Lovelace, Merline

by Dark Side of Dawn

  "Hey yourself, Elliott."

  "Heard you added another notch to your belt this afternoon."

  "Yeah, well, Wonder Woman just got grounded because of it. Someone else will have to fly her glass plane for a while."

  He cocked his head. "The DO's going to direct an inquiry?"

  "You got it." Unlocking her car door, Jo tossed her gear bag into the backseat. "What are you doing here this late?"

  "I thought you might need a beer after you got through with Marshall."

  She hesitated, all too aware of the glint in his hazel eyes. If she'd been the least inclined to fly in close formation with anyone in the squadron, Deke Elliott would be her first choice. Tall, rangy, and leather tough, he filled out a flight suit the way it was meant to be filled. His sense of humor and the slow-as-sin Wyoming drawl he switched on and off with such devastating effect were even more attractive.

  But Jo had traveled down that road once. Somehow the love she'd been so sure would last forever had gotten all tangled up in conflicting schedules and differing career goals. In good-natured rivalries for ratings, for schools, for additional responsibilities and challenges. After a while, the rivalry had grown a little too keen, the competition a little too cutting. Finally, Jo had opted out—out of the competition, out of the squadron, out of her brief but disastrous engagement.

  The breakup had been mutual, but when she remembered the rosy dreams that had accompanied the emerald-cut diamond solitaire Brian had slipped on her finger, she still felt a sting of regret. Regret, and a determination not to subject herself to that kind of hurt again.

  On the other hand, she could use someone to talk to right now. She was still debating the matter when Deke's mouth tipped.

  "All I'm offering is a sympathetic ear and a cold Heineken, West."

  Dammit, he must have known she couldn't resist the challenge in that mocking grin.

  "I'm from Wisconsin," she tossed back. "Care to change that to a Schlitz?"

  "'The beer that made Milwaukee famous?' Sure."

  "I'll meet you at the Officers' Club."

  Chapter Three

  Jo woke to hazy daylight and a muffled sound outside her bedroom window. She shot upright in bed, eyes wide and unfocused, clutching the down-filled quilt Granny Modl had hand-stitched and folded into her only granddaughter's as-yet unneeded wedding chest.

  The abrupt movement caused the room to tilt. Groaning, Jo dropped the quilt and put up a hand to message her temples.

  Damn Elliott for goading her last night!

  And damn her own, built-in competitiveness!

  Just because she'd never backed down from a dare tossed at her by any one of her five brothers didn't mean that she had to beat every male at every endeavor, Mortal Kombat included.

  She and Deke had limited themselves to two beers at the Officers' Club. Neither of them harbored any desire for a DUI that would terminate their respective careers. But one mocking challenge inevitably led to another, and somehow Jo had found herself taking him on in a series of no-holds-barred, knock-'em-dead video games.

  Deke certainly knew how to operate a joy stick, she'd discovered. Hunched over the machine, his flight suit molding those broad shoulders, he'd zigged in answer to every one of Jo's zags, and fired off a steady stream of killer electronic bullets.

  He also, she remembered, massaging her aching forehead, didn't take kindly to having his butt kicked. Pointedly, Jo had suggested that he should think twice in the future before challenging someone with five brothers to a video-duel.

  She'd called a halt sometime after midnight, exhilarated by her final championship win. They'd parted company in the O Club parking lot, Deke still smarting from his defeat and Jo still smugly triumphant. The long day had caught up with her on the drive home. Vaguely, she recalled decompressing as the MG wound along darkened Maryland roads to Fort Washington, the sleepy suburb on the Potomac where Jo had rented a house. The bedroom door had barely closed behind her before she'd stripped down to her black cotton sports bra and high-on-the-thigh black panties, and nose-dived into oblivion.

  She might still be out cold if something hadn't jerked her into consciousness. Frowning, she lowered her hand and squinted at the scraggly rays filtering through the miniblinds. She had almost convinced herself that she'd imagined the noise when she heard it again.

  A small scrape, like a tree branch hitting the window. Only there weren't any trees that close to the bedroom.

  Shoving aside the quilt, she swung out of bed and padded across the room. Goose bumps danced along her thighs and midriff, her bare skin registering the chill.

  If Jo had been thinking about something other than the slap of cold linoleum against her naked feet or the headache that bored straight in from either side of her temples, she might have had the sense to peek around the edge of the blinds. Like a fool, she simply pulled on the cord enough to allow her to peer out... and allow the stranger standing right outside her window to peer in.

  For a startled second they gaped at each other, Jo in her skimpy underwear and the outsider in a yellow plaid shirt, royal blue down vest, and a red-and-gold Washington Redskins ball cap. The stalemate broke when the stranger whipped up a camera.

  His finger had started pumping before Jo could do much more than let out an indignant yelp and jump back.

  "Pervert!"

  Her furious shout didn't faze him. He clicked away as she grabbed for the cord and yanked. To her dismay, the hard tug brought the miniblind out of its brackets and down on her head. Spitting a stream of curses, Jo tossed aside the crinkling aluminum.

  The blinds hit the linoleum with a clatter. Tight-jawed, she spun away from the still madly shooting cameraman and rushed for the door. She'd lugged her brother Dave's baseball bat around with her ever since she'd left home for college. This seemed like as good a time as any to put it to use. The pervert and his expensive-looking camera were dead meat.

  Charging down the hall, she dug into the closet for the bat and a flannel-lined denim jacket and raced for the front door. She had one arm in the jacket sleeve and the bat in the other hand when she got the door open. A blast of cold air hit her. Fingers of frost rose from the ground.

  That was all Jo noticed before she stopped dead on the front stoop, stunned by the sight that greeted her. At least a dozen vehicles crowded the minuscule front yard. One van sported the NBC peacock, she noted with disbelief, another the black-and-white CBS eye. A small crowd milled outside the vehicles, talking, stomping their feet against the early dawn chill, holding paper cups of coffee. Suddenly, one of them spotted her.

  "There she is!"

  The shout went up, almost like a baying call of hounds alerted to a fresh scent. Before Jo's astonished eyes, coffee cups went flying, van doors were yanked opened, reporters and camera operators grabbed for their equipment.

  "Captain West!" A dark-haired female in a red jacket and silky black pants pounded toward her, mike in hand. "Is it true you pulled Alexander Taylor from a burning car yesterday?"

  "I, uh..."

  "How badly was he hurt?"

  "Can you tell us exactly how the accident occurred?"

  "What was Mrs. Adair's reaction when you put your chopper down?"

  The questions were thrown at her from every direction. One distinguished, gray-haired reporter savagely elbowed his way to the front of the pack.

  "Why won't Air Force Public Affairs release the details of yesterday's incident?"

  At that point two salient facts finally penetrated Jo's stunned brain. One, a half-dozen TV cameras were now capturing her with hair uncombed, teeth unbrushed, and jacket dangling half off one arm to expose a wide expanse of bare flesh. And two, the Air Force wasn't talking, which meant she'd better not, either.

  "Sorry." She grabbed behind her for the door. "I have no comment at this time."

  "Come on, Captain, give us a break here!"

  "At least tell us if you think Taylor was drunk or on drugs when he rolled his car."

 
; "No, I can't comment on..."

  She broke off, her heart jumping as she caught sight of a red-and-gold Redskins ball cap. It sat atop the head of a photographer who at that moment darted around the corner of her house and aimed for a white van parked on the grass—the same white van that had almost crawled up the trunk of the Ferrari! Jo was sure of it!

  "Hey! You!"

  She tried to catch his attention over the clamor of the reporters still tossing questions at her. When that failed, she jumped up a few times in a futile attempt to snag the numbers from the license plate. She succeeded only in snagging a boom mike on the temple. "Ouch!"

  "Hey, watch the mike, lady!"

  Shooting the man at the other end of the boom an evil glare, she backed inside the house, slammed the door, and slumped against the sturdy panel.

  Good grief! Was this what the Alexander Taylors of the world went through every time they ventured beyond their secluded, secure domains? Was this what Princess Diana had endured for so many years before her tragic death?

  Thoroughly rattled, she made her way around the small house, closing the blinds she hadn't bothered with late last night.

  She'd grown careless living in her little rented place, she realized belatedly. The tiny, two-bedroom home was set back, well off Riverview Road, several miles from the million dollar residences that had sprung up farther down the Potomac. The brick and clapboard structure had been built in the 1930s, when the Maryland side of the river was still dotted with small truck farms. Tall shade trees surrounded the house, and the open fields behind it that had once produced acres of sweet, silver-peg corn had long since stubbled over.

  The original owners had deeded the property down through the family to its current owner, a former member of the 1st Helo Squadron. Convinced that the acreage with its view of the Potomac would only increase in value over time, he'd held on to his inheritance and rented it out to a succession of 1st HS personnel. Luckily, Jo had been tapped for her assignment to Andrews the same week the previous renter received orders to Hawaii. She'd negotiated a one-year lease over the phone, sight unseen.

  To her delight, the tiny house gave her the feeling of living in the country while still allowing her to enjoy the benefits of the sophisticated capital just across the river. She loved the gold-leafed birches edging the fields, the silvery Potomac glistening less than a hundred yards away. She loved even more the winding side roads to the base that bypassed the traffic-clogged Beltway.

  At this particular moment, however, the house's isolation presented a real challenge. The prospect of dodging reporters and camera operators while she made her way to the detached garage, then backed her MG through the throng was a bit daunting. Maybe they'd all give up and depart the premises by the time she showered and dressed.

  No such luck. The media was still camped outside when she grabbed her car keys and her black leather clutch purse. Angling her flight cap over her forehead, Jo drew in a deep breath and let herself out the back door.

  Head up, a smile fixed firmly in place, she waded through the swarm that buzzed around her within seconds of stepping outside. It took some doing, but she stuck to her "no comment" and managed to back out of the drive without flattening anyone.

  She didn't breathe easy until she'd left the Potomac behind, cut across Indian Head Highway, and hit Allentown Road. Only a few of the most persistent reporters still followed, probably hoping to grab an interview on base. Fine. She'd let the wing's public affairs officer handle them.

  Twenty minutes later, she joined the streams of traffic pouring in through Andrew's West Gate. The guard checked her decal and saluted her through. Since the primary mission of the 89th Wing was to provide transport for the President of the United States, the vice president, cabinet members, and other high-ranking U.S. and foreign government officials, security at the base always remained tight. When Air Force One was being readied for flight or world events turned especially nasty, security got even tighter.

  Cutting past the three-story, semicircular headquarters building set at the end of flag-draped Command Drive, she headed for the flightline that bisected the base from north to south. As the MG crawled along at the mandated 25 mph, Jo's satisfaction at eluding the media slowly seeped away. The closer she got to the hangar housing the 1st Helo Squadron, the glummer she felt at having to report to the Training Office instead of to Operations to pick up her next mission.

  Nor did her mood improve when she walked into the Training Section and found the chief already in his favorite position. Boots crossed on his desk, toothpick protruding through the gap between his front teeth, Captain Henry Kastlebaum grinned at her.

  "Hey, West. Marshall told me you hot-dogged yourself right into an inquiry board. Way to go, sweet-cakes."

  The master sergeant updating a status board on the other side of the room rolled her eyes.

  Jaw set, Jo decided she might as well get things straight. "Since we're going to be working together for a few days—"

  "A few weeks, babe. These things do take time."

  "Since we're going to be working together for an unspecified period of time," Jo amended, praying he was wrong, "let's deep-six the cutesy nicknames and keep it professional."

  "Don't get your buns in a pucker." Unperturbed,

  Kastlebaum folded his hands across his stomach. "What's the scoop on this Taylor jerk? Did he really roll a Ferrari?"

  Jo tossed her purse onto an empty desk. "Yes."

  "I couldn't believe the pictures when I saw them. What a waste of a gorgeous machine."

  "What pictures?"

  "In the Post."

  Her jaw sagged. "The Washington Post?"

  Grinning, Kastlebaum thumped a folded newspaper with his boot heel. "Morning edition, sweetcakes. Front page."

  She nailed him to his chair with a lethal glare. "Call me sweetcakes one more time and you'll be chewing on that toothpick from the inside out."

  Striding across the room, she jerked the paper from under his boot heel. Her first reaction was astonishment at the clarity of the pictures that took up half the front page. Her second, fury.

  There she was, her face scrunched with intense effort, dragging Alexander Taylor through a cloud of black smoke. The shot was so close-up, so finegrained, that she guessed immediately it had been taken with one of those gargantuan telescopic lenses by the same creep who'd all but run Taylor off the road. Evidently he'd pulled over and doubled back to shoot pictures of a man about to burn to death.

  The bastard!

  No doubt he'd crowed all the way back to D.C. over his exclusive scoop. If Jo ever, ever, spotted that white van again, she'd do a little running off the road herself.

  Disgusted, she tossed the paper back at Kastlebaum. She wouldn't even dignify the story by reading it.

  "You want to tell me what I can do around here for the next few days?"

  "Weeks, West. Weeks." Still grinning, he pushed to his feet and tugged his flight cap out of his leg pocket. "Tobias will fill you in on what needs to be done. I've got a check ride this morning. See you around, babeettes."

  "Asshole." Master Sergeant Tobias made the observation under her breath before turning a smile on Jo. "Welcome to the Training Section, Captain. It's a pleasure to have you here."

  Jo wished she could say the same. The best she could manage was an answering smile. "Thanks."

  "Grab a cup of coffee and I'll show you the drill."

  A petite blonde and one of the youngest Air Force NCOs to sew on Master Sergeant stripes, Gretchen Tobias was a recognized expert in the training business. She'd recently spent a month down at the headquarters of the Air Education and Training Command in San Antonio, helping revise the proficiency modules for enlisted aircrew members. It was common knowledge that she ran the 1st Helo Squadron's training program with little input either asked for or received from her nominal boss, Henry Kastlebaum.

  Under normal circumstances, Jo would have enjoyed learning the intricacies of the system that kept both support a
nd aircrew personnel up to speed in their various specialties. These were hardly normal circumstances.

  She crossed to the coffeepot and filled a mug decorated with 1st Helo Squadron's patch. She was on her way back across the room when the photo in the Post attracted her gaze once more.

  The idea that someone could photograph such a desperate act and not even try to help made her feel ill. It also killed any thought of cooperating with the media or handing out interviews. Her no comment would stand as just that. Public Affairs could handle any inquiries that might come in regarding her involvement.

  Which is what she told the wing PA officer when he called twenty minutes later to request that she report to his office to help respond to the calls and requests for information that were flooding in.

  "I'll be happy to give you the details. You can dole them out to the media as you see fit."

  "They want to talk to you."

  "I'm facing a board of inquiry. I'm not talking to anyone until that's behind me."

  "All right, all right. Just get up here to fill me in."

  "Have you cleared this with Colonel Marshall?"

  "Christ!"

  From the muttered exclamation, Jo gathered the wing PA wasn't having a fun morning. Tough. Neither was she.

  "Yes, Captain, I've cleared it with your DO. Now get in gear."

  Jo's day went from bad to worse.

  Stories started popping up on the local news stations, featuring stills of Alexander Taylor, footage of an incinerated Ferrari, and vivid shots of an Air Force captain wearing little more than her underwear and a look of owlish surprise. Kastlebaum, of course, rode her unmercifully.

  Afternoon brought the late edition of one of the more notorious supermarket tabloids, with even more revealing photos taken from right outside her bedroom window. The caption over the pictures suggested a nauseating "cosmic bond" between reclusive Alexander Taylor and his curvaceous rescuer.

  The paper made the rounds of the squadron at warp speed. For the rest of the afternoon Jo got a chorus of hoots and catcalls from her fellow aviators—not particularly known for their sensitivity—whenever she walked down the corridor.