eased upright, realizing she had hunched over into an almost attacklike position. She stabbed a finger toward him. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Gallagher. You jet jocks in the Air Force are used to one-man shows. Here in the Coast Guard, we work as a close-knit team. In the air, I’m not the queen. I’m just part of the coordinated flesh and blood team that’s flying that helicopter toward a rescue. And one more thing. All I want from you is your respect. Hate my guts, but respect the knowledge I’ve accrued.” She marched toward her blue sports car, then spun on her booted heel, glaring at him. “I’ll see you over at the Ops center. We’re due for our 1330 briefing by the Section Duty officer.”
What the hell had she done? Storm groaned, forcing herself to slow down on the way over to the hangar area. Her face was hot with mortification. I’ll bet Gallagher thinks I go around slapping men all the time. Why should she care what he thinks? And that look Captain Greer had given her…he knew the fur was going to fly. She ran her fingers haphazardly through her ginger hair in an aggravated motion.
* * *
The ten Coast Guard pilots sat with their cups of coffee in hand as the SDO, LCDR Mike Duncan passed out the assignments. Storm sat rigidly next to Gallagher. She had endured his stare when he was the last to enter the Operations area. Storm had noticed that all the normal congenial noise died down to silence when he entered. A part of her felt compassion for him. He was new, and an outsider, not only because he was a green helicopter pilot, but because he was from another branch of the service. Grimacing, Storm glanced over at him. His probing blue eyes met hers. She quickly refocused her attention upon Duncan.
“Storm, you get to take those five loads of pallets from supply and drop them over at the staging area.” Duncan, a man of forty with prematurely graying hair, gave her a slight smile. “Maybe you can show Lieutenant Gallagher the finer points of sling ops.”
She nodded. “Okay.” Great, they got the trash run today. Did she have a black cloud hanging over her head or something?
After being dismissed, Bram followed her to the line shack that sat near the Ops building. Bram came abreast of her and slowed his pace. Automatically Storm allowed the rest of the pilots to amble on by them. She glanced up at him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. Just wanted to apologize for what I said earlier outside Admin to you,” he murmured. “It was a cheap shot.”
She bit back “You’re damn right it was.” Instead she shrugged. “Apology accepted, Gallagher.”
An elfin grin pulled at his mouth. “You have one hell of a right cross, lady.”
It was her turn to smile as they walked down the sidewalk toward the line shack. “I’ve never slapped a man in my life. You were the first. And you’ll be the last,” she promised throatily.
Bram pulled the glass door open. The surprised look she gave him told Bram she wasn’t used to that kind of help from a man. Too bad, he thought. I’m going to treat you like a lady whether anyone likes it or not.
All the duty section pilots milled around the cramped confines of the line shack. It sat next to the ramp area where serviced and repaired aircraft were parked.
Storm pulled over the maintenance book on CG 1378 and opened it up. Bram moved beside her, squeezing into the small counter space between the other pilots. She was vividly aware of his male strength, his body hard from being physically fit. Collecting her scattered thoughts, Storm pointed down at the log.
“We always check this to mark any discrepancies or problems with the helo, Bram. It’s up to us to record them and then sign for the helo we’ll be using that day.”
The press of bodies, the good-natured gibing and jokes, filled the line shack. After signing out CG 1378, Storm shut the log, handing it back to the warrant officer behind the desk.
“Let’s go,” she said, giving him a slight smile.
Bram returned it, remaining at her side, and then pushed open the door. The muggy afternoon air hit them as they walked around the corner of the building and onto the concrete ramp.
Storm began to relax. This was her home, the one place where she felt comfortable since the loss of her husband and Dave Walker. Merlin was waiting for them, over by CG 1378, throwing them the customary salute.
“Afternoon, Lieutenant Travis, Lieutenant Gallagher,” he said gruffly.
“Afternoon, Merlin.” Storm smiled, taking the mandatory baseball cap of dark blue off her head. Unzipping a large pocket on her left thigh, she stuffed it in there. The breeze was light, coming in from the Atlantic Ocean, and she inhaled deeply of the salt-laden air. She made formal introductions between Merlin and Bram Gallagher. Storm smiled to herself as both men eyed each other warily. She stood with one hand resting against the white surface of the helicopter.
“We want to welcome you officially to the Red Tail Taxi Service, Gallagher,” she said.
Bram cocked his head. “What?”
Storm gestured to the international orange stripe that adorned the tail of their helicopter. “We’re unofficially known as Red Tails.”
“The taxi-service part is because you’ll be doing anything from hauling groceries to rescuing snowbound families up in Alaska, depending on where you’re stationed. Here in the Florida area we don’t have to deal with snowstorms, but we fight the hurricanes every year.” Her grin widened. “So if somebody calls you Red Tail, you’ll know what they’re referring to.”
He scratched his head. “Relegated to a taxi service, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” Merlin cackled. “Oh, one thing we forgot to tell him, Lieutenant Travis.”
She gave Merlin a surprised look. “What?”
“Tell him that we’re part of the Department of Transportation and not the Defense Department.”
“Translated, what does that mean?” Bram asked dryly.
Storm pursed her lips. “It means if you get shot at by a druggie, Gallagher, it’s not considered combat or even war. Since the CG is with the Transportation Department, we’re an anomaly of sorts.”
“A Red Tail and noncombat, eh?”
“You got it right, sir,” Merlin responded. “An elite taxi-service with fringe extras like getting shot at.” He winked. “When we stalk the druggies, we’re in combat.”
“Well,” Bram said good-naturedly, “I was tired of flying a jet around all day. Looks like the CG is infinitely more interesting in many ways.”
Maybe it’s going to be all right after all, Storm thought. She went through the rest of preflight inspection with Gallagher, who became an attentive shadow at her left arm as they walked around the helo. He asked intelligent questions, and she was pleased. There was a new eagerness blossoming within her. Suddenly she was seeing Bram in a new light—as a professional pilot. When it came down to work, he was all business. The wisecracking guy with the arrogant chip on his shoulder had disappeared. Breathing a sigh of relief, Storm climbed into the right-hand seat, the AC’s seat.
“Okay,” Storm called, her voice echoing hollowly within the confines of the helicopter, “so much for social amenities. Let’s get this show on the road.”
A new palpable tension thrummed through the aircraft. Merlin busied himself in the back as they slipped into their confining shoulder harness and seat belt system after donning helmets.
Bram watched Storm out of the corner of his eye. Her movements were economical and spoke of someone who was confident with a job. He gave a small shake of his head. He was certainly going to have to change his perspective on how he viewed women. Because of the peacetime missions of the Coast Guard, there were women flying jets and helicopters and serving aboard the cutters at sea. A slight smile edged his mouth as he threw her a thumb’s up, indicating he was finished with his personal