Love Me Before Dawn

by Lindsay McKenna

  He frowned. “Come on, let’s walk a little,” he suggested, bringing her beside him. The night was cool but sun-warmed granite still provided some warmth. Shep guided her down an incline and brought her to a stop at a rocky outcropping. After pulling her down beside him, he kept his arm around her shoulder. “You are living in a different world from me, Tess,” he began. “Although in some ways, Air Force politics are just as fierce.” He turned, resting his head against her hair. “You’re going to have to toughen up in order to survive. You’ll have to learn their games and play it their way if you want to stay.”

  “Does that mean distrusting these men and not believing anything they say until I can learn the truth myself?” she asked bitterly.

  “Yes, you must learn to correctly judge people and protect yourself from the backbiters.”

  “Whatever happened to the Golden Rule?” she complained miserably.

  Shep smiled, loving her closeness. “Didn’t they teach you business politics when you got your MBA?”

  She shrugged, sniffing. “They hinted at it. I guess they figure if you’re going after an MBA, you’ve got the heart of a shark, the mind of a weasel, and the soul of a barracuda going for you,” she returned, anger in her voice.

  “And you’re not like that.”

  “No, not by nature. I get pleasure from the challenge of my job. I don’t get a thrill stepping on someone’s head to make a point.”

  “You’re a guppy, not a barracuda,” he soothed, smiling down into her blue eyes.

  A smile fled across her lips. “Do all test pilots have that diehard sense of humor?”

  He laughed softly, giving her a reassuring hug. “Yeah, I suppose we do. Look,” he murmured, getting serious once again, “keep your eyes and ears open, Tess. Don’t get caught in the crossfire of politics if you can help it. If things get nasty, you and I can discuss it. I don’t want to brag, but I’m pretty aware of politics and maybe I can give you some pointers. Just know that I’m here. A shoulder to cry on.”

  She sniffed, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. That’s all I do around you. Don’t you get tired of it?”

  Shep slowly got to his feet, pulling her up. She leaned tiredly against him, head on his shoulder, for a long, heart-stopping moment. He pressed a kiss to her hair. “I never get tired of you, lady. Come on,” he coaxed, “let’s get you back to L.A. You’re exhausted.”

  Tess nodded. “But it’s a good kind of exhaustion, Shep. For once I wore myself out physically.” She cast a grim look in his direction. “At least I didn’t flay myself emotionally today.” The answering pressure of his arms was comforting. How many times each day had she felt guilt and remorse over Cy’s death? Every time she thought about the possibility of meeting Derek Barton either by chance or in a business meeting, her stomach knotted. What would she do? How would she handle it?

  Monday was going to come too soon, Tess realized. Precious, quiet moments like this were only an instant’s reprieve from the harshness of the real world. Taking a deep breath, she bowed her head, doggedly walking beside Shep in silence.

  *

  Tess walked into the office at seven thirty A.M. and knew it was going to be a bad day. Dan’s secretary was already hard at work, and all three buttons on the telephone were blinking, indicating waiting calls. Grimly, Tess pressed on toward her office, trying to internally fortify herself. Where had the weekend gone? Was it only a lovely dream? She didn’t ever want to push Sunday out of her mind or her heart. A warm feeling uncoiled from the center of her body as Tess remembered Shep’s kiss. It would have been so easy to allow him to make love to her. But she wasn’t emotionally cleansed of her own guilt. Shep had accepted that unspoken rule without pressuring her. And by doing that, he had allowed her to be herself. Something that she desperately needed in the present chaos that surrounded her.

  “Tess!” Dan called, waving her into his office.

  She stopped, turning into the brightly sunlit area. “All hell has broken loose with this Stockwell allegation” he informed her. “Public relations has scheduled a news briefing for the press at nine this morning. I want you to attend.”

  She nodded. “Okay, I’ll get together with PR and see what they need in the way of information.” She hurried to her office and picked up the phone. Fred Berger, the head of Rockwell PR, answered, his voice suave and cool as ever.

  “Fred, this is Tess. Dan just told me—”

  “This is it, Tess. We’ve got every antidefense reporter in L.A. coming to this briefing. And they’re armed to the teeth with Stockwell’s allegations. You got the facts and figures on the B-1 scheduling with you?”

  “Yes. I’ll bring all pertinent information to your office right away and maybe we can parry their misguided attack.”

  “Rabid is more like it,” Fred returned drolly. “Look, I’m going to need you or Dan at that press briefing. I know they’re going to hit us with some hair-raising technical questions.”

  “You’ve got it,” she promised grimly, cursing Stockwell in the back of her mind.

  Tess tried to appear relaxed in the midst of the flashing cameras and television lights. The large press room was filled to capacity, and there was an explosive feeling in it, a restlessness that made her want to fidget. She admired Fred’s coolness in the face of the relentless press. They were after blood on this one. Once again she mentally reviewed her conversation with Stockwell. Had she been diplomatic enough? Had she not expressed herself properly? Stop it, she reprimanded herself. You did the best you could with the facts. Facts. That was laughable. The press was here this morning with half facts. Half truths. Grimly she pursed her lips, waiting.

  Fred took control of the press briefing, pointing to the scheduled timetable and explaining why certain portions of the B-1 production had fallen behind. His explanation was exactly what she had told Stockwell. Scanning the faces of the reporters, Tess knew they weren’t satisfied with the answer. They didn’t want to hear the truth. They wanted to blow it completely out of proportion for the sake of sensationalism.

  Immediately after Fred had finished, there was a deluge of questions.

  “You keep saying that Rockwell is behind because of production problems. If you have blueprints, engineers, and schedules, how could you be so many months behind? Aren’t these delays going to cost the taxpayers even more money?”

  Fred glanced over at Tess. He introduced her to the press. She got up, walked to the podium, and adjusted the microphone. The flash of bulbs unsettled her but she remained outwardly calm. She handled the first few questions smoothly, but felt a surge of anger when one of the reporters began harassing her.

  “Did you fall behind simply because you’re getting into unknown areas or are you mismanaging the problems that have come up?” he asked.

  “When you have an engineering development program where you are working on the very frontiers of technology, you must deal with unknown factors,” Tess explained patiently. “The schedule I’ve laid out for you represents our master plan. It is composed of twenty-two thousand interrelated activities. I’m afraid you can’t merely put on more workers to solve some of these complex technological problems. Rest assured that we are doing everything possible to get back on schedule.”

  But the reporter was not satisfied. “That might solve your funding problem in fiscal year 1974, but it doesn’t solve the problem in ’75 or ’76. I mean, we all know the facts of life on a major development program. Any delay costs money because of our present six to eight percent inflation.”

  “If you’ll go to the third paragraph on page three of the document we handed out to you, you’ll see that we’ve addressed that question. We’re counting on Congress to avoid complicating matters any further. They provide the funding. If it’s on time, we will be too.”

  “But you’re behind because of mismanagement?” he repeated doggedly.

  Tess gripped the podium. “No, sir, we are not. I’ll try to put this in simpler terms. We’re beh
ind because this is an advanced technology prototype. We’re dealing with human beings who, with all their years of experience at scheduling, have done the best that they could under the circumstances. If we were building a second, third, or fourth B-1, the time would be cut down a great deal. On this prototype no one wants to hurry and make mistakes at the cost of men’s lives.”

  Afterward, Tess went back to her office and collapsed in the chair. She rubbed her head, grimacing as the pain shot sporadically through her temples. Fred ambled in a few minutes later, smiling broadly.

  “Hey, sure you don’t want to transfer over to public relations and work with us?”

  She gave him a half smile. “No, thanks! I felt like you threw me to the vultures.”

  “Actually, you kept them at bay. You did a real good job, Tess,” he complimented.

  Looking up at him she asked, “Why can’t they understand the simplicity of our problem? A new airplane takes a longer time to build than one that’s already in production. Plus,” she growled, “we’ve had seven years’ worth of catch-up to do. Don’t they realize what seven years of technology means? It’s like going from the cave era to the computer, in some respects. Especially in avionics.”

  He pursed his lips, agreeing. “Listen, the press never wants to be educated on the details. All they salivate for is the one statement that will make a story. Regardless of whether it’s only half the truth.” He smiled. “Great job, Tess. Hope the rest of your day is a little less hectic.”

  Chapter 8

  SENATOR DIANE BROWNING LOOKED UP WHEN SHE HEARD her assistant, Greg Saint, groan. “Here he comes, Senator,” was all he said. She wondered to herself how Chad Stockwell could have had the luck of stumbling into her at an out-of-the-way restaurant. Rarely did she frequent the posh establishments and eateries of the Hill. Today she had gone to her favorite haunt, the Golden Parasol Club in Alexandria, for a quiet lunch. The interior of the restaurant had a 1920s atmosphere and was decorated with old bicycles on the walls, their tires and chains interspersed with pastel-colored umbrellas here and there. The columns were encased by mirrors, giving the spacious rooms an even airier feeling. The judicious use of hanging plants made the restaurant a pleasant, peaceful escape from the pressured workaday world. Senator Browning’s wing-shaped golden brows knitted together momentarily. She glanced to her left. “He’s by himself,” she murmured. “I wonder if he’s meeting someone or…”

  Greg grimaced. “Knowing him, he’s hunted you down for a reason.”

  Diane grinned slightly, nodding in Stockwell’s direction as he spotted her. “God knows, he must feel out of place here, where only working people come to eat. He must feel like a fish out of water.” Indeed, Stockwell always made sure he was seen at the most glamorous powerbroker settings in the District. “Do me a favor, Greg,” she murmured, affixing a smile on her thin lips. “Take the car back. I’ll get a cab or a ride back with him. He looks like he wants to twist arms a little. No sense in your getting in the middle of it.”

  Greg rose unhappily. “I’ll grab a roast beef sandwich on my way back. You want a bulletproof vest?”

  Diane’s green eyes sparkled with challenge. “No, but our good friend the senator might wish for one when it’s all over.”

  “The turkey deserves it. See you later, Senator.”

  Chad Stockwell smiled equitably as he approached. “You’re a hard lady to track down, Senator. Mind if I join you for an impromptu lunch?”

  Diane gestured for him to sit opposite her at the table.

  “Not at all, Senator.”

  Stockwell gave her his best political smile. “Wanted to chat about the lack of progress on the B-1. Has the Rockwell lobby been keeping you up to date on the plane’s problems?”

  Diane fingered the menu, keeping her eyes trained on it and not him. “I’ve been in touch with the Air Force people over at the Pentagon. I’m looking into your allegations about appropriations money being wasted, if that’s what you’re referring to,” she answered slowly.

  The waitress came by and they ordered lunch and drinks. Diane ordered a Kahlua and coffee. Stockwell ordered Scotch. She wanted to keep her mind sharp for the confrontation. If his satisfied expression was anything to go by, he must feel the conversation was already in the bag. His bag.

  Stockwell toyed with the plastic stir stick in the drink. “You probably realize that the unit cost of one B-1 bomber used to be forty-four million dollars.” He released a painful sigh, wrinkling his brow. “Add to that the cost of research, development, testing, and evaluation, and the total unit price shoots to fifty-four million dollars per aircraft. Let’s see, if you multiply that figure times the 244 aircraft that are supposed to be ordered, we come up with an eleven-billion-dollar price tag.”

  He smiled wolfishly at Browning. “Do you realize that averages out to around fifty-five dollars from every man, woman and child in the U.S. to pay for this fiasco?”

  Diane took a sip of her drink, watching him over the rim. Setting the glass down with careful deliberation, she folded her hands in front of her, leaning forward on her elbows. “First, the forty-four million also includes ground support equipment and spares, and it applies only to the prototype unit. Second, you’re confusing ‘then’ dollars with ‘now’ dollars. It’s inflation that is responsible for escalating the original price per unit to new highs, not mismanagement of the program. I’m sure the Air Force and Rockwell are not out to take money indiscriminately from the public. 1 hope you understand that I’m just as concerned about this problem as you.”

  The waitress brought their lunches, providing a lull in the conversation. When she had left, Diane launched into her reasons for supporting the B-1. It was all material they had been over before, but she felt obligated to set the facts before him once again.

  When she had concluded, Stockwell became pensive, thinking about the potential of the defense program she had outlined. “Look, the B-1 is not a worldwide panacea.”

  “Of course it isn’t. I admit it won’t stop a political crisis in the Middle East, Cyprus, Ireland or wherever It wont stop natural disasters from occurring. But what it can do is ease the pressure of armed confrontation. In turn, it will eventually reduce money spent in national defense programs and defuse crises affecting our interests. I think its worth that price tag and so do my constituents.”

  He shook his head. “Well, I’ve got equally as many who don’t see it in your way, Senator. You know, if our friends the Democrats take power in the next election, they’ll kill the B-1 program,” he murmured.

  Diane shrugged. “This is more than a political concern. The defense of our country is at stake.”

  Stockwell leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his square face. “I’ll tell you what, Senator. If you’ll take a neutral position on the B-1 program, I’ll get Reilly to throw his support behind your efforts on equal rights for women. What do you say?”

  Diane toyed absently with her spoon. He hadn’t heard a word she had said. The damned defense of the country was at stake and all he was doing was politicking. The B-1 was essential. But Stockwell was so well fed on rhetoric that he couldn’t tell honesty from political yammering. She clamped down on her anger, giving him a tight, no-nonsense smile.

  Stockwell brightened, as if sensing a victory. “Tell you what, I’ll sweeten the pot even more. I’ll stand up in favor of women’s rights. I swing more than just a little weight in the two committees I’m on.” He smiled indulgently at her.

  Diane felt ill. “Sorry, Chad. I’m committed to the B-1 as the best available solution to our national defense problems. Education will sell women’s rights, just as educating your constituents will convince them the B-1 is a good buy.”

  Stockwell looked absolutely crestfallen. “My influence isn’t minimal, you know. I could do your women plenty of good where it counts.”

  Pursing her lips, she allowed her linen napkin to drop on her plate. “I’m sure you could,” she answered smoothly, “but this is one
issue that can’t be negotiated.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Senator,” he muttered.

  She smiled, realizing she had won the confrontation. “As I said, I believe education is the key. As soon as the voters are given all the facts concerning the B-1, I think they will come to understand its purpose. Let’s face it, Chad, giving out half truths or half answers may be beneficial to you and your lobbying interests, but I find it morally unconscionable.”

  “Morals?” he asked, a wry smile fleeting across his mouth. “Whose morals? Come on, Senator, we could spend the entire day discussing right, wrong, and the gray areas in between.”

  Diane blotted her lips with the chocolate-colored linen napkin. “News reporting is not a gray area,” she noted sharply. “Reporting is supposed to be substantiated by facts.”

  Stockwell leaned back. “Tess Hamilton at Rockwell gave me all the facts.”

  Browning gave him a jaded, wary look. “Somehow,” she drawled, “I don’t think you gave Ms. Hamilton enough time to explain the ramifications of her initial statements. Anyway, my office is contacting her today to verify the ‘facts’ in the paper.”

  Stockwell rose, smiling. “Well, let me know what story they’re using today. Hey, how about lunch sometime next week at one of my watering holes in the District? You can fill me in on their latest excuse at that time.”

  She got up, appearing unruffled by Stockwell’s crude invitation. “Can you afford a day away from all those good-looking lobbyists?” she asked pointedly.