Detour

by Kurtz, Sylvie

  “My heart feels too heavy in my chest.” And had since Sofia had started haunting me. I hated to admit how much that scared me.

  “It’s all in your mind. The heart is just a pump, nothing else. Everything checks out perfectly.”

  A sigh of relief. I wasn’t rejecting. “I told Van the fever was nothing.”

  “I’ll adjust your meds. Take it easy for the next few days. Call if the fever flares up again.”

  Because Dr. Durant expected compliance, I made all the right noises. There was one more thing I needed to do before I went home and wrapped up this case. “Sure, Doc.”

  “Otherwise, I’ll see you in September for your biopsy.” That delightful procedure where they snipped a piece of heart muscle to check for signs of rejection.

  “I have you penciled in.”

  Instead of getting dressed in my own clothes, I put on the nurse’s scrubs I’d brought from home—a souvenir from my previous stay here. The amount I could fit in my tote was amazing. I twisted my hair into a braid and grabbed a stethoscope from the exam room wall.

  Making a pretext work was all in the attitude. I walked out of the examining room as if I belonged, took a detour to avoid Wyatt sitting patiently in the waiting room and stowed my tote in the hallway bathroom. He wouldn’t be happy I’d gone solo again but that couldn’t be helped. I didn’t know what the situation was on the fifth floor, only that they’d moved Captain Lamphere to a private room. A nurse or a doctor would have sure access to the pilot; anyone else could be turned back. Wyatt would get in the way.

  Using the elevator, I made my way up two floors. The hospital stench of sickness and disinfectant was getting to me, turning my stomach like sour milk.

  Out of the elevator, I headed left and stopped at the first corridor. I leaned my head out and peered at the nurses’ station. The half-moon desk was angled, but I had a clear enough view. I noted exits in case I needed to make a quick getaway.

  I’d been in this hospital often enough in the past year to know the rhythm and flow of the nursing station. A look at my watch told me that in a few minutes all the nurses would be busy dispensing meds. I waited for the desk to clear and headed for the pilot’s room.

  His room was located at the intersection of two corridors. Not the best of places for an incognito heart-to-heart. Even with the nursing shortage, someone was bound to notice me.

  My breath came too fast. It heightened my senses but would choke me if I wasn’t careful. Breathe. I nodded at a doctor as I breezed by him.

  I slipped into Lamphere’s room and closed the door behind me. I didn’t know where he was in the meds rotation, so I had to make this quick. “Hey, soldier.”

  Lamphere’s head snapped in my direction, his eyes rounding as if the gentle click of the door had detonated an explosion.

  I smiled to reassure him. “You’re awake.”

  He nodded, head sinking back into the pillow. The sight of the man, skin as pale as the sheets tucked around him, of the tubes snaking out of him like some sort of experiment gone wrong, the muted beeps of machinery keeping time to his pulse flashed me back thirteen months. A moan of helplessness, pain and fear bubbled up in my throat. I shook my head. God, I hated hospitals.

  Swallowing hard, I checked the captain’s vitals and started a conversation. “I hear you’re quite the hero.”

  His laugh was a rough gargle. “No hero. Just an ordinary guy.”

  “Anyone who steers a plane away from a crowd is a hero in my book.” Shoot, his pulse jumped up under my fingertips. Not good. But I needed the information. I had to push him. “So what happened?”

  He shook his head, compulsively licking at his lips.

  “It’s good to talk about it,” I said, gentling my voice.

  He scrunched his eyes closed as if trying to shut out vivid images flaring on the screen of his lids.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I understand. I was in a massive car accident last year. It took me forever to get back behind the wheel. I still can’t drive on a highway without having flashbacks.”

  “It’s like I’m right back there,” he croaked.

  I exaggerated a shiver. “I know. I can hear every single twist of metal. Smell the gasoline. Taste the blood.” Which wasn’t that far from the truth, given how many times Sofia had made me relive her ordeal. “All I was trying to do was get to work, and I almost died.”

  The pain, Sofia moaned.

  You’re back. What did it say about the state of my mental health that I was relieved she was there?

  Some places are harder to come through, Sofia said, her voice faint. Emotions get in the way.

  Beads of sweat popped out on the pilot’s forehead, and he blinked fast as if that could scrub away the unwanted memories.

  “Something went wrong with the instruments.” Captain Lamphere licked his dry lips. I offered him the straw from his water glass and he drank. “I’d rolled the airplane upside down and was completing the loop by diving and pulling up at the last moment when all of a sudden I realized I was roaring toward the ground.” His voice hitched. “My speed was so high that I’d never pull up in time.”

  Using a cool washcloth, I wiped the sweat sliding down his brow. “But you ejected.”

  “I was thinking I’d have to eject. But there was the crowd. So I kept thinking, no, not yet. Got to steer away more.”

  Footsteps approached in the hallway, then retreated. I let out my caged breath.

  “The runway was right below me.” His pulse rocketed. I stroked his arm, keeping an eye on the instruments. I didn’t want the readings to alarm a nurse. “I reached for the eject handle but then I could feel the sink rate was going to kill me. I had to get the sink rate under control first.”

  Sink rate—how fast the aircraft and ground are rushing toward each other. I remembered that from my skydiving days.

  “The ground kept coming at me.” His fast-beating heart shivered the johnny over his chest. “I thought if I wasn’t going to survive, anyway, I might as well keep pulling and see if I can get farther around the loop, farther from the crowd.”

  If he’d bailed out too soon, he’d have died. If he’d waited too long, he’d have died. The most extraordinary part of his tale was that his window of decision was about half a second.

  “My body just said now’s the time,” he said.

  Instincts and the best training around.

  “After I pulled the handle…” His mouth continued to move but nothing came out. He swallowed hard. “I remember being yanked into position, the canopy popping off, then nothing. I didn’t come to again until I got to the hospital.”

  With the G-force he’d experienced, passing out wasn’t surprising at all. The plane was on the ground and in flames just 0.8 seconds after he ejected from the aircraft, according to a news report this morning. His courage had saved a lot of lives.

  “Were you flying with the HART engaged?” I asked.

  “How did you know about the HART?”

  I shrugged. “My sister-in-law is Air Force. Flies the F-117. She’s mentioned some trouble with the HART.”

  He frowned. “No trouble. At least not that I know of.”

  “Which instruments went wonkers on you?”

  “The attitude indicator. It sort of went spinning, and then I couldn’t tell if I was flying right side up or not.”

  Sofia’s excitement stirred static along my arms. A surge.

  “Did the spinning happen after you engaged the HART?” I asked.

  His forehead crimped painfully. “After, yeah. I flipped it on for the third fly-by to show off for some bigwig in the tower.”

  A voice squawked over the PA. With all the advances in technology you’d think someone could invent a static-free system. Time to get out of here. I’d already stayed longer than prudent.

  “I didn’t mean to tire you out.” I patted his shoulder. “You rest now. I’ll check on you again later.”

  He grasped my arm. “No, stay. You’re right. Talking
helps.”

  “I’d love to, soldier, but if I don’t make my rounds, I’ll get in trouble.”

  “I don’t want to be alone.”

  I’d put myself in a squeeze. I’d made him open up; I couldn’t just leave him hanging so raw. “Okay, I’ll see if someone else can come chat with you for a bit.”

  His grip tightened. “You get it. The flashback. I can tell from your eyes.”

  The door sprang open and a nurse with a face as crisp as her uniform stepped through. “What are you doing here?”

  “Taking vitals,” I stammered, gearing up for the new-girl excuse. “I was taking his blood pressure when he became agitated. I was coming to get the charge nurse.”

  Her frown deepened. “Who are you?”

  “The temp.” I pinched myself to work tears up into my eyes.

  “I didn’t order a temp.”

  “I…I just got here. They sent me up to the sixth floor and—”

  “You’re on the fifth floor.” The “idiot” was silent but understood.

  “She gets me,” Captain Lamphere said. “I need her to stay.”

  Ignoring the patient, the nurse made a sour-pickle face at the sight of my tears. “For Pete’s sake, get yourself together.”

  I swiped at my cheeks. “I’m sorry. It’s my first day—”

  “Get out of here.”

  With a silent apology to the pilot, I didn’t wait for a second invitation. I put distance between me and Nurse Ratchet. I took the stairs two-by-two back down to the third floor, locked the bathroom and changed back into my street clothes, then went to collect Wyatt from the waiting room.

  One more stop to confirm.

  One more stop to expose.

  Then I would be free.

  As I stepped up to the waiting room area, Wyatt stopped midpace. I curled my upturned fingers in a Come-on gesture. He was at my side in three long steps.

  “What took so long?” he asked.

  I led him toward the stairs. I had too much nervous energy pulsing through me to wait for the elevator.

  “I got sidetracked.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “I checked out healthy as a horse.” I headed down the stairs.

  “Wrong direction,” he said. “Visiting hours are starting soon. I checked. We can go up to see the pilot.”

  “I’ve already talked to him.”

  “You were supposed to wait for me.”

  His stormy eyes cemented with annoyance at my having ventured out alone.

  “I saw an opportunity and took it.” I punched through the parking garage doors. I unlocked Betsy and tossed Wyatt my cell phone. “Call your sister. Have her get us on the base at Pierce Island.”

  Chapter 11

  Maybe in these times driving a white van with a few cosmetic flaws to the gates of a military base wasn’t the smartest thing to do. The late-afternoon light, heavy with solar glare, must have turned Betsy into a threat, because the guard at the front gate of the Pierce Island Air Force Base pointed his weapon right at me as he motioned me to stop. Another guard shoved a long-handled mirror under Betsy’s undercarriage, checking for bombs.

  If only Van and Wyatt could see me as that fierce.

  Wyatt’s body tensed into ready mode. “I told you we should’ve rented something more sober.”

  “This adds excitement.”

  “As if we need any more.”

  I rolled down my window. “Wyatt James and Sierra Martindale. We’re here to see Captain Tracy James.”

  The MP checked his list, signed us in and gave me and Wyatt each a visitor’s pass while we waited for Tracy to escort us onto the base. The constant stir of activity around us with its underlying backbeat of muffled working machinery reminded me of an anthill. I had the sinking feeling that getting a look at the HART wasn’t going to be easy.

  Wearing a flight suit, sunglasses twirling loosely in one hand, Tracy met us at the gate. She held her questions until we were out of earshot from the guards.

  “So,” she said, long legs eating up the ground as she headed toward the mess hall, “what’s all the hush and hurry about, Wyatt? And what are you doing in this part of the country? For your sake, you’d better not be checking up on me.”

  “I need a favor.”

  Her forehead scrunched. “Now there’s a first. My big brother actually needs my help. Why would you need to fly all the way out here when I was home just a few days ago?”

  “I need a look at the HART system.”

  Tracy stopped midstride and stared him down. “Why?”

  “I might be able to figure out what’s wrong with it,” Wyatt said. Between him and Sofia checking out the system, we should be able to come up with some sort of answer. “But I have to get in the cockpit and turn it on.”

  Tracy shook her head. “No can do.”

  Maybe I could get to Tracy another way. “Any word on what caused the crash yesterday?”

  “I can’t discuss it.”

  “Even if you could stop future crashes from happening?”

  Tracy’s gaze compressed. “And just how would you be able to do that when the people who work with the planes can’t figure out what’s wrong?”

  “The HART causes a surge of some sort that makes the attitude indicator go nuts.”

  “And you know that because…?”

  Saying the information came from a ghost was only going to get me booted off base. “I talked to the pilot who survived the last crash—barely.”

  She spun away from us, then bounced back. “I can’t believe you stuck your nose in business that isn’t yours. You’ve really done it this time, Wyatt.” She jabbed a finger at her brother’s chest. “Look, I know you’ve never given a flying fig about what I do, but I love my job, and I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize it. Do you realize how hard it’s been for me to get where I am? Letting a woman fly an F-117 is a huge deal. I’ll turn you in before I let you mess up my career.”

  “He’s not messing it up,” I said. “He’s trying to save it.”

  She lit into me. “Yeah? Then what did you do to Captain Lamphere?”

  “Me? Nothing. Just asked a few questions.”

  “He’s dead.”

  For an instant I forgot to breathe. “What? I just saw him a few hours ago.”

  “Sierra’s trying to save lives,” Wyatt said between clenched teeth. “Yours included. She wouldn’t have hurt him.”

  “Yeah, well, word came an hour ago that he died. Why do you think the flags are flying at half-mast?”

  The detail only now registered. An hour ago. I took in a long breath. Not long after I left him. Coincidence? “How did he die?”

  Stiff and straight, Tracy crossed her arms. “Complications from the injuries he sustained during the crash.”

  “The man I saw looked like he was just a day from walking out of that hospital room on his own steam.” The death seemed a little too convenient. Had Glenda sent her ice-hearted assassin to make sure the pilot didn’t talk about what had gone wrong on his flight? Had Rey followed us to Boston?

  Tracy swiveled toward the gate. “You should both leave now.”

  Wyatt stepped in front of her. “Sofia was killed because she suspected a fault in the HART.”

  Tracy’s eyes bugged. “But that was a year ago and the planes—”

  I butted in. “The HART system was installed last month.”

  “Can you get us close enough to look at the installed system?” Wyatt’s tone was gentler than mine.

  She shook her head. “Even if I was stupid enough to want to risk my career, I can’t get you within twenty feet of the hangar. See those guys?” She pointed to a couple of military police standing in front of a metal structure. They were armed. “No one gets past them.”

  “Not even to show your brother who’s visiting from out of town where you work?” I asked. There had to be a way around this.

  “Not even. Especially not after yesterday’s incident.”

  A cr
ash made for bad publicity, especially when it happened during a goodwill air show. “We really need to take a look.”

  “Don’t push, Sierra,” Wyatt warned. “Tracy would help if she could.”

  “You’re not going to break, are you, Tracy?” I asked, recognizing the warrior in her.

  “I handle tougher guys than you every day.” She crooked an eyebrow. “Did I mention that my brother has a hero complex?”

  “I’ve noticed.” And I was doing my best to resist—both belting him for it and falling for it.

  “This is the abuse I get for trying to help,” Wyatt muttered.

  “We’re doing fine on our own,” Tracy insisted.

  Wyatt’s closed expression gave away none of the roil of emotions playing in his eyes. “This could mean your life, Tracy.”

  I pressed the point. “Captain Lamphere told me he didn’t lose control of the airplane until he engaged the HART on display circuit.”

  She swiped a hand over her short hair and came to a decision. “Okay, tell you what. Tomorrow there’s going to be some sort of media event. They’ll have an F-117 on display. Best I can do is get you a press pass for it. I know someone in public relations.”

  Another damn delay when a few hours ago I thought I’d had this all but sewn up. “Why the circus?”

  Tracy’s chin cranked up. “To prove that there’s nothing wrong with the stealth fleet.”

  “Until the HART’s integration with the other avionics is checked out, every day you fly, you take a chance,” I said, laying out the risk factor for her. “Air-borne Russian roulette.”

  “The HART’s gone through a rigorous testing program. They wouldn’t have put it in the airplane if it wasn’t safe.”

  “Unless someone had hidden the discrepancy on purpose. You’re a smart woman, Tracy. Do the math. The HART was installed a month ago in a third of the stealth fleet. Now five airplanes are down. Wanna bet they all had a HART?”

  She rammed sunglasses over her eyes. “Even if you’re right, we’re at war, and no military officer is going to discuss weapons failing. They’re not going to say anything that might tarnish their victory. Plus there’s the public image at stake and the fact that Congress is discussing adding to the budget to build more stealth fighters as we speak.”