“Lieutenant, do you know who I am?” she challenged.
“Yeah, you’re Alyssa Trayhern.”
“I’m the sister of Morgan Trayhern. Does that name ring a bell with you?”
With a shrug, Starbuck answered, “Of course it does. Look, I don’t bear grudges. It was your brother that gave your family a black mark, not you.”
Aly eyed him in silence, evaluating. His face was free of tension, his eyes lacking guile. “And you know that Lieutenant Cantrell’s brother was in the same company with my brother?”
“I heard about that. Scuttlebutt has been thick and heavy ever since we found out you were assigned.” He rubbed his chin, studying her frankly. “That’s another reason I wanted to warn you about Cantrell. He’s not the type to forgive and forget. He bears a grudge for a long time. I know from experience, because I beat him out for top gun and went on to win the honor for our squadron.”
No kidding about Clay holding grudges, Aly almost blurted out. But Starbuck was a dangerous person to confide in, she decided. As badly as she wanted to break down and tell someone about her trials with Clay, she knew it wouldn’t be Starbuck. No, she sensed a vicious streak in him, despite that disarming smile and teasing manner.
“Look, I appreciate your two cents worth on Cantrell. But if you don’t mind, I don’t want to hear any more war stories. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Hey! What about a pizza tonight? There’s a terrific little parlor over in Mountain View. Mama Cara’s has the best Italian food in the Bay Area. How about if I pick you up, say, around 1900, and we’ll get better acquainted over some great pizza and good wine?”
A little pain stabbed through Aly’s heart. She winced outwardly. Was it the same pizza place that Clay had referred to yesterday? She had been looking forward to that date with him. “Thanks, but no,” she said and climbed into her sports car.
Crestfallen, but not giving up, Starbuck shut the door for her.
“Probably shouldn’t, with all those training manuals to study this weekend.” He smiled. “Get your beauty sleep tonight. I’ll be seeing you around, Alyssa,” and he threw her a salute.
Don’t count on it. Aly nodded and backed the car out of the parking spot, anxious to escape the cloying attention of Jeff Starbuck. Right now, all she wanted to do was go home, have a good cry, get herself back together again and call her parents. They had been her stanchion of strength, of wisdom. And right now, she needed both. Desperately.
“Hello, Dad.”
“Punkin! Well, how was your first day at your very first station?”
Aly shut her eyes, gripping the phone hard. It was nearly six o’clock. She had come home earlier, cried, taken Rogue out for a five-mile jog around their new neighborhood, gotten a hot shower and unpacked more boxes. Needing to talk to someone, Aly had finally picked up the phone and dialed.
“Its been terrible, Dad.” She explained the entire sequence of events. Just talking about it to an understanding ear helped. Afterward, Aly rubbed her face tiredly.
“What do you think, Dad? Does someone back in D.C. have it in for me?”
“Let me make a few phone calls and feel this out,” Chase muttered. His voice was deep with concern. “It does sound as if some admiral has it in for you. That’s why those orders were cut that way.”
Aly knew her father had powerful and influential ties to all the services. He had retired a brigadier general in the Air Force just before Morgan’s tragedy. Generals were power brokers, and her father knew how to infight politically with the best of them. But since Morgan’s terrible tragedy, her father’s awesome political clout had been brutally undermined. Despite his forty years of service, few of his friends remained such after Morgan was declared a traitor. Aly knew her father’s access to the Pentagon to investigate her problem would be severely hampered, if not hamstrung from the beginning.
“Can you do it without stirring up problems, Dad?” Aly didn’t want whoever was trying to kill her career to get wind of his delicate inquiry.
“I’ll be careful, Punkin, you can count on it. For now, how are you going to handle this? Is Cantrell someone you can reason with?”
“No,” she said miserably, propping an elbow on the table and resting her head in her hand. “He’s filled with hatred, Dad. I hurt for him. I think Clay’s backlogged with emotions from five years ago, that he never released his grief over his brother’s death.”
Chase’s deep voice softened. “You hurt for him, honey?”
Aly laughed weakly. “Oh, Dad, you don’t know the other half of it,” she explained, and she told him about their meeting on the Bayshore.
“I see,” he murmured. “So you’re attracted to him despite the situation, Aly?”
“Yes. This is the first time I’ve ever been knocked off my feet, Dad. He just took my breath away. No man has ever done that before.”
“Sounds serious.”
Aly’s depression lifted. “I love you, Dad. You always know when to tease me and get me out of the hole I’ve dug for myself.”
Chase’s voice grew tender. “Listen, Punkin, you’re our only daughter. Your mother and I are terribly proud of you. The past five years have been utter hell on you, too.”
Closing her eyes, Aly nodded. The rest, what her father didn’t say, was: because of what happened to Morgan. No one in the family believed Morgan was a traitor. They all knew something had happened that Morgan had been caught in the middle of. Chase felt his older son had been made a scapegoat. But for what? They didn’t even know if Morgan was alive or dead. And her father had been thwarted from all angles in trying to investigate his son’s disappearance off the face of the earth. She sighed tiredly. “I thought my hell was over, Dad. I had so many hopes and dreams about Moffett. I finally felt as if all the shadows from the past were dead and buried….”
“Take this one day at a time, Punkin. Perhaps your liking Cantrell might make it easier in one way.”
“Oh?”
“You’re not defensive with him. You understand where his pain is coming from, and you won’t go for his jugular each time he attacks you. It might give you the patience to outdistance his hate. Sooner or later, he’ll run out of hate. That’s what you’ve got to count on.”
“But by liking him I’m leaving myself wide open, Dad. Everything he said to me, I’ve heard thousands of times before, and it never cut me like it did coming from him.”
“I know, honey,” Chase soothed. “I wish I could protect your heart where he’s concerned. But I can’t. No one can. You have a choice: put up walls to protect your heart, or go ahead and feel your way through the situations and take the hurt that goes with the territory and the decision.”
“Which would you do, Dad?” Tears stung her eyes, her voice wobbling dangerously.
Chase sighed. “A better question is: what do you want to do about it?”
Aly sniffed, wiping her nose. “Mom always counseled us to feel our emotions, don’t run away from them.”
“That’s true. And she also taught you to listen to your gut instincts. What are they telling you?”
Aly’s heart hurt, and she rubbed the area unconsciously. “Th-that Clay’s like a hurt animal, biting anyone who comes remotely near him, whether they created his pain or not.”
“Okay, and what do you do with an injured animal?”
“Care for it as carefully as you can, remain objective and don’t try to pet it.”
“That’s right. A hurt animal doesn’t equate a stroke on his head with comfort. He just sees it as a hand attacking him and will strike out at it.”
Managing a choked laugh, Aly said, “Dad, do you ever think I’ll get wise about people and their emotions the way you and Mom did?”
Chase chuckled. “I think, Punkin, that at twenty-five, you’re way ahead of most women your age. You have savvy, intelligence and a world of traveling and experience behind you. My money’s on you to win out in this situation with Cantrell. Just be patient. And don’t get you
r hand close enough for him to bite.”
It was drizzling rain again on Sunday. Aly felt as depressed as the low-hanging gray clouds that embraced the Bay Area. She hefted the cockpit manual under her left arm and climbed out of her car. Moffett Field was almost deserted on Sunday, except for those who had to stand the duty. Dressed in jeans, a pink turtleneck sweater and a warm beige jacket, Aly ran to the closest entrance of Hangar One.
Inside, she went to the duty chief’s office. An aviation engineer first class was standing the duty office, busy with paperwork when she entered.
“Hi, I’m Lieutenant Alyssa Trayhern.”
The tall string bean of a man, dressed in a light blue chambray shirt and dark blue serge trousers, straightened in the chair. His red hair was close cropped, his skin sprinkled with copper freckles. “Oh…” And then he grinned sheepishly and rose, sticking out his hand. “Miss Trayhern, I’m your engineer on board our aircraft. The name’s Dan Ballard. I’m happy to finally get to meet you.”
Aly flushed at his softened words. The man meant what he said, his hazel eyes alight with unabashed enthusiasm as he pumped her hand long and eagerly.
Reclaiming her hand, she rewarded him with a shy smile of her own. “What a wonderful welcome. I hope the rest of the crew’s as happy about me as you are.”
Ballard nodded. “To tell the truth,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, “since we found out about this two weeks ago, I’ve been telling the crew that it’s the best thing that could happen to us.”
Placing the manual on the desk, Aly dried her hands by wiping them across her jeans. “Oh, why’s that?”
Scratching his head, Ballard blushed a dull red. He avoided her gaze. “Well…you know…My wife, Sandy, is a real feminist.” He held up his hand, assuming Aly would take his comment the wrong way. “We’ve been married some twelve years now, with four kids between us, and I’ve seen a woman’s strength compared to a man’s. She was saying the same thing I was: that you’re going to add some dimensions to the crew that we didn’t have before. Good things, I think, that will help….” He stumbled, groping for the right words.
Starbuck’s conversation came back to her. Maybe he hadn’t exaggerated the situation with Cantrell’s crew. Ballard reminded her of an eager puppy just dying for a warm pat on the head. She liked him. He was open and honest. “Help what, Dan?” she probed gently, hoping to get an answer.
“Ahh, don’t mind me, Miss Trayhern. I just get carried away and all. Just know that the crew is going to welcome you with open arms. We need a lady’s sensitivity and her gentle way of handling us. You know what I mean….”
Aly nodded and pretended to know. “Well, look, Dan, if you don’t mind, since you’re duty chief, I’d like to have your permission to climb on board number 7 and sit in the cockpit to familiarize myself a little. Is that possible?” The P3 was still in the hangar, and Aly could see that the old landing gear had been replaced with new on the port side of the aircraft.
“Sure. Of course. I’m sure Mr. Cantrell won’t mind.” He came around the desk and opened the door for her. “Would you like some help? I’m the guy who sits right behind your seats working the four throttles while you’re flying. I’m also certified to taxi the gal, and qualified on engine start-up and shutdown procedures.”
She warmed to his generosity. “Maybe later? Right now, I just want to sit and acquaint myself with her.”
Dan opened the door, nodding. “Sure, Miss Trayhern. Want me to drop by in about an hour? The only thing I gotta do is be here in the hangar. We’ve only got one P3 out on track, and that bird isn’t scheduled back from the mission for six hours.”
“Kinda bored?” Aly guessed, smiling.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Give me an hour, Dan, and then you can quiz me on procedures, okay?”
“You got it, Miss Trayhern.” He beamed.
Aly’s step was lighter as she walked across the concrete floor in her sensible brown shoes. Every sound was amplified, echoing off the walls. It was ghostlike, the pall of rain and gray clouds hanging silently outside the opened bay doors of the hangar, increasing her sense of loneliness. Still, Aly felt her first real ray of hope with Dan Ballard, who was obviously delighted in her arrival.
The fuselage door was open on the port side of number 7, a ladder placed up against the hatch. As Aly approached the ladder, she reached up, running her hand across the smooth, cool skin of the P3.
“Hi there, Gray Lady,” she whispered. Her eyes darkened. “Let’s you and me be friends. We’re both women in a man’s world.” The gray aluminum skin warmed beneath her palm. Aly could swear the aircraft was alive, possessing a unique personality. She’d always named her planes, her animals, her car and anything else that would stand still long enough to be given a name.
“Gray Lady, be my ally. Help me,” she pleaded to the strong, silent aircraft. It was time to go on board. She’d never stepped inside a sub-hunting aircraft. Slowly Aly entered the plane. Inside, the port and starboard fuselage were a complex array of radar screens. A desk ran down both sides. So much electronic equipment was squeezed into the small working space that there seemed barely enough room for the eight crewmen at the consoles. Looking aft, past a small entrance without a door, she saw two more seats and a collapsible bunk that fitted tightly up against the fuselage wall. One seat was for the radioman, the other for a meteorological observer.
The aircraft was flawless, Aly decided with admiration. Everything was stowed neatly and efficiently. She located the sonobuoys that could detect a Soviet sub beneath the oceans if they were dropped out the rear hatch of the P3. The depth charges weren’t on board, so she assumed they must be loaded on the aircraft for the mission and then taken off when the plane returned to the station.
Aly’s heart beat a little harder as she moved forward into the cockpit. She saw the four throttles that Dan Ballard would kneel before and monitor. Her hands grew damp as she halted, glanced around the small instrument panel in front and overhead. Her fear dissolved as she began to look at the individual gauges. This was Gray Lady’s circulatory system. The P3’s heart consisted of four powerful turboprop engines. Some of the many dials would tell Aly how the fuel was getting pumped and distributed to her heart. Triumph soared through her as she sat down for the first time in the copilot seat, her position for at least the next two years of her life.
A sense of belonging swept through Aly. She laid the manual open across the throttle case. Running her hand gently across the copilot’s yoke, new excitement thrummed through her. One of these days, she’d be allowed to fly Gray Lady. What she’d give to feel the plane come alive under her careful, supervised skill! Would the P3 give over her power to her? Or would she fight every step of the way like some prop and jet trainers Aly had flown at Pensacola?
“Enough daydreaming,” she muttered, giving the aircraft a quick, friendly pat. “Down to work!”
Clay shielded his eyes from the downpour. Having parked near the entrance to Hangar One, he dived inside. He shook the excess water from his well-worn leather jacket and headed straight for his P3. Looking around, he realized the hangar was all but deserted. The other men had families to go home to, they had wives…children….
His family was the Navy, his woman that gleaming P3 that stood like an elegant queen before him. Eyes narrowing, he bent and moved beneath the plane’s graceful undercarriage. The damage sustained in that landing had been repaired. Clay carefully checked the mechanics’ work. He trusted them, but he had to be sure. Any pilot concerned with his plane’s performance would do the same. Besides, as usual, there was little to do on the weekend when he didn’t have the duty. Clay felt better just being on the station. This was his life.
Satisfied, he ran his hand down the steel strut. On the last mission there had been a malfunction with the low-altitude altimeter or LAA. He wanted to go on board and see if it had been repaired and checked off the maintenance sheet by the ground crew. He and his crew would be flying this girl
Tuesday, and he wanted her in tip-top condition.
As Clay climbed the ladder, he could have sworn he heard a woman’s voice. A husky voice. Impossible. Frowning, he halted at the lip of the P3. Confusion turned to disbelief as he looked toward the cockpit area. Although the light was dim, he could see a mop of unruly red hair glinting dully in the cockpit.
Aly! And then Clay sternly chastised himself. No, her name isn’t Aly! He’d sworn he’d never call her by her first name again. But he couldn’t help himself, and he stood mesmerized as she leaned over the manual, muttering out the names of the dials and gauges.
Closing his eyes, Clay hoped that she would disappear. She didn’t. He was intensely aware of her red hair, clean profile and those parted lips. As he inhaled, he could faintly smell the fragrance she wore—something spicy, like herself. And when she placed her finger against her lower lip, studying the manual with undivided intent, he felt himself begin to tighten with desire.
Disgusted with his reaction to her, Clay moved silently up the passageway toward her, letting his anger at himself mask his real feelings. There was savage pleasure in realizing she was so focused on the manual that she didn’t hear him coming until it was too late. Clay told himself he was going to enjoy this.
“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing here, Lieutenant Trayhern?”
Aly jumped, her head snapping up, her eyes wide. Clay Cantrell’s dark, shadowed features loomed above her. The anger in his eyes consumed and struck her viciously. She could only stare, stripped of any defense, because he was the last person she’d expected to run into today. Despite the fact that he was wearing a civilian light blue shirt, that same old leather jacket and a pair of brown trousers, he still held an invisible power over her.
Swallowing, Aly choked out, “I—I study better if I’ve got the real thing in front of me.”
No Surrender Page 5
