Night Flight (10 page)

“Sam?”

“Yeah, Port?” He scowled, pulling down the clear plastic visor that came to rest across the top of his oxygen mask. The day was gray, and they’d be flying below the cloud cover, so the dark visor to reflect the brightness of the sun wouldn’t be needed.

“That was a lousy shot Stang took at you earlier. I’m sorry.”

Taking a deep breath, Holt shook his head. “Forget it, Port. I have.” Liar. Stang was right: the same conditions were present when he lost Russ. He felt silly, wanting to tell Port that if something happened, she was to eject and not wait like Russ did. But of course, she was familiar with egress procedure: the rear cockpit always ejected first. She would think he was questioning his own flight confidence if he voiced his concern. It was better to say nothing and not let her know how he was really feeling.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Well…if you ever want to talk about it to someone, I’m here, Sam.”

His eyes crinkled. “Too bad you’re engaged, Port. I’d marry you in a second.” Her laughter drifted over the intercom, and Holt relaxed slightly.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“I really believe you mean that.”

With a chuckle, he swung the bird around with the aid of the rudders, the nose pointing down the long, black runway, slick with rain. “I do, I do. But that big bruiser of a fianceé of yours would bend me into a pretzel if he found out I was sweet on you. Besides, he’s a major, and I’m only a lowly captain.”

Lauren laughed, giving her cockpit straps a final tug, tightening them as much as possible. “Well, what about this redhead you keep mooning over?”

“Megan?” More of the tension was easing. He knew Lauren was trying to get him to relax, sensing his discomfort.

“The one and only? Any progress with her?”

“A little.”

“You mean there’s one woman who has withstood the storm of your mesmerizing personality and turned you down?”

He ran up each engine and checked it out before they took off. His hands moved swiftly, with ease of knowing, across the dials and switches. “Right now I’ve got her saying ‘maybe.’”

“That’s a good sign.”

“I think so. Okay, you ready back there? All preflight checks completed?”

“Roger. Complete.”

Holt called the tower and got clearance. The F-15 quivered as he eased the throttles forward. Instead of excitement taking over, which was the normal feeling he experienced, dread set in. Scowling, Holt realized fear was stalking him. Trying to shake it, he released the rudders. The Eagle bolted forward, screaming down the runway.

In moments they were airborne. The rain struck the clear canopy and disappeared. They would make the standard ninety-degree right turn, climb to fifteen hundred feet, make the dogleg turn paralleling the strip and then one last ninety-degree turn, which would line them up with the end of the runway.

Down below, as Holt executed the dogleg turn, he saw the dark blue Air Force truck positioned at the end of the fifteen-hundred-foot marker. Stang and Merrill were both in the truck, and acted as observers. On the other side of the runway was an airman videotaping the entire landing sequence. Both the observations by the test pilots, plus the videotape, would be minutely analyzed back at Design once the series of tests were completed.

“Okay,” Lauren said, “drop slats and flaps one hundred percent, Sam.”

On the last landing tests, they had been dropped to ninety percent. “Roger, slats and flaps down and locked at one hundred percent.” Their entire conversation was being taped, so they kept to procedures only.

“Landing gear down.”

He pulled the lever and felt the bird quiver as the gear unfolded from beneath her fuselage. A green light popped on. “Roger. Gear down and locked.” Sweat suddenly bathed him, cold and icy in its grip. Blinking his eyes, Holt tried to steady his breathing. He wrenched his attention to the altimeter and the speed gauge. Russ’s faced danced before him. It was the same kind of approach, the same kind of weather and the same runway.

Holt’s heart started a rapid staccato beat in his chest. His breathing became ragged, and he was sucking in oxygen like an air-starved person on the verge of suffocating. Sweat dripped into his eyes, making them sting, blurring his vision. The bird dropped toward the deck. His hand tightened painfully around the stick. The runway raced up to meet them. Russ’s screams filled Holt’s ears. Frantically, he shook his head and tried to get rid of Russ’s cries.

Trapped, trapped. Jesus, I’m trapped! Sam, eject! Eject!

The Eagle’s tires bit into the concrete, puffs of blue smoke rising off the wet, glistening surface. Breathing hard, Sam tried to concentrate. The fifteen-hundred-foot marker raced by. Too late! Too much speed! Dammit, he hadn’t landed at the lip of the runway where he’d intended. He was giving more attention to the crash than to the present. The red marker flashed by. In disgust, Holt jammed the throttles forward, lifting the bird off in a touch and go.

“It’s okay, Sam,” Lauren soothed from her rear seat. “Just take it easy. This is the first time we’ve done it in the rain.”

Pulling up slats, flaps and landing gear, Holt couldn’t get rid of the tension. It hung around him like a lead cloak, and he felt as if some invisible hand were jamming his neck down between his shoulder blades. Lauren’s voice was soothing, but it didn’t help his frantic feelings. He hauled the responsive Eagle around in the same pattern. This time he had to hit the landing mark. Holt was sure Stang was clapping his hands with glee over his screwup. Damn, he had to concentrate!

More sweat popped out on Holt’s wrinkled brow and slipped down his taut features. Blinking his eyes, his breath coming in gulps, Sam lined up the bird and forced her to hit the lip of the runway. He had to make the fifteen-hundred-foot mark. He just had to!

A gust of wind struck. The Eagle bobbled beneath his hands. He corrected swiftly, hand and feet performing a calibrated ballet. But his hand moved a quarter of an inch too far. The earth raced up to meet them. Holt heard Lauren gasp. Too fast! Too fast! The Eagle’s tires slammed into the runway surface. Instantly, Holt dropped the nose, and worked the rudders hard to stop. The red flag was coming up. Stop! Stop! Steam shot in all directions around the wheels. Rubber from the wheels was torn off by the concrete. A shriek vibrated through the air.

A fire light indicator popped on, glaring bright red in the cockpit. Sam’s eyes bulged. Where? Where was the fire? He could smell it.

“Sam,” Lauren rasped, her voice husky with tension, “we’ve got a fire somewhere.”

“Roger.” Quickly, he brought the bird to a halt, only twenty feet past the red flag. Dammit. His mind spun with options, with terrible choices. He rapidly scanned the gauges. A fire where? The engines sounded fine, but he stop-cocked the throttles, instantly shutting them down. Twisting around, he saw the lime-green fire trucks racing down both sides of the runway toward them.

“Wolf One, this is Mobile One.” Stang’s voice tensely came over his earphones. “You’ve got a fire in the port wheel well of the brake. Stay put, the fire trucks are on their way. Advise you sit tight.”

“Roger, Mobile One.” Holt took his thumb off the button located on the stick and whispered, “Jesus,” falling against the seat, suddenly so weak he couldn’t even hold up his head. Thank God, it was only a landing gear fire. A nightmare of possibilities fled through his mind. If it were an engine fire, the Eagle could have exploded right there on the runway. Or, they would have had to either leave the cockpit and try to make a run for it, or eject. None of the possibilities were good or safe.

“Sam?”

“It’s okay, Port. It’s okay. We’re safe…safe.”

Lauren’s voice was shaky. “Yeah, what a scare….”

He saw the trucks halt on either side of them, silver-clothed and hooded, firefighters racing toward them with hoses. In seconds they had doused the fire with foam. Shakily, he shoved up the visor and wiped his sweaty face.

“Hell of a landing.” Lauren’s laugh was strained. “I almost thought you were going to make that fifteen-hundred-foot marker.”

Holt looked to his left: they were twenty feet outside the marker. “I gave it one hell of a try.”

“Brother, did you.”

Sam grimaced. “Got whiplash, Port?”

Ruefully, she chuckled. “No worse than what Stang gave me a month ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. If it hadn’t been raining, you’d have made it! The bird was sliding.”

“Not if it causes a fire in the landing gear every time,” Sam muttered. His insides were quivering as if a hand were violently shaking his guts. Automatically, Sam massaged his belly and watched the firefighters move the hoses out of the way. There was nothing to do but wait until they were clear, and then, he could take the bird back to the hangar and they could inspect for damage.

Enthusiastically, Lauren added, “Tires can be redesigned to take this kind of a landing, and brakes with their sealants can be changed to prevent a fire, Sam. You did it! Well, almost. Did you log how you came in for that last landing?”

He snorted softly, throwing a thumbs-up to the fire captain stationed in the truck. Mobile One, which contained Stang and Merrill, came into view. “Let’s talk about my flight antics back at debriefing, shall we?” His flying had been nearly out of control. He’d been so scared, caught up in the previous crash sequence, that a goodly portion of what he’d done to almost accomplish the fifteen-hundred-foot landing had been on instinct alone. Honestly, Sam couldn’t remember what the degree of flight altitude the bird, had, or worse, the landing speed. He’d totally forgotten to look at the speed indicator. Jesus, he was a screwup.

“Mobile One to Wolf One, you may proceed back to the hangar. Fire Unit One will accompany you—just in case.”

“Roger, Mobile One. Wolf, out.” Holt flicked off the radio, getting back to the business of taking the wounded bird to the hangar. He moved the F-15 very slowly because when he had to make the turn to go into the hangar, he didn’t want to have to use the brakes very much and cause them to overheat, or possibly, catch fire again. What a lousy day. He hated Mondays; it was a constant reminder of Russ dying.

Holt noticed Stang standing impatiently on the concrete floor of the hangar as he climbed out of the cockpit of the F-15. Once on the ground, Sam removed his helmet and placed it beneath the crook of his arm. It was then that he smelled himself—the sweat of fear. The odor was strong, and he had no doubt everyone else, including the enlisted crew who worked with quiet efficiency around them, could smell it, too. Desperately, he longed for a hot, scalding shower to wash the sweat and the memory off him.

Lauren gave him a sympathetic look as she placed her helmet in her duffel bag. Stang was already beneath the landing assembly inspecting the damage the brake fire had caused. Needled, Holt put his duffel bag on the seat of Mobile One and then walked back to the Eagle.

“Hell of a landing both times,” Jack told him as he drew up to the port wheel.

Sam ignored the comment. Both landings had been lousy, the kind a green rookie would make before graduating from flight school. Lauren approached from the opposite direction, her notebook and pen poised, ready to take notes on the burned brake lining.

“Hey, Major, you got whiplash?” Jack taunted.

“No more than what you gave me when you cracked the landing gear, Captain.”

“Looks like you’re both in the doghouse,” Curt said, mustering a smile, trying to lighten the growing tension between Stang and Holt.

“At least Sam has come the closest to making that fifteen-hundred-foot mark,” Lauren reminded Stang testily.

Undeterred, Jack walked around the brake and continued to examine it closely. He was hoping Holt had cracked the strut, but it appeared intact. Lifting his head, he stared at Holt. “Just what kind of landings were those anyway?”

Compressing his lips, Holt said, “Carrier landings.”

“Looked like rookie landings to me.”

Anger shattered Holt, but he held on to it, his eyes narrowing on the other pilot. “Until you’ve graduated from the navy test pilot facility, I don’t think you’d recognize a carrier landing from a rookie one, Jack.”

Shrugging, Stang smiled easily. “No wonder the navy has such a high budget. They must burn the hell out of the brakes on all their aircraft if they land it like you just did.”

Hanging on to his shredded composure, Holt disregarded him. It was the only thing to do. If he kept responding to Stang, it would only escalate the tension felt by everyone, and right now, his nerves were raw. Sam needed to get away from here, away from the memories. As he walked back to Mobile One to write down preliminary notes on the flight, he felt scared; never had he wanted to be away from testing before.

Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, Sam made himself comfortable on the front seat. The knot in his stomach was twisting, hurting even more, if that were possible. The fear wouldn’t go away! Was it going to continue to screw up his flight responses? Closing his eyes, Sam dragged in a deep, shaky breath and released it. He had to get a handle on this! Russ’s death was encroaching on him and eating away his confidence.

Lauren came over a few minutes later, and she drove. Glancing over at him, she said, “You know, when I need someone to talk to, my fianceé is my best ear.”

Holt tried to ignore Lauren’s suggestion.

“Sam, you’re talking to me, not someone out to cut your throat.”

He glanced over at her. “Talking is dangerous to anyone in this business.”

“Usually, yes.” Lauren gave him a small smile. “Still, everyone needs someone special when things get rough for us, Sam. Do me a favor, and go talk, okay?”

Without warning, Megan’s features swam before his closed eyes. Holt clung to the image and wanted to erase the memory of Davis, and of the last hour of testing. God, he had to see her! He had to talk to someone. Instinctively, Sam knew she would be a good listener. There was no way he could talk to anyone here. No, better a civilian. Megan understood about jets and flying, even if she didn’t like them. As soon as the day was done, he was going to drive over to the school and see her. He needed her.