Night Flight (9 page)

“That’s not true!” he rasped, gripping her by the shoulders.

“It is!” she cried out.

Breathing hard, Curt stared at her contorted face, her cheeks wet with spilled tears. “No,” he said, his voice quavering, “nothing could be further from the truth, Becky. My God, the last eight years of my life have been the happiest I’ve ever had. Haven’t they been for you?” He was afraid of her answer, wondering if she loved him less than he had always loved her.

Wiping her face with a trembling hand, Becky said, “I—I’ve always been happy with you. It’s the Air Force, the pressure they put on me and Patty that’s bad, Curt.”

Dragging her into his arms, holding her tightly, Curt rocked her. “You’ve just got to get ahold of this problem, Becky. Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone about it. If word gets out, my career could be sandbagged. We’ll work this out together, okay?”

It hurt to breathe, to feel. Becky mutely nodded her head against his chest. Curt’s arms were strong and secure around her. “I’ll try….”

“Other pilot’s wives don’t have this problem,” he went on. “They’re not afraid like you are.”

“Who can I talk to about this, then?” Becky asked in a small voice.

Curt thought for a long moment. “Sam Holt’s a good ear. You’ve known him for the last seven years, Becky.”

Sniffing, she mustered a slight smile. “He’s like my big brother, Alvin. Those two have so much in common. Sam cares for everyone.”

“Yes, yes, he does. Talk to him, Sparrow. Maybe he can give you some pointers. I’m subjective about tins, and he’ll be objective. Plus, he’s someone safe to discuss this with. Sam won’t spread it around base and hurt my career.”

“Noooooo…” Sam Holt’s scream caromed off the walls of the bedroom. The covers slipped away, revealing his naked chest. Trying to reorient himself back to the present, Holt savagely rubbed his face. Russ Davis’s image hung in his memory.

“Dammit,” he whispered hoarsely. Throwing back the covers, he swung his legs across the bed. The hardwood floor was cool in comparison to his hot, sweaty body. It felt good, it brought him back into the present. Wiping his cheek with the back of his hand, Holt realized he’d been crying.

Shoving himself to his feet, he stood there, the moonlight pooling around him. His upper body gleamed with a heavy film of sweat. The drawstring pajamas clung damply to his lower body. When were these nightmares going to stop? When? Holt could smell himself and winced. It was fear sweat, not the normal kind of perspiration odor.

“Need a shower….” He walked unsteadily toward the bathroom. Holt didn’t turn on the electricity, the moon providing enough light to see the handles to the shower. He wanted the water cold, to snap him out of the past and bring him back to the present. His mind revolved out of control, the sequence of events leading up to the crash still hovering over him.

Angry at himself, Sam jerked off the pajamas and moved into the cold, steady spray. With a gasp, he faced the cascade of water. In moments, the worst of the nightmare was pummeled away beneath the pulsating streams. Ducking his head under the shower, he scrubbed his hair and face with renewed savagery, wanting to erase the last of the memory.

When Holt stepped out twenty minutes later, he was shivering. Wrapping a yellow towel around his waist, he walked back into the bedroom, his feet making puddle prints across the walnut hardwood floor. With trembling hands, he groped for and found his blue terry-cloth robe in the tangle of blankets at the bottom of the bed. Pulling it on, he let the towel drop to his feet.

He needed some coffee. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was 3:00 a.m. The nightmare always came at that time. Padding through the large, silent house, Holt made his way to the kitchen. He fumbled for the percolator and coffee. Trying to forget the remnants of the nightmare, Sam focused on Megan Roberts. His hands steadied.

“Megan Roberts,” he whispered, his brow wrinkling. Two weeks ago after speaking with her at the school, he’d sent her a dozen yellow roses and one red rose. And he hadn’t heard a thing back from her. Well, what did he expect? She had been honest with him: she didn’t like men in uniform. “Correction,” he muttered, plugging in the coffeemaker and then moving to the back door, “she doesn’t like pilots.” He liked her, civilian or not. Could he help it if her beautiful green eyes filled him with a peace he’d never known? Or that burnished red hair reminded him of a vivid, breath-stealing desert sunset? Looking out the window, Sam saw that his neighbor’s house was dark and silent.

At least some people were able to sleep at night, Holt groused to himself. Rubbing his face, feeling the bristly growth of beard beneath his fingers, he wondered if the replay of the crash would ever end. With renewed feeling, Sam refocused on Megan. Damn, but he liked her. She was a woman who knew herself, who utilized her fiery spirit to achieve her goals. There was so much he saw going on in those eyes of hers. If only she’d give him a chance. If only…

Moving to the table, Sam sat down, staring tiredly at the coffeemaker as it gurgled away. Normally, if he sent a woman flowers, she’d respond with a phone call, thanking him. He’d heard nothing from Megan, and she knew where he worked. Megan couldn’t send a card, because she didn’t have his address. It was easy to concentrate on her, and Holt pictured her face in the front of his mind, erasing Russ’s features.

The delicious odor of fresh coffee began to filter through the kitchen, and Holt felt the tension start to gradually ease from his shoulders. Rubbing the back of his neck, Sam knew it was because of Megan. She had an interesting face, the kind he could look at forever and always find something new and pretty about it. No, she wasn’t a raving beauty, but she was indeed arresting. Besides, he didn’t like perfect-looking women. Melody Stang fell into that category.

Holt wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t had plastic surgery done to her nose, eyes and chin to create the Grecian symmetry in that face of hers. She was a vain person in comparison to attractive Megan Roberts. No face was perfect. His test-pilot observations had confirmed that a long time ago. Every face was made up of two halves, neither quite resembling the other. One eye would be slightly smaller or larger than the other. One side of the mouth was thinner or thicker, or perhaps, one corner curved up or down more than the other. Little things, important things about the face, entranced Holt. And Megan’s slightly asymmetrical face was positively fascinating. He wanted the chance to simply stare at her, absorb her features, and tell her how unique and attractive she was to him.

“Contrasts,” he muttered, slowly getting up. Life was nothing but contrasts of gray, not black or white. It was the grays that made life interesting in his opinion. Retrieving a cup, he poured himself some coffee and sat back down at the table.

For once there was relief from the nightmare because he had Megan Roberts to concentrate on. She was like sunlight in his life right now. “Hard to catch, too.’’ Sam grinned slightly, sipping the coffee. “How do you catch a red-haired sunbeam who hates pilots? Good question, Holt. You’re so good at solving crossword puzzles, complex flight tests and flying finicky jets, why don’t you solve her?”

The challenge hung provocatively in front of him as he slowly turned the mug of coffee around in his hands. Okay, Friday he’d drop over unannounced at her school and ask her out as a friend, not as a date. Maybe have a coffee, or something nonalcoholic. That was harmless enough, and aboveboard. Give Megan a chance to know him. Of course, he wouldn’t make the mistake of showing up at the school in his flight suit. No, he’d bring along some civilian clothes and change before going over to see her. God, how he hated dressing up in a suit with a chokingly tight tie at his throat. He much preferred the open collar of his one-piece, comfortable flight suit. But, to get Megan, to begin earning her trust in him, he’d even go that far for her. It was the ultimate sacrifice for a pilot to struggle into a suit and tie.

A slight smile shadowed Holt’s mouth as he savored the plan. He’d never met a woman yet who wouldn’t say yes to his idea after sending her flowers. He relied on guilt to make them agree to go with him. The plan was a good one. After finishing off the coffee, Holt went back to bed. Tomorrow was Thursday, and Stang was scheduled to fly the test. All he had to do was observe the test, record what he saw in a report and hand it to Lauren and the designers. An easy day with no complications—no contrasts.

Jack waited in the Design room at his desk, eyes on the door. Merrill and the three flight engineers were already at work. Where the hell was Holt? Looking at his watch, Holt was ten minutes late. A thrill arced through Jack. Melody’s astute observations were correct: Holt must not be getting a good night’s sleep. How else could he explain his lateness?

The door opened. Jack leaned forward, intent. Holt entered. His flight uniform was wrinkled and impressed, and to his delight, there were dark circles visible under Holt’s eyes. In his right hand were a suit, shirt and tie on hangers. He watched as Holt hung up the civilian clothes on a hook behind his desk.

“A little late this morning, aren’t you?” Jack drawled.

“Had some things to do,” Sam answered.

“I’ve been noticing,” Jack said, leaning back in his chair, “that you’ve been looking peaked lately.”

Sam grinned. “Stang, you’re letting your imagination run away with you.” He looked at his watch. “Usually you aren’t up to firing speed until seven-thirty. What happened? You’re early.”

Returning the grin, Jack shrugged. “Nothing.” He motioned toward Holt. “You’ve got dark shadows under your eyes. You been sleeping well lately?”

Sam’s mouth quirked, and he turned, going to his desk. His mind was spongy this morning because of sleep loss, and Stang was sharper than usual with his observations. He needed a cup of coffee—fast. “I know your mother’s a scientist, but I didn’t know she was into sleep therapy,” he responded, going to the coffeemaker. He raised his hand to the three flight engineers who were huddled, heads together, over some last-minute decisions before Stang’s flight.

Jack studied his manicured fingernails. “My mother’s a genetic scientist, Holt, and I’ve got her powers of observation. You look whipped, as if you’ve been having bad dreams or something the last couple of nights.”

Holt scowled, but with his back to Stang, he couldn’t see his reaction. Needled because the pilot was on target; he said, “I think you’re jealous, Jack.” Sam grinned at him and ambled back to his desk, coffee in hand.

“Of what?” Jack scoffed.

“I’m single, good-looking as hell and have my pick of any lady over at the O Club I want.” He pointed to his eyes. “You’re right, buddy—long nights with some luscious-looking ladies. Eat your heart out.”

With a sharp laugh, Jack put his boots up on the desk and watched Holt. “Word’s out you don’t take any of those ladies home with you. No, I think something else is bothering you….”

Irritated, Sam sat down, pretending to be busy. “You’ve got an overactive imagination. Instead of testing, maybe you ought to change your vocation and go into writing fiction books.”

Grinning, Jack watched him closely. A flush had crawled up on Holt’s face. Good, he was on to something! His excitement soared, because this was the first time he’d shaken Holt up. There was a scowl on his face, too, his lips pursed. Bingo! His sixth sense told him the crash was still bothering him. And if that was so, Holt was in for it. That way, sooner or later, his flight confidence would have to start to erode, and then, he’d maintain a clear-cut lead for the number-one slot.

The end of the week was always tense around Ops. The week’s worth of testing had to be cleaned up, analyzed, absorbed and then the next week’s tests laid out. Not only that, but Holt was also scheduled to fly next Monday. Rubbing his hands together, Jack leaned back. Monday…

“Hey,” Sam called, “where are you going in such a hurry?” He saw Megan hurrying toward her car, her arms filled with books and homework.

Surprised, Megan whirled around toward the voice. Her pulse quickened. Sam Holt was dressed in a gray suit, light blue shirt and dark blue tie. Nonplussed, she watched him approach. The change in him was startling. Without the flight suit, the image of the pilot disappeared. His smile went straight to her heart, and she drowned in the warmth mirrored in his cobalt eyes.

“I almost didn’t get here in time,” Sam said congenially in way of a greeting, and halted in front of Megan. She looked pretty in the peach shirt-dress, her red hair a lovely complement against the color of the silky fabric. He saw gold flecks in her green eyes and hoped that it meant she was happy to see him.

“Hello, Captain,” Megan said uncertainly. How devastatingly handsome he looked in a suit. Any corporation would scoop him up in a second, she thought disjointedly.

Sam touched the lapel of his jacket, giving her a distressed look. “Captain? How can you even suggest that when I’m in civilian clothes?”

She grinned, watching his mouth curve into a self-deprecating angle. “If it walks like an Air Force captain, talks like an Air Force captain, it must be an Air Force captain.”

Sam laughed fully. “Shot down! Here, let me help you.”

Before Megan could speak, he took the armful of papers from her. “Thank you.”

“Which car is yours?”

“The red Toyota over there,” she said, pointing down at the end of the huge parking lot.

“Red hair, red car. I knew your fiery spirit would show up in other places. You’re a crusader at school, and hell on wheels in the vegetable department of a grocery store. I’ll bet you drive like Parnelli Jones, too.”

Megan walked at his side, pleased that he checked his long, lanky stride for her benefit. “I do, but you don’t have any room to talk. You drive a Corvette as I recall….” The least she could do after receiving the lovely yellow roses from Sam was to be civil with him, she told herself. Megan wanted to rationalize why she wanted to be friendly and on a first-name basis with him. She looked up to see the happiness in Holt’s eyes, feeling joy tumble unexpectedly through her.

With a laugh, Sam said, “Driving a ‘Vette was the closest thing I could find to flying a jet.”

“No truer words were ever spoken by a test pilot.” The wind was playful, lifting strands of her hair across her shoulders. Overhead, the Friday afternoon sunlight was bright and blinding in the pale blue desert sky. Megan unlocked the rear door of her car so that Sam could put all the papers on the seat.

“Thank you,” she murmured. He was so tall and proud-looking that Megan couldn’t tear her gaze from Holt. There was some undefinable aura about him that she’d not seen in another test pilot. And whatever it was, she wasn’t immune to it, and she realized Sam knew that. He closed the door and faced her.

“Did you get the flowers I sent?”

“Yes. They’re lovely, Sam. I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I’d received them.” She shrugged. “I really expected you to show up the next day at school, and I was going to thank you then.”

“But I didn’t.”

“No.”

“You figured I’d capitalize on the situation—wooing you with flowers, and then show up to take advantage of your lowered guard?”

Megan felt heat rise in her cheeks, and she avoided his smiling eyes. “You ought to get paid for reading my mind.”

“I like what’s in your heart, Megan Roberts,” Sam said in a low tone, and held her widening eyes. “I’ll be honest, though—when I first met you, I was going to chase you down until you said yes to me. But, I’ve changed my mind. The flowers were my way of saying let’s start over and be friends.”

“I don’t think friendship is possible between any pilot and a woman,” Megan admitted, feeling guilty.

“Why?”

Uncomfortable, she crossed her arms against her breasts. “I—”

“No lines, remember?” Holt reached out and barely touched her hair, caressing the clean, curled strands. “I want a relationship with you, Megan, and I think friendship is a good place to start.”

Panicky, she stepped away, her arms dropping to her side. “Sam, you’re asking for the impossible!”

“Nothing’s impossible.” Pursing his lips, Sam steeled himself and gathered up the courage to ask her out. All day he’d sweated out this moment, rehearsing what he was going to say over and over again. All the words fled. “Look…it’s Friday night. I’d like to take you out for some dinner, maybe some dancing. We’ve both got to drive to Lancaster where we live. There’s the Antelope Valley Inn. They’ve got good food, and it’s quiet.”

Shaken, Megan fumbled for the keys and jerked open the door. “No!”

“Hey, hold it.” Sam gently gripped her by the shoulder and forced her to turn toward him. “Talk to me, Megan.” Her face was pale, her eyes containing the hunted look of a rabbit cornered by a predator. But dammit, he wasn’t a predator intent on hurting her! Megan didn’t know that, though. His fingers lightened on her shoulder. “Don’t run.”

“Please,” she whispered tautly, “let go of me, Sam. I have to be over at the day-care center in half an hour.”

“Day care?”

“Yes, I work over there three evenings a week.”

“I didn’t know.”

Heart pounding hard in her breast, she, gave Holt a pleading look. “It’s not going to work between us! It can’t.”

“It can if you want. I’m willing. And, I like you.”

“Pilots are always willing.”

“You like me? Maybe just a little bit?” he coaxed huskily.

“Sam—”

“Hold it. How about something harmless? Maybe another meeting at the grocery store? We can shop together.”

Megan uttered a sigh and studied him. Sam’s face was guileless albeit shadowed with a touch of anxiety in his eyes that she would say no. “I don’t shop tonight. Tomorrow I—”

“Tomorrow sounds good to me. How about if I meet you at the same market, by the corn, say…at seven o’clock?”

With a little laugh, Megan shook her head. His tactics were endearing, if nothing else. “No.”

“Tell me the truth. Do you like me, Megan?”

“It doesn’t matter if I like you or not!” she said and climbed into the Toyota.

Megan’s words didn’t match what he saw in her eyes. If he was any judge of her reaction, she liked him just as much as he did her. Fair enough. Leaning over, Holt said, “I’m not giving up on you, lady.” He gave her a slight smile. “I’ll be seeing you around, maybe even in the veggie department.” He gently shut the door to her car, stepped away and allowed her to escape.

Standing there, watching her car disappear down the road, Sam turned and walked back to his Corvette. Progress had been made. He’d established a beachhead with Megan, even if she were going to fight him all the way. That was all right, and he smiled, his walk growing lighter. Redheads were expected to make situations complex—and interesting. A plan was forming in his head. Next Friday, he’d drop over to the school and ask her out. Then, she couldn’t say no to him. Looking up at the sky, he saw the clouds were coming in from the west. He had to fly Monday morning. Was it going to rain? God, he hoped not.

Jack waited impatiently for Holt to show up at Design on Monday morning. Lauren Porter was already at work, rechecking the test to take place shortly. Merrill was looking haggard and drawn at his desk, in a foul mood. Jack drummed his fingers on the desk and smiled to himself. Last week, he’d noted that Holt was looking worse, the shadows under his eyes darker. Mentioning Davis’s death to him on both days last week seemed to be pushing Holt’s buttons. Good.

The door swung open. Holt appeared, his flight suit splotched and darkened with rain. He pushed his long, lean fingers through his hair and smoothed it back into place on his head.

“Hey!” Jack called out in a rolling voice. “Wasn’t it raining that night when you augered in with Davis?”

An incredible surge of anguish overcame Sam. He jerked to a halt. It had been raining hard that evening. The test had been postponed until the shower had moved by the base. The pain Sam felt turned into white-hot fury as he drilled Stang with a glare.

“Yeah, it was raining, Stang.” He forced himself to move, cursing himself for falling prey to the bastard’s premeditated attack. Stang was dangerous in a cunning, manipulative way. Sam saw Lauren’s head snap up, her eyes filled with understanding and sadness for him. He managed a nod in her direction, muttered, “Morning,” and dropped his briefcase and garrison cap on his desk.

Curt didn’t look any better than Sam felt. Holt nodded to the test pilot and then walked over to the coffeemaker. His hands visibly shook when he poured the coffee, and he wondered if anyone saw it. He’d had repeated nightmares about Russ’s death on Saturday and Sunday. Night was becoming his enemy, a time when he no longer felt comfortable—or safe. Turning, he saw Stang watching him like a cougar ready to pounce on its victim.

“You know, Major,” Jack drawled in Porter’s direction, “you’ve got to go up and fly with Holt in this weather. Aren’t you a little worried about it?”

Lauren refused to even look in Stang’s direction. She copied some figures from her calculator to the flight test form for Holt’s flight. “I’d be a hell of a lot more worried if you were in the front seat, Captain.”

Merrill snickered.

Jack twisted his head and glared over at Curt. He saw Holt saunter by, grinning. “I still say with this kind of weather, it makes landing with the Eagle tricky.”

“Holt has good hands,” Porter replied confidently. The best set in the business, in her personal opinion.

“I question his judgment.”

“You would,” Holt said, keeping his voice free of anger and sitting down at his desk. “In fact, Jack, you’d like to see me screw up this flight, wouldn’t you? Your percentile rating would move out of the danger zone, buddy.” He jabbed a finger at him. “Right now, I’m on your six, and only a half a percent of a point away from being even with you for the number one slot. I intend to keep it that way.”

Stang shrugged eloquently. “On your six” was a combat fighter pilot’s terminology meaning his jet was directly behind the other’s plane and could shoot it down. “It’s raining, Holt. Just like it did when Davis was in the rear seat. The only difference is it’s day, not night. If I were you, Major, I’d be a little concerned about hitching a ride with Holt today. You notice the dark circles under his eyes? Ever wonder why he has them? He didn’t have them when he first arrived at Edwards.” Jack grinned, watching Porter’s angry features. “No, he got them after he let Davis die.”

Holt launched out of his chair. He grabbed Stang by the shoulder and shoved him around in the chair so that he faced him. “You’re way out of line,” Holt breathed savagely. “I didn’t let Russ die!”

“Sam!” Porter sprang to her feet and moved toward the two men. “Ease off. He’s just trying to shake you up, don’t you see that?”

Longing to wipe that smile off Stang’s narrow face, Sam released the captain’s shoulder. “Someday,” he growled, “that mouth of yours is going to get you into real trouble,” and he stepped away.

“Come on, Sam, we’ve got to get ready for the test,” Lauren said tautly, glaring down at Stang.

Jack relaxed. “Go for it, boys and girls. I’ll be watching you at the end of the runway, along with the fire trucks.” Jack knew the fire trucks were always positioned along the runway whenever a test flight was flown. He just wanted to place one more needle into Holt’s already shaken demeanor.

Porter gripped Holt’s arm, literally dragging him toward the door. “Come on, Sam…” she pleaded tightly.

Walking down the hall toward the lockers where their G-suits, helmets and oxygen masks were stored, Lauren glanced over at him. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

Holt glared at her. “I said I’m fine, Port.”

“Okay.”

His hands shook badly as he zipped his G-suit on. The chaps hugged his lower body, hips and waist. When under a stressful climb or using evasive flight maneuvers, the chaps would inflate, forcing blood into the upper body so the pilot wouldn’t faint and lose consciousness, possibly losing control of his plane as a result.

“Stang is a real bastard,” Lauren muttered, straightening after donning her G-suit. She pulled the duffle bag containing her helmet and mask down from her locker.

“Among other things,” Holt added. He tried to shake off the anger and concentrate on the forthcoming test. The rain was letting up outside the windows of the locker room, but a cold chill racked him. The test. He had to concentrate on the test. Without warning, he saw Russ Davis’s young face hovering before him. Holt scrubbed his eyes.

“Sam?” Lauren asked sympathetically, waiting for him at the door that would lead out to the tarmac, where the bus was waiting to take them to the hangar where the Eagle was parked.

He jerked the duffel bag out of his locker and swung around. “Let’s get this show on the road.” Now Lauren was looking at him doubtfully. Was she questioning his ability to fly? He couldn’t accurately gauge the emotions in her eyes. She was far less readable than Megan.

Megan. Sam clung to her name and allowed her attractive, smiling features to replace Davis’s face. A drenching calm filtered through the shakiness he felt in his gut. Within moments, Holt felt steadier, some of the fear subsiding. But not all of it.

They swung out the doors, the pall of rain steady once again. The sky was crying for the loss of Russ as far as Holt was concerned. Hitching a ride in the bus, they drove over to a hangar housing the Agile Eagle. Automatically, Holt forced himself to focus on the forthcoming test.

The restricted area lay at the western end of Edwards, a long row of huge hangars capable of keeping several jets hidden within their aluminum-skinned sides. The bone color of the desert was darker today, the scant sagebrush and many-armed Joshuas looking greener because of the life-giving rain. The concrete apron was shiny with water, a rarity at Edwards. Within fifteen minutes they were rolling out of the hangar and into the pall. The Eagle’s twin engines mounted at the rear of the fuselage whined and she trembled beneath Holt’s boots and guiding hand. A small board with the test runs was strapped to his left thigh, the pages plastic-coated for ease of flipping over and reading. Flexing his gloved fingers, Sam pointed the bird toward the end of the long, ten-thousand-foot runway.