No Quarter Given (SSE 667) (4 page)

It hurt to laugh, but Dana did anyway. "Mol didn't know which box her journal was in."

"I
told
her to index those boxes!"

"I know. But she was more concerned about getting our houseplants down here uninjured." Molly had driven her sensible station wagon loaded with plants and breakable items to make sure they arrived in good shape. She didn't trust moving vans.

Maggie smiled fondly, looking toward the open door. "If she wins her wings, I think we ought to call her Mom or Mother." Every pilot who graduated came out of flight school with a nickname that stayed with him or her forever.

Dana's smile disappeared. "I worry about her, Maggie. Everything we've heard about flight school being twenty times more demanding than the academy worries me."

Maggie snorted. "I'm worried for myself, too. At the grocery store I bumped into a sixth-week student from Pensacola. He told me ninety percent of his class had already been washed out."

"Wow!" Dana clenched her fist. She had to make it!

"I'm just glad the three of us are going into this together."

"Yeah. Misery loves company."

Grinning, Maggie got up. "You're feeling better, I can tell. You're back to your usual pessimistic sense of humor."

Dana slowly got off the bed, feeling a bit light-headed. Maggie came to her side and slipped her arm around her shoulders.

"I know...you can make it on your own," Maggie chided, leading her toward the door. "But suffer my help, Dana. You look like hell."

"Thanks."

The bright light hurt Dana's good eye. Her other eye was swollen shut. She bowed her head and allowed Maggie's lanky frame to offer partial support. "This hasn't been one of the better days of my life."

"Don't we know it. Come on, let's go out to the kitchen where Dr. Molly is stirring up her brew. I wonder if you have to drink it? The cure may be worse than the black eye."

It hurt to grin, but Dana couldn't help it. The kitchen was huge, with a highly polished light green tile floor. Molly was working furiously over the stove, a white apron wrapped around her tall figure. The apron looked funny with the short shorts she was wearing, but Dana didn't comment, realizing it might hurt Molly's sensitive nature.

"Oh, good, you're up! I found my grandma's journal!"

"Yeah..." Dana sat down very carefully at the table, her legs feeling a bit unstable. Maggie stood at her shoulder, concern on her face. "I'm okay, Maggie. Go sit down."

"Naw, I'm going to get the camera for this one. This goes in our Sisterhood scrapbook: How To Help An Injured Sister."

"Don't you dare!" Dana gave Maggie her best glare.

Grinning, Maggie turned and left the kitchen.

"This won't be so bad," Molly soothed, bringing the pan over to the table. She set it on a hot pad. Wiping her damp brow with the back of her hand, she smiled. "It smells awful, but I'm sure it will help."

Dana eyed the mixture in the bottom of the pan. "Good God, Mol, that stuff smells
horrible!"

"Well... it's a mixture of horse liniment, crushed comfrey leaves and—"

"Don't tell me any more. It probably contains eye of newt and tail of frog."

"Oh, no! They're just herbs, Dana. Grandma wasn't a witch. She was a healer all her life. You have to smear it all over the swollen part of your face," she explained apologetically. "Grandma said it will reduce swelling in twelve hours or less."

"It better," Dana growled, holding her nose. "I'll put it on myself. Is it hot?"

"No, just warm." Molly sat down, watching eagerly.

Maggie appeared at the entrance to the kitchen, camera in hand. Dana glared at her. Maggie laughed.

"If you
ever
show these pictures to anyone, you're dead meat, Donovan. Got that?"

"Roger, read you loud and clear."

Molly groaned. "You two! You're always threatening each other. Aren't you ever going to stop?"

Dana carefully dipped her fingers into the black mixture. It felt like slimy glue. "Our friendship's based upon mutual irritation," she told Molly.

"Go on," Maggie urged, waiting impatiently to click the camera, "put that stuff on your face, Coulter!"

"Ugh! Molly, this smell's enough to kill a person!"

"I'm sorry, Dana."

Muttering under her breath, Dana spread the ointment across her cheek. The smell was horrendous. "God, I'm going to get better just from the smell alone."

Maggie giggled and the camera flashed.

"By morning, the swelling ought to be down quite a bit, and your eye will be open," Molly said enthusiastically.

"I can't show up for flight school with my eye closed," Dana complained sourly. She applied the mixture liberally. "If this works, I'll kiss your granny's grave, Molly. But if it doesn't, I'll come looking for you."

"Oh, dear...."

Dana instantly felt contrite. Molly's flushed face showed genuine distress. "I didn't mean it," she denied quickly. To prove it, Dana slathered more of the goo across the injured area.

"How's it feel?" Maggie called, taking advantage of another photo opportunity.

Dana shrugged. "Surprisingly, it feels pretty good. There's heat in it."

"That's the horse liniment. My grandma said it was good for everything."

Dana knew the liniment contained a stimulant to increase blood circulation. That in itself should reduce swelling. "I feel better already, Mol. Thanks." A good night's sleep would ready her for tomorrow's first grueling day at Whiting Field. Her stomach clenched with fear. It was a familiar feeling, and Dana didn't respond to it. All three of them had butterflies in their stomachs. What would tomorrow bring? As Dana smeared the last of the paste on her face, she wondered if she would dream about Griff again tonight, when she closed her eyes.

***

Griff awoke in a foul humor. He'd cut himself shaving, having refused to look into what he knew were bloodshot eyes. Dreams had kept his sleep restless. The first half of the night his mind had run over and over Toby's unexpected death and the funeral Griff had attended yesterday. Near morning, unwilling thoughts of Dana, of all things, had filled his head.

Irritably, Griff turned on the shower. He threw the disposable razor into the wastebasket and stripped off his light blue pajama bottoms. The material pooled around his feet, and he kicked the pajamas aside.
Dana.
The word echoed gently in his heart. Tendrils of warmth flowed through him, and he savored the wonderful feeling her name evoked. Absently, Griff rubbed his chest. Since his divorce, he hadn't felt much of anything except anger, frustration and loneliness. And realizing that the healing process must take place first, he hadn't been much interested in women, either.

As he stepped into the hot, steamy shower, Griff closed his eyes, allowing the water to wash the stench from his body. He'd awakened last night sweating heavily, replaying Toby's crash in his mind. Grabbing the soap, he scrubbed himself savagely, trying to escape the numbness that came with thoughts of Toby.

There would be no familiar phone call from his friend this morning. Griff was an acknowledged grump in the morning, and Toby often called to cheer him up as he drank his first cup of coffee.
No more.
As he shut his eyes and allowed the water to hit his face, Griff saw Dana's face dance before him. Miraculously, the pressure in his chest disappeared and the tightness gripping his heart eased. Shaking his head like a dog coming out of water, Griff turned off the faucets and allowed the water to drip from him.

How could a woman he didn't even know take away his grief? An awful numbness that inhabited him since he'd been notified of the accident, and his recent dislike of women had soared alongside his grief over Toby's loss. Over the past five days, he'd tasted real anger toward women. It was unreasonable, Griff knew, but he couldn't help himself. Maybe it was the divorce, compounded with Toby's death. He wasn't sure of anything anymore. His emotions felt raw and shredded.

After toweling dry, Griff stepped out of the bathroom and pulled a clean one-piece flight suit from his bedroom dresser drawer. Dana came back to his thoughts. She wasn't beautiful. No, she had an arresting face; and her huge blue eyes were her finest feature. Pressing the Velcro closed on his flight suit, Griff sat down on the bed and pulled on his dark blue cotton socks. Next came his highly polished flight boots, shining like mirrors. They weren't patent leather like what a lot of the IPs had. Griff lovingly and carefully shined the leather for hours with polish—the old-fashioned way; the way it was done before patent leather invaded the military.

Sitting on the huge king-size bed, Griff looked around, feeling the awful silence that seemed to sit heavily in his chest. His hands on his long thighs, he stared toward the hall. Funny, even after six months, he missed Carol. Well, maybe not her, but their routine. Griff missed waking up with a woman's warmth beside him and having her make him breakfast before he left for Whiting Field at 0630.

Frowning, he stood, automatically checking to make sure his name tag was in place over his left pocket, his IP badge over his right. Locating a bunch of pens on top of the dresser, he shoved several into the upper-left sleeve pocket of his uniform. His stomach growled, but somehow he wasn't really hungry. When his mother died, the same thing had happened. His father back in Jerome, Arizona, was still alive and healthy. All his other pilot friends were alive—a feat in itself, considering the extreme hazards of fighter-jet duty. Toby had been the first casualty he knew personally.

As he picked up his briefcase and opened the front door to face the apricot sunrise on the horizon, Griff wondered who his next three students would be. Maybe one out of the three would get past his demanding teaching methods. Today, there was no enthusiasm in his stride down the concrete walk. Griff barely saw the pink-and-white oleander bushes that hid his tan bungalow from the quiet street of homes that surrounded him. He felt only a terrible heaviness in his heart, and he had no desire even to get to Whiting Field in time for the 0700 IP meeting. The only thing that told him he was still alive, still capable of feeling, was thinking of Dana.

As he unlocked his car door and got in, Griff allowed her face to remain with him—her short pixie-style black hair, the small earlobes graced with tiny pearls. Everything about her shouted exquisite refinement. How could someone who appeared fragile be so damned bold, stepping into the path of a crazed thief? he wondered. Shaking his head, Griff started up the Corvette. Somehow, he had to see Dana again. It was a crazy thought. Crazy! Anger welled within him at the thought of women—yet her face, her presence, had given him an island of peace within his shattered world. How could that be?

***

Nervously, Dana stood with Maggie and Molly among twenty-five other students. They had been processed and taken to the ready room at Whiting Field. Accustomed to the often hostile stares of the male students, Dana internalized her dread. They had all been assigned to VT2 upon arrival, and Maggie had discovered that VT2 had the highest washout rate of the three student squadrons. Molly had ferreted out that an 03, Lieutenant D. G. Turcotte, had the highest washout rate of the seven VT2 instructors. He was called the Turk, Molly had told them in a tense voice.

God, let me have a good instructor, Dana thought. She sat with Maggie on her right, Molly on her left. Because Dana was so small, her olive-green flight suit fit sloppily. It would have to be taken in, the sleeves and pant legs shortened considerably. For now, Dana had rolled them into thick wads at her wrists and ankles. With her clownlike garb and glorious black eye, she was painfully aware of being the center of attention. Thanks to Molly's grandmother's recipe, though, her eye was opening this morning, and the swelling somewhat reduced from the night before.

"Here he comes!" Maggie whispered, nodding to the left. A door on the stage opened.

Dana's heart began a slow pound. She swallowed convulsively. There were twenty-eight students. Each instructor would be given three to teach for the first six weeks.
If a
student managed a passing grade of 2.0, then he or she would have different flight instructors for the remaining nine weeks of training. Word was out that these six-week IPs made or broke the student. Only one out of ten students went on to become a-Navy pilot. Dana felt dampness in her armpits as she watched Commander Hager walk confidently toward the podium at the center of the stage. He was dressed in his tan uniform, the gold wings glinting above his left breast pocket proclaiming that he was a naval aviator.

"Good morning. Here are the flight-student and instructor-pilot assignments. Ensigns Wilson, Dunlop and Coulter to Lieutenant D. G. Turcotte."

Dana gasped softly. Molly gripped her hand, giving her a sad-eyed look. Maggie's full mouth pursed.

"Lieutenant Turcotte's students will report to him in room 303 at the administration building in the following order and time. Ensign Coulter, 0900. You will fly at 0700 every other day, Monday through Friday."

Trying to still her panic, Dana wrote down the information. She had the Turk, the 03 with the highest washout rate at Whiting. What had she done to deserve this? It was 0800. There would be an hour's briefing, and then all students would be dismissed to go about their respective duties. Her mind whirled with questions and haunting fear. Was Tur-cotte a woman hater? Was he like a lot of the Annapolis grads who thought women couldn't hack it, or make good military officers?

Molly's hazel eyes were wide with silent sympathy. She leaned over to Dana. "Hang in there. Maybe he'll consider you something special."

Dana shook her head. "I'll just bet he will," she whispered back. What would Turcotte think? Dana had to care, because suddenly her dream of a flight career hung precariously upon this stranger's thoughts and feelings.

***

Griff stared disbelievingly at the assigned student list that had been given to him by Sergeant Johnson. "Danielle Marie Coulter, Ensign" stared back at him. He dropped the paper on his desk.

"Ray!" he roared from his office. The black yeoman third-class appeared at the doorway.