Patty came racing into the kitchen.
“Mommy, Mommy, come and play with me!”
“No, honey, not right now.”
Pouting, Patty walked toward the front door. “You said you’d play with me.”
Taking another huge gulp, Becky gave in to her daughter. She couldn’t stand to see tears in Patty’s eyes. “Oh, all right. Come on, we’ll play out in the front yard and wait for Daddy to come home.” That way, if she saw an Eagle take off, she’d know there was a final test before the week drew to a close. The only question would be: who was flying it? Curt or Jack Stang?
Standing out on the front porch, Becky’s heart began a frantic pound. She saw an F-15 coming in from the east, headed toward the runway. An icy fear hit her, and she clutched her stomach as the gray fighter loomed closer. It was one of the test planes. Mouth dry, she whirled around, stumbling back inside, going to the kitchen. Finding the bottle, Becky poured as the contents sloshed out of the tumbler and onto the counter. She gulped down what was left in the glass. Who was flying? Who was flying?
Leaning heavily on the sink, Becky closed her eyes and tried to shut out the growling sound of the approaching jet. Sweat broke out on her brow, and she was consumed by the thought of Curt dying in a crash. How many minutes she stood there, frozen, Becky had no idea. The alcohol was fogging her brain and taking away some of the fear.
Suddenly, she heard the low, mournful wail of the crash siren begin to shriek out its message across the base: a jet had crashed! It had to be the Eagle she saw coming in for a landing! With a cry, the tumbler slipped from between her nerveless fingers, hit the floor and shattered. Becky sobbed, lurching toward the front door. She flung it open, staring wide-eyed toward Operations in the distance.
There was a huge plume of black smoke rising off the desert floor, toward the end of the runway. She could hear the high-pitched wail of sirens as they sped toward the site. Because of distance and hangar buildings in the way, Becky couldn’t actually see the plane that had gone down. The dreaded column of black smoke rising hundreds of feet into the air was all the evidence she needed.
“Oh, my God, my God,” she moaned. There was nothing she could do but wait. The instant the crash siren was heard around the base, the network of wives would wait for calls from their husbands. Every husband knew he must call home instantly to reassure his wife that he wasn’t the unlucky pilot who had augered in. In turn, each wife would call the next wife, to tell her who was on the ground, or confirm who was flying at the time. It was a terrible thing to wait. The woman who received no phone calls was the unlucky individual. She would then wait for two officers to drive up, grim-faced, and announce that her husband had been killed in a crash.
Twisting around, Becky moved drunkenly toward the phone in the kitchen, grabbing the whiskey bottle. Even now, the radio stations would be contacted, and within seconds, the same message would reach Lancaster, blaring out the tidal wave of bad news. Many wives of pilots lived there, and not on the base. They, too, would have to wait in a special hell, praying the phone would ring, letting them know their husbands were safe.
Megan was at school when the crash siren went off. The pen in her hand slipped and dropped to the desktop. Megan gave a little cry. Sam was to fly the test this afternoon!
“No…” she whispered. “No!” Sam had that flight! Reeling, Megan left her classroom and staggered outside. She saw an ugly cloud rising into the bright blue sky near the end of the runway in the distance. Jerking her gaze upward, she searched for a parachute. There was none! Sam couldn’t be dead! He just couldn’t be! A huge sob tore from her. In that instant, Megan felt the total love she’d held at bay for Sam, and had tried to ignore for so long. Sam’s face wavered in front of her. She loved him! How and when it had happened, Megan had no way of saying. Was he dead? Injured?
Knees shaking, she ran down the hall to the teachers’ lounge and reached for the phone. What was the number at Ops? If she could only get through to them! Trying to stop sobbing, Megan found the number and dialed it. A loud busy signal met her ear. She hung up and tried again. Vision blurred by tears, she shakily wiped her eyes. Of course, every pilot at Edwards would be calling his wife to tell her he was safe. She had to persevere, to find out about Sam. The phone was the only way to get information. Dazed, she remembered Becky Merrill’s number. Maybe she knew something. Wives of pilots had a grapevine in times of emergency and they inevitably knew who had augered in.
Barely able to dial the number, Megan sat down before she fell down. The phone rang and rang and rang.
“C-Curt?”
Megan swallowed hard. “No…Becky, this is Megan Roberts—”
“Crash…the crash…”
“I—I know. Becky, have you heard who it is, yet?”
“Curt…it might be Curt…no call…no call yet…”
Megan tried to steady herself, realizing Becky’s voice was heavily slurred and very faint. “Becky? Becky, are you okay?” There was silence at the other end of the phone. Licking her lips, she felt a wave of panic hit her. Something was wrong with Becky.
“H-help…”
“Oh, my God,” Megan breathed. “Hang on, Becky, just hang on. I’ll be over there in just a few minutes!” Shock made thinking difficult. Megan got up and turned, her movements jerky and robotlike. She reeled between Sam being dead or injured and Becky’s plea for help.
Megan mounted the wooden steps to the Merrill home on shaky legs. She heard Patty crying somewhere inside the home and jerked open the screen door.
“Becky? It’s Megan Roberts,” she called. Patty sat on the floor in the hall next to a closed door. Her heart rate picked up and she hurried toward the child.
“Mommy, Mommy…”
Megan picked up Patty and held her in her left arm. “It’s going to be all right, honey. Shh, it’s all right.” She tried the door. It opened. Patty stopped crying as the door swung wide.
“Oh, my God…” The words were torn from Megan as she stood poised at the entrance to the bedroom. The air reeked of whiskey, and it made her wince visibly. Becky Merrill lay unmoving, stretched out across the bed, unconscious. Her gaze moved from the woman to the dresser. On top of it was a nearly consumed quart of whiskey. Megan tightened her embrace around Patty. She fought the urge to scream.
Whirling around, Megan walked unsteadily down the hall and located Patty’s room. She got the child in her room, and shakily put crayons and paper before her.
“Stay here,” she said, “no matter what happens, stay in your room, Patty.” Megan winced as Patty’s tear-filled eyes moved to her. She was looking at a replica of herself at Patty’s age. Swallowing against a lump that threatened to shut off her breathing, Megan left and went back to Becky.
As she approached the bed, Megan saw an opened prescription bottle on the green carpet. Hand trembling, Megan read the label: Darvon. It was a well-known tranquilizer. Choking against the bile in her throat, Megan tried to ignore the stifling odor that hung in the room. She couldn’t control her own escaping emotions.
Megan made sure Becky’s head was tilted back so that she could breathe properly. This was like one of those weekly nightmares she had had as a child, and then as a teenager. How many times had she found her own mother like this? Fighting the urge to vomit, Megan grabbed the phone and called the base hospital.
Her mind spun with options. If she said Becky had tried to commit suicide, it would be logged on the hospital records. It would be a black mark against Curt, and his career could be destroyed. Suddenly, Megan didn’t care. Becky’s life was at stake, and this was no time to skirt the issues, career or no career.
The second phone call she made went to Ops. Megan knew she had to get a hold of Curt. Miraculously, the line was open and an airman answered it.
“This is Megan Roberts. I’m over at Captain Curt Merrill’s house. His wife Becky is very ill. I’ve called an ambulance. Get ahold of him and tell him to get over here. Now!”
“Yes, ma’am
. Right away, ma’am!”
The phone dropped from Megan’s hand, and she sobbed, holding her hand across her mouth. Forcing herself past her own nightmarish past and reactions, she got up to help Becky.
“Who in the hell hit that crash siren button?” Holt cursed from the Ops desk. He’d just returned from Maryland, landing at 5:00 p.m., when it had gone off. An oil fire had been deliberately set ablaze near the end of the runway seconds after he’d landed the F-15. Every once in a while unsuspecting fire crews were tested on their response time to a crash. Fires were lit in several oil drums in a fire pit specially made to resemble a real crash. The only problem was the crash siren wasn’t supposed to be triggered.
“Don’t know, sir,” the airman at the desk replied, taking his completed flight plan.
Worriedly, Holt walked out to the front of Ops and looked out the wall of glass windows that faced the runways. He saw the lime-green fire trucks screaming down toward the contained fire. It was simply a drill. Turning, he couldn’t shake the terrible feeling stalking him.
“Hey, listen to this,” the airman said, “the radio over in Lancaster is even announcing there’s been a crash. Talk about stupid.”
At that moment, Curt Merrill appeared in the hallway, his brow wrinkled.
“Curt,” Sam shouted, “better call Becky. It’s a false alarm.”
“Oh, Christ,” Merrill muttered, whirling on his heel and making his way back to Design to make the call.
Sam swore under his breath. That cinched it! Megan would be home by now, in her apartment. Had she heard that announcement? She still thought he was flying a test today because he hadn’t been able to call her and tell her he had been in Maryland until today. Damn! Picking up one of the many phones, Holt dialed her residence. No one answered.
The airman behind the desk answered another phone. When he hung up, he had a pained look on his youthful features. “Captain Holt, you’d better go get Captain Merrill. A Megan Roberts just called from his residence. She just found Mrs. Merrill real sick and needs help.”
Momentarily stunned, Sam grabbed his duffel bag. He’d just landed and was still in his G-suit. “I’ll get him,” he rasped, running around the desk and down the hall toward Design. Megan was with Becky? How? Why? And something was wrong with Becky! He swung through the door and Curt was still on the phone.
“I can’t believe this,” Merrill said angrily, “the line’s busy.”
Holt tried to steady his breathing. “Curt, Megan Roberts is at your house. Something’s wrong with Becky. Come on, let’s get over there. She’s probably calling an ambulance.”
Curt froze, the phone clutched in his hand. “Becky? What’s wrong with her?” Merrill went white.
Holt took the phone and put it down in the cradle. “I don’t know. Let’s go!” His Corvette was parked out in the lot adjacent to Ops. Sam knew Megan had heard about the crash.
Racing out of the doors and down the steps, they quickly made it to his car. In moments, they were driving away from Ops and heading for Sharon Drive. Sam knew it was against regulations to wear a G-suit on base except for Ops, but right now, time was of the essence.
Grimly, Sam wondered how the wives of the pilots were taking the stupid crash-siren error. It always sent such a wave of fear and lethal dreads through the small, tight community.
Agitated, Curt whispered, “What could be wrong with Becky? And why is Megan over there? Jesus Christ.” He pressed his hands to the sides of his head.
“Becky! Becky!” Merrill took the stairs two at a time up to the front door of his home. He heard Patty shrilly crying. Jerking open the screen door, and breathing hard, he squinted against the gloomy interior. No lights were on. Patty was sitting on the carpeted floor, crayons and paper in hand, wailing.
“Curt!” Megan cried, running out of the bedroom upon hearing the door open and close. She stared past the pilot, seeing Sam at his shoulder. Relief shattered through her. Sam was alive! Alive! Gulping, Megan cried out, “Come in here. I think Becky took pills and alcohol together, and she’s unconscious!”
With a cry, Merrill ran down the hall. He kneeled at his wife’s side, sweeping her into his arms. Her face was very pale, mouth slack. Fingers shaking, he touched her skin. It was cool to his touch. There was an odor of alcohol on her breath.
“Becky!” he sobbed. “Jesus, Becky! Wake up! Wake up!” Tears blurred his vision as he held her limp, frail body to him.
“Easy,” Sam breathed, gripping Merrill’s shoulder. “Let’s get her up and try to get her to come around.”
Megan had picked up Patty, and kept the child away from the bedroom. Fighting back tears, she stood at the screen door, watching for the ambulance.
Hands shaking, Curt, with Holt’s help, got Becky off the bed and on her feet. She sagged between them, barely conscious. Curt jerked up his head. He heard the ambulance siren. “Let’s get her out to the living room,” he gasped, “the ambulance is coming.” Brushing Becky’s thin blond hair across her brow, he wondered if this time, he was too late. Too late…
Megan’s eyes widened as they brought Becky out into the living room. She looked like a limp butterfly with broken wings between the two pilots dressed in their olive-green flight suits. Curt was pale, his eyes dark with fear. To Megan, the scene smacked of military power bracketing a woman who didn’t have the kind of strength her man possessed. Becky was just one more casualty of the military world. Just as her mother had been.
Megan shut her eyes and moved onto the porch as the ambulance drove up and screeched to a halt. Her mother…Vivid, terrifying images slammed into Megan. Pressing Patty’s head against her shoulder so the child wouldn’t have to witness the paramedics racing up the sidewalk with gurney and bags in hand, Megan shut her eyes. A gamut of emotions tore through her.
Holt came out to the porch once the paramedics took over. He glanced to the left. Megan stood pale, clutching Patty to her. Walking over, he gripped her arm as if to steady her.
“Let’s get Patty over to the neighbors,” he rasped. “They’ll take care of her while we go to the hospital with Curt. He needs our help.”
Mutely, Megan agreed, relief spreading through her as Sam kept his hand on her arm. She felt weak, almost faint. Within minutes, Patty was taken care of by a captain’s wife who had been watching from her window. As they hurried back to the Merrill house, Holt’s arm went around her waist.
“How are you doing?” he asked. Megan’s eyes were narrowed with pain, haunted-looking. He knew this crisis must have triggered old memories of her own mother.
“N-not very good, but better than Becky.”
“Hang tough,” he murmured. Holt wanted to protect her from all of this, but knew he couldn’t. The need to love her, to tell her of his love for her, was almost torn from him. Instead, Sam tightened his grip around her and pressed her against him.
Megan leaned heavily against him at the white picket fence gate where the ambulance was parked. Becky was strapped to the gurney and being loaded into it, with Curt following close behind.
“We’ll follow you,” Sam called.
Curt nodded. “Yeah…thanks…”
“Come on,” Sam said to her, “we’ll take my Corvette.”
Numbly, Megan nodded.
On the way over to the hospital, Sam never let go of Megan’s damp, cool hand. Worriedly, he looked over at her from time to time. Her mouth was stretched in a line of pain, her eyes closed.
“I’m sorry this happened. It’s the last thing you need to witness,” he said, squeezing her hand.
“I felt like I was stepping back in time, Sam,” Megan choked out softly, the sting of tears behind her lids. “Becky was my mother. My mother was Becky. I flipped out. I lost it.”
“No, you didn’t. You kept your head and called the ambulance, and then called over to Ops to get Curt. That’s not flipping out.’’
Sniffing, Megan tried to combat the wall of pain exploding through her. “I—I was so afraid you’d crashed. I r
emember you said you’d be flying the Friday afternoon flight. When I heard the crash siren…” The words died on her lips, and she lifted her lashes, holding Sam’s burning gaze. “I thought you’d died.” The words were so final, so terribly final.
“I was gone all week, Megan, to Maryland. I tried calling you several times, but we just didn’t connect. I landed at five o’clock and I think Becky thought my test plane was the one that Curt was possibly flying. I don’t know. The fire siren was a mistake,” Sam explained. “Some jerk pushed the button by accident. The crash team was on a drill. The smoke you saw was rubber tires burning down at the end and to the left of the runway. They have a fire pit there, and that’s where they practice for air crashes. I’m sorry, Red. So damn sorry.”
“You could have died,” Megan whispered, “you could have died….”
Too much was happening too fast. Sam gripped her hand tightly. Was this going to destroy the fragile trust they’d built with one another? Would this scare Megan off? Fear ate at him. “But I didn’t. Look, let’s get to the hospital and support Curt. I don’t know Becky’s condition. Later, we can talk. Okay?”
Silently, Megan agreed. Their talk could wait. “I think Becky’s in serious condition,” Megan rasped. “I found my mother like that at least half a dozen times. And every time, it was worse than before. Becky could die. My mother died from an overdose of the very same damn tranquilizer. My God…”
Taking a deep breath, Sam nodded. “Let’s take this crisis one step at a time, Red. We’ve got each other, that’s more than what Curt has right now.”
Megan wasn’t sure of anything except the widening pain in her heart over the past coupled with the realization that she might have lost Sam. And he was right: Curt needed their help, their support. One thing about the military family, they were there in a crisis. It was one of the many positives about them, and one Megan applauded. Clearing her throat, she gave a jerky nod of her head. “Yes, we’ll be there for both of them….”
Night Flight Page 21
