like a woman who values truth above everything else.”
Rolling her eyes, Maggie heard him chuckle at her reaction. It was a low, rumbling chuckle. There was absolutely nothing about Wes that rubbed her the wrong way. She was curious about him. No man had ever kept up with her lightning tongue the way he did.
“That wasn’t a line.”
“Sounded like one. I’ve heard that so many times in the bar over there, it’s not even funny.”
“Can’t blame those boys for trying to hit on you,” Wes told her congenially, sipping the coffee.
“‘Boys’?” Maggie blurted, because she wondered if Wes really was drawn to her as much as she was to him on strictly a personal level. No, he couldn’t be. Not ever. “And I suppose you’re a man compared to them? Oh, brother.”
“I’m twenty-nine—older than most of those youngsters in there hanging out at the bar with their arms around groupies. How old are you?”
His sudden seriousness rattled Maggie. “Twenty-five.”
“At least you’re out of diapers.”
“I was walking at nine months. What about you?”
“A year.”
“A little slow, aren’t you, Bishop?”
“Slow start, strong finish. I’m very good at crunch time, Ms. Donovan.”
In the cockpit, when they were searching for the “enemy” on radar, things could get very tense. Some RIOs got too excited and started yelling. That would upset a pilot who preferred a more laid-back, composed RIO. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“So, this is supposed to be an interview of sorts,” Wes said congenially, leaning forward, his elbows also on the table. “I have to size you up and vice versa. Parkinson feels we can work well together. He laid out the facts about this Red Flag assignment. It’s only for three months, and after that, I’ll be able to go back to my squadron out on the carrier. I consider this a three-month vacation.”
“Of what? Working with a woman combat-pilot? Or Red Flag?”
“Both.”
She probed him mercilessly. Somehow, Maggie had to get out of her emotional response to him and keep it strictly business. “Okay, I’m taking off the kid gloves with you, Bishop, because I don’t have any time left to waste. I’ve got to find a damn good RIO who can train fast, take orders without a lot of back talk, and help us win Red Flag for the Navy. I don’t like, nor do I tolerate, male chauvinist pigs. I believe a woman can do anything a man can—with some physical limitations, of course. When we’re in the air working together, my sex doesn’t enter into the equation, and yours doesn’t, either. We’re a team—not a man and woman working together. I’ve worked my butt off getting this far, and I carry more responsibility than I care to admit—for all women—as a result. I know I’m a symbol in this test Congress has seen fit to try out. If I screw up, I screw up for all women. A lot of combat pilots don’t like me and think that when the chips are down I can’t fly or fight just as well as they can.”
She halted and watched him. Wes sat relaxed, with all his attention on her. If what she’d said didn’t faze him, there was hope. Maggie saw no defensiveness or anger in his eyes. “I’ve been training Top Gun pilots here for almost two years. Out there over the desert in the restricted area where we fly, I’m the ‘aggressor.’ My whole reason for flying is to outwit, outfox and outmaneuver these hotshots and make them realize where they’re weak in their flying skills so they can improve and become better combat pilots.
“On the ground at debrief, we go over every dogfight sequence. Nine times out of ten, I win my confrontations in the air with these guys. They don’t like it because they’re getting beaten by a woman, and women aren’t supposed to be able to fly half as well as they can. My stats can’t be argued with, Bishop. That’s why Commander Parkinson chose me to head up the Navy Red Flag team. I need an RIO who wants to win just as badly as I do. I’m competitive, but not with anyone but myself. I don’t expect anything more of you than I do of myself. I’m not a screamer in the cockpit. I’d hope we can work smoothly in an adult way. I can’t stand childish pouting or games being played when everything’s on the line.”
Wes sat there for a long moment, digesting Maggie’s impassioned words. The waitress came and delivered her salad and his hamburger. He thanked her and worked at putting mustard and catsup on the burger. Maggie glanced up at him from time to time, running her fork disinterestedly around in the shrimp salad.
“I don’t have a problem with what you said.” Wes took a huge bite of his hamburger, watching Maggie’s instantaneous reaction. Her eyes widened enormously, and he tucked his smile away. He knew she’d thought he would challenge her brass-knuckled delivery of her expectations. “Matter of fact,” he added, picking up a french fry, “I totally agree with you.”
Her nostrils flared and she pushed the salad aside, zeroing in on him. “Okay, what do you expect out of this?”
Her intensity pleased him. A damn good combat pilot had the ability to focus sharply on what was ahead of him—or her, in this case—blocking out everything else. “I kinda like the idea of working with a woman. Never have before, and that intrigues me.”
Her heart banged violently against her ribs. Was he honestly drawn to her? No. Every other male she’d worked with over the years had been all business, regarding her not as a woman, but as a pilot—a genderless person who sat in the front seat flying the plane. Wes’s hooded look in her direction unstrung Maggie. “Look, if you’re talking—”
“Whoa, let me finish.” He held up his hand. Then, teasingly, he asked, “Do you always interrupt people?”
Chastised, Maggie nodded. “Yeah, one of my bad habits. Go ahead.”
“I like that: you can admit your faults.”
“I didn’t apologize, Bishop.”
“I didn’t expect you to. But most male pilots wouldn’t have admitted anything, either.”
“So?” Maggie challenged.
“So, I like your ability to be a human being, not a tin god in the cockpit like those boys think they are.”
Her smile was rueful. Most fighter pilots were in their early or middle twenties. With Wes being an “old man” at twenty-nine, she imagined they did look like boys to him. “I like your maturity already.”
“Good.” He pushed the plate of french fries toward her. “Here, have some.”
Wrinkling her nose, Maggie said, “No, thanks. They’re pure grease.”
“Wouldn’t hurt you to put on a little weight, you know.”
His personal comment shook her. Bishop had the unnerving ability to get her trust, and when she gave it to him, even something as innocent and caring as his observation about her lack of weight made her defensive. Maggie didn’t have time to ask herself why she reacted so strongly.
“Let’s stick to the conversation at hand,” she told him. “What do you expect from me?”
“What I’m getting right now—your honesty and how you see things going down. I don’t sit in the back seat with a jerk for a pilot, either. My life’s in your hands. I don’t have a second set of controls in case you screw up. All I can do is sit back there and pray you can get us out of trouble flight-wise.”
“I’ve never lost a plane.”
“Not even close?”
“No.”
“You been in any flat spins?”
“Yeah.”
“How many?”
Maggie knew flat spins were the most dangerous