Coming in below radar at twelve hundred feet, the big C-130 Hercules transport was skimming over mountainous terrain at the Pakistani-Afghanistan border; lights dimmed to avoid the Stingers of the Taliban. Inside the aircraft, the two men in the darkened cockpit barely dared to breathe. This was not because they were flying over hostile territory, or because of the importance and peril of their mission – these pilots were experienced veterans and had flown in and out of many hot and tight places. Hot and tight places was, indeed, what was on their mind tonight and they often glanced at each other or longingly shot a look at the little armored window of the cockpit hatch to the cargo bay, where their infamous passengers were preparing for a spectacular low-altitude airdrop, quite unprecedented in military history.
"Are they doing it?" one of the pilots whispered.
"Shush!" the other put a finger to his lips, unbuckled his belt, which was awfully against regulations, sidled over to the hatch and carefully peered out the window's edge.
Inside the cavernous cargo area, eight paratroopers were seated abreast facing each other, four on each inside. "Abreast" was, indeed, the most fitting description of the spectacle, because the women strapped to the hard folding seats were no ordinary paratroopers and they wore no ordinary paratrooper attire. Eight sets of Kevlar brassieres previously seen only on Charlie's Angels bounced rhythmically with the low-altitude turbulence, giving the pilot an instant hard-on.
Of course he had heard of the Amazon Squad before. The Army cared about supplying its men with illustrious sexual fantasies as much as it did about furnishing them with ammo and first-aid kits. Whether it was flying big-breasted rock stars to Vietnam villages or sporting bikini-clad playmates on aircraft carriers, the people over at the Pentagon obviously understood how important it was to go into battle with a faultless rifle and a well-polished monkey. Soldiers everywhere shot loads of cum in the barracks bathrooms to relieve the stress from the fact that they had to shoot people out on the streets.
But the Squad were, well, different. They were real chicks and real soldiers, the best kinds of both. Rumor had it that they could shoot M-16s as well as any man but that they were allowed to wear camouflaged tank tops, mini skirts and outlined thongs, and the only thing the Army asked them to shave was their beavers. But they were no man's sluts. One time, a story went, an Amazon girl had actually struck a superior officer when he had tried to come onto her in a submarine. That lieutenant allegedly was quickly and quietly court-martialed to reinforce a "no touching" policy on the iconic sex-kittens-turned-soldiers. But other stories compromised this "policy". People claimed they actually had had sex with Amazons, even stalked them at clubs and bars in their private life. The pilot had never heard of any confirmed identity of an Amazon Squad girl and until tonight he had even doubted whether the whole outfit wasn't a myth. And yet here they were... in flesh and blood... eight loosely clad angels... everyone's heroes and dirty mind goddesses. The pilot involuntarily reached down in the darkness and started fondling his dick through his pressurized suit. Jeff wouldn't mind. He was almost sure that his crewman was doing the same thing right now behind the flying stick, because he had switched on the grainy black-and-white monitor that showed the cargo bay and his hands were nowhere in sight.
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From a barren mountaintop outlined against the desert night sky a thin line of sparks shot up in the general direction of the roaring plane. The twenty-year old shoulder-fired missile had a faulty seeking mechanism and missed by a lot, failing to even set off the anti-aircraft alarm on the Hercules. It exploded into a white ball of hot metal shards in the instant after the two pilots almost simultaneously reached orgasm. The sky flashed around them but they didn't notice. The image of the eight girls in the dim red light of the bay was etched in their brains, and they didn't want to let it go and accept the fact that they had almost fucked the Amazon Squad inside their own aircraft. Almost.... They wouldn't dare talk or look at each other for the rest of the flight.
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"Dammit!" The Captain of the Squad, Jenna Pagliai, readjusted her night goggles and spoke out of the corner of her mouth to the girl sitting next to her. "There goes your Lucky Fuck, Michelle!"
She was watching the red and yellow outlines of the pilot's hands through the hatch as he was leaning on it to steady himself and behind them the white warm droplets of cum dripping down his trousers. What a looser. The girl next to her, Michelle Bernard, a frizzed-haired, freckled and cute private nodded, disappointment plainly portrayed on her face. Michelle had a whim, one of those soldier's superstitions. She would like to get fucked by a stranger right before a mission. Sometimes it was a chosen lucky Johnny from their escort; sometimes it was several guys who took turns as the girls cheered on. Michelle said that carrying someone's cum inside her calmed her nerves - the more the better.
Including her and Jenna, the squad consisted of eight girls; each specialized in a particular field of Special Forces' combat operations and each, as Jenna proudly thought to herself, one super-tough bitch. Meg Pinkerton, the squad's radio and communications officer had previously worked the busy circuits of a downtown LA phone sex company, overseeing the dozen or so mostly transvestite women who took the calls and engineering those clever delays and automated responses that made clients stay on the line. Sharon Larks, the resident psychologist, had been in charge of security for a Las Vegas casino after obtaining her PhD from Yale. These were the two career "civilians", though three years in boot camp and the Special Forces had changed that.
