Night Flight

by McKenna, Lindsay

  Holt’s heart started a rapid staccato beat in his chest. His breathing became ragged, and he was sucking in oxygen like an air-starved person on the verge of suffocating. Sweat dripped into his eyes, making them sting, blurring his vision. The bird dropped toward the deck. His hand tightened painfully around the stick. The runway raced up to meet them. Russ’s screams filled Holt’s ears. Frantically, he shook his head and tried to get rid of Russ’s cries.

  Trapped, trapped. Jesus, I’m trapped! Sam, eject! Eject!

  The Eagle’s tires bit into the concrete, puffs of blue smoke rising off the wet, glistening surface. Breathing hard, Sam tried to concentrate. The fifteen-hundred-foot marker raced by. Too late! Too much speed! Dammit, he hadn’t landed at the lip of the runway where he’d intended. He was giving more attention to the crash than to the present. The red marker flashed by. In disgust, Holt jammed the throttles forward, lifting the bird off in a touch and go.

  “It’s okay, Sam,” Lauren soothed from her rear seat. “Just take it easy. This is the first time we’ve done it in the rain.”

  Pulling up slats, flaps and landing gear, Holt couldn’t get rid of the tension. It hung around him like a lead cloak, and he felt as if some invisible hand were jamming his neck down between his shoulder blades. Lauren’s voice was soothing, but it didn’t help his frantic feelings. He hauled the responsive Eagle around in the same pattern. This time he had to hit the landing mark. Holt was sure Stang was clapping his hands with glee over his screwup. Damn, he had to concentrate!

  More sweat popped out on Holt’s wrinkled brow and slipped down his taut features. Blinking his eyes, his breath coming in gulps, Sam lined up the bird and forced her to hit the lip of the runway. He had to make the fifteen-hundred-foot mark. He just had to!

  A gust of wind struck. The Eagle bobbled beneath his hands. He corrected swiftly, hand and feet performing a calibrated ballet. But his hand moved a quarter of an inch too far. The earth raced up to meet them. Holt heard Lauren gasp. Too fast! Too fast! The Eagle’s tires slammed into the runway surface. Instantly, Holt dropped the nose, and worked the rudders hard to stop. The red flag was coming up. Stop! Stop! Steam shot in all directions around the wheels. Rubber from the wheels was torn off by the concrete. A shriek vibrated through the air.

  A fire light indicator popped on, glaring bright red in the cockpit. Sam’s eyes bulged. Where? Where was the fire? He could smell it.

  “Sam,” Lauren rasped, her voice husky with tension, “we’ve got a fire somewhere.”

  “Roger.” Quickly, he brought the bird to a halt, only twenty feet past the red flag. Dammit. His mind spun with options, with terrible choices. He rapidly scanned the gauges. A fire where? The engines sounded fine, but he stop-cocked the throttles, instantly shutting them down. Twisting around, he saw the lime-green fire trucks racing down both sides of the runway toward them.

  “Wolf One, this is Mobile One.” Stang’s voice tensely came over his earphones. “You’ve got a fire in the port wheel well of the brake. Stay put, the fire trucks are on their way. Advise you sit tight.”

  “Roger, Mobile One.” Holt took his thumb off the button located on the stick and whispered, “Jesus,” falling against the seat, suddenly so weak he couldn’t even hold up his head. Thank God, it was only a landing gear fire. A nightmare of possibilities fled through his mind. If it were an engine fire, the Eagle could have exploded right there on the runway. Or, they would have had to either leave the cockpit and try to make a run for it, or eject. None of the possibilities were good or safe.

  “Sam?”

  “It’s okay, Port. It’s okay. We’re safe…safe.”

  Lauren’s voice was shaky. “Yeah, what a scare….”

  He saw the trucks halt on either side of them, silver-clothed and hooded, firefighters racing toward them with hoses. In seconds they had doused the fire with foam. Shakily, he shoved up the visor and wiped his sweaty face.

  “Hell of a landing.” Lauren’s laugh was strained. “I almost thought you were going to make that fifteen-hundred-foot marker.”

  Holt looked to his left: they were twenty feet outside the marker. “I gave it one hell of a try.”

  “Brother, did you.”

  Sam grimaced. “Got whiplash, Port?”

  Ruefully, she chuckled. “No worse than what Stang gave me a month ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. If it hadn’t been raining, you’d have made it! The bird was sliding.”

  “Not if it causes a fire in the landing gear every time,” Sam muttered. His insides were quivering as if a hand were violently shaking his guts. Automatically, Sam massaged his belly and watched the firefighters move the hoses out of the way. There was nothing to do but wait until they were clear, and then, he could take the bird back to the hangar and they could inspect for damage.

  Enthusiastically, Lauren added, “Tires can be redesigned to take this kind of a landing, and brakes with their sealants can be changed to prevent a fire, Sam. You did it! Well, almost. Did you log how you came in for that last landing?”

  He snorted softly, throwing a thumbs-up to the fire captain stationed in the truck. Mobile One, which contained Stang and Merrill, came into view. “Let’s talk about my flight antics back at debriefing, shall we?” His flying had been nearly out of control. He’d been so scared, caught up in the previous crash sequence, that a goodly portion of what he’d done to almost accomplish the fifteen-hundred-foot landing had been on instinct alone. Honestly, Sam couldn’t remember what the degree of flight altitude the bird, had, or worse, the landing speed. He’d totally forgotten to look at the speed indicator. Jesus, he was a screwup.

  “Mobile One to Wolf One, you may proceed back to the hangar. Fire Unit One will accompany you—just in case.”

  “Roger, Mobile One. Wolf, out.” Holt flicked off the radio, getting back to the business of taking the wounded bird to the hangar. He moved the F-15 very slowly because when he had to make the turn to go into the hangar, he didn’t want to have to use the brakes very much and cause them to overheat, or possibly, catch fire again. What a lousy day. He hated Mondays; it was a constant reminder of Russ dying.

  Holt noticed Stang standing impatiently on the concrete floor of the hangar as he climbed out of the cockpit of the F-15. Once on the ground, Sam removed his helmet and placed it beneath the crook of his arm. It was then that he smelled himself—the sweat of fear. The odor was strong, and he had no doubt everyone else, including the enlisted crew who worked with quiet efficiency around them, could smell it, too. Desperately, he longed for a hot, scalding shower to wash the sweat and the memory off him.

  Lauren gave him a sympathetic look as she placed her helmet in her duffel bag. Stang was already beneath the landing assembly inspecting the damage the brake fire had caused. Needled, Holt put his duffel bag on the seat of Mobile One and then walked back to the Eagle.

  “Hell of a landing both times,” Jack told him as he drew up to the port wheel.

  Sam ignored the comment. Both landings had been lousy, the kind a green rookie would make before graduating from flight school. Lauren approached from the opposite direction, her notebook and pen poised, ready to take notes on the burned brake lining.

  “Hey, Major, you got whiplash?” Jack taunted.

  “No more than what you gave me when you cracked the landing gear, Captain.”

  “Looks like you’re both in the doghouse,” Curt said, mustering a smile, trying to lighten the growing tension between Stang and Holt.

  “At least Sam has come the closest to making that fifteen-hundred-foot mark,” Lauren reminded Stang testily.

  Undeterred, Jack walked around the brake and continued to examine it closely. He was hoping Holt had cracked the strut, but it appeared intact. Lifting his head, he stared at Holt. “Just what kind of landings were those anyway?”

  Compressing his lips, Holt said, “Carrier landings.”

  “Looked like rookie landings to me.”

  Ange
r shattered Holt, but he held on to it, his eyes narrowing on the other pilot. “Until you’ve graduated from the navy test pilot facility, I don’t think you’d recognize a carrier landing from a rookie one, Jack.”

  Shrugging, Stang smiled easily. “No wonder the navy has such a high budget. They must burn the hell out of the brakes on all their aircraft if they land it like you just did.”

  Hanging on to his shredded composure, Holt disregarded him. It was the only thing to do. If he kept responding to Stang, it would only escalate the tension felt by everyone, and right now, his nerves were raw. Sam needed to get away from here, away from the memories. As he walked back to Mobile One to write down preliminary notes on the flight, he felt scared; never had he wanted to be away from testing before.

  Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, Sam made himself comfortable on the front seat. The knot in his stomach was twisting, hurting even more, if that were possible. The fear wouldn’t go away! Was it going to continue to screw up his flight responses? Closing his eyes, Sam dragged in a deep, shaky breath and released it. He had to get a handle on this! Russ’s death was encroaching on him and eating away his confidence.

  Lauren came over a few minutes later, and she drove. Glancing over at him, she said, “You know, when I need someone to talk to, my fianceé is my best ear.”

  Holt tried to ignore Lauren’s suggestion.

  “Sam, you’re talking to me, not someone out to cut your throat.”

  He glanced over at her. “Talking is dangerous to anyone in this business.”

  “Usually, yes.” Lauren gave him a small smile. “Still, everyone needs someone special when things get rough for us, Sam. Do me a favor, and go talk, okay?”

  Without warning, Megan’s features swam before his closed eyes. Holt clung to the image and wanted to erase the memory of Davis, and of the last hour of testing. God, he had to see her! He had to talk to someone. Instinctively, Sam knew she would be a good listener. There was no way he could talk to anyone here. No, better a civilian. Megan understood about jets and flying, even if she didn’t like them. As soon as the day was done, he was going to drive over to the school and see her. He needed her.

  Lauren broke the silence in the pickup as she drove toward Ops in the downpour. “I can use your help the rest of the day on a software program I’m developing for next week’s test. It might mean you won’t get away from Ops until about nine tonight.”

  “Yeah…sure, no problem.” The last thing Holt wanted to do was hang around Ops any longer than necessary. The shattering need to see Megan was like a scream needing to be released from deep within him. Somehow, Sam knew he’d have to hang on until he could see Megan. God, but it was going to be tough to do that.

  8

  The knock on Megan’s apartment door at 10:00 p.m. startled her. Frowning, she left her work clothes on the bed. She had just changed into a pale green, cotton short-sleeved sweater and white cotton pants that were baggy but terribly comfortable. Who could it be?

  Opening the door, her lips parted. “Sam.” His name came out in a whisper of disbelief. He looked incredibly tired, darkness in his eyes, his hair damp from the rain.

  “Hi,” he began awkwardly. Just the sight of Megan, her red hair loose and tumbling free across her shoulders, lifted some of the strain he’d felt all day. “I—uh, need a friend to talk to. I know it’s late, but…I was hoping you were available.”

  Their conversation last week about him being a friend to her tugged at her heart. Sam was dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans, scuffed cowboy boots and western shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. As her gaze met and held his weary blue eyes, all her defenses melted.

  “Sure…come in.” Megan stepped aside to allow him entrance. Intuitively, she realized something was terribly wrong. What jet jock ever confided in anyone? Much less a woman. She could never recall her father talking over with his family what happened to him on any given day at the base. Quietly closing the door, she watched Sam halt in the middle of the living room.

  “This place,” he said, awe in his tone, “is like walking back into Victorian England. It’s beautiful.” And so was Megan. He’d seen the denial to his request in her features when he’d asked to come in and talk. Then, her lovely green eyes had softened, become understanding, and Sam had to stop himself from dragging her into his arms and kissing her. Right now, Megan represented a serenity and stability that he desperately needed.

  She moved hesitantly to his shoulder, managed a slight smile and tried to hide her nervousness. “Thank you. I refer to it as my castle—someplace I can come and hide when the world gets too ugly.”

  Self-consciously, Holt put his hands in the pockets of his jeans and studied his well-worn boots. “That’s what I need right now, a safe place.”

  “And a safe person?”

  “Yeah.” He lifted his head and drowned in her emerald eyes. “You were the only one I could think of—wanted to talk to,” he began quietly. “You’re an Air Force brat. You grew up in my world, so you know the pressures, the problems.” The change in Holt was startling. His shoulders were slumped, head bowed. There was none of the arrogance of before. Megan knew Sam was leveling with her. It was on the tip of her tongue to say: I wish my father had had the insight you do, to know when to let down and talk. But she didn’t. “It’s not often a pilot wants to talk about his problems,” she agreed gently. Reaching out, she slid her fingers around his arm and lead him toward the blue velvet couch. “Come on, sit down. How about some herb tea?”

  “Yeah…that sounds good. No more coffee. I’m strung tighter than a—” Sam flushed, the rest of the saying something no woman should hear. “Well, no more coffee,” he apologized. He sat down, grateful that she understood his needs. It was just one more reason to like Megan. When the chips were down, she let go of her defenses and came to the other person’s aid.

  Sam sat there, his hands clasped loosely between his legs.

  The dark splotches of rain had made the shirt material cling to his upper body. Megan had the wild urge to sit down, place her arms around his shoulders and hold him. The urge was ridiculous, warming. “I’ll make us tea,” she said, “and be right back.”

  Watching Megan turn and leave, Sam became aware of a throbbing heat centered in his lower body. She was small and graceful, that mass of red hair glinting with auburn highlights beneath the soothing lamplight of the living room. Forcing himself to put his hunger aside, because this wasn’t the place or time, Holt looked around, absorbing the abundant peace that surrounded him.

  The fact that Megan Roberts was a pure romantic made him feel even more relaxed. There were fresh carnations on a Queen Anne walnut lowboy in front of the couch. He inhaled the flowers’ subtle fragrance. Another scent caught his attention. It was roses, if he weren’t mistaken. On top of a Victorian, walnut, pedestaled writing desk was a wicker basket filled with dried yellow rose petals. Megan must have taken the bouquet he’d sent her after they had bloomed, and kept them.

  Sam liked her old-fashioned ways; he approved of them. The greenery in the room spoke of someone who embraced solitude and nature. Twisting around, he saw several pots of blooming African violets on the windowsill behind him. Yes, everything Megan touched was better off for it.

  Megan returned ten minutes later. On a mahogany tray were delicate china cups painted with floral designs. The teapot, a Victorian spherical silver antique with leafy flutes, released the subtle scent of almonds, and it smelled inviting. Everything was pristine, delicate and feminine—a direct dichotomy to Sam’s masculine world of metal, instruments and computers.

  “It smells great,” he said, meaning it, as she set the tray down on the lowboy.

  Some of her nervousness melted away beneath his fervent comment. “Thanks. It’s almond-flavored, my favorite. When I’ve had a tough day at school, I come home, take a hot bath, and then make myself some tea and just sit out here in the dark and let down.”

  “Sounds like a good thing to do.�
� Sam cradled the thin china cup between his hands, thinking that Megan was like the porcelain. Despite her fragility where her parents were concerned, and the obvious agony Air Force life had caused her, he sensed a special kind of strength about her. And he needed that strength now.

  The slender brass lamp in the corner cast very little light about the room. “Do you want more light?”

  “No. I like it the way it is.” The sterling-silver spoon in the sugar bowl was fluted, dainty against his large, masculine hand. Again, Holt was struck by the utter femininity of Megan and her surroundings. “I like your home.” I like you. He managed a smile, lifting the teacup in toast to her. “And thanks for letting me in. I know it’s late, and we both have to work tomorrow.”

  Curling up on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, Megan held the cup between her hands. The shadows accentuated the exhaustion she saw in Sam’s face and eyes. “I really didn’t think you were serious about a friendship,” she admitted in a hushed voice. “Seeing how you look tonight, I think you could use one.”

  With an abrupt laugh, Holt held her eyes. He saw uncertainty in them. “I told you I was different than most jet jocks.” With a shrug, he turned, staring down at the golden-colored tea. “I had no idea this would happen, though.”

  “What?” Megan waited, wondering what would drive Holt here late at night during a rainstorm. “The only way I knew my father had had a bad day at Ops was when he would find fault with the dinner I cooked, or the way I cleaned the house, or if I didn’t wash the dishes up soon enough after we got done eating.” Megan stared off into the shadows, her voice lowering. “I came to sense the feelings he never showed us. Father really only had one mood—distant, unreachable and no emotions. But he wasn’t in the minority. All the jet jocks I met were like him. He just got more demanding and critical when a day went bad.”

  Holt’s hands closed over the teacup. It felt breakable, and he held it gently. He acknowledged the rage welling up through him over Megan’s plight as a youngster. No child should have to walk on eggshells around a parent. “It sounds like you were chief cook and bottle washer growing up.”