her by the upper arm and gently guiding her through the dining room. “I know you do. Next time, you can pay for my meal. Fair enough?”
That smile melted all her insistence. How could any woman ever resist his charm? Maggie wondered. She scowled. “If there is a next time.”
Laughing, Wes dropped his hand from her arm as they reached the foyer. When cornered, Maggie blustered and tried to bluff her way out of a situation. “There will be.” He settled his garrison cap on his head at a rakish angle. “Well, as they say, let’s get this show on the road. I want to go Mach 3 with my hair on fire, Donovan.”
Chapter Three
During the ride over to the hangar area, Maggie said little because she was on a seesaw of emotion. They stopped at Ops and retrieved their flight gear, and she loosened up a little. Just getting to fly eased the tension that was always coiled tightly inside her. She’d been born that way. Flying was the only thing that erased her restlessness. Maggie always had to be moving, whether it was physically or mentally. Insomnia, upon occasion, was her best friend.
The truck delivered them to the hangar and Wes walked at her side, his duffel bag containing his helmet and oxygen mask slung across his left shoulder. He liked Maggie’s flowing stride and those long legs of hers.
“How tall are you?” he asked.
“Five-eleven. You?”
“Six-five.”
“You’re a tall drink of water.”
“Might say the same of you,” he returned, catching her smile. Maggie was relaxing with every step toward the fighter sitting just outside the hangar doors. Wes saw her name just below the opened cockpit. Her air crew was waiting expectantly; the ladders were hooked alongside the fuselage so they could climb up into the double cockpit.
“A woman in your air crew?” Wes asked.
“Chantal Percival is my chief, and she’s the best in the Navy, in my opinion. I fought hammer and tong to get her assigned to me and my jet when I got here. She’s been with me the two years I’ve been at Miramar.”
“Pretty lady,” he mused. “That’s an observation, Donovan, not a sexual comment.” Even wearing a dark green T-shirt, which outlined her full breasts to perfection, Chantal was definitely a head turner.
Maggie remained silent. Then she introduced Wes to her air crew. Salutes and handshakes were exchanged. To her surprise, Chantal seemed immune to Wes’s good looks and charm. How was that possible, when Maggie’s own heart seemed completely attuned to his every word, look and smile? All business now, Maggie signed off the discrepancy log Chantal handed her, then made the visual walk-around inspection of her aircraft. In the meantime, Wes had climbed into the back seat and was getting help with his array of harnesses from one of her other ground-crew members.
Wes settled back, thanking the young petty officer who had helped him. The rear seat of a Tomcat was a familiar friend, and he strapped the knee board around his left thigh and began his preflight checklist. From time to time, though, he raised his helmeted head to observe Maggie in action.
In her cockpit, which was directly in front of his with his instrument panel between them, she tucked her red hair beneath the skullcap. Even after slipping on her helmet—white with a pair of red eagle wings painted on the front—she wouldn’t be mistaken for a man. Wes smiled to himself and absorbed her profile as she gave last-minute instructions to Chantal, who stood on the ladder next to her. He hadn’t realized how classic the line of her profile was until she turned.
Shaking himself internally, Wes decided there was a definite mystique to Maggie. Her features intrigued him. A man could spend the rest of his life mapping out her face and expressions and always be pleasantly surprised by something new about her. Few women had that kind of mystery.
Slow down, buddy. You just got out of a divorce that’s still hurting you. Wes frowned and forced himself to concentrate on what he was doing. This was no time to resurrect his marriage, ex-wife or the light of his life, his daughter, Annie. Still, when Wes lifted his head and saw Maggie smile, his heart took off on its own flight as his mire of emotions suddenly dissolved beneath the warmth conveyed in her eyes and beautifully expressive mouth.
In no time, Maggie had the Tomcat anchored at the end of the runway, ready to take off. Dana and her RIO, in another F-14, had taken off twenty minutes earlier. They would be “the enemy,” stalking Maggie and Wes and trying to shoot them down over the restricted airspace north of the station. It would be up to Wes to spot them first and give Maggie the needed information to evade any surprise attack—and to give her the advantage that could enable her to “shoot down” Dana’s aircraft electronically. Once a “kill” was registered, they would go on to the next test.
Wes listened idly to the control chatter. They were Red Dog 103 today, their call sign. He liked Maggie’s firm, husky voice. Smiling beneath his oxygen mask, which was strapped tightly to his face, Wes brought down both the clear plastic and dark visor across his upper face. Both visors fit like a puzzle piece against the top of his oxygen mask. Maggie had done the same thing. Now they looked like genderless beings. Up in the air, Wes ruminated, tinkering with all his instruments to make sure they were up and operating properly, a person’s sex really didn’t matter at all. He was curious about Maggie’s flying and combat ability.
“You ready back there, Bishop?”
“Roger.”
“I’m requesting afterburner takeoff.”
“To see if I can stand the heat in the kitchen?”
She laughed. “No. I know Dana Turcotte too well. She’s liable to attack as soon as we get into the restricted airspace north of here, and I want all the altitude I can get. Go in high so you have the look-down, shoot-down advantage. If anyone’s coming out of the sun, it’s going to be us, not her.”
Silently Wes applauded Maggie using “us” instead of “me.” Good. She thought in terms of a team; wasn’t ego bound like a lot of combat pilots. “Sounds good to me. Let’s turn and burn.”
What a difference between Hall and Wes! Maggie didn’t say anything, concentrating fully on the forthcoming takeoff, with the F-14 shaking and howling around them. Compared to Hall, Wes sounded a hundred percent more confident in that rear seat. Hall was twenty-four. Bishop’s five years of experience were already making her feel less edgy. Getting permission for takeoff, Maggie notched the twin throttles beneath her left hand into the afterburner range.
The sudden acceleration pinned her against the ejection seat, and Maggie smiled, relaxing beneath the incredible G’s as they built up. Cat screamed down the runway, feeling solid beneath her hands and feet. The F-14 was the Navy’s premier fighter, an unequaled tool in the military arsenal. The sleek twin-tailed fighter rotated smoothly beneath her gloved hand. In seconds, they were thundering straight up into the pale blue sky, clawing for thousands of feet of altitude within seconds.
Wes sat back and enjoyed the ride. In minutes they reached forty-five thousand feet, flying high above the California desert. He was already leaning forward, his eyes narrowed on the array of various radar screens in front of him. Each type of radar performed a different function, and much depended upon his alertness and experience in using them.
“How many minutes before we hit the restricted area?” Wes asked.
“Five minutes. Anything on the scopes?”
“No, clear.”
“Dana’s just about as sneaky as I am. Expect the unexpected with her.”
“Okay. You said her last name was Turcotte?”
“Yes. Why?”
“When I got my first RIO assignment five and a half years ago, I flew with Griff Turcotte, the Turk.”
“I’ll be damned, you know Griff. Yeah, he and Dana have been married