The rear cargo space of a Chinook helicopter is incredibly hot, claustrophobic, sensory depriving and above all, a noisy place to be. Conversation, unless you're plugged into the intercom is impossible, so all communication is done with hand signals. There are signals for loading, unloading, dismount, turning and so on. Strangely thinks Cook, there's not one for: Stop the helicopter, I want to get off. Cook keeps one eye on the Loadmaster stationed at the 50cal. by the tail door, and the other on the terrain outside the half opened door. The Loadie puts a hand to his ear, turns to face Cook, and holds up a finger. One minute. He kicks Jameson, the US Marine on secondment to his unit, who in turn shakes both Chris and Mark. They all stand, and heave on their rucksacks, which weigh nearly as much as they do; they all strain under the weight, bending forwards at the waist, counterbalancing the massive green burdens. Cook's attention is drawn to the other side of the helicopter; the fifth member of his small band of misfits is standing, and pulling on her own lighter, but still hefty rucksack. She looks entirely out of place, slim, dark skinned, no more than late teens he'd guessed. He'd argued earlier that she's going to be dangerously out of her depth.

"She' just a girl, for fucks sake"

The JTAC had been less than impressed "Well spotted, James." He paused rubbed his greying temples prematurely aged by the unyielding stress. He continued, more conciliatory "She volunteered, OK? We have a shortage of translators, she's done the training, knows the risks, we take what we're given, now get on with it". He turns to leave, calls over his shoulder "Make sure she comes back"

She staggers over to where they are standing, and Jameson holds up the strop with the locking carabineer attached, she dutifully turns around and he attaches it to the rear of her rucksack, pulls on it a couple of times to make sure, and thumbs up to Cook . The door starts to whine as servos and hydraulics force it horizontal. The Loadie signals with his fingers: 5-4-3-2-, before he gets to one, the large helicopter pulls into a flare, its wheels not quite on the ground, and they jump/fall out of the back. The large helicopter's blades bite into the air, and it thunders away, leaving them fanned out, weapons drawn, scanning the horizon. Cook looks over to Jameson, sees the girl crouched beside him, and is relived she managed to at least get out without killing herself. Somewhere a dog barks.

OooooO

"Cook? Cook? Fucks sake, Cook?" Naomi waves a hand in front of his face "Hello? Do you want coffee?"

"Sorry, miles away" Cook smiles, "Coffee? Yeah, nice one"

They're sitting in the first class carriage; Naomi had at first been reluctant. "I don't have a ticket for first" Cook had smiled "The only reason I dress like this for travelling is precisely because I can travel first. No one, but no one will ask an Army officer to leave a first class carriage, guaranteed. Trust me" They sat at a table, ordered some drinks from the waiter, relaxed, fallen into a comfortable silence.

Cook noticed it on her arm as she waved it in front of him. He reached over, held her gently, turned it over to reveal the tattoo on her inner forearm in neat little writing. He reads aloud

"Satis?"

She looks away. "It's Latin. Translates as Enough. It's to remind me never to get involved with her again"

He nods and purses his lips, "There's some distance between 'its fine' and writing permanently on your arm to remind yourself of a failed relationship."

She looks at him for a long silent minute. "It was closure of a sort, you know?" She shrugs "Like running away to join the Army."

He smiles at her, "Touché" pauses, nods at the tattoo "Wanna talk about it?"

"With you? No" She fiddles with her coffee, "I've talked about it enough, done enough late night soul searching. I'm done with it." There's finality to her voice.

"You sound like you're trying very hard to convince yourself" He sits back in the chair looks at her hard.

She smiles at him "Leave it. Relationship councillor, you ain't. Change the subject"

"What do you want to talk about?"

Naomi's face hardens, "How about..? Why haven't you been in contact with anyone for five years? That seems like a good place to start. "

Cook flinches, he knew this was coming, and he doesn't have an answer that he knows she...they all deserve, shrugs. "I just needed to... Get out y'know?" it's not enough, and he knows it.

Naomi takes in a long breath, "She missed you. ...I missed you"

They look at each other across the table, until finally Cook stands, and walks over to her side; he sits on the chair next to her, and puts an arm around her shoulders. Naomi settles herself under his arm, a position she suddenly realises she's missed all these years. Cook chastely kisses her temple. "I'm Sorry"

OooooO

Emily checks once over her shoulder as she comes onto the motorway doing a steady 80. Makes a mental note of the rep-mobile in the middle lane ready to overtake in front of her, thinks it's going to be marginal. Goes for it anyway. She twists the throttle of her RVF400; its microprocessor realigns some valves in a microsecond and the small sports bike with its smaller passenger surge forward, its straight cut cam whining manically. She feels the familiar tear of air around her helmet, feels herself sliding back along the seat, and snuggles her arse against the pillion hump. She chases the rev counter with the gearbox, her hands and feet working in practiced and fluid concert, changing gear faster than any car driver can, she flicks around the Mondeo, gets a flash of lights for her trouble, gives a finger as she goes past. She checks the Speedo; 130 all in less than 4 seconds. She cackles out loud to herself in her helmet.

She keeps the throttle pinned open, at this rate even this bike drinks petrol, but right now she doesn't care, she crouches down as low as the tank bag will let her and still see, and chases the line of traffic in front of her. Emily loves her bike, not only does she get to ride fast in a way that she couldn't have imagined when, all those years ago she'd persuaded her dad to let her have a scooter. There's the added bonus of pissing off reps in shit cars. Rob, her tame mechanic looks after it like it's his own and best of all, both her Mother and Katie hate it.

OooooO

Naomi hears it coming from a way off down the street, before the others. Perhaps she's tuned to it; perhaps she's waiting for it. She doesn't care to inquire of herself either way. Making her excuses to an over-excited Panda and smothered Cook, wanders into the lounge that faces onto the street. She stands to one side, slightly behind a curtain, and waits. The familiar burble soon gets louder, and the small evil looking black bike comes into view. It stops outside the house, and the small rider flips the key, and the bike engine is stilled. Outside Emily can hear the bike cooling, ticking away contently to itself. She takes off her helmet, runs fingers through her shoulder length bob. Starts to take of the tank bag

Naomi takes an involuntary breath. Watches as Emily pulls the tank bag from its Velcro fastening, and takes a step back from the window before Emily sees her watching

Emily notices the movement from the lounge in the corner of her eye. Resists the urge to look. Knows who it is anyway. Smiles to herself.