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“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 Turcotte 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.
“Yes, sir?”
“What the hell is going on here?”
“Sir?”
“You’ve made a typing error. There’s no way I’m taking on one of those women student pilots.”
Johnson shrugged apologetically. “Sir, Chief Yeoman Tracer gave me the list earlier. I know how you feel about it, and when I saw the assignment I asked the chief if it wasn’t a mistake. She said no.”
Griff got to his feet, grabbed the paper and shouldered past the yeoman. There had to be a mistake! Striding down the long, narrow hall toward Captain Ramsey’s office, Griff had to control his raging feelings. Ramsey knew he had no use for women in the military world. Over the years, Griff had softened his view somewhat, but had remained adamant that flying a military aircraft was a man’s job. Besides, how he felt about women right now made him rabid about not accepting Coulter.
Captain Burt Ramsey was leaning over his yeoman’s desk, giving her instructions, when Griff stepped into the outer office.
“Morning, Griff,” Ramsey said.
“Sir. May I have a few words in private with you?” Griff remained stiffly at attention. He was shaking inside.
“Certainly. Come on in.”
Making sure the door was closed so the yeoman couldn’t overhear, Griff stood at parade rest in front of the captain’s highly polished maple desk. Ramsey, a fifty-five-year-old officer, sat down. Folding his hands on the desk, he looked up at Griff.
“What’s on your mind?”
Trying to steady his hand, Griff thrust the assignment paper toward him. “This, sir.”
“Those are your assignments for the next six weeks.”
“I know, sir. But—there’s a woman in there.”
“I’m aware of that,” Ramsey replied coolly.
Struggling for self-control, Griff bit out, “Sir, I respectfully request that Ensign Coulter be reassigned. I don’t believe a woman can be a good pilot of a military aircraft. My best friend was just killed by a woman student pilot over at Pensacola. I—”
“Lieutenant, I feel Ensign Coulter has what it takes to be with the best instructor at Whiting. That’s you. You’re tough and exacting. Her grade point at Annapolis was a straight 4.0. That’s a rarity in itself. Take a look at her file, and I think you’ll agree, she’s fine material to work with. The Secretary of Defense is getting pressured to put more women in flight slots. We need P3 pilots badly. If she can handle your instruction, then I feel we have a candidate for the antisubmarine-warfare squadrons that are low in pilot manpower—er, person power.”
Despair ripped through Griff. “But, sir—”
“Ensign Coulter is your student, Lieutenant. And despite your personal prejudice, which needs work anyway, you are to treat her just like any male student assigned to you. Is that understood?”
Griff tensed. A lot of responses went through his head, but the only wise answer was “Yes, sir.”
“I don’t want to hear Coulter smacking us with a sexual-prejudice lawsuit, either.”
His heart sank. Ramsey expected him to railroad her out of flight school. Well, wasn’t that what he’d planned to do if forced to take her? “I’ll treat her like any student assigned to me, sir.”
Ramsey nodded. “Good. Dismissed, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.” Wearily Griff turned on his heel and left the office. Outside in the hall, he slowed his pace, wrestling with an incredible avalanche of feelings. A woman had killed Toby. Coulter could kill him. Women didn’t have good judgment in times of emergency. Carol fell apart under the most trivial circumstances. She had always cried and clung to him.
Rubbing his brow, Griff headed back to his small office. Glancing at his watch, he saw he had exactly half an hour before Coulter reported to him. It would give him the necessary time to bone up on her file. No doubt she’d be a lot like Carol: appearing strong on the surface, but internally flawed and weak, needing a man to tell her how to run things or make decisions.
Yeoman Johnson already had placed Coulter’s file on his desk. Reluctantly, Griff opened the thick folder. He nearly came unhinged at her physical statistics: five foot two, one hundred pounds and only twenty-two years old. She was too small to wrestle the weight of a screaming, out-of-control jet! His anger mounted as he continued to peruse Coulter’s file. In her plebe year—the first year as an underclassman—Coulter had won the right to carry the company colors. Who had she twisted around her finger to get that plum?
Academically, Coulter appeared to be brilliant. She excelled at mathematics and computers and earned a degree in aeronautical engineering. On the Annapolis swim team, she’d been first in freestyle and butterfly. She’d been appointed team captain in her third year at Annapolis, and under her guidance, the team had tacked up impressive wins over the next two years.
Griff wasn’t impressed. He slammed the folder shut, shoving it away. “That doesn’t mean you have hands, sweetheart. You might be good in the water, but air is an entirely different matter.” “Hands” was the term used for an individual’s feel for a plane. To have good flight hands meant possessing a natural knack with the aircraft and flying. Griff raised his head when Johnson gave a brief knock and stuck his head inside the office door.
“Ensign Coulter’s here to see you, sir.”
Girding himself, Griff growled, “Send her in, Johnson.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dana sat on a long wooden bench in the hall with several other student pilots. They were all nervous. The man nearest her, Ensign Manning, a fellow Annapolis grad, shook his head.
“I hear you got a screamer, Coulter.”
Dana frowned. “A screamer?”
“Yeah. Word’s gone ’round that the Turk’s a screamer. You know, he yells at you constantly in the cockpit.”
Dana’s throat got a little tighter. “I’ll take it one day at a time.” One hour at a time. First, she had to get past this initial interview. Ever since high school when she’d found out that the Navy pilots were considered the best in the world, Dana had dreamed of becoming one of them. Flying, for her, meant having the unshackled freedom of an eagle. To sail above the earth meant to sail over the misery that would meet her once she landed. No. Getting her wings was the most important goal she’d ever set for herself. And she’d win those wings—with or without the Turk’s help.
Manning shrugged. “Sorry you got such rotten luck. I wouldn’t wish the Turk on my best enemy.”
Dana managed a laugh, although it still hurt to smile. Her eye had nearly swollen closed again. “I’m known for my rotten luck, Manny. I’ll just persevere like I always do.” When they’d first met Manny at Annapolis, he’d hated the three women; but later, as part of Dana’s freestyle swim team, he’d been won over by her physical abilities. In the last year, Manny had become their staunch supporter.
“What do you think will happen when he sees that black eye?”
“He’ll probably think I started a barroom brawl somewhere and had it coming,” Dana muttered.
Manny shook his head. “You’re something else, Coulter. A sense of humor even as you walk into the jaws of death.”
Dana saw Sergeant Johnson crook his finger in her direction. Time to meet the dreaded Turk. She grinned as she rose, smoothing at the wrinkles in her too-large flight suit. “My black humor has gotten me this far, Manny.” If only it could get her successfully past this interview.
“Break a leg,” he whispered.
As Dana walked down the long, polished passageway, she wondered if the Turk would try to break her spirit as a way of washing her out. Nervously she wiped her damp palms against her thighs. Johnson opened the door, giving her a slight smile that she read as encouragement.
