Silver Wings, Santiago Blue

by Janet Dailey

  “With you, Marty, I don’t feel I have to pretend that I do,” he said, turning his head slightly to bring her into his vision.

  “When I was in college, the girls who did it always seemed to convince themselves they were wildly in love with the guy. It was as if they needed the justification to avoid any feelings of guilt or immorality.” She sighed as her fingers made a slow trail up and down the slick sides of the squat pop bottle. “As far as I was concerned, it was enough if I liked the guy and we respected each other.”

  Marty had never bewailed her lost virginity, nor wept over the man who had taken it. To her, it seemed neither wrong nor unusual. After all, her brother certainly didn’t practice celibacy. Whenever David could make it with a girl, he did. Her sexual urges weren’t that much different than his, and if he could do it, so could she, albeit more selectively. She felt sorry for David with his indiscriminate ways, having discovered for herself how much more pleasurable it was to make love to a person than a body.

  With a turn of her head, she looked into his eyes. “I respect the hell out of you, Colin.”

  Uncertainty kept him motionless while he tried to decide whether her choice of words had been deliberate. She took pity on his wary confusion and, with a laugh, she leaned over to kiss him. His fingers glided into her hair to cup her head and keep the pressure of her lips on his mouth.

  “It’s almost curfew,” he told her in a half-muttered complaint. “We don’t have much time to get back to the field.”

  “Mmmm.” It was a conceding sound, made while she nuzzled his smoothly shaven cheek. “It would be awful if we were late.”

  Colin knew he was being mocked. When she slipped off the bed, he stayed, uncertain what her next move would be. Everyone had cleared out of the hotel suite with the exception of two cadets who were arguing vociferously the merits of the Spitfire over the Thunderbolt in a sky duel with a Focke-Wulf or Messerschmitt. With the long-legged stride of an athlete, Marty crossed to the connecting door and closed it. She also shut and locked the hallway door before she turned to face him, the suggestion of a lazy smile barely touching the corners of her mouth. Colin had the impression of a stalking lioness, all sleek and purring with power.

  “On the other hand, it would be a shame to let this bed go to waste,” she suggested huskily.

  His mouth quirked. “A damned shame.”

  When she came to him in the darkness seconds later, her nude, long-limbed form gliding against him, Colin recognized she was a rare woman. Bold and assertive, Marty was sure of what she wanted. While their bodies strained together in passion, it escaped Colin that it required a rare man not to be intimidated by her aggressive instincts.

  In the bay, Mary Lynn sat on her cot, a pillow propped behind her and a writing pad angled on her legs. She had written no more than two sentences in her nightly letter to Beau. The words simply wouldn’t come. She read his last letter over again, hearing the intonation of his voice, that familiar speech pattern coming through the written words. The lonely ache inside her grew stronger.

  Tonight had been the first social evening she’d spent in the company of other men since Beau had left. She had laughed and talked and been flattered by their attentiveness, always feeling safe with the gold wedding band around her finger.

  When she tried to tell Beau about it in the letter, her pen hovered over the paper, making no marks. It had all been so innocent yet there was a sense that she had betrayed him by having a good time with other men. She had enjoyed herself, but now that the night was ending, she felt emptier and more alone.

  She heard a scuffle outside the bay door. It opened quickly as Marty darted inside, laughing and breathless from running. The lively glitter in her silver-green eyes seemed to match the vibrancy she exuded.

  “You lucky devil.” Cappy shook her head in mild disbelief. “You just made it by the skin of your teeth.”

  “I know.” Marty crossed the room and flopped onto her cot, winded yet subtly exuberant. “Some tobacco-chewing cowboy gave us a ride in the back of his pickup. We had to keep ducking every time he spit out the window. It was the wildest ride I’ve ever had.”

  No one asked who her companion was, all silently guessing it was Colin. As Mary Lynn studied the silkily contented look on Marty’s face, loneliness and frustration welled in her chest. She knew that look, recognizing it from the times she’d seen her own reflection in the mirror after Beau had made love to her. Desire was a feeling she had suppressed, successfully, until this moment. She ached for Beau’s touch, for the play of his hands on her body and the warmth of his mouth on her skin.

  She flipped the tablet closed and attempted to push aside the urges clamoring within. With unreasoning logic, she blamed them on the evening she’d spent surrounded by other men, as if such needs had not been simmering below the surface for some time. Beau was her first and only lover.

  “Hey, how come you aren’t finishing your letter to Beau tonight?” Marty noticed the break in Mary Lynn’s nightly ritual.

  A dark flush stained Mary Lynn’s cheeks while a tautness claimed her expression. “I’m tired,” she asserted stiffly, and put away the tablet in preparation for bed.

  Marty reclined on her cot, stretching languidly, like a satisfied cat. “So am I.”

  Mary Lynn made no response as she slid under her bed covers away from Marty and rolled onto her side.

  The next morning, many a cadet and trainee sat in church pews around the town and winced at the heavy-handed playing of an organ or piano, their heads splitting from too much celebration the night before. Most of the cadets were invited to the homes of local residents for Sunday dinner, but few of the women trainees had such invitations. Most regrouped after attending church.

  Word of the party did not elude the field staff. The trainees were sternly lectured about their conduct and reminded that they were, at all times, representatives of the flight training program for women. How they comported themselves would affect the entire program’s reputation.

  Again, there was an attempt to strongly discourage any socializing with the cadets. Their classes and activities at Avenger Field were so well segregated they rarely saw each other. They didn’t even have the chance to mingle on the flight line since the men did all their flying out of an auxiliary field in Roscoe, a small town not far away. This stepped-up attention to the problem severely curtailed Colin’s visits to the bay. Others didn’t understand and Marty didn’t try to explain her lackadaisical attitude about seeing him less often. She and Colin were good friends who had become lovers; romance had very little to do with their relationship, so she wasn’t thrown into a mope when she didn’t see him.

  After the weekend’s respite, it was back to training full tilt. Ground school had their heads awhirl with carburetors and manifolds, learning, memorizing and transcribing the International Code, which was changed monthly, discussions and tests, as well as map and chart work. Then it was out to the flight line for dual instruction, two and three of the open-cockpit PT-19s taking off at a time, piggyback, and solo flying, the best-loved time of all in the air. Sandwiching the training were physical games and body-conditioning calisthenics, and evenings in the rec hall were filled with hangar talk.

  After the evening meal one night, they dragged their boneweary bodies back to the bay. Inside they sprawled on their cots and made a stab at conversation.

  “Did you think the stew tasted funny tonight?” Chicago put the question to the group. Her hands were clasped behind her head, ruffling the ends of her short, brown hair.

  “Not that I noticed,” Eden replied, reclining full length on her cot with a hand draped over her eyes to shield out the light. Her nails were short and unpolished and her red hair was hidden under a bandanna turban—the stylish socialite of three weeks ago had been absorbed into the group. “But I don’t think it was intended to tickle the palate. Ragout, it is not.”

  “What’s the matter? Isn’t stew good enough for you?” Marty, tired and irritable, was quick
to issue the taunting inquiry.

  “A change would be nice.” Unmoving from her languid pose, Eden failed to rise to the bait, as usual.

  “I heard”—Chicago paused to garner their attention, and sat up on one elbow—“that they put saltpeter in it.”

  There was an instant of silence while everyone digested the outlandish rumor, not fully disbelieving it. Eden removed her hand from across her eyes and lifted her head to stare at Chicago. “Are you serious?” she said.

  “Forget it.” Humor was laced in Cappy’s mildly derisive tone. “They don’t have to do that. Just look at us. We’re all too tired to even contemplate anything remotely strenuous. If a man held me in his arms, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’d probably fall asleep.”

  Agreeing sounds of laughter came from the row of cots, not too loud and not too forceful. Smiles required less energy.

  Chapter VI

  FLYING WAS THE all-consuming focus for the girls; anything else became relegated to the background as of minor importance. Their world was the sky above Avenger Field. When they weren’t flying in it, they were looking into it, taking automatic note of wind directions and ceiling heights, or watching fellow trainees in the traffic pattern making touch-and-go landings while they waited for their turn in the air.

  After almost a month, they had become familiar with the routine occurrences around the field. When a jeep from the motor pool went dashing off to the old hangar, everyone knew the line dispatcher was making a check of the anemometer to find out the wind velocity. The actual control tower was still under construction, and the temporary one, located atop the hangar next to the office building, housed little equipment in its second-story cubicle.

  The grumblings of the maintenance mechanics enroute to right an airplane that had ground-looped on landing were largely ignored. Little attention was paid, as well, to the firing of the biscuit gun. Construction always seemed to be in progress somewhere, rendering runways and taxi strips inactive. Sometimes the construction made landings dicey, but usually it was merely the frustration of blowing red dust that choked the lungs and coated the skin and powdered everything in sight.

  There were rare interludes in the middle of the hectic pace when all seemed perfect. The sky would be that incredible blue, stretching to forever. A beatific stillness would claim the land, hushing everything except the bursting song of the meadowlark.

  In the sky, aircraft performed lazy and graceful aerobatics, climbing high into the blue and spiraling down out of a full stall, then sliding into level flight. Pilots picked out the navigationally straight roads to practice their “S” curves against, snaking along a line and changing their angle of bank in a turn to compensate for the changing push of the wind. Many a rancher’s windmill was selected as an imaginary axis for seventwenties, also called turns-around-a-point, consisting of two complete three-hundred-sixty-degree revolutions. The aerial patterns always appeared to be effortlessly executed, a series of slow, lazy curves, circles, and spirals, flowing languidly one to the other. Yet all of them were potentially lifesaving maneuvers.

  All this practicing and honing of skills these past nearly six weeks was in preparation for that “check ride” day. They were at the end of the primary phase of training. Their individual instructors had flight-tested them, but to advance to the next phase of basic training and fly the more powerful BT-13, they had to go up with Army pilots who would “check” their skills. If they failed that test, they were through. There was no second chance—no next phase of training. They were dropped from the program.

  As the time neared when they were either ready or they’d never be, the tension became palpable along the flight line, charging tempers and numbing senses. When the Army checkpilots arrived, anxiety levels reached their peak.

  In the ready room, cigarettes were virtually chain-smoked. It was a subdued group of trainees who massed inside, conversing either in mumbles or in voices grown shrill with nerves. Their glances kept straying out the windowed front of the building to watch the takeoffs and landings of the planes piloted by their fellow trainees. Soon they would be up there, but the agony was in not knowing when your name would be called.

  As Eden tore the paper off her pack of Lucky Strike Greens, her fingers trembled. She lit the cigarette with an unnatural clumsiness. She exhaled the smoke in an impatient rush while her thumbnail resumed its nervous flicking of her fingernail, making little clicking sounds.

  “For crissake, will you stop that?” Marty Rogers snapped. “It’s getting on my nerves.”

  “Sorry.” She stilled her thumb, but the ticking went on inside her.

  Her auburn hair was caught in a confining snood at the back of her neck, its richly deep red lustre toned down. The flight suit bagged all over her slim figure, creating a shapeless silhouette. Never had anything fit her so atrociously, yet she had become so accustomed to wearing it every day that she never gave it a thought.

  On occasion, Eden was conscious that her standards were changing; she was judging people less from their outer appearance and more for their inner qualities. All her life, things had been hers for the asking; wealth and privilege gained her access to the most prestigious schools; name and position granted her entry into elite circles; money and power allowed her to indulge in nearly any whim. This was the first time she’d ever had to work for something—the first time she’d ever been treated the same as those around her—and she liked it.

  The marching, the drills, the military inspections were a bore. It still didn’t make sense to her why demerits were given because there was litter in the wastebasket; where else was she supposed to have put it? Yet the camaraderie, the closeness, the sharing of desires with her baymates, more than made up for the sacrifice of creature comforts and the hardships she’d endured.

  She had worked hard to reach this point, so she appreciated the struggle some of the other trainees were going through. Eden knew she was a damned good pilot. Yet, while she had confidence in her ability, she wanted to pass this check ride so badly, she was a bundle of nerves. It was the first time in her life anything had meant so much to her.

  Only minutes ago, she had watched the pale-faced and drawn Mary Lynn walk out of the ready room behind an Army officer. The petite woman had lost the natural color that usually highlighted her round cheekbones. Her dark eyes had become haunted with apprehension. But Eden looked with envy at the two pillows Mary Lynn had clutched to her breast like a shield.

  “There goes Number Thirty-seven lifting off,” Chicago observed in a low, taut voice, referring to the aircraft number of the low-winged PT-19. “Isn’t that the plane Mary Lynn’s flying?”

  “I think so.” Cappy was the only one of the group who didn’t appear to be a victim of the intense pressure weighing on them all. Looking calm and unflappable, she puffed on a cigarette. Eden grinned to herself when she noticed there was already a cigarette burning in the ashtray. Cappy wasn’t as poised as she looked.

  Earlier in the day, they’d all paid their ritual visit to the Wishing Well and thrown their coins into the pool, making a wish for an “up-check.” Some even added a prayer to Fifinella, the Disney-designed, female gremlin who was the mascot for the women pilot trainees. At the time, Eden had joked about the half dollar she had tossed into the pool, laughing at her own extravagant gesture and declaring that she was buying the fulfillment of her wish.

  “Van Valkenburg.” A flat, deep-toned voice called her name.

  Her head jerked around, and her heart plummeted to her toes, turning her legs into rubber. Somehow she managed to crush out her cigarette despite the shaking of her hand, and scrambled to her feet, the parachute pack banging against her legs.

  The military officer at the door was searching the room for a response to the name he’d called. When Eden stood up, his gaze stopped on her. With a cold, cocky arrogance, he looked her over. How much would it take to bribe him? Money, power, prestige, all the commodities that had cushioned Eden all her life had no value in th
is situation. It was a chastening thought to one accustomed to acquiring what she wanted through one means or another.

  With her head held unnaturally high, she unknowingly made a comical sight as she crossed the room. All the grace inherent in her regal carriage looked gauche and ridiculous in the flappy, out-sized flight suit. Her long, leggy strides were reminiscent of a galloping giraffe. The amused smirk on the officer’s face was understandable when she stopped before him.

  “I’m Eden van Valkenburg,” she said.

  When she followed him onto the flight line, she was a quivering gel of nerves. As she made her walk-around ground check of the assigned aircraft, Eden knew she was going to make some stupid mistake. All his questions seemed snide and tricky while all her answers sounded uncertain, even when she was positive of them. Was he trying to trip her up, or was it merely her imagination?

  In the forward cockpit of the trainer, Eden wiped repeatedly at her sweaty palms before she pulled on her gloves. She was so scared, she was close to tears. As she went through the preflight checklist, anger started to build in her. Who did this man think he was, intimidating her in this manner? She had studied and trained long hours for this moment. She’d gone through too much and worked too hard to blow it now. Dammit, she was a fine pilot!

  Later, when she crawled out of the cockpit and hopped off the wing of the primary trainer, she confronted the close-faced military inspector. She took off helmet and goggles along with the hairnet. She shook her head with an exhilarating sense of freedom and brought her hands to rest on her flight-suit-padded hips in an unconsciously challenging stance.

  “Well?” Eden prodded him for a reaction. Despite all her confidence in her ability, she needed to hear the confirmation from an unbiased—or better yet, negatively biased—source. “How did I do?”