Night Flight

by McKenna, Lindsay

  “I almost didn’t get here in time,” Sam said congenially in way of a greeting, and halted in front of Megan. She looked pretty in the peach shirt-dress, her red hair a lovely complement against the color of the silky fabric. He saw gold flecks in her green eyes and hoped that it meant she was happy to see him.

  “Hello, Captain,” Megan said uncertainly. How devastatingly handsome he looked in a suit. Any corporation would scoop him up in a second, she thought disjointedly.

  Sam touched the lapel of his jacket, giving her a distressed look. “Captain? How can you even suggest that when I’m in civilian clothes?”

  She grinned, watching his mouth curve into a self-deprecating angle. “If it walks like an Air Force captain, talks like an Air Force captain, it must be an Air Force captain.”

  Sam laughed fully. “Shot down! Here, let me help you.”

  Before Megan could speak, he took the armful of papers from her. “Thank you.”

  “Which car is yours?”

  “The red Toyota over there,” she said, pointing down at the end of the huge parking lot.

  “Red hair, red car. I knew your fiery spirit would show up in other places. You’re a crusader at school, and hell on wheels in the vegetable department of a grocery store. I’ll bet you drive like Parnelli Jones, too.”

  Megan walked at his side, pleased that he checked his long, lanky stride for her benefit. “I do, but you don’t have any room to talk. You drive a Corvette as I recall….” The least she could do after receiving the lovely yellow roses from Sam was to be civil with him, she told herself. Megan wanted to rationalize why she wanted to be friendly and on a first-name basis with him. She looked up to see the happiness in Holt’s eyes, feeling joy tumble unexpectedly through her.

  With a laugh, Sam said, “Driving a ‘Vette was the closest thing I could find to flying a jet.”

  “No truer words were ever spoken by a test pilot.” The wind was playful, lifting strands of her hair across her shoulders. Overhead, the Friday afternoon sunlight was bright and blinding in the pale blue desert sky. Megan unlocked the rear door of her car so that Sam could put all the papers on the seat.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. He was so tall and proud-looking that Megan couldn’t tear her gaze from Holt. There was some undefinable aura about him that she’d not seen in another test pilot. And whatever it was, she wasn’t immune to it, and she realized Sam knew that. He closed the door and faced her.

  “Did you get the flowers I sent?”

  “Yes. They’re lovely, Sam. I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I’d received them.” She shrugged. “I really expected you to show up the next day at school, and I was going to thank you then.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “No.”

  “You figured I’d capitalize on the situation—wooing you with flowers, and then show up to take advantage of your lowered guard?”

  Megan felt heat rise in her cheeks, and she avoided his smiling eyes. “You ought to get paid for reading my mind.”

  “I like what’s in your heart, Megan Roberts,” Sam said in a low tone, and held her widening eyes. “I’ll be honest, though—when I first met you, I was going to chase you down until you said yes to me. But, I’ve changed my mind. The flowers were my way of saying let’s start over and be friends.”

  “I don’t think friendship is possible between any pilot and a woman,” Megan admitted, feeling guilty.

  “Why?”

  Uncomfortable, she crossed her arms against her breasts. “I—”

  “No lines, remember?” Holt reached out and barely touched her hair, caressing the clean, curled strands. “I want a relationship with you, Megan, and I think friendship is a good place to start.”

  Panicky, she stepped away, her arms dropping to her side. “Sam, you’re asking for the impossible!”

  “Nothing’s impossible.” Pursing his lips, Sam steeled himself and gathered up the courage to ask her out. All day he’d sweated out this moment, rehearsing what he was going to say over and over again. All the words fled. “Look…it’s Friday night. I’d like to take you out for some dinner, maybe some dancing. We’ve both got to drive to Lancaster where we live. There’s the Antelope Valley Inn. They’ve got good food, and it’s quiet.”

  Shaken, Megan fumbled for the keys and jerked open the door. “No!”

  “Hey, hold it.” Sam gently gripped her by the shoulder and forced her to turn toward him. “Talk to me, Megan.” Her face was pale, her eyes containing the hunted look of a rabbit cornered by a predator. But dammit, he wasn’t a predator intent on hurting her! Megan didn’t know that, though. His fingers lightened on her shoulder. “Don’t run.”

  “Please,” she whispered tautly, “let go of me, Sam. I have to be over at the day-care center in half an hour.”

  “Day care?”

  “Yes, I work over there three evenings a week.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  Heart pounding hard in her breast, she, gave Holt a pleading look. “It’s not going to work between us! It can’t.”

  “It can if you want. I’m willing. And, I like you.”

  “Pilots are always willing.”

  “You like me? Maybe just a little bit?” he coaxed huskily.

  “Sam—”

  “Hold it. How about something harmless? Maybe another meeting at the grocery store? We can shop together.”

  Megan uttered a sigh and studied him. Sam’s face was guileless albeit shadowed with a touch of anxiety in his eyes that she would say no. “I don’t shop tonight. Tomorrow I—”

  “Tomorrow sounds good to me. How about if I meet you at the same market, by the corn, say…at seven o’clock?”

  With a little laugh, Megan shook her head. His tactics were endearing, if nothing else. “No.”

  “Tell me the truth. Do you like me, Megan?”

  “It doesn’t matter if I like you or not!” she said and climbed into the Toyota.

  Megan’s words didn’t match what he saw in her eyes. If he was any judge of her reaction, she liked him just as much as he did her. Fair enough. Leaning over, Holt said, “I’m not giving up on you, lady.” He gave her a slight smile. “I’ll be seeing you around, maybe even in the veggie department.” He gently shut the door to her car, stepped away and allowed her to escape.

  Standing there, watching her car disappear down the road, Sam turned and walked back to his Corvette. Progress had been made. He’d established a beachhead with Megan, even if she were going to fight him all the way. That was all right, and he smiled, his walk growing lighter. Redheads were expected to make situations complex—and interesting. A plan was forming in his head. Next Friday, he’d drop over to the school and ask her out. Then, she couldn’t say no to him. Looking up at the sky, he saw the clouds were coming in from the west. He had to fly Monday morning. Was it going to rain? God, he hoped not.

  Jack waited impatiently for Holt to show up at Design on Monday morning. Lauren Porter was already at work, rechecking the test to take place shortly. Merrill was looking haggard and drawn at his desk, in a foul mood. Jack drummed his fingers on the desk and smiled to himself. Last week, he’d noted that Holt was looking worse, the shadows under his eyes darker. Mentioning Davis’s death to him on both days last week seemed to be pushing Holt’s buttons. Good.

  The door swung open. Holt appeared, his flight suit splotched and darkened with rain. He pushed his long, lean fingers through his hair and smoothed it back into place on his head.

  “Hey!” Jack called out in a rolling voice. “Wasn’t it raining that night when you augered in with Davis?”

  An incredible surge of anguish overcame Sam. He jerked to a halt. It had been raining hard that evening. The test had been postponed until the shower had moved by the base. The pain Sam felt turned into white-hot fury as he drilled Stang with a glare.

  “Yeah, it was raining, Stang.” He forced himself to move, cursing himself for falling prey to the bastard’s premeditated attack. Stang was dang
erous in a cunning, manipulative way. Sam saw Lauren’s head snap up, her eyes filled with understanding and sadness for him. He managed a nod in her direction, muttered, “Morning,” and dropped his briefcase and garrison cap on his desk.

  Curt didn’t look any better than Sam felt. Holt nodded to the test pilot and then walked over to the coffeemaker. His hands visibly shook when he poured the coffee, and he wondered if anyone saw it. He’d had repeated nightmares about Russ’s death on Saturday and Sunday. Night was becoming his enemy, a time when he no longer felt comfortable—or safe. Turning, he saw Stang watching him like a cougar ready to pounce on its victim.

  “You know, Major,” Jack drawled in Porter’s direction, “you’ve got to go up and fly with Holt in this weather. Aren’t you a little worried about it?”

  Lauren refused to even look in Stang’s direction. She copied some figures from her calculator to the flight test form for Holt’s flight. “I’d be a hell of a lot more worried if you were in the front seat, Captain.”

  Merrill snickered.

  Jack twisted his head and glared over at Curt. He saw Holt saunter by, grinning. “I still say with this kind of weather, it makes landing with the Eagle tricky.”

  “Holt has good hands,” Porter replied confidently. The best set in the business, in her personal opinion.

  “I question his judgment.”

  “You would,” Holt said, keeping his voice free of anger and sitting down at his desk. “In fact, Jack, you’d like to see me screw up this flight, wouldn’t you? Your percentile rating would move out of the danger zone, buddy.” He jabbed a finger at him. “Right now, I’m on your six, and only a half a percent of a point away from being even with you for the number one slot. I intend to keep it that way.”

  Stang shrugged eloquently. “On your six” was a combat fighter pilot’s terminology meaning his jet was directly behind the other’s plane and could shoot it down. “It’s raining, Holt. Just like it did when Davis was in the rear seat. The only difference is it’s day, not night. If I were you, Major, I’d be a little concerned about hitching a ride with Holt today. You notice the dark circles under his eyes? Ever wonder why he has them? He didn’t have them when he first arrived at Edwards.” Jack grinned, watching Porter’s angry features. “No, he got them after he let Davis die.”

  Holt launched out of his chair. He grabbed Stang by the shoulder and shoved him around in the chair so that he faced him. “You’re way out of line,” Holt breathed savagely. “I didn’t let Russ die!”

  “Sam!” Porter sprang to her feet and moved toward the two men. “Ease off. He’s just trying to shake you up, don’t you see that?”

  Longing to wipe that smile off Stang’s narrow face, Sam released the captain’s shoulder. “Someday,” he growled, “that mouth of yours is going to get you into real trouble,” and he stepped away.

  “Come on, Sam, we’ve got to get ready for the test,” Lauren said tautly, glaring down at Stang.

  Jack relaxed. “Go for it, boys and girls. I’ll be watching you at the end of the runway, along with the fire trucks.” Jack knew the fire trucks were always positioned along the runway whenever a test flight was flown. He just wanted to place one more needle into Holt’s already shaken demeanor.

  Porter gripped Holt’s arm, literally dragging him toward the door. “Come on, Sam…” she pleaded tightly.

  Walking down the hall toward the lockers where their G-suits, helmets and oxygen masks were stored, Lauren glanced over at him. “You okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it.”

  Holt glared at her. “I said I’m fine, Port.”

  “Okay.”

  His hands shook badly as he zipped his G-suit on. The chaps hugged his lower body, hips and waist. When under a stressful climb or using evasive flight maneuvers, the chaps would inflate, forcing blood into the upper body so the pilot wouldn’t faint and lose consciousness, possibly losing control of his plane as a result.

  “Stang is a real bastard,” Lauren muttered, straightening after donning her G-suit. She pulled the duffle bag containing her helmet and mask down from her locker.

  “Among other things,” Holt added. He tried to shake off the anger and concentrate on the forthcoming test. The rain was letting up outside the windows of the locker room, but a cold chill racked him. The test. He had to concentrate on the test. Without warning, he saw Russ Davis’s young face hovering before him. Holt scrubbed his eyes.

  “Sam?” Lauren asked sympathetically, waiting for him at the door that would lead out to the tarmac, where the bus was waiting to take them to the hangar where the Eagle was parked.

  He jerked the duffel bag out of his locker and swung around. “Let’s get this show on the road.” Now Lauren was looking at him doubtfully. Was she questioning his ability to fly? He couldn’t accurately gauge the emotions in her eyes. She was far less readable than Megan.

  Megan. Sam clung to her name and allowed her attractive, smiling features to replace Davis’s face. A drenching calm filtered through the shakiness he felt in his gut. Within moments, Holt felt steadier, some of the fear subsiding. But not all of it.

  They swung out the doors, the pall of rain steady once again. The sky was crying for the loss of Russ as far as Holt was concerned. Hitching a ride in the bus, they drove over to a hangar housing the Agile Eagle. Automatically, Holt forced himself to focus on the forthcoming test.

  The restricted area lay at the western end of Edwards, a long row of huge hangars capable of keeping several jets hidden within their aluminum-skinned sides. The bone color of the desert was darker today, the scant sagebrush and many-armed Joshuas looking greener because of the life-giving rain. The concrete apron was shiny with water, a rarity at Edwards. Within fifteen minutes they were rolling out of the hangar and into the pall. The Eagle’s twin engines mounted at the rear of the fuselage whined and she trembled beneath Holt’s boots and guiding hand. A small board with the test runs was strapped to his left thigh, the pages plastic-coated for ease of flipping over and reading. Flexing his gloved fingers, Sam pointed the bird toward the end of the long, ten-thousand-foot runway.

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah, Port?” He scowled, pulling down the clear plastic visor that came to rest across the top of his oxygen mask. The day was gray, and they’d be flying below the cloud cover, so the dark visor to reflect the brightness of the sun wouldn’t be needed.

  “That was a lousy shot Stang took at you earlier. I’m sorry.”

  Taking a deep breath, Holt shook his head. “Forget it, Port. I have.” Liar. Stang was right: the same conditions were present when he lost Russ. He felt silly, wanting to tell Port that if something happened, she was to eject and not wait like Russ did. But of course, she was familiar with egress procedure: the rear cockpit always ejected first. She would think he was questioning his own flight confidence if he voiced his concern. It was better to say nothing and not let her know how he was really feeling.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Well…if you ever want to talk about it to someone, I’m here, Sam.”

  His eyes crinkled. “Too bad you’re engaged, Port. I’d marry you in a second.” Her laughter drifted over the intercom, and Holt relaxed slightly.

  “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I really believe you mean that.”

  With a chuckle, he swung the bird around with the aid of the rudders, the nose pointing down the long, black runway, slick with rain. “I do, I do. But that big bruiser of a fianceé of yours would bend me into a pretzel if he found out I was sweet on you. Besides, he’s a major, and I’m only a lowly captain.”

  Lauren laughed, giving her cockpit straps a final tug, tightening them as much as possible. “Well, what about this redhead you keep mooning over?”

  “Megan?” More of the tension was easing. He knew Lauren was trying to get him to relax, sensing his discomfort.

  “The one and only? Any
progress with her?”

  “A little.”

  “You mean there’s one woman who has withstood the storm of your mesmerizing personality and turned you down?”

  He ran up each engine and checked it out before they took off. His hands moved swiftly, with ease of knowing, across the dials and switches. “Right now I’ve got her saying ‘maybe.’”

  “That’s a good sign.”

  “I think so. Okay, you ready back there? All preflight checks completed?”

  “Roger. Complete.”

  Holt called the tower and got clearance. The F-15 quivered as he eased the throttles forward. Instead of excitement taking over, which was the normal feeling he experienced, dread set in. Scowling, Holt realized fear was stalking him. Trying to shake it, he released the rudders. The Eagle bolted forward, screaming down the runway.

  In moments they were airborne. The rain struck the clear canopy and disappeared. They would make the standard ninety-degree right turn, climb to fifteen hundred feet, make the dogleg turn paralleling the strip and then one last ninety-degree turn, which would line them up with the end of the runway.

  Down below, as Holt executed the dogleg turn, he saw the dark blue Air Force truck positioned at the end of the fifteen-hundred-foot marker. Stang and Merrill were both in the truck, and acted as observers. On the other side of the runway was an airman videotaping the entire landing sequence. Both the observations by the test pilots, plus the videotape, would be minutely analyzed back at Design once the series of tests were completed.

  “Okay,” Lauren said, “drop slats and flaps one hundred percent, Sam.”

  On the last landing tests, they had been dropped to ninety percent. “Roger, slats and flaps down and locked at one hundred percent.” Their entire conversation was being taped, so they kept to procedures only.

  “Landing gear down.”

  He pulled the lever and felt the bird quiver as the gear unfolded from beneath her fuselage. A green light popped on. “Roger. Gear down and locked.” Sweat suddenly bathed him, cold and icy in its grip. Blinking his eyes, Holt tried to steady his breathing. He wrenched his attention to the altimeter and the speed gauge. Russ’s faced danced before him. It was the same kind of approach, the same kind of weather and the same runway.