On Wings of Passion

by Lindsay McKenna

  Emotions clashed within her. How could she trust any air force officer? Hadn’t the air force killed her husband? But as hard as she tried to resurrect her old anger, it simply refused to be prodded back to life. He had guessed that there were reasons she had behaved so rudely and had already forgiven her. Suddenly, she felt afraid.

  “Look,” she muttered, “why don’t you fill me in on the essential details of our trip to Wright-Patterson?” She drew out a legal pad and pen from her purse.

  If he was upset by her sudden brusqueness, he didn’t show it. “Let’s order breakfast first,” he suggested. “I don’t operate well on an empty stomach.”

  She glanced at him sharply, suppressing the urge to snap. He had done nothing to deserve a blistering retort from her. “Fine,” she agreed.

  Over a large breakfast of three eggs, hash browns and toast, Ty said in a friendly manner, “You know, you might end up liking K. I. Sawyer. It’s a Northern Tier base near the Canadian border.” He raised an eyebrow, stealing a quick look at her. “If you like the wilderness and hiking in the autumn, you’ll enjoy your stay with us.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t already decided what I do and don’t like, Captain.”

  He quelled a smile, concentrating on his meal. “Let’s just say I’ve made some guesses,” he drawled.

  Erin hated herself for getting trapped by his easygoing manner, but she couldn’t resist asking, “Such as?”

  “Such as, you’re tall and athletically built. Since you’re from a city, that probably means you play tennis or jog. You don’t strike me as a gal who sits behind a desk for long before becoming restless.”

  “So far, so good,” she admitted, frowning.

  “Want me to go on?”

  “Sure. I always like to see someone with foot-in-mouth disease.”

  “Remember, you asked me to volunteer my first impressions.” He laid his fork on the table and leaned back, studying her carefully, a soft smile curving his mouth. “You have a terrible temper—that’s already been well established.” He flashed a boyish grin. “Of course, your being Irish automatically atones for that particular weakness.”

  “Weakness!”

  He raised a hand. “I’m not finished. Now, sit there like the beautiful lady you are and let’s see how close I come. You’re a woman of great sensitivity. It would be easy for anyone to affect you either negatively or positively. I think you need quiet time to pull yourself together. I don’t see you as someone who can stand a lot of stress without retreating to your favorite place and healing yourself. So,” he continued, his expression suddenly very serious, “you hide your vulnerability beneath a tough exterior, playing the role of a no-nonsense, hard-hitting reporter who can take it on the nose.”

  Erin clutched her napkin tightly in her lap. He had no business commenting on her like this! “Believe me,” she said icily, “I can be as tough as the situation requires.”

  “Can’t everyone?”

  “Of course not.”

  His eyes held hers. “You don’t need to thrust that tough image out in front of you, Erin,” he said softly. “Why are you so afraid of allowing people to get close to you?”

  She flushed under his intense scrutiny. “I don’t know who you are—”

  He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Just a Buff pilot, darlin’. So don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re going to explode. Come on. Relax. I told you before, I’ll never use my perceptions of you against you, Erin. But obviously you don’t believe that.” She wrestled with her confusing emotions. “Let’s talk about business, shall we?” she demanded coldly, anxious to change the topic.

  “Anything you want. Where would you like to start?”

  Erin’s fingers trembled as they closed around her pen and she positioned the pad on the table. Who was this Captain Ty Phillips? She felt stripped beneath his scrutiny and her throat constricted with a familiar paralyzing fear.

  When had that fear begun to haunt her? Soon after her husband’s death. Life had been so secure until then. Suddenly, she had been thrown abruptly out into the mainstream of life, trying to recover from the emotional loss as well as survive in a hard, uncaring world. And now this officer had dropped into her life and was nonchalantly exposing her deeply hidden wounds and anxieties.

  It required her concentrated effort to push aside her feelings and return to business. “Tell me about the Triad,” she suggested.

  He was very willing to describe it. “Very simply, it’s a defense concept to keep this country free from aggression,” he explained. “It consists of SAC B-52 bombers, intercontinental ballistic missiles—which you will probably want to refer to as ICBM’s—and navy submarine sea-launched missiles. The three forms of defense guarantee that, if an outside force penetrates one leg of our defense system, it must take on the other two. As a consequence, SAC plays a defensive role on a global front, and we keep aggressive powers somewhat in line.”

  “My editor feels you can do away with the land-based bombers,” Erin challenged.

  Ty shrugged. “That becomes a matter of opinion, Erin. Of the three forms I’ve mentioned, only the bombers can be recalled from a target. If there were a threat of nuclear war, would you rather push a button to launch an ICBM, or send bombers that you knew could come back in case the situation deescalated?”

  She raised her chin, watching him. Gone was the boyish quality she’d seen before. Now he was strictly a military officer telling her what he obviously believed in. “I’d want the bombers,” she admitted. “That’s only logical.”

  “I think so, too. And so does the air force. Which is why we’ve put the B-1 B bomber in production to replace the Buff.”

  “But you’re talking billions of dollars.”

  He sighed, pushing a fork absently around on the tabletop. “What’s peace worth to you? The Buff is fifty-four years old and is rapidly becoming an obsolete way to defend our country. The Buff is so old that the air force, rather than private companies, has to manufacture some of the parts for it. No one else in the aircraft industry still makes them. This affects the bomber’s reliability in the long run. The B-1 Bs are in the air but so far, they aren’t showing they can replace the B-52.”

  Erin was perplexed. “So far you’re telling me how much money we’re spending to keep the Buffs flying. Surely they must be doing the job—”

  He shook his head. “It’s more complicated than that, Erin. The overall defense systems of unfriendly countries are becoming more capable all the time. They have surface-to-air missiles, or SAMs, and newer radar techniques. The Buff is too large to evade radar and it’s got too little room for us to add the necessary electronics needed to get it safely through to its assigned targets.”

  “Will the B-1 overcome these problems?”

  He nodded. “They have up to a point,” he said.

  Erin scribbled down a few more notes.

  “If—” he took a deep breath and shook his head “—and I hope it never comes to that, but if there were a limited nuclear war, the Buff would not be a solid deterrent. In other words, one third of our Triad concept is weakened by the problems I just mentioned. And if we know that, you can bet our enemies do, too.”

  “This is positively gruesome. I hate the thought of war,” she admitted, searching his face.

  “That makes two of us, darlin’. You’ll find that the SAC bomber crews are more concerned about peace than most people think. We don’t want to fight a war. We’d much rather act as a deterrent and keep the peace.”

  Erin heard the slight tremble in his voice, and it affected her deeply. “I always thought you guys were real hawks, waiting for a war to begin.”

  He shook his head. “I won’t try to persuade you one way or the other. Instead, I think spending a few days around us will give you a chance to form your own opinions.”

  “But I’m a captive audience. I’m willing to listen.”

  “No way, darl
in’. We’ll let the facts speak for themselves. Fair enough?”

  She nodded, impressed with his fairness. If he had tried to influence her, she would have resented him, and probably rejected his opinions. As it was, he had made her more curious and perhaps more receptive to his news. She closed her pad and put the pen away. “So where to now?” she asked.

  Ty settled the blue flight cap on his head and stood up. “We’ll get you qualified to ride in a Buff. You need a card from the medical center saying that you’ve taken the course and lived to tell about it.” He flashed her a reassuring smile and held out his hand.

  She hesitated only briefly. His fingers were warm and surprisingly firm as he helped her from the booth, and he seemed to release her hand with reluctance.

  The Physiology Center, a single-story barracks set on a grassy knoll, was located just inside the entrance gates of Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. As Ty ushered Erin inside, a booming voice carried down the hall.

  “Damned if it isn’t an SAC trained killer. Phillips! How the hell are you?”

  Erin glanced at Ty to see his reaction to the name-calling; he looked slightly embarrassed. An officer in his mid-fifties came striding forward, hand extended, a wide smile on his narrow face.

  “Colonel, good to see you again,” Ty murmured.

  The lieutenant colonel gripped Ty’s hand and shook it heartily. “I couldn’t believe it when they called and said you were coming. Good Lord, how many years has it been since I flew with you?”

  Erin stood back, enjoying the warm exchange. The colonel was a man of slight, wiry build and his peppered mustache made him look almost like a civilian instead of a military officer.

  Ty introduced her. “This is Erin Quinlan from Newsday-day Magazine. Erin, this is Colonel John McIntire, the head of this chamber of horrors.”

  “Ah, don’t listen to this guy,” he told Erin, smiling and gripping her hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Quinlan. We’re privileged to have you come down and see what goes on in training these Buff drivers and tanker toads.” A smile tugged at Erin’s lips, and she cast a glance at Ty. “Tanker toads?” she echoed, trying not to laugh.

  Ty grinned. “Stick around for more than a day and we’ll have you talking like an S&C professional,” he promised.

  “Tanker toads is an affectionate term we use for the crews on the KC-135 aircraft who refuel the Buffs while they’re in flight,” McIntire explained.

  “And SAC trained killers?” she asked wryly. “It has an ominous ring, Colonel.”

  McIntire slapped Ty on the back. “Naw, just another term used with respect for the fine job these guys do. During my orientation on the different aircraft flown in the air force, I had the privilege of being on Ty’s crew. He was just a young co then, still wet behind the ears.”

  “Co is another word for copilot,” Ty explained. “You’ll find we abbreviate everything or make it into a set of initials.” He turned to McIntire. “We about ready to get this show on the road?”

  “You bet. First let me show Ms. Quinlan around.”

  “Call me Erin,” she invited, surprised at her friendliness. She frowned inwardly, displeased with how easily their affability won her over.

  “Lovely name for a lovely woman. You’re a lucky fella, Phillips.”

  Ty winked at Erin. “Jealousy will get you nowhere, Colonel McIntire. Let’s show her your steel box.”

  Erin followed both officers to the center of the room where a large, rectangular, metal chamber dominated.

  “This is our hyperbaric chamber, Erin,” McIntire explained. “We train people who have to fly at high altitudes how to survive in case of rapid or slow decompression. We also teach them about hypoxia and symptoms of oxygen deprivation so they’ll live to tell about it. Later in the day you’ll be going in there for about two hours.”

  Erin walked cautiously inside the imposing white chamber. It was constructed from thick, metal panels riveted together by huge bolts. Since the chamber could be made to simulate any altitude, it had to be strong enough to withstand the pressure created by the atmosphere inside. Several chairs were attached to the chamber’s outside walls near small, very thick panels of glass. Inside were two rows of benches, each with individual instrument panels and assorted oxygen hoses draped nearby. Erin repressed a shiver. Maybe Ty was right. Maybe it was a chamber of horrors. But the way McIntire talked, it seemed nothing to be alarmed about. Uneasy, she followed them out of the chamber to a classroom.

  There she sat for three hours learning about the effects of high altitude on an unprotected body. Ty had disappeared at the beginning. Growing bored, she idly jotted down a few notes. Although the airmen giving the various lectures were good, clear speakers, she couldn’t keep her mind on what they were saying. Words such as hypoxia, decompression and the bends were mentioned repeatedly.

  Her thoughts kept wandering back to Ty. She rested her chin in her palm and stared down at the doodles on her pad. Why did she already feel such an accepted part of this crazy military family? She had noticed that the officers treated the enlisted men and women almost as equals, yet she had always thought that there was a distinct division in the armed services between officers and enlisted people. She let out a long sigh, completely perplexed.

  At lunch Ty reappeared, ambling over to her desk.

  “Well, did you learn anything so far?” he asked.

  She glanced up at him briefly. “You want the truth?”

  “Always.”

  “I’m bored to death. I keep asking myself what good all this will do and what it has to do with riding in a Buff.”

  Ty cocked his head, a warning glitter in his blue eyes. “I know it’s hard to understand, Erin, but if we get a rapid decompression, you could be dead in a matter of minutes. This boring information could literally save your life.”

  She felt properly chastised. “Okay, okay. I’ll try to listen more attentively after lunch.”

  “We nearly lost a crew member about a year ago to this very thing,” Ty went on, sitting down at the desk next to hers. He rubbed his face tiredly. “We were up at thirty-nine thousand feet and we got an RD—rapid decompression. Our gunner, Davis, was on his last mission with us before he was to be transferred. He was asleep on the bunk. The new gunner got his own mask on and then fought his way forward to clap the mask over Davis.”

  Erin frowned. “And?”

  “You have to keep in mind that during RD we take emergency flight maneuvers. I nosed the Buff down and was dropping her like a rock to reach ten thousand feet. At that altitude you can survive. But for the gunner to move against the building g forces to get to Davis was damn near impossible. By the time the gunner reached him, Davis’s heart had stopped beating.”

  Erin put her hand against her lips, her eyes widening. She searched Ty’s face anxiously. “Oh…I didn’t realize…”

  He held her startled gaze. “No one ever does until it happens,” he muttered. He reached over and pulled her hand away from her mouth. “That’s why I don’t want anything to happen to you, gal. I came too damn close to losing a man, and there’s no way I’m losing you. So be attentive and work hard this afternoon.”

  He released her hand and stood up. “Come on. I don’t want to completely ruin your appetite. John McIntire is waiting to take us over to the officers’ club for lunch.”

  Erin rose, troubled. “What happened to Davis? Did he live?”

  “Barely. The other gunner had to administer cardio-pulmonary resuscitation. I landed the Buff at the closest available base. We had air traffic scrambled for a hundred miles in all directions. It was a life-and-death situation, and I wasn’t going to go by the book to get him down and to a hospital. It caused a few hard feelings, until the tower learned what was happening.” He grimaced, opening the door for her. “It was too close, Erin. Much too close.”

  On the way to the car, Erin considered his story. She was impressed by the difficult job he had, and by the decisiveness required to handle such an emergency situat
ion. Once Ty’s arm brushed hers as they walked side by side, and immediately their eyes met. His were warm and open, and something deep inside her, some hard core of pain and anger, seemed to melt. She looked away, confused.

  John McIntire drove them to the officers’ club and ushered them into the dining room where they helped themselves to a buffet lunch. Erin took a seat across the table from McIntire. Ty sat down next to her.

  “You ought to know you’re being escorted by one of the finest Buff pilots in SAC, Erin,” McIntire said, smiling amiably. “I knew him when he was a green kid just out of the air force academy. He impressed me even then.” He shook his head. “Funny how you can tell who will and won’t make it in this pressure-cooker business.”

  Erin placed her napkin in her lap. “How is it a pressure cooker?” she asked.

  “Tell her, Ty,” McIntire urged.

  Ty rested his chin against his folded hands and gazed thoughtfully at her. “It might bore you,” he hedged.

  “Nothing you’ve said so far has bored me, Captain Phillips.”

  A glint of humor danced in his eyes as he held her gaze. “Sure?”

  “Very sure. Want me to swear to it?”

  “That won’t be necessary. What John is referring to is the fact that SAC bomber crews are under a lot of pressure from headquarters to do an incredible amount of testing. Each division is allotted so much fuel for the B-52s. If we’ve already flown our required number of hours for a particular month and still haven’t burned up the fuel budgeted to us, we have to fly more missions until it’s used up.” He pursed his lips. “On an average I’d say we spend seventy hours a week on duty and twenty days out of the month away from home.”

  Erin stared at him in surprise. “Twenty days away from home every month? Good Lord, that’s ridiculous.” In her own brief time as a military wife she had never had to face such a strain. Steve had been stationed near a populated city and had stayed on the base most of the time. She’d been free to pursue her education.

  “It’s a terrible strain on the family and marital ties,” he admitted.