Under the Radar: SEAL EXtreme Team, #3

By Kimberley Troutte

Outmaneuver the RPG…
SEAL Helo pilot, Ty Whitehorse, is performing a recon mission in the Arctic when an RPG shoots him down. Trapped in hostile territory, he’ll fight, stay under the enemy’s radar, and slog through bitter snow to deliver vital intel to the team—if terrorists and the mother of all blizzards don’t kill him first.

Run and Hide…
Former beauty queen, Holly Colton, is running from an ugly secret. Fleeing to Alaska to rediscover the person she once was, Holly becomes a musher. During a two-dog sled run, a moose attacks, injuring the lead dog and knocking Holly unconscious.

Stay Warm, Stay Alive…
Taking shelter in a hunter’s cabin, Ty is surprised when a sled dog scratches to get in. A lady dog musher is unconscious, hypothermic and injured. Warming Holly and tending to her injuries, Ty discovers he’s not the only one fighting under the radar. They’re both in enemy crosshairs. Staying together is dangerous. Separating is impossible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kimberley Troutte
• Release date: Jan 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507081297

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

SEAL helicopter pilot, Ty Whitehorse, scanned the horizon. No buildings, no movement, no hostiles. Only trees, mountains, and miles of endless snowy tundra below his slow-flying shitcan. Today’s mission required him to pilot a civilian’s sightseeing AS 350 airbus helicopter so a far too-green and geeky ET2—Electronic Technician Second Class—could survey the ground below. Could it get any worse? Seahawks, Blackhawks, those were his birds. Flying a helo filled with the best damned forces in the world was his kind of covert mission. Not this white moose chase. But Ty was still on the Navy’s shit list and obligated to accept crap duties like a dog jumping up and down for a pat on the head.

Some pat. Felt more like a boot to the ass.

It was a hell of a thing to be on extended leave from the Navy when he hadn’t done anything wrong. His teammates had partied with the Commanding Officer’s daughter, not Ty. Shit, he wasn’t even present when his buddies got caught in the CO’s house with their pants down. He’d never been the wild one-night stand guy. Granny Whitehorse had taught him better, or at least, she’d tried. Even though Ty wasn’t at the party, he got the slap down with the rest of the guys. The entire team was benched until the CO cooled off, which seemed as likely as crushed ice pouring out of hell’s gates. Until then, Ty and the rest of the SEAL EXtreme team had become Admiral Collin’s personal go-to men, which, truth be told, was better than nothing. They’d already seen action in Colombia and Asia.

Altimeter check. 2,000 feet.

The wind outside the helo raged. The control panel glazed up from the cold. Ty was used to rotten weather, but this was brutal. And dangerous. They were flying straight into a massive cloud formation promising to be as mean as Harvey, Ty’s black bull on the rez. If that proved true, it would kick their livers out before it was done playing with them.

Ready to head back?

Preston shook his head, but didn’t lift his binoculars. Still searching, sir.

He glanced at his passenger. The snow was falling like a sonofabitch, but the kid still had eyes on the ground below, struggling to spot…what? A polar bear? Shit, he wished someone had told him what they were doing in Alaska. Need-to-know hadn’t extended to the pilot.

For a Yeti?

Huh? Only Preston’s lips had moved.

The Abominal Snowman? Santa? Tiny elves?

Preston didn’t laugh. Covert mission, sir. I can’t talk about it.

Or anything else, apparently. The kid hadn’t strung three sentences together so far. He’d bought into the Navy’s Loose lips sink ships slogan with every last penny. But flying a tight-lipped passenger through a snow storm wasn’t Ty’s idea of fun. He wished the rest of the SEAL EXtreme Team was here, especially Willy, the explosions expert. That wild man knew how to talk.

Snow dumped like a snowblower stuck on high aimed at the windshield. Ty slid his gaze sideways to study his passenger.

Preston. Matt Preston. Where’d he heard that name before? The parka straight off the rack, new boots, and the tension in the young guy’s shoulders made it clear he was a surveillance newbie. It didn’t make sense. Why would the admiral send a green ET2 in a non-military aircraft through heavy cloud cover? Covert military mission? Hell, it was as if they were hiding from the U.S. military.

Warning bells vibrated through Ty’s adrenal glands. What had the admiral gotten them into? What pooch did you screw?

Excuse me? Preston’s voice cracked. Crap, how old was he, thirteen?

Winning this fantastic trip to the Arctic in the middle of winter? You did something to tick off the brass. You can tell me that much. Come on, man, spill it.

I requested this mission. Preston lowered his binoculars and poked his tongue into his cheek. Finally deciding to give Ty a bone, he said, I found radar anomalies in this area. Admiral Collins wanted someone to check them out. All on the down low. You know, Special Ops. He smiled, and impossibly, looked younger. Eleven, maybe.

That was it! Matt Preston was the techie the team talked about. The kid was supposed to be a real genius with computers, but he wasn’t cut out for a Special Ops, or any field operations. He should be behind his desk letting the real SEALs handle surveillance.

What radar anomalies? My equipment’s not registering anything, Ty growled. It pissed him off that he was flying a shitcan in what was working up to be a blizzard so some snot-nosed kid could play with blips on his screen.

Preston glanced at his computer. Mine’s not, either.

What are we supposed to do, fly around all day waiting for a radar glitch? In case you didn’t notice, we’re in the middle of a freakin’ white out!

Perfect. The radar goes wonky during storms. That’s why we’re here now.

Wonky? Is that an electronics technician term?

My term for bad crap coming over the comms. No chatter, then garbled chatter. A surge, then pow—a big section of the Artic falls off the grid. Total dead zone. Something’s screwing with the satellites, the military network, Internet, and intranet.

The wind grabbed the airbus and gave it a monstrous shake. Hail pounded the shit out of the bird. They lost altitude. Ty pulled up to rein the helo in. No, no, hell no. I’m turning around. We’re not dying for radar abnormalities.

But we’re not finished.

Yes, we are. This is asinine, Preston. A Seahawk might be able to handle this weather, not this piece of—A lightning bolt hit the helo. Ty’s heart crowded into his throat when the instruments went dead. Shit! Hang on!

He scrambled to get the rotors going again, the thunder stealing his curse words.

1,000 feet. 750. They were going down fast. Damned rotors were frozen. Ty had never crashed a bird before. Shit, why’d there have to be a first for everything? 500 feet.

He yanked on the collective, his biceps burning, and pounded the throttle with everything he had. By the miracle of God, the blades started beating the air again. He pushed the cyclic forward like it was the stick of life. The altimeter registered 2,000 feet.

That was close, he said softly, still amazed he’d pulled it off. But the bird was injured, barely flapping through the sky. He’d be lucky to bring her back to the civilian hangar they’d borrowed her from.

He glanced at Preston. The kid’s mouth hung open in a silent scream.

We’re calling it a day, Ty stated. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Preston let out a deep breath. Wait! It’s not just the radar. CIA picked up a partial face-recognition of ex-commanding officer Milton Crow in Fairbanks.

Are you serious? Why didn’t you tell me before? The EXtreme team’s been looking for that shithole for weeks. Crow and his evil SBs tried to take out the whole team in Macao.

I know.

Ty reached to pull his braid over his shoulder, and he remembered he’d lost a bet with Charlie and had to cut it off. Are you sure? What in hell is Crow doing here?

I’ve got a theory.

Related to the wonky radar?

Yes. It’s too much of a coincidence. Besides, what better place to hide than in the Arctic?

Ty could think of lots of better places, like Tahiti, with an island girl or two.

Preston went on. If I can record the radar glitches and trace where they’re coming from, we can catch the dickhead.

A dangerous, long-shot plan, if he’d ever heard one. Especially when he could barely keep the helo flying straight. But it was Crow. Dammit, he wanted to put the hurt on the asshole.

If we catch Crow, the admiral said it will be worth it, Preston said. For all of us.

Ty shook his head. The brass always said shit like that. The old dangling carrot. Reach for it and tasty promotions could come your way. Ignore it and the carrot morphs into a bat aimed at your dangling parts. He should turn the helo around, but every cell in his body roared for revenge. Crow was a traitor to the country, traitor to the SEALs, and he’d tried to kill his buddies. The man needed to be brought to justice. Hard.

Against good judgment, Ty agreed. Just a few minutes more. This bird is struggling.

I’m getting weird readings now. We must be getting close. Preston stared at his computer as if willing the thing to stand up and point a virtual finger toward Crow. Come on, come on. Wait. I’ve got something! Yes. It’s a signal like the one I picked up on base. One more second for the GPS to catch up and…there. We’ve got them!

Where?

Huh. This is impossible. Preston was frowning, big time. The GPS must be wrong.

Not likely. Give me the coordinates. We’ll fly over… An alarm went off on the recorder he brought along. He pulled his eyes from the icing windshield. That can’t be right.

What’s the alarm for? Preston asked.

Ty didn’t answer. He was too busy trying to determine if his recorder had gone wonky too. The recorder registered gunfire coming from the ground. That had to be bullshit. Sleet pounded their frame, not bullets. He refused to buy it until something pinged off the corner of his window, leaving a hole.

Dammit! Ty scrambled for the radio.

Don’t give us away, Preston said. Crow can’t know we’re here to spy on him.

He threw Preston a dirty look. Not my first pony ride, man. Speaking calmly into the radio he said, "This is November one seven four whiskey, AS 350 Airbus. Tourists from Arizona. We got lost in the storm. If someone can hear me, will you direct us toward Fairbanks? Over."

No verbal response from the ground, but the artillery rounds stopped.

Ty grinned. It worked. Whoever is shooting down there has a radio. Maybe it’s hunters trying to scare us away from their game.

Hunters shoot at helicopters? Preston shook his head. That’s messed up.

Yes, it was. He’d seen worse. When we get back, I’ll notify the Army. They can take matters into their own hands. The recorder alarm went off again. Only this time the flippin’ thing went ballistic, which meant a ground-to-air missile was locked on them. Even as his brain registered the impossibility of getting shot down in the U.S., his instincts went into action.

Incoming!

He sent the helo for a dive and a loop. Another loop. Straight up to one thousand feet.

A freakin’… Preston threw up on the floor and then choked out, …missile?

Ty scanned the air. Here it comes again, hang tight.

He put the airbus into a freefall, knowing the helo might not recover from it. But unless he had another miracle up his sleeve, they were going down one way or another. Tundra zoomed up to meet them and the missile threatened to burn up their tail. He banked right and pulled up. The missile shot through the tail, slicing the