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Under Fire
Lindsay McKenna
Brash, independent Navy pilot Maggie Donovan never dreamed her career–or her heart–would come under fire. But when she teamed up with sinfully sexy Wes Bishop, Maggie had met her match. From the first, Wes was enraptured with the fiery Maggie…and he suspected there was a wealth of womanly tenderness within her just waiting to be tapped. Yet when heart-stopping danger put them both to the test, Wes realized that Maggie's courage and passion reached beyond his wildest imaginings…WOMEN OF GLORYDana Colter, Maggie Donovan, Molly Rutledge–three daring valiant WOMEN OF GLORY. Fighting for life and country against impossible odds in the name of friendship, honor –and love.
Brash, independent Navy pilot Maggie Donovan never dreamed her career—or her heart—would come under fire. But when she teamed up with sinfully sexy Wes Bishop, Maggie had met her match.
From the first, Wes was enraptured with the fiery Maggie…and he suspected there was a wealth of womanly tenderness within her just waiting to be tapped. Yet when heart-stopping danger put them both to the test, Wes realized that Maggie’s courage and passion reached beyond his wildest imaginings…
Previously published.
Under Fire
Lindsay McKenna
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Chapter One (#ua12367dc-50a5-5d21-8b17-9f4b824df7a2)
Chapter Two (#uab50d4af-4c88-530d-8893-52e648cc5162)
Chapter Three (#u19381316-4866-5014-9a3f-d655e39e1d35)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
“I wouldn’t fly with you again if you paid me to!”
Maggie Donovan glared at her radar information officer, Lieutenant Brad Hall. They stood tensely, inches apart, on the revetment area next to her F-14 Tomcat fighter jet. “Yeah? Well, you don’t see me digging into my pockets to give you any money to do it, do you, Hall?”
Hall jabbed a finger in her direction. “You’ve got a real problem, Donovan. It’s called ‘You wanna run the whole goddamn show’!”
Her eyes narrowed in fury. “I’m the pilot! You’re damn right I run the show. If anything happens to that bird, it’s my responsibility and my rear on the line—not yours! You sit in the back cockpit and fiddle with your knobs and dials. You should do as I tell you. That’s your job, mister, in case you forgot it.”
“Man, you’re as tough as they come, Donovan,” he rattled, taking a step back from her. “There’s no way in hell I’m sitting in the cockpit with you again. I’m going to Commander Parkinson to ask for a transfer. Get some other poor jerk to listen to your tirades. I already feel sorry for whoever it is. You’re worse than a nagging wife!”
Maggie, dressed in her flight suit and the body-hugging G-suit, jerked off her Nomex gloves and stuffed them into her pocket. “Hall, you can take a long walk off a plank, for all I care! I’ll be going to Commander Parkinson, too. I’ll make sure he gets the full story on your screw-ups in the cockpit.”
“I didn’t screw up. I’m just tired of you telling me how to do my job! No RIO in his right mind will fly with you. I’ve had it. Screw Red Flag and screw you!” Hall whirled on his heel and stalked off across the concrete apron, heading toward the waiting van that would take them back to Operations.
Breathing hard, Maggie tried to get control of her hair-trigger temper. “Good riddance,” she whispered under her breath as Hall disappeared into the van. She waved at the driver, indicating he should go on without her. She needed time to calm down.
Day had just dawned over Naval Air Station Miramar, just north of San Diego, California. At 0800 the July sun’s long rays shot westward toward the Pacific Ocean, not far from the station. Muttering under her breath, Maggie returned to her fighter and climbed up the ladder to retrieve her knee board.
“What a rotten start to the day.” She rummaged around on the side of her ejection seat and located the board. Below, Maggie heard her crew chief’s voice.
“Lieutenant Donovan, how did Cat perform this morning for you?”
“A hell of a lot better than my RIO did,” Maggie retorted. She struggled to put her anger away. “Cat” was the name she had given her fighter. To many pilots a fighter was nothing but metal, wire and computers. But to Maggie, the F-14 seemed to come alive under her hands. And she’d given it a name worthy of its abilities.
Petty Officer First Class Chantal Percival, Maggie’s dark-haired, darked-eyed crew chief, stood expectantly down below, dressed in a green one-piece uniform. Despite her petite size, Chantal, in Maggie’s opinion, was the best crew chief in Fightertown, U.S.A. She had a magic touch with aircraft, and Maggie was glad Chantal was her mechanic for the daily flights. Besides, Maggie believed in women helping women, and she’d lobbied hard to get Chantal two years ago when she was first assigned to fly at Miramar. That was what the Sisterhood was all about, and Maggie enjoyed putting it into action every chance she got, working on behalf of enlisted women as well as the female officers based at the station.
Maggie climbed down the ladder. “Cat’s back on target. You did good work on that heads-up display. Thank you.” Crew chiefs were the backbone of any fighter squadron, and any good pilot knew it. Maggie’s full name was printed on the side of the cockpit of her F-14, and just below her name was Chantal’s. Rapport between pilot and crew chief was critical, and those who cared for the aircraft had just as much pride in it as the pilot who flew it.
Chantal frowned. “I was just coming out of the hangar when I heard voices. Everything okay?” Her hair was cut very short. Absently, she pushed aside her wispy front bangs with grease-stained but capable fingers.
Maggie crouched down, unzipped her duffel bag and placed the knee board in it. At twenty-five, Maggie’s own age, Chantal had been in the Navy seven years—she knew the wisdom of tiptoeing diplomatically around such touchy subjects as two officers having a verbal fight in public. As an officer, Maggie couldn’t talk about the incident to an enlisted person. But, knowing Chantal, she’d heard every word Maggie and Hall had traded.
“Lieutenant Hall and I were just talking about our flight.” That was the truth.
Chantal smiled knowingly, rocking back on the heels of her black boots. “He must have been real excited about something, huh?”
Maggie straightened and grinned back. “You might say that.”
“Any flight discrepancies to report?”
“A few minor things. I’ll note them in my discrepancy log and get them to you before noon,” Maggie promised. “I’ll see you later.”
Chantal came to attention and saluted her smartly. “Yes, ma’am.”
Maggie returned the salute and headed toward the huge hangar with the name Fightertown, U.S.A. painted across it. Miramar was the home to Top Gun, where fighter pilots were trained and challenged to become the very best combat-worthy pilots in the world. The smell of JP-4 aviation fuel, the whine of jet engines and roar of several FA-18 Hornet fighters taking off behind her on the airstrip, made up the world that Maggie loved with a fierceness she never apologized for.
Frowning, Maggie turned to her immediate problem. Three months ago her boss, Commander Howard Parkinson, had chosen four of his best fighter pilots and their RIOs to participate in Red Flag, the Air Force equivalent to the Navy’s Top Gun. This time the Air Force was making Red Flag open to the four best fighter pilots from each of the four services. Whoever won the contest would show the world which service had the best combat-ready pilots—it would be the ultimate plum in the world of military aviation competition.
To Maggie’s unparalleled delight, she and Lieutenant Dana Turcotte had been chosen as part of the Navy’s team. Obviously Parkinson wasn’t chauvinistic about women’s capability to handle combat flying. Instead he supported them completely, believing that women had even better reflexive skills than most male pilots. But he didn’t say that publicly; only privately to Maggie and Dana. They were guinea pigs, he told them. They had to show military in general, and Congress in particular, that women pilots had the ability to be excellent in combat, too. The pressure on the two friends, and especially on Maggie, was appalling.
“Well, this is really going to pop Parkinson’s brass buttons,” Maggie muttered, entering the hangar. Brad Hall was an arrogant son of a bitch at best, and had been chosen exclusively because of his skills. He’d been pulled off fleet duty in the Far East to become her RIO specifically in preparation for Red Flag. For three months they’d suffered with each other. But the personality conflict between them had taken its toll. Maggie had had enough, and it had come to an explosive head this morning. What was Parkinson going to think?
Hitching a ride with another van headed for Ops, Maggie scowled. She ran her hand along the thick braid of red hair that she had pinned to the nape of her neck. She had very long hair, almost to her waist, but military regulations dictated that it was allowed only to brush the collar of her uniform.
Maggie braided her hair each morning and put it into a chignon instead of cutting it short as most women in the military finally did. The world she lived in was such a masculine one she insisted on remaining feminine. Her nails were always manicured and polished. Although she had never worn much makeup, she did wear lipstick regardless of whether she was flying or on the ground that day. Although the flight suits she wore were made for men, not women, Maggie had long ago started having them retailored to fit her tall form.
Her duffel bag contained many feminine articles. Once on the ground after a flight, she put on a tasteful pair of pearl earrings surrounded in gold. She also reapplied her lipstick and used a small spray bottle of perfume to neutralize some of the more unsavory fuel odors that inevitably lingered from around the hangars of the air station.
As she walked down the main hall of Ops after dropping her flight gear off at the women’s locker room, Maggie wondered what Hall had told her boss. Knowing Hall, he’d probably exaggerated to make her look like the heavy. Would Parkinson remove her from Red Flag training and replace her with another pilot and RIO team?
Maggie broke out in a sweat at that thought. She slowed her step as she walked into the outer office of her boss. Yeoman Susan Walter, a woman in her early thirties, smiled.
“Your fame has preceded you, Lieutenant,” she warned lightly.
Maggie grimaced. “I was afraid of that. Is the commander in?”
“Oh, yes. And he’s been waiting for you.”
“I’ll bet. Thanks, Susan.”
“Go right in.”
The look on Susan’s face told Maggie everything. Obviously Hall had come busting in here like a tornado. How much damage control would she have to implement to salvage her Red Flag training? Like those of all navy pilots, Maggie’s hand shook. It was a natural result of landing on carrier decks, one of the most dangerous of all flight maneuvers. Maggie reached out and gripped the brass doorknob that led to Parkinson’s office as Susan announced her over the intercom.
Maggie stowed her feelings deep inside as she entered the spacious office. Parkinson, in his early forties and partially balding, looked up. His wire-rimmed glasses sat on the bulbous end of his nose. He was a big man, appearing more so in a uniform that always seemed one size too small for him. Maggie quietly shut the door and came to attention in front of his desk.
“At ease, Maggie. Sit down, sit down.” He gestured for her to take the chair nearest his maple desk.
“Thank you, sir.” Her stomach quivered and knotted. Parkinson’s dark brown eyes could rip someone apart if he chose. But Maggie knew that he liked having women in the service, and was at the forefront of getting them combat qualified in combat aircraft as part of the congressional trial. Maggie couldn’t afford to have her career smeared by Hall. If she failed, then all the women who were struggling to follow in her footsteps would suffer because of it. Maggie couldn’t live with that possibility. She sat up straight and alert.
“Brad Hall was in here,” Parkinson said, leaning back in his leather chair and studying her.
“Yes, sir. I’m sure he was.”
“He wasn’t very happy, Maggie.”
“I wasn’t, either, sir.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
Maggie didn’t like the probing look Howard gave her. Had he swallowed Hall’s tirade? His lies? Sweat popped out on her upper lip. To rant and rave immaturely about Hall would put her in a bad light with her boss. Diplomacy wasn’t Maggie’s forte, either, but she had to try to dredge some up from somewhere. Her career could be hanging on the line. Her fierce belief that a woman could do anything a man could might be scuttled by one lousy, jealous man.
“Sir, Lieutenant Hall and I have tried to adjust to each other over the last three months. We’ve had a personality conflict since the get-go.”
“He called you a bitch.”
Maggie’s mouth tightened. “I suppose I can be that upon occasion, sir. It’s been my experience, however, that if a woman is assertive, she’s labeled a bitch, while if a man uses the same tactics, he’s called bold and his aggressiveness is applauded.”
Howard grunted. “He said you were a nagger.”
“‘Worse than a wife,’ I believe, were his exact words.”
“Yes. That, too. He accused you of telling him what to do all the time in the cockpit.”
Squirming in her seat, Maggie controlled her temper with difficulty. Between clenched teeth, she said, “Sir, when I’ve got a bogey on my screen with the radar screaming in my ear that I’ve got him dead to rights and my RIO is sitting on his thumbs back there, I’m taking the shot with or without his help.”
Parkinson’s straight black brows rose slightly. “Did you get the kill this morning?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“Good.” He leaned forward. “Hall is refusing to fly with you again, Maggie, even if it means a court-martial. Those are pretty strong words for a career officer. He’s serious.”
“Yes, sir, I know he is.”
Tapping his fingers on the files beneath his hand, Howard rolled his eyes. “I’ve got a dilemma, Maggie. Hall was chosen because he’s the very best RIO the Navy has. In my opinion, you’re our best combat pilot. I wanted the best paired with the best. We’ve only got three more months to prepare for Red Flag. You know how important teamwork and timing between the pilot and RIO is. It takes time to develop.”
“No one realizes that more than I do, sir.”
Getting up, he went to his coffee maker and poured himself a cup. “Want some?”
What Maggie wanted right now was a good, stiff belt of Irish whiskey. “No, thank you, sir.”
“Cut the ‘sir’ stuff, Maggie. Relax. I’m not hauling your ass off this assignment, so stop looking like I’m going to end your career at any moment. Do you want some coffee?”
Relief cascaded through Maggie. She managed a slight smile. “Yes, sir… I mean, oh, hell. Yeah, give me a cup. My nerves are shot from squaring off with Hall.”
Howard handed her a mug. He sat on the edge of the desk and thoughtfully sipped his coffee for several minutes before speaking.
“Why didn’t you come to me sooner about him?” he asked finally.
Maggie got up, unable to sit still any longer. She’d always had an overload of nervous energy. “I thought it was me, at first.”
“Oh?”
“You know how bullheaded and opinionated I can get.”
“Yes. Like an overfocused laser on occasion.”
Maggie nodded and sipped her steaming-hot coffee. “It’s a weakness. But I also know my strengths, Commander. The first month with Hall was awful, but I assumed it was my fault. The second month, after changing tactics and trying my best to be diplomatic, nothing changed.” She shrugged. “This last month I just said to hell with it and went back to being myself, hoping Hall would adjust.”
“He didn’t.”
She sighed unhappily. “No.”
“You’re still buying into the double standard, Maggie.”
She stared at Parkinson in disbelief.
“Close your mouth, Maggie. I didn’t hit you, for heaven’s sakes.”
Snapping her mouth shut, she said, “Okay, what gives?”
“You followed the classic conditioned reflex of assuming it was your fault that Hall was reacting to you the way he did.” The commander drilled her with a dark look. “Now, I know pilots and RIOs all have big egos, Maggie. They have to. Ego clashes are common in this little world of combat aviation. It takes a healthy ego to fly a thirty-five-million-dollar jet fighter on and off the heaving deck of a carrier. That RIO sitting behind you is helpless, dependent on your flight skills. He’s not only got to think you’re the best damn pilot in the world, but that he’s the best damned RIO. Sometimes, seasoned RIOs get pretty plucky—even more egotistical than a pilot, if you can believe that. And when they do, they start encroaching on the pilot’s territory. The problem usually only rears its head in combat circumstances.”
