart. His brows drew downward as memories assailed him. His mother was a red-haired, green-eyed, vital woman who had exuded a confidence he rarely saw in females. She’d had enough of being a “housewife” and had made an ultimatum to his military pilot father to either let her work outside the home or face a divorce.
    Only twelve at the time, Dane recalled the fear he’d felt when he’d heard them arguing hotly one night in the living room after he’d gone to bed. His father’s shouting had awakened him. Dane had lain on his bellyat the top of the stairs, head pressed to the wood, hands wrapped around the banister, as she began screaming back at Dane’s father just as loudly. She was tall, athletic, brainy, and had no fear of speaking her mind—ever.
    “Damn…” Dane forced himself to look up…up at the Southern Cross, which glimmered like diamond droplets against an ebony sky being edged with the first hint of dawn. His mother had left. She’d tried to explain it to Dane, but at twelve, the message he got was that he wasn’t lovable enough for her to stay and be his mother. And from that day onward, he’d felt alone. Well, at twenty-nine, he still felt that way, and nothing would probably ever change it. Or the way he felt about his mother. When he was eighteen, about to graduate from high school and enter West Point, she’d left him forever. His mother had been coming to his graduation, driving from San Antonio, Texas, where she’d settled, and a drunk driver had careened into her car and killed her. Dane would never forget that day. Ever.
    He heard the whirring of the elevators that would soon bring the Apaches and the Blackhawk to the deck where he stood. Moving his shoulders as if to rid them of an accumulated weight, Dane turned. As he did so, he saw a bright trail streak across the sky toward the east, where they would be flying shortly. It was a meteorite.
    Dane didn’t believe in omens. He believed only in what his eyes saw, his hands felt and his ears heard. Scowling deeply, he turned on his heel. Screw it all. Did the meteorite foretell of his demise? Would it be because of his mouth? His feelings about women? Or were they going to be jumped by Kamovs? Or left atthe mercy of a bunch of renegade Amazon women warriors who thought they knew how to fight?
    “Be my luck that it’s the latter,” Dane grumbled as he jerked open the hatch door and went below to his fate.
     
    “It’s time, Maya….” Dallas Klein poked her head through the opened door of her commanding officer’s office. Dallas, who was the executive