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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.”
Maggie stood very still, assimilating Parkinson’s statement. “That’s exactly what happened. Hall started second-guessing me when we were closing in for a kill on radar or the heads-up display. I wouldn’t stand still for his badgering me to fire before I felt it was appropriate. We got into a lot of squabbles on the intercom.”
“I was hoping it wouldn’t happen,” Howard murmured, sitting down at his desk. “But I knew there was a possibility it could.”
Her eyes rounded. “Well, why didn’t you warn me?”
“Maggie, if I told you everything I’ve learned, would you remember it, much less use it?”
“I’d give it one hell of a try.”
He shook his head. “Making a good fighter pilot is part teaching and part letting them learn from their own experience. You’ve had three RIOs here at Miramar over the years. Hall was your fourth. You got along well with the first three. That’s why I didn’t swallow all of Hall’s accusations. Unfortunately this assignment went to his head. Being touted as the best RIO in the Navy is no small boast, Maggie. He swallowed his own press—hook, line and sinker.”
She snorted. “And I see my responsibility as the first woman fighter-pilot in the Navy to be just the opposite. It’s a load to carry. If I screw up, every other woman will be pointed at and told she’s just like me. And that’s not true. Why didn’t Hall see his assignment the way I do?”
“Because the double standard’s still alive and kicking, Maggie. Hall’s a man, and moving higher up on the ladder of success breeds ego, confidence and, in some, a swelled head. Because you’re a woman, you took exactly the opposite tack: your elevated status equaled responsibility and nothing more. Women have had it drilled into them for five thousand years that they’re to be meek and subservient.”
Maggie sat back down, deep in thought. “Okay, so I’ve learned a valuable lesson, Commander. But this sure isn’t going to help us at Red Flag. How can I train a new RIO to work with me when it’s only three months away?”
Howard raised his brows. “Good tactical assessment of our problem.”
Maggie felt a tiny bit better when Parkinson framed it as “our” problem and not just hers. She liked his ability to work as a team, guiding everyone toward working for a common goal.
“However,” Parkinson went on, “I also want you to realize, Maggie, that Hall may have had some valid criticism of your performance. I’m not talking about his name-calling.”
Her conscience pricked her. “Yes, sir, I do tend to come down on the RIO when things get tense. I just don’t want to get nailed by the enemy, that’s all. I have to perform outstandingly every time.”
“I know that, Maggie, and that’s why I’m not hauling you on the carpet over Hall’s transfer. The work between a pilot and an RIO is like a marriage. It can be made in heaven or hell.”
Quirking her mouth, Maggie nodded. “Well, ours went straight to hell,” she conceded softly. “I know I didn’t help things, sometimes. But, dammit, Hall just got my goat!”
“No, he pushed the buttons on that temper of yours.”
“I’ve been working on corralling it. Honest to God, I have.”
“Hmm.” Parkinson eyed several folders on his desk. “I’ve got three new RIO candidates flying in today for Top Gun classes. I’m going to look over their records and see what we’ve got to choose from. Then, I’ll pick one for you—”
“Sir, may I interview the potential candidate?” Maggie knew she shouldn’t even ask such a question. In the military system, you took what you got without saying anything.
“That’s a highly unusual request.”
Maggie placed her hands flat on his desk, holding his gaze. “Yes, sir, it is. But I’m in a highly unusual situation.”
“Don’t use reverse female chauvinism on me, Maggie. It won’t work.”
“No, I didn’t mean it that way!”
“Sure?”
Maggie felt some heat creep into her cheeks. She knew she was blushing. Brazenly, she held her boss’s dead-level gaze. “Yes, sir.”
“You’re trying to bluff your way through this, Maggie.” He grinned. “But, I don’t blame you. Okay, I’ll let you interview your new RIO.”
“And if I don’t think the chemistry’s there after a familiarization flight?”
“You can check out the other two. Fair enough?”
A smile leaked from her tightly compressed lips. “More than fair, skipper. Thanks.” She straightened into an at-attention posture.
“When I get done, which will probably be sometime tomorrow, I’ll contact you over at the hangar and get you and the potential RIO together,” Parkinson growled. “Now, get out of here, Donovan. I’ve got work to do.”
Smiling, Maggie said, “Yes, sir!” then made a neat about-face and left his office.
Because she was part of the Top Gun instruction team at Miramar, her office was located in Ops on the second floor. Humming a lively Celtic tune under her breath, she felt the weight on her shoulders dissolve. Maybe Hall leaving halfway through the six months of Red Flag training would be okay, after all.
In her small, plain office, Maggie got down to work. Every once in a while, the thought of her new RIO leaked into her mind. Would she be able to get along with him? What would he be like? A good pilot-RIO combination was like a winning dance-competition couple: their every movement smoothly choreographed and flawlessly executed. A bad combo was like the result of a shy ten-year-old boy getting dragged out onto the dance floor by an overenthusiastic girl: a disaster in lack of coordination. But the combat dance a jet-fighter couple performed in the air was more critical than dance competition on the ground. The deadly dance they performed together in the sky could keep them alive…or let them die.
So, what would her partner be like? The professional who knew she had to be the boss in the air? Or the gawky ten-year-old boy stumbling over his own feet?
Chapter Two
“Hey, Lieutenant Donovan!” an air crewman from the side office in the hangar shouted. “Commander Parkinson wants to talk to you on the phone.”
Maggie was head deep in one of Cat’s engines with Chantal when the petty officer called to her. Muttering, Maggie carefully withdrew from the engine intake, with Chantal at her side. Her crew chief gave her a clean rag to wipe off her hands.
“Thanks, Chantal.”
“Maybe news about your new RIO?” Chantal guessed.
Maggie glanced at the watch on her left wrist. It was exactly noon. “I hope so. I’ll be back a little later.”
“Yes, ma’am. Good hunting,” the chief teased.
With a grin, Maggie settled her garrison cap on her head. “Thanks.” She entered the little hangar office and picked up the receiver.
“I think—” Parkinson’s voice on the phone held a degree of humor “—that you’re going to like your replacement RIO, Maggie.”
Her heart beat a little harder. Nerves. “Oh?”
“His name is Lieutenant Wes Bishop. I wanted you to come over and check him out here at Ops, but he said he’d rather meet you at the officers’ club for lunch.”
She frowned. “Great.” Bishop must be one of those jocks who thought he could impress her with lunch and a bottle of wine.
“Don’t jump to conclusions. He’s a good candidate. Spend all the time you need with him, give him an FAM flight and then get back to me with your assessment and decision.”
“Yes, sir.” Maggie hung up the phone. Her dark green flight suit had smudges of grease and God knew what else on it from helping Chantal tinker with Cat’s engine. With her degree in aeronautical engineering, Maggie knew a great deal more about the mechanical workings of her plane than most pilots.
“I look like a pig.”
“Ma’am?” the petty officer behind the desk asked, raising his head from his paperwork.
“Oh…nothing.” Maggie spread out her hands before her. Last night she’d taken the polish off her nails to let them breathe for a day or two before coating them with another color. Groaning, she realized that grease was stuck stubbornly beneath them. Great. She was going to look like a grease monkey to this guy.
Why do I care? He ought to be more worried about what I think of him. With that thought, Maggie tossed the rag into the receptacle for just such items, picked up her purse and slung it over her left shoulder. Leaving the hangar, she hitched a ride in a truck going in the direction of the O club.
On the way over, Maggie took the mirror out of her purse. Her hair looked frizzy. Not that she had curly hair, but a number of auburn strands had worked their way out of the chignon, especially from her temple area. Putting on some lipstick made her feel a bit better, but Maggie knew, at best, she looked more like a mechanic today than a pilot.
And then her temper got the better of her. Why should I worry what I look like? Double Standard Donovan. Knock it off. This is business. Strictly business!
Of course, Maggie thought as the truck dropped her off at the O club, she was going to check out Bishop with a fine-tooth comb. Her mother had trained her to pay attention to faces, voice tones, body language and eyes. Eyes were the most important consideration.
As she hurried up the concrete sidewalk, she prayed Bishop’s eyes showed honesty and intelligence. Ignoring the small palm trees and bougainvillea that surrounded the spacious O club, Maggie entered through the double doors.
Taking off her cap, she hesitated in the foyer. Bar or dining room? She snorted softly. Bishop, she was sure, was probably in the bar—like every other macho Navy jet jock. She hated going there because the civilian women groupies were always hanging around trying to hook up with a flier. The games they played made her nauseous. Taking a deep breath, Maggie dived into the huge bar. It was crowded for this time of day, and a number of civilian women mingled with the men dressed in uniform and flight suits. The hunt was on.
How was she going to find Bishop? It meant she had to walk up and down the entire bar looking at the name on each man’s flight uniform. The cigarette smoke and the loud hard-rock music jarred her frayed nerves, but Maggie persevered, eyeballing each man’s name tag.
After fifteen minutes of close inspection, Maggie still hadn’t found Bishop in the bar. Going back out to the foyer, she frowned. Okay, she was wrong about Bishop. He wasn’t a groupie jock. At least, not today. Maybe he was on his best behavior. Who knew? She headed to the dining room, a much quieter, well-lit place with lots of greenery, soft music and a far better clientele, in her opinion.
At the door, she halted. Although the dining room was filled to capacity, Maggie had no trouble singling out her RIO. Her blood boiled. She saw Brad Hall leaning over another man in a dark green flight suit, talking intently. Hall. Maggie narrowed her eyes. The seated man had to be Bishop—she could barely make out his name in gold print emblazoned on the black leather patch on his flight uniform.
Was Hall a buddy of Bishop’s? Maggie’s hands turned damp as she considered the possibility. Clenching her garrison cap, she gave herself time to check out Bishop without being discovered. Hall was too deeply in conversation with his fellow RIO to even notice her presence.
When Hall moved from in front of Bishop, it gave Maggie her first clear view of him, and her first impression. Her heart thudded once in her breast to underscore her strictly feminine response to Bishop. God, but he was sinfully handsome! Bishop looked more like a movie star than an honest-to-God RIO earning a Navy paycheck.
Maggie had to jerk herself up short and stop reacting like that. He must be at least six foot four. He was a big man with broad shoulders, a square face and a strong jaw to go with it. Olive-skinned, Maggie observed, with short black hair and expressive brows above his intense blue eyes. She relaxed slightly. Good, Bishop’s eyes were large and spaced far apart. His high cheekbones and eagle-like nose created a wonderful balance for those appealing eyes that seemed to dance with mischief. As her gaze drifted down to his mouth, Maggie felt herself go weak and shaky.
Stop this! Maggie Donovan, you’re acting like a girl who’s fallen in love with her first boy! Idiot! But she couldn’t help it as she gazed at the lazy curve of Bishop’s beautifully molded mouth. The lower lip was large and flat, and the corners turned up naturally, as if a slight smile hovered perpetually around his mouth. His upper lip was sculpted and slightly smaller. But together, Maggie decided, those lips composed the most attractive mouth she’d ever seen on any man in her life.
I’ll bet he’s a real heartbreaker with the groupies. Tall, dark and handsome. Women would fall all over this guy. Overall, Bishop was large boned: but his hands were well shaped, with long fingers—almost artistic, in Maggie’s estimation. He looked Italian, but her finely honed instincts didn’t completely agree with that judgement. There was a certain aura of danger about Bishop—something that made her feel abnormally unsure of herself.
When he smiled at something Hall said, Maggie groaned inwardly. Bishop’s face beamed; his dazzling smile made her heart race. But his eyes remained cool. Bishop didn’t really think whatever Hall had said was humorous; his eyes would have reflected it. Maggie frowned. No doubt Hall was filling Bishop’s ear about her. Damn it! She didn’t need to get off on the wrong foot with him. As she started forward, Maggie knew it was a two-way street: Bishop could refuse this assignment with her, too. And if her boss felt this man was the best for the job, she didn’t want to lose him because of Hall’s criticism of her—justified or not.
“It’s a small world,” Maggie challenged Hall, coming up and halting a foot away from her ex-RIO.
Wes Bishop rested his chin against his hands, and watched with interest. Something had whispered to him earlier to look up toward the entrance of the dining room. He knew immediately that the red-haired woman in a green flight uniform had to be Maggie Donovan. Her five-minute inspection of him made him smile to himself. He’d pretended to pay full attention to Brad’s story of woe but the whole time, his senses had been acutely focused on Maggie.
“What are you doing here, Donovan?” Hall growled, straightening and standing next to Bishop’s chair.
“It’s noon and it’s time to eat. I have a stomach just like you do, Hall.”
Wes winced. Man, she could come out firing when she wanted to. It was obvious she and Hall didn’t like each other.
Brad glared at her. “I was just filling in my old friend, Wes Bishop, on working with you. I understand he’s your new RIO.”
Maggie glanced over at Wes, who was staring innocently up at her. That damned mouth of his was curved in an angelic shape, and she bridled. “If there’s any filling-in to do, it’s my responsibility to do it, Hall. Not yours. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’ve got to interview Lieutenant Bishop.”
Hall shrugged. He patted the other RIO’s shoulder. “Later, Wes.”
“Yeah. Later, Brad. See you around.”
Nervously, Maggie sat down opposite him. She stowed her purse and garrison cap beneath her chair. Offering her hand after Hall left, she said, “I’m Maggie Donovan. Commander Parkinson told me you’d be over here.”
Wes noted how long and slender Maggie’s hand was. She didn’t have pretty model’s hands; fingers were too large-knuckled. He clasped and shook it, appreciating her strong grip. “Wes Bishop. Nice to meet the world-famous lady combat-pilot.”
With a grimace, Maggie noticed his firm yet gentle shake. He had wonderful hands, she thought. Trying to get her wildly rolling feelings under control, Maggie worked to contain her strictly feminine reaction to Bishop and get down to the business at hand. It was impossible to do.
“There’s been too much publicity on me over the past couple of years,” she griped. “None of it was fair, and the rest was mulch for those rags. I hope you didn’t believe what you read.”
Wes smiled and picked up his coffee cup, studying her over the rim. “I prefer meeting a person face-to-face before making up my mind.” She was feminine despite her lanky frame, he decided—and touchingly vulnerable. Her hand shook as she picked up the glass of water and sipped. Partly from flying off carrier decks, he thought. Still, there was a softness to Maggie that appealed strongly to him. There was anxiety in the depths of her lovely emerald-green eyes. Automatically, Wes wanted to put her at ease.
“You’re not what I expected, I have to admit.”
Maggie tried to appear at ease, although she felt anything but. She tried to figure out her reaction to Wes Bishop logically. Sure, she was nervous about meeting him as an RIO; but more, her heart was doing wild leaps every time he rested those steady blue eyes on her. When had a man’s looks ever made her feel like this? Maggie blamed her nerves. “Oh?”
“Yeah. I expected a hard-edged broad who walked with a macho swagger and tried to pretend she was one of the boys. You aren’t.”
Gawking at him for an instant, Maggie was nonplussed. “You shoot straight from the hip, don’t you?”
“I see you didn’t waste any words on Hall, either,” Wes pointed out mildly.
“Touché,” she admitted. The waitress came over and Maggie gave her order. She wasn’t really hungry. This man made her so nervous she wanted to drink to quell her reaction, but she needed a clear head so she ordered coffee instead.
Placing her elbows on the table and resting her chin against her clasped hands, Maggie said, “Commander Parkinson sent me over here.”
“I know. To check me out.”
“It’s for both our benefits.”
“That’s fine. I understand. Hall has a problem with you.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“Don’t get your hackles up, Lieutenant.”
“I will if you swallow the hogwash he fed you.”
Wes grinned and moved the dainty cup slowly around in its saucer, his large hand huge in comparison to the china. “You’ve got a very distrustful look in those pretty green eyes of yours,” he baited.
“And you can cut through the jock talk, Bishop. This is strictly business between us.” Still, she’d liked his low, rough tone when he’d complimented her.
“Just because I compliment you doesn’t mean I’m after your body, Ms. Donovan.” Not that it wasn’t a pleasant thought. Wes liked her lean, greyhound grace. Maggie wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense. She had a long face to go with that long body of hers. Her eyes were like huge green emeralds framed with thick red lashes. Her nose, he was sure, had been broken, with a bump to attest to it. The rest of it flowed straight and clean down to fine, thin nostrils that flared when she was taking offense. Wes couldn’t decide which he liked more about Maggie: her eyes that telegraphed every emotion, or that pursed set of full lips that had just a touch of impishness.
Maggie sat digesting his statement. “You give as good as you get, don’t you, Bishop?” she said after a moment.
“I guess it comes with the territory, Donovan. Pilots think they run the show up there.”
“RIOs think they run it.”
Wes leaned forward, a lazy grin on his mouth. “The truth is, we run it together.”
She felt a glimmer of hope. “You aren’t just B.S.-ing me? You mean that?”
“To use the words of Commander Parkinson, pilots and RIOs are in a marriage of sorts.” He looked her over nice and slow, deliberately testing her reaction. She frowned. “I wouldn’t mind being ‘married’ to you. And I’m not such a bad catch, either.”
Maggie stared hard at Wes. The woman in her entertained the fleeting thought of him as a husband. No, he wasn’t a bad catch. And then Maggie bridled at her foolish thoughts. Where were they coming from, anyway? “Where’d you get your sense of humor?”
“The same place you got yours, Ms. Donovan. My mother’s an Italian woman of fire and passion. My father’s half Cherokee and half Irish.” His grin widened. “I got my mother’s skin color and hair. My father gave me the high cheekbones, blue eyes, his nose and mouth, not to mention my wonderful personality.”
“Passion, huh?” She had to tear her gaze from the lazy smile that pulled at his mouth—a mouth that any woman would be crazy not to want to kiss.
“Nothing wrong with a little passion, is there?”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed. Wes had her way off-balance. Normally she held her own with any arrogant jet jock. “Depends upon where the passion is emphasized, Bishop.” Yes, he was a man of passion, there was no doubt, and Maggie went hot and shaky inside. Was she going crazy? Was the stress finally getting to her? Never had she reacted so strongly and immediately to a man. It had to be her imagination, the stress of her job.
“Oh.” He gave her an innocent look. “Well, of course it would be a passion to be the best damn RIO you ever had while we work together in the cockpit to win Red Flag.”
Maggie sat back and her laugh came out full and rolling. With a shake of her head, she rested her elbows on the table again. “You always say the right thing, Bishop?”
His eyes danced with merriment. He liked her full-throated laughter. He liked a woman who could laugh at herself, as well as at the world around her. “I can’t blame my diplomacy on my Italian side because my mother has absolutely none.”
“And the Irish have no capacity for diplomacy.”
“That’s true. I guess the Cherokee blood from my father gave me the saving grace of knowing when to say something and when to keep my mouth shut.”
“I have a hard time believing any jet jock can keep his mouth shut.”
“You’re afraid I’ll try to override your decisions in the cockpit?”
Serious now, Maggie said, “Yes, to be honest about it. Hall tried it, and I wouldn’t stand for it.”
“I like a woman who values truth above everything else.”
Rolling her eyes, Maggie heard him chuckle at her reaction. It was a low, rumbling chuckle. There was absolutely nothing about Wes that rubbed her the wrong way. She was curious about him. No man had ever kept up with her lightning tongue the way he did.
“That wasn’t a line.”
“Sounded like one. I’ve heard that so many times in the bar over there, it’s not even funny.”
“Can’t blame those boys for trying to hit on you,” Wes told her congenially, sipping the coffee.
“‘Boys’?” Maggie blurted, because she wondered if Wes really was drawn to her as much as she was to him on strictly a personal level. No, he couldn’t be. Not ever. “And I suppose you’re a man compared to them? Oh, brother.”
“I’m twenty-nine—older than most of those youngsters in there hanging out at the bar with their arms around groupies. How old are you?”
His sudden seriousness rattled Maggie. “Twenty-five.”
“At least you’re out of diapers.”
“I was walking at nine months. What about you?”
“A year.”
“A little slow, aren’t you, Bishop?”
“Slow start, strong finish. I’m very good at crunch time, Ms. Donovan.”
In the cockpit, when they were searching for the “enemy” on radar, things could get very tense. Some RIOs got too excited and started yelling. That would upset a pilot who preferred a more laid-back, composed RIO. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“So, this is supposed to be an interview of sorts,” Wes said congenially, leaning forward, his elbows also on the table. “I have to size you up and vice versa. Parkinson feels we can work well together. He laid out the facts about this Red Flag assignment. It’s only for three months, and after that, I’ll be able to go back to my squadron out on the carrier. I consider this a three-month vacation.”
“Of what? Working with a woman combat-pilot? Or Red Flag?”
“Both.”
She probed him mercilessly. Somehow, Maggie had to get out of her emotional response to him and keep it strictly business. “Okay, I’m taking off the kid gloves with you, Bishop, because I don’t have any time left to waste. I’ve got to find a damn good RIO who can train fast, take orders without a lot of back talk, and help us win Red Flag for the Navy. I don’t like, nor do I tolerate, male chauvinist pigs. I believe a woman can do anything a man can—with some physical limitations, of course. When we’re in the air working together, my sex doesn’t enter into the equation, and yours doesn’t, either. We’re a team—not a man and woman working together. I’ve worked my butt off getting this far, and I carry more responsibility than I care to admit—for all women—as a result. I know I’m a symbol in this test Congress has seen fit to try out. If I screw up, I screw up for all women. A lot of combat pilots don’t like me and think that when the chips are down I can’t fly or fight just as well as they can.”
She halted and watched him. Wes sat relaxed, with all his attention on her. If what she’d said didn’t faze him, there was hope. Maggie saw no defensiveness or anger in his eyes. “I’ve been training Top Gun pilots here for almost two years. Out there over the desert in the restricted area where we fly, I’m the ‘aggressor.’ My whole reason for flying is to outwit, outfox and outmaneuver these hotshots and make them realize where they’re weak in their flying skills so they can improve and become better combat pilots.
“On the ground at debrief, we go over every dogfight sequence. Nine times out of ten, I win my confrontations in the air with these guys. They don’t like it because they’re getting beaten by a woman, and women aren’t supposed to be able to fly half as well as they can. My stats can’t be argued with, Bishop. That’s why Commander Parkinson chose me to head up the Navy Red Flag team. I need an RIO who wants to win just as badly as I do. I’m competitive, but not with anyone but myself. I don’t expect anything more of you than I do of myself. I’m not a screamer in the cockpit. I’d hope we can work smoothly in an adult way. I can’t stand childish pouting or games being played when everything’s on the line.”
Wes sat there for a long moment, digesting Maggie’s impassioned words. The waitress came and delivered her salad and his hamburger. He thanked her and worked at putting mustard and catsup on the burger. Maggie glanced up at him from time to time, running her fork disinterestedly around in the shrimp salad.
“I don’t have a problem with what you said.” Wes took a huge bite of his hamburger, watching Maggie’s instantaneous reaction. Her eyes widened enormously, and he tucked his smile away. He knew she’d thought he would challenge her brass-knuckled delivery of her expectations. “Matter of fact,” he added, picking up a french fry, “I totally agree with you.”
Her nostrils flared and she pushed the salad aside, zeroing in on him. “Okay, what do you expect out of this?”
Her intensity pleased him. A damn good combat pilot had the ability to focus sharply on what was ahead of him—or her, in this case—blocking out everything else. “I kinda like the idea of working with a woman. Never have before, and that intrigues me.”
Her heart banged violently against her ribs. Was he honestly drawn to her? No. Every other male she’d worked with over the years had been all business, regarding her not as a woman, but as a pilot—a genderless person who sat in the front seat flying the plane. Wes’s hooded look in her direction unstrung Maggie. “Look, if you’re talking—”
“Whoa, let me finish.” He held up his hand. Then, teasingly, he asked, “Do you always interrupt people?”
Chastised, Maggie nodded. “Yeah, one of my bad habits. Go ahead.”
“I like that: you can admit your faults.”
“I didn’t apologize, Bishop.”
“I didn’t expect you to. But most male pilots wouldn’t have admitted anything, either.”
“So?” Maggie challenged.
“So, I like your ability to be a human being, not a tin god in the cockpit like those boys think they are.”
Her smile was rueful. Most fighter pilots were in their early or middle twenties. With Wes being an “old man” at twenty-nine, she imagined they did look like boys to him. “I like your maturity already.”
“Good.” He pushed the plate of french fries toward her. “Here, have some.”
Wrinkling her nose, Maggie said, “No, thanks. They’re pure grease.”
“Wouldn’t hurt you to put on a little weight, you know.”
His personal comment shook her. Bishop had the unnerving ability to get her trust, and when she gave it to him, even something as innocent and caring as his observation about her lack of weight made her defensive. Maggie didn’t have time to ask herself why she reacted so strongly.
“Let’s stick to the conversation at hand,” she told him. “What do you expect from me?”
“What I’m getting right now—your honesty and how you see things going down. I don’t sit in the back seat with a jerk for a pilot, either. My life’s in your hands. I don’t have a second set of controls in case you screw up. All I can do is sit back there and pray you can get us out of trouble flight-wise.”
“I’ve never lost a plane.”
“Not even close?”
“No.”
“You been in any flat spins?”
“Yeah.”
“How many?”
Maggie knew flat spins were the most dangerous flight situation a plane could find itself in. Fifty percent of the time, the aircraft was lost because the pilot was unable to pull it out of the flat spin. She held Bishop’s unrelenting gaze, liking his clear, crystalline blue eyes. “In training, six times. In combat practice, three times because jet-wash compression stalled my engines. I was lucky to be at high enough altitudes to pull it out and not have to eject.”
Bishop nodded. “Truthful to a fault, aren’t you? Not many pilots would tell me about those last three.”
“Honesty is something I live my life by.”
“Good,” Wes praised. He was starting to really like Maggie Donovan.
“Look, I’ve had my trial by fire. I’ve had instructors who wanted to wash me out from the time I stepped foot into naval aviation. Not only did I learn how to fly, but I had to outfly them just to pass the course. I had to fly twenty times better than any male candidate.” She held up her long, slim hands. “I’ve got ‘hands,’ Bishop. Flying’s in my blood. I breathe, eat and sleep it. It’s my life. I don’t ever want anything other than what I’ve got now. I like where I’m at, and I like myself. I respect what I’ve got, and yes, I’m always pushing the envelope on myself.”
“Nothing else interests you?” Wes asked suddenly, changing tactics.
“What else is there except flying?” Maggie asked in surprise, a defensive tone in her voice.
“I don’t know,” Wes murmured, chewing on another french fry. “How about a homelife? A husband? Maybe some kids down the line?’
She scowled.
“That wasn’t a chauvinistic comment.”
“Sounded like it.”
“That’s negative. So, what else interests you in life, Maggie Donovan?” Had she deliberately sidestepped her marital status? There was no wedding ring on her left hand, but pilots weren’t allowed to wear jewelry when they flew, anyway. He smiled slightly when he saw her cheeks flush a bright pink. Despite her focus and assuredness about what she wanted out of life, Maggie still was very much a human being with obvious weaknesses and strengths. That made her endearing. His heart squeezed in his chest as he thought about reaching over and caressing that fiery cheek with his hand.
Shifting uncomfortably in her chair, Maggie shrugged. “I don’t know.” Part of her was pleased that he showed personal interest in her—at the same time, it was unsettling as hell.
“Come on, you can do better than that.”
She crossed her arms over her breasts and studied her feet, which she shoved out beside the table. Her flight boots were like polished ebony mirrors. No, Wes was just good with people, Maggie decided. If she thought for a second that he was genuinely interested in her as a woman, she might have opened up on a more personal level.
With a sigh, Wes wiped his mouth with the white napkin. Maggie wasn’t going to cooperate. Obviously she felt he was overstepping his bounds, putting them on a personal basis. Well, wasn’t he? He ignored the question and the answer. “Tell me where you live.”
“It’s an apartment,” Maggie said finally, and then added when he probed her with those blue eyes, “In a large complex.”
“Large? Small?”
Petulantly, she shot him a glance. “I live over in Poway near my two friends, Molly and Dana. They’re officers stationed here at Miramar with me. My apartment has two bedrooms and I transit from there, using it to sleep after flying.”
“Any pets?”
“Of course not. How could I? I get over to Miramar at 0600 and usually don’t leave until 2100.”
“Whew! Those are long hours.”
“When you’re a woman, you’ve got to put that kind of time into your career.”
“Why?”
“Because a woman can’t make it in the military just being good. I have to stand out.”
Wes couldn’t disagree. “Bingo. So, you don’t really have any life except flying.”
“That’s right. How about yourself?” Maggie jerked in a breath. What was she doing? Now she was getting personal and treading on thin ice. Still, he interested her as no other man ever had.
“I live over in Poway, too. Right now I’m renting an apartment at Flamingo Corners.”
“Yeah, that’s about two miles away from our apartment facility. I’m at Casa de la Madre Tierra.”
“I’ve driven by it. Nice place.”
“So, does your life revolve around flying?”
“Yes and no. When I’m home, I like it. When I’m stationed on a carrier or an air station, I like to fly. I don’t know whether Commander Parkinson told you or not, but I’m recently divorced. My wife’s remarried to a guy in Ohio. We have a little girl, Annie. She’s five years old and the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.” His voice grew soft with feeling. “I love Annie with my life.” And then he looked over at her. “What about you?” He wanted to know if she was married or not. “Any family?”
A huge part of Maggie sagged in relief to find out Wes wasn’t married. “I’m single, but my family lives in Sacramento, and we’re close. I’m a first-generation American. My father and mother came over from Dublin, Ireland, forty-five years ago with very little money and a desire to live in America. Dad got a job as an Amtrak engineer, and he’s still doing it to this day. My mom raised four Irish-hellion girls.”
“You the oldest?”
“No, the youngest.”
“Ah, the baby of the family.”
She laughed. “It doesn’t mean a thing, Bishop, so forget the psychological ramifications.”
“I was firstborn and look at me: a natural leader, goal oriented and highly successful at what I do.”
“Are you happy, though?”
Wes gave her a strange look. There was more than just flash to Maggie. “I like a balance to my life between job and home. No apologies that I like to sit down with a beer and watch a football game on TV while my wife makes me a great meal.”
She rolled her eyes. “Sooner or later I knew that was coming.”
“There is life after flying, you know.”
“Not in my book. Not ever. This is it for me, Bishop, and you’ve got to appreciate where I’m coming from if you’re going to work with me.”
He drained the last of the coffee from the bottom of his cup and sat back. “Babies of the family are supposed to be sheltered and protected from life. They seek the easiest route and aren’t goal oriented at all.”
“Shoots down your theory, doesn’t it?”
With a shrug, Wes said, “Maybe. Maybe not.” Although Maggie was a stridently confident woman, and one of the few he’d ever met of that stripe, there was something that nagged at him. Beneath all her bravado, chutzpah and strength, he sensed there was a hidden source of softness that she kept well protected from him. Could he blame her? No. In the male military environment, a woman would get eaten alive if she didn’t have proper defenses in place to survive the hardness of its demanding life-style. And from all appearances, Maggie was surviving and thriving beautifully in the environment. But at what cost to herself? he wondered.
“Look, I want to take this cross-examination of each other a step further. I want to take you up on a FAM flight and see how you do.” She held his amused gaze. “And you can check me out, too. Let’s see if we can get our act together up there and work as a team. My wingwoman, Lieutenant Dana Turcotte, will be the aggressor and try to jump us. I’ve got permission from Commander Parkinson to set up this flight and dogfight. Are you game?”
Wes got to his feet and put enough money on the table for both meals. “Let’s boogie.”
Maggie nodded, liking his style. “I’ll pay for my own meal, Bishop. Thanks, anyway.”
“No, it’s mine this time.”
“I pay my own way.”
He gave her a dazzling smile while reaching out and capturing her by the upper arm and gently guiding her through the dining room. “I know you do. Next time, you can pay for my meal. Fair enough?”
That smile melted all her insistence. How could any woman ever resist his charm? Maggie wondered. She scowled. “If there is a next time.”
Laughing, Wes dropped his hand from her arm as they reached the foyer. When cornered, Maggie blustered and tried to bluff her way out of a situation. “There will be.” He settled his garrison cap on his head at a rakish angle. “Well, as they say, let’s get this show on the road. I want to go Mach 3 with my hair on fire, Donovan.”
Chapter Three
During the ride over to the hangar area, Maggie said little because she was on a seesaw of emotion. They stopped at Ops and retrieved their flight gear, and she loosened up a little. Just getting to fly eased the tension that was always coiled tightly inside her. She’d been born that way. Flying was the only thing that erased her restlessness. Maggie always had to be moving, whether it was physically or mentally. Insomnia, upon occasion, was her best friend.
The truck delivered them to the hangar and Wes walked at her side, his duffel bag containing his helmet and oxygen mask slung across his left shoulder. He liked Maggie’s flowing stride and those long legs of hers.
“How tall are you?” he asked.
“Five-eleven. You?”
“Six-five.”
“You’re a tall drink of water.”
“Might say the same of you,” he returned, catching her smile. Maggie was relaxing with every step toward the fighter sitting just outside the hangar doors. Wes saw her name just below the opened cockpit. Her air crew was waiting expectantly; the ladders were hooked alongside the fuselage so they could climb up into the double cockpit.
“A woman in your air crew?” Wes asked.
“Chantal Percival is my chief, and she’s the best in the Navy, in my opinion. I fought hammer and tong to get her assigned to me and my jet when I got here. She’s been with me the two years I’ve been at Miramar.”
“Pretty lady,” he mused. “That’s an observation, Donovan, not a sexual comment.” Even wearing a dark green T-shirt, which outlined her full breasts to perfection, Chantal was definitely a head turner.
Maggie remained silent. Then she introduced Wes to her air crew. Salutes and handshakes were exchanged. To her surprise, Chantal seemed immune to Wes’s good looks and charm. How was that possible, when Maggie’s own heart seemed completely attuned to his every word, look and smile? All business now, Maggie signed off the discrepancy log Chantal handed her, then made the visual walk-around inspection of her aircraft. In the meantime, Wes had climbed into the back seat and was getting help with his array of harnesses from one of her other ground-crew members.
Wes settled back, thanking the young petty officer who had helped him. The rear seat of a Tomcat was a familiar friend, and he strapped the knee board around his left thigh and began his preflight checklist. From time to time, though, he raised his helmeted head to observe Maggie in action.
In her cockpit, which was directly in front of his with his instrument panel between them, she tucked her red hair beneath the skullcap. Even after slipping on her helmet—white with a pair of red eagle wings painted on the front—she wouldn’t be mistaken for a man. Wes smiled to himself and absorbed her profile as she gave last-minute instructions to Chantal, who stood on the ladder next to her. He hadn’t realized how classic the line of her profile was until she turned.
Shaking himself internally, Wes decided there was a definite mystique to Maggie. Her features intrigued him. A man could spend the rest of his life mapping out her face and expressions and always be pleasantly surprised by something new about her. Few women had that kind of mystery.
Slow down, buddy. You just got out of a divorce that’s still hurting you. Wes frowned and forced himself to concentrate on what he was doing. This was no time to resurrect his marriage, ex-wife or the light of his life, his daughter, Annie. Still, when Wes lifted his head and saw Maggie smile, his heart took off on its own flight as his mire of emotions suddenly dissolved beneath the warmth conveyed in her eyes and beautifully expressive mouth.
In no time, Maggie had the Tomcat anchored at the end of the runway, ready to take off. Dana and her RIO, in another F-14, had taken off twenty minutes earlier. They would be “the enemy,” stalking Maggie and Wes and trying to shoot them down over the restricted airspace north of the station. It would be up to Wes to spot them first and give Maggie the needed information to evade any surprise attack—and to give her the advantage that could enable her to “shoot down” Dana’s aircraft electronically. Once a “kill” was registered, they would go on to the next test.
Wes listened idly to the control chatter. They were Red Dog 103 today, their call sign. He liked Maggie’s firm, husky voice. Smiling beneath his oxygen mask, which was strapped tightly to his face, Wes brought down both the clear plastic and dark visor across his upper face. Both visors fit like a puzzle piece against the top of his oxygen mask. Maggie had done the same thing. Now they looked like genderless beings. Up in the air, Wes ruminated, tinkering with all his instruments to make sure they were up and operating properly, a person’s sex really didn’t matter at all. He was curious about Maggie’s flying and combat ability.
“You ready back there, Bishop?”
“Roger.”
“I’m requesting afterburner takeoff.”
“To see if I can stand the heat in the kitchen?”
She laughed. “No. I know Dana Turcotte too well. She’s liable to attack as soon as we get into the restricted airspace north of here, and I want all the altitude I can get. Go in high so you have the look-down, shoot-down advantage. If anyone’s coming out of the sun, it’s going to be us, not her.”
Silently Wes applauded Maggie using “us” instead of “me.” Good. She thought in terms of a team; wasn’t ego bound like a lot of combat pilots. “Sounds good to me. Let’s turn and burn.”
What a difference between Hall and Wes! Maggie didn’t say anything, concentrating fully on the forthcoming takeoff, with the F-14 shaking and howling around them. Compared to Hall, Wes sounded a hundred percent more confident in that rear seat. Hall was twenty-four. Bishop’s five years of experience were already making her feel less edgy. Getting permission for takeoff, Maggie notched the twin throttles beneath her left hand into the afterburner range.
The sudden acceleration pinned her against the ejection seat, and Maggie smiled, relaxing beneath the incredible G’s as they built up. Cat screamed down the runway, feeling solid beneath her hands and feet. The F-14 was the Navy’s premier fighter, an unequaled tool in the military arsenal. The sleek twin-tailed fighter rotated smoothly beneath her gloved hand. In seconds, they were thundering straight up into the pale blue sky, clawing for thousands of feet of altitude within seconds.
Wes sat back and enjoyed the ride. In minutes they reached forty-five thousand feet, flying high above the California desert. He was already leaning forward, his eyes narrowed on the array of various radar screens in front of him. Each type of radar performed a different function, and much depended upon his alertness and experience in using them.
“How many minutes before we hit the restricted area?” Wes asked.
“Five minutes. Anything on the scopes?”
“No, clear.”
“Dana’s just about as sneaky as I am. Expect the unexpected with her.”
“Okay. You said her last name was Turcotte?”
“Yes. Why?”
“When I got my first RIO assignment five and a half years ago, I flew with Griff Turcotte, the Turk.”
“I’ll be damned, you know Griff. Yeah, he and Dana have been married for two years now.”
“I hope it’s happier than his last marriage. He went through hell with his first wife.”
“It’s a happy, solid marriage from what I can tell.”
“Good.”
“How long did you and the Turk fly together?”
“Two years.”
Maggie was constantly rubbernecking, revolving her head from left to right, her eyes scanning the flight instruments or hunting the sky above and around them for possible enemy aircraft. “Griff shot down one of those Libyan jets. Were you with him?”
“Yes.”
Maggie nodded. Good, she had an RIO with combat experience. That couldn’t hurt their chances at Red Flag, only improve them. She opened her mouth to ask him if he had anything on radar when he spoke up.
“Nothing on the scopes yet.”
She smiled. “Are you a mind reader? I was just going to ask.”
“Comes with the territory. No RIO wants his pilot on his back asking questions constantly. It interferes with my concentration.”
“I like your style, Bishop.” And she liked him. By now, Maggie had surrendered to whatever her body and heart were up to when it came to Wes. She was too busy flying and concentrating to try and explain her feminine responses to him.
“So far, I like yours, too.”
“Let’s take this one step at a time,” Maggie warned, trying to keep the pleasure of his compliment out of her voice. Wes, she decided, was just one of those guys who was able to make personal contact with every person he met, making them feel special and wanted. That’s all it was, Maggie thought, disheartened. “We’re going to enter the restricted zone in thirty seconds.”
“Roger. Thirty seconds.” He tensed, his eyes glued to the radar screens.
Below them, Maggie could see the brown desert with the tiny dots of green here and there that were Joshua trees, cactus and hardy brush-type plants. Concentration intensified as her eyes flicked between her instruments and the sky around them.
“Got a bogey at five hundred feet coming up at us at two-four-zero. Thirty miles away.”
“That’s her!” Maggie quickly switched on her rocket and missile selectors. The HUD display lit up, a geometric crisscross of colored lines that gave her specific information on terrain as well as when she was in firing range.
This was almost too easy, Maggie thought. Dana was showing herself too early. Bishop kept up his information to her, keeping her filled in on the situation so she could make proper assessment. At twenty miles, she electronically signaled the firing of a Sparrow. It was a heat seeker, so Dana, in order to escape it, would have to do some avoidance flying.
“She’s lost the Sparrow,” Wes reported after a minute.
“Damn. That means we’re going to have to go on deck and hunt her down the hard way.”
“Afraid so.”
“Hang on.” Maggie banked the fighter and they gracefully arced from high altitude down to five hundred feet off the desert surface.
Wes watched from the back seat, fascinated with Maggie’s hunter attitude. He knew a lot of pilots who would stay a long way away from their targets and just trade missiles with the enemy aircraft. Not her. She was going to flush out and hunt her “enemy” down. The thermals were pronounced, and the F-14 bumped and thumped along violently in the curtains of heat rising from the desert. The ground flashed by them, a blur of brown and green. The air turbulence became so bad that his teeth chattered, and it felt as if they were riding in a milk-shake machine. Still, Maggie held the fighter steady, snaking close to the ground, hunting out her adversary with the help of his radar screens and verbal information.
For three hours, they worked together and tested each other. When they landed back at Miramar, Wes ruefully noticed that the armpits of his flight suit were dark with perspiration. Maggie said little to him until they were on the ground and walking back to the hangar to hitch a ride to Ops. Dana had landed ahead of them and was already in a vehicle waiting for them.
“Great flight!” Dana congratulated Maggie. “You’re a tiger at low altitude. I thought for sure I could hide behind those hills and outfox you.”
Maggie climbed in and grinned, the warmth of the genuine compliment flowing through her. “Gotcha four out of five times.”
“Not bad,” Dana agreed with a laugh. Her RIO, Lieutenant Jeff Smith, shook hands with Wes.
Maggie introduced Wes to everyone and the van trundled slowly toward Ops. Wes sat supremely confident, seemingly unfazed by the rigorous three-hour flight she’d put him through. When he turned and looked over at Maggie, there was devilry in his eyes and he smiled.
It was a brazenly confident smile, and Maggie knew it. Still, his high spirits were infectious, and her mouth curved a bit in response. Dana, who sat behind her, placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Hey, don’t forget, we’re having dinner at Molly’s tonight at 1900.”
“Not to worry. I’d never forget a night Molly cooks.”
“She’s your other friend?” Wes guessed.
“Yes. A test-flight engineer who is six months pregnant. Molly works at Ops as a ground instructor in aeronautical physics. Dana and I are going to be ‘aunts.’ We can hardly wait.”
Wes saw the enthusiasm leap into Maggie’s eyes when she talked about her friend’s pregnancy. Idly, he listened to the two women chat, collecting and gathering bits of information about Maggie.
After filling out the mandatory flight reports at Ops, Maggie leaned back in her seat at the same table with Wes in one of the debrief rooms on the first floor. “I want you to read my assessment on you before I hand it in to my boss, Commander Parkinson. I think that’s only fair.”
Wes nodded and took the report. He pushed his toward her. “Better read mine, too.”
“Should I be worried about what you’re going to say?” Maggie did care, she discovered, what Wes thought of her as a pilot. If only she could read his mind to see if those dancing blue highlights in his eyes when he looked at her were for her alone, or a look he bestowed on everyone.
“I could ask the same of you.” Wes was curious how she rated his performance in the cockpit. More than anything, he wanted the chance to work with Maggie. She was one hell of a pilot behind the stick, woman or not.
With a shrug, Maggie leaned back in the chair, his report balanced on her knee. “You know you passed,” she told him drolly.
“Yeah, I’m pretty good at what I do.”
He saw her waiting for him to say something about her performance. “And so are you.”
Relief flowed through Maggie, though she tried to hide it by lowering her head to read his report.
Wes smiled at her reaction, but said nothing. Afterward, they traded reports. Maggie got up, pleased about Wes’s praise of her flying ability. “I’ll take these to the commander and seal the deal.” She came around the desk and offered her hand to him.
The urge to step forward and plant a long, hot kiss on Maggie’s lips, instead, was very real for Wes. However, he gripped her hand and was pleased again by her firm, returning shake. Pushing an F-14 through tight maneuvers was physically demanding, so he shouldn’t have been surprised by her strength. It only made Maggie more alluring.
“Let’s celebrate,” he found himself saying as he reluctantly released her hand. “Let me buy you a beer over at the O club.”
Her fingers tingled where he’d touched them. Prickles arced up her hand and into her wrist and lower arm. Maggie was amazed and overwhelmed at the same time. Sure, men had kissed her, but Wes had merely reached out and shaken her hand. Her response to him was heated. Trying to recover, Maggie nodded and unconsciously touched the hand he’d shaken. A beer sounded heavenly. Flying at high altitude and on one-hundred-percent oxygen for hours on end always made flight personnel very thirsty afterward. And beer was the drink of choice after a long, demanding flight; the only thing that seemed to quench the thirst.
“I’ll take you up on it. Thanks.”
Inordinately pleased with himself, Wes glanced at his watch. They had two hours before Maggie was due at her friend’s house for dinner. Good.
* * *
Maggie chose the quieter dining room to drink a beer with her new RIO. She received a number of gawking looks from fellow pilots as Wes walked past the bar area toward the dining room.
“I hope you know what you’re in for, Bishop.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Those jocks in there are going to tease you to death, now that you’re flying with me.”
“I’ve been known to take a couple of hits on the chin and live to tell about it. I think I’ll survive anything they lob at me.”
Maggie liked his laid-back approach to life. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she countered, then asked the hostess for a booth in a corner where they could have some privacy. At this time of day, few people were eating. The bar, however, was elbow to elbow with jocks.
After Wes ordered the beers and Maggie paid for them, he leaned forward and said, “Okay, tell me about yourself.”
She sipped the beer, suddenly unable to relax. “I get jumpy when a guy starts hitting on me with twenty questions.”
“This is different. I’m your RIO for the next three months.”
“Do you always get what you want, Bishop?”
“No, but I try.”
Chuckling, Maggie stretched her long legs out across the leather seat of the booth and relaxed. She supposed it didn’t look very military or even socially acceptable to do it, but she didn’t care. “I’m a pretty private person.” Why did he want to know about her? Maggie shrugged the question off. Wes was the kind of guy who no doubt established a personal relationship with each person he had to work with. Somehow the realization was a blow to her heart.
“The Cherokee are like that, too,” Wes said. “They don’t like their pictures taken because they think it steals a part of their soul.” He cocked his head, studying her. “Is that how you feel when talking about yourself?”
“You amaze me with your perception,” Maggie replied, meaning it sincerely.
“As if men can’t have some of what you women have?”
A smile tugged at her mouth. She drank some more of her beer and reached for the basket that contained chips and pretzels. “Caught red-handed.”
“You’re a little bit of a female chauvinist.”
“Guilty as charged. I’ve got to try and watch that tendency.”
“Who sold you a bill of goods that all men were insensitive to you as a human being?”
Maggie quirked her mouth. “Not my father, that’s for sure. I came out of a family where women are looked upon as equals, Wes. There were four girls, and my parents taught us that we were just as strong, intelligent and capable as any man. Maybe it’s the Celt blood in our veins—you know, over in England and Ireland, up through Roman times, our women fought as warriors beside their men.”
Wes scratched his jaw, thinking about it. “I’ve got a degree in aeronautical engineering, but my worst course was history.”
Pleased he held a degree in the same field that she did, Maggie nodded. “I’m sure in the next three months of working with me, you’ll learn more about the Irish than you ever wanted to know. I’m proud of my heritage and what it’s given me.”
“I don’t mind. Remember, I’m one-third Irish and I know a lot about my Cherokee roots, because my father was born and raised on the reservation. And my mother steeped me in her Italian heritage, early on. The Irish part of me is the only blank left to fill in. You can help me with it.”
Tearing her gaze from his eyes, Maggie found herself talking very quickly, a nervous habit of hers. “We’re a very different race genetically from other women, I feel. Did you know that in a recent study initiated by the three military academies, seventy percent of the women graduating from them were of Irish descent?”
“Says something about their warriorlike ability,” Wes pondered, sipping his beer.
Maggie raised a hand to her temple to try to tame the loose tendrils. She was sure her hair was mussed and badly in need of a brushing. With Wes, suddenly she cared about her appearance—and was nonplussed by that discovery. “I genuinely feel that because our Celt and Druid ancestors approved and promoted women fighting alongside the men, that the characteristic was passed on to us genetically. I’m not surprised by the academies’ figures.”
Running his fingers down the beaded, sweaty glass, Wes held her gaze. How proud and fierce Maggie was about her heritage. Wes had always believed that roots gave one not only strength, but a feeling of wholeness and connectedness. This had helped him at several points in his own life.
“I’m curious, Maggie, about one thing,” Wes murmured.
She liked the way her name rolled off his lips. It was tough not to stare like a schoolgirl at Wes because of his intense good looks. She tilted her head.
“Shoot.”
“Are you saying Irishwomen are drawn to the military because they are born killers?”
Frowning, Maggie sat up. There was a teasing quality in the depths of his dark blue eyes. “I’m not comfortable with the term you used. Irishwomen have a powerful genetic memory of protection and defending home, family and country. That doesn’t make them cold-blooded killers. Women in general, I feel, are the fabric that holds the family unit together. On a larger scale, the country they live in is simply an extension of their families. When something threatens their families, women tend to get territorial and even combative if the situation calls for it. Look at the French Resistance during World War II. Plenty of Frenchwomen worked right along with the men, taking the same risks. Russia had thousands of women soldiers and pilots. They fought the Germans, and died right alongside their men.”
“So, you’re saying that Irishwomen are defenders, not killers?”
“Yes. But, make no mistake: I would kill if necessary, if my home, family or country were threatened with destruction.”
Wes nodded, holding her suddenly serious eyes, turned to a deep jade color with her intensity. “So, for you, there’s a difference between killing for defensive purposes and cold-blooded murder? Even an enemy?”
“You really are a devil’s advocate, aren’t you?”
“I just want to know your thinking. Right now you’re in a training program with the blessings of Congress, but you’ve never really been tested in combat. I wonder, when it does happen, how you’ll react to it.”
“Many male pilots today don’t have combat experience, either. So to me, it’s a moot point, Wes. How did you handle knowing that you helped shoot down that Libyan MiG?”
His brows knitted. “After we landed back on the carrier, there was a lot of celebrating, backslapping and congratulations. Later, in my quarters, I got sick to my stomach. Then I had nightmares—and did a lot of soul-searching about killing a man who probably had left a wife and children behind….”
An ache rose in Maggie’s throat. She saw the anguish in Wes’s face. “I couldn’t ever take joy from killing someone,” Maggie whispered. “But if I had to in the role of defending my country, I’d do it.” She rubbed her brow and gave him a glance. “And I’m very sure I’d have the same reaction you did. Thanks for leveling with me. Most of these jocks around here beat their chests like gorillas about how tough they are, but my instincts tell me they’d have second thoughts about killing another pilot, too.”
“It’s called remorse,” Wes told her dryly. “And it’s a part of our business. The sordid side of it. There are a few combat pilots who I’d consider cold-blooded killers, who feel that taking another life is sanctioned without need for remorse, guilt or soul-searching, but most of them would probably be in my category.”
With a grimace, Maggie agreed. She placed her mug on the table. “I just hope I never have to kill anyone.”
“Just about every guy feels the same way, but most wouldn’t admit it.”
“That’s nice to know. Sure skews the image the military has with the civilian populace, doesn’t it?”
Wes smiled. “Roger that.”
“So you said you were divorced and have a daughter?” Maggie probed, again surprised by her sudden personal questions. She’d never asked Hall things like this.
“Yes.” He leaned down and unzipped one of the pant-leg pockets of his flight suit and withdrew a wallet. “Here’s a picture of Annie.” Wes couldn’t keep the pride out of his voice. “She’s five. The woman holding her is my ex-wife, Jenny.”
“Your daughter sure has your eyes and mouth.”
“Thanks.” He smiled shyly. “Annie has some of my Cherokee genes, I think. The rest of her takes after Jenny.”
The woman in the picture was blond and blue-eyed. In Maggie’s opinion, small and frail looking. In some ways, she reminded her of Molly. But Molly’s face had inherent strength in it. Jenny’s did not. The black-haired girl in her arms was just as pretty as her mother. Maggie could see why Wes was so proud of his daughter.
“You made a handsome family, Wes.”
“Thanks.” He shrugged. “Navy life didn’t agree with Jenny.”
“The months away at sea?” Maggie guessed.
“Yes. You know how a military wife has to be self-sufficient and handle the emergencies when we’re away. Jenny just couldn’t do it. I wasn’t there when Annie was born. That’s when our marriage started down a long road I’d just as soon forget.” Wes shook his head. “The straw that broke the camel’s back was when I was gone on a six-month Med cruise a year ago and Annie got appendicitis. She had to have emergency surgery. I wasn’t there for that, either. Jenny came apart. She got hysterical thinking Annie was going to die. There was no one there to hold Jenny, support her or take over.”
Maggie felt for his ex-wife. “I feel like that sometimes myself. As much as I’d like to believe I can overcome every obstacle life throws at me, I sometimes wonder about it.”
“Oh?”
“So far, I’ve been successful at everything I’ve ever attempted, Wes. Some people say I’m lucky, others say I’ve got a charmed life.”
“Irish luck, by any chance?”
She smiled. “Not in my opinion. It’s called hard work and more hard work. I’m driven, in case you didn’t know.”
“You’re like a tightly wound spring.”
“No hiding secrets from you, is there?”
“We don’t need secrets between us,” he offered. “We’re a team, remember? We depend on each other to survive up in the air. With the exception of marriage, I don’t know how much closer you can get to a person than an RIO is to a pilot.”
He was right. “Well, as I was saying, I’m an overachiever and I’ve gotten everything I ever went after.”
“You’ve never failed?”
“That’s right. My folks raised us to be successful. There was no room for failure.”
With a grin, Wes said, “Must be nice. I’ve fallen down, busted my nose and butt a few times and found egg on my face more than I’d care to admit.”
She laughed and lightly traced the bridge of her nose. “I’ve had a broken nose, too. So we’re even.”
“Who hit you?” Wes imagined Maggie was a hellion in the making even back in grade school, taking no guff from any young punk who might have tried to push her the wrong way.
“I did it myself. I took a dare from a ten-year-old boy that I could swing like Tarzan from one tree to another. I told him Jane was better at it than Tarzan ever could be—I was a feminist even at ten.” She laughed. “The long and short of it was, the rope I used was old and frayed. Halfway there, it broke and I fell thirty feet to the ground. When I regained consciousness ten minutes later I found out I had a broken nose and jaw.” She touched the left side of her face, indicating where the break had occurred. The look of concern and then care on Wes’s face surprised her. There was genuine compassion in his eyes.

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