Jasper had always been on her about how precise she was about everything. Four miles, not three miles to the nearest restaurant—rounded up from 3.85. “Sixty-five degrees outside,” not “in the sixties.” “It’s seven thirty-eight,” when asked the time. She wasn’t being fussy, it was simply how she thought about things. She’d slowly been forced to append “I think” or “about” or “somewhere around” into most of her conversations until she stuttered like a mistuned radial engine.
Well, she was done with that.
“Three tours.” She repeated definitively, then added the beginning and ending dates of service because she knew the history of every one of her birds from the moment they flew off the assembly line and to hell with any man who didn’t like it.
Except for Firehawk Oh-Two. Something very strange had happened to that helicopter last winter, but she’d never been able to uncover what. And when she’d pushed, she’d not only been stonewalled. She’d been told flat out that questions were unwelcome and were a job-level “didn’t need to know.” Finally, when she still didn’t back down, a security-level risk.
With no explanation and a maintenance record that displayed odd discrepancies, she didn’t trust the craft. Without telling anyone else why, she’d had her team help strip the bird down and put it back together, but it was as flawless as any aircraft she’d ever seen. It still wasn’t the bird she’d sent to Australia last year to fight bushfires.
She wondered if Vern knew what had happened, but she’d guess not. He hadn’t traveled with the two Firehawks when they’d split off from the rest of the MHA team to fight a different bushfire.
Vern didn’t comment about her elaborate precision and total command of Firehawk Oh-Three’s service record. Instead he was once more inspecting the hose in the distant camp lights. She no longer had any excuse to remain leaning so close, so she sat back in the pilot’s seat but could now feel his shape in the shapeless pilot’s seat. How pathetic was she?
“That’s a bullet crease.”
“It’s what?” She rapped his ribs hard with her elbow as she leaned back over to see.
“Easy there, Wrench. You could hurt a fella. See?” He held it out again.
“You’re right. It looks like it cut through the first layer or two of the hose. How did you know?”
“Flying Coast Guard isn’t only about pulling idiot tourists out of riptides.”
Coast Guard? How had she not known that about him? If he’d been one of her choppers, she would have.
Denise tried to see Vern more clearly. His dim silhouette looked the same. Mr. Casual and Easygoing as a former U.S. Coast Guard helicopter pilot was pretty hard to reconcile.
Though it did make a certain kind of sense. He’d certainly been steady as a rock while his chopper had been trailing smoke. The sideslip to check his smoke trail and then his straightening out without ever breaking formation spoke of lots of practice with emergency situations.
Maybe there was more to Vern Taylor than just some charming flyboy with nothing but sex on his mind.
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About the Author
M.L. Buchman has over 30 novels in print. His military romantic suspense books have been named Barnes & Noble and NPR “Top 5 of the Year” and Booklist “Top 10 of the Year.” In addition to romance, he also writes thrillers, fantasy, and science fiction.
In among his career as a corporate project manager he has rebuilt and single-handed a fifty-foot sailboat, both flown and jumped out of airplanes, designed and built two houses, and bicycled solo around the world. He is now making his living as a full-time writer on the Oregon Coast with his beloved wife. He is constantly amazed at what you can do with a degree in geophysics. You may keep up with his writing by subscribing to his newsletter at www.mlbuchman.com.
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