Eve’s lower lip pushed out a bit more, but she refused to respond to Gil’s entreaty. “Jody Theron is the biggest gossip on base and you know it! She deliberately starts rumors that have no foundation.”
Releasing a long breath, Gil slowly rose. “Eve, ten people in the office saw Barton walk in with the roses. Do you want signed affidavits from them as proof that it happened?”
She turned her head away from Gil, staring over at the wall. “I’ll call someone this morning and verify your story.”
He almost smiled. She’d call Jody herself. Gil wasn’t sure who was the bigger gossip: Jody or Eve. “Do what you want. I’ll give you a call tonight around five if I’m not called out on a case.”
“Who else has the duty tonight?”
“It’s not Lieutenant Caldwell, if that’s what you want to know. Sam Talbot’s my copilot.”
“Fine.”
He leaned over, pressing a kiss to her silky hair. “I love you, Eve. I’ll see you tomorrow evening at five.”
“Fine.”
Gil straightened up, giving her a look of longing. As he turned away, the awful truth that their marriage was crumbling hit him. Had his parents ever gone through times like this? What had they done to solve their problems? Pride prevented Gil from asking his father. Bob Logan had spent twenty years in the Coast Guard, and he had made his marriage work. Why couldn’t he? Gil headed out the door, automatically looking up at the sky that he might have to fly in today or tonight. For the second day in a row, it was devoid of the stratus clouds and pockets of low-hanging fog that always plagued the seacoast town. Instead, there was a vibrant pink on the horizon, which meant that the sun would rise in another half hour. Was it a sign that maybe the day would go better than expected? His mind revolved ahead to Rook Caldwell as he backed his Jeep Cherokee out of the driveway and onto the street. If Jim Barton was her boyfriend, that would take the heat off him. He’d have to find out if Jody’s gossip was true.
Rook was jumpier than usual. She expected Jim Barton to mysteriously show up at her doorstep at seven o’clock instead of Gil Logan. He didn’t. And, as Gil followed her over to Sequim, she expected Barton to be waiting for her at the garage. He wasn’t. Terry, the mechanic, was an old man who knew a lot about cars. He promised to call Rook when it was repaired, but told her not to expect it back for at least two weeks. The aged mechanic didn’t have a loaner car to give her. Rook’s heart sank for the inconvenience it was going to cause her.
On the way back in Gil’s car, Rook hesitantly explained the situation.
“That’s not a problem. I can come by and pick you up in the morning. Depending on the duty, I’m sure one of the other officers would be happy to take you home. If we pull duty together, I can pick you up and drop you off.”
“I can’t ask that of you, Gil. It’s awfully sweet, but—”
“Pilots stick together, Rook. We’re like family, in a way.”
She wanted to strangle Jim Barton for all the problems he was causing her. What would the base gossip be about her riding with different male officers for two weeks? If Rook didn’t miss her guess, pert little Jody Theron would be there to log it all in and then blast it around the station with that mouth of hers. She was a loose cannon. Already, she’d heard a couple of yeomen whispering about the roses. Rubbing her brow, Rook grimaced.
“Let me think about it, Gil.” There had to be a better solution. She absolutely refused to think about taking Barton’s offer of his Corvette. Then, the tongues would really wag.
“Okay, no sweat. Whatever you want to do is fine with me.”
At the office, Rook’s orientation got underway. To her delight, the Ops officer told her that she’d fly every day, if possible. At 1300, Gil would take her on her first FAM—familiarization—flight. Already, things were looking up, and some of her depression over the car situation evaporated. Changing into her one-piece olive flight suit, Rook felt good about herself. Finally, she was going to do something she was very good at: fly. If she could do it well and impress Gil, he would tell the other pilots, in turn, that she could be trusted. Throughout the rest of the morning, Rook prayed that she wouldn’t screw up on the morning flight. She just couldn’t.
As Rook walked down the hall with Gil to take the FAM flight, she saw Chief Jarvis. He didn’t look happy, either. She watched the impeccably dressed man walk up the stairs that would lead to the skipper’s office.
Gil opened the door for Rook. “The shit is going to hit the fan now,” he told her quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“Jarvis has been playing favorites over at the hangar for some time now. The old CO didn’t give a damn what he did or how he did it. Now, I think Stuart’s on to his games.”
Rook nodded. “Funny, Annie Locke said the same thing to me about the chief, yesterday.”
“Jarvis hates Annie. He’s been on her case for as long as I’ve been here. I don’t know how she’s hung in there.”
“Why does he hate her, Gil?” Rook knew the answer before he even said it.
“Oh, he’s one of those throwbacks to the Ice Age who believes women should be barefoot and pregnant. You know the type.”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
He smiled over at her. “Don’t worry, there aren’t too many Ice Age types around here. I think you’ll find we’re professionals.”
“I’m finding that out already, and believe me, it’s a huge load off my shoulders,”
Out of habit, because pilots were buddies, Gil placed his hand on her shoulder. The gesture shocked him as much as it did Rook. He saw the panic in her eyes and quickly broke contact. Had anyone seen it happen? “Sorry,” he muttered, “I’m already treating you like one of the guys.”
“That’s all right, Gil. It was the thought that counted. I appreciate you making me feel as if I’m part of his team before I’ve even begun proving myself.”
Heat crawled into Gil’s cheeks over his stupid, unthinking gesture. Was Jody Theron watching through the blinds as they walked over to the hangar? Oh, Christ, if she was, and Eve found out about it, there would be hell to pay. “Anything’s going to be easier than what Jarvis is walking into, believe me,” he muttered, trying to switch to a more impersonal topic.
“Chief Jarvis reporting as ordered, sir,” Chappie snapped in front of the CO’s desk.
Ward looked up from the neat piles of paperwork in front of him, allowing the chief to remain at attention. A quick perusal told him that Jarvis knew how to influence a superior. His uniform was clean and pressed. His shoes were like ebony mirrors. Ward studied the man’s impassive face. He saw a thin sheen of sweat on it. Had he been drinking prior to coming over here? Anger made Ward’s voice clipped and steely.
“Chief, I studied the duty roster for six hours last night, and what I found requires a lot of explanation. For instance,” Ward dragged out one of the many lists he’d prepared. “How can you explain the fact that Locke, who’s an E-6, has stood forty-three percent more duty than anyone else? That includes almost half of the duty weekends. Davis, who’s also an E-6, has stood thirty percent more duty than average. There are certainly plenty of E-4s and -5s who could take up the slack and give those two time to fulfill other, more important duties. And Marchetti, who’s only an E-4, has stood less duty than anyone.”
Jarvis swallowed hard. The bastard was going to make him stand at formal attention. Normally, chiefs were accorded special privileges by officers, and particularly by CO’s, because of their importance in the infrastructure between lower enlisted rates and the officer group. He’d swallowed half a pint of vodka this morning before coming to work and then eaten a chocolate bar to cover any residue of liquor on his breath. God knew, he needed fortification for this confrontation.
“Sir, if I may sit down and explain?”
“You can stand there and give me an explanation, Chief Jarvis.”
Hatred exploded within Jarvis. He only had two more years before his twenty years were up and he was
eligible for a pension. Now, this short shit was going to threaten his entire career. “Yes, sir,” he croaked in a rumbling voice.
“First, why has Locke stood so much duty?”
“Many of my men were either sick or had leave, and she was one of the few I could pull in on short notice, sir.”
‘That wasn’t just watch duty, Chief. That was ready-crew duty. Weren’t you worried about her mental state after a while? Flight mechanics are very special people, in a highly responsible position. The helicopter, rescue swimmer and two highly trained pilots are in their hands every time they fly out on a case.”
“Sir, it was just one of those situations where Locke happened to be available.”
“For a year?” Ward exploded. “You’re telling me this woman just conveniently happened to be there when another one of your personnel fell sick? You were in charge of deciding who gets leave and when. If you saw too many people were requesting leave at the same time, depriving you of the necessary crew on the line, why did you allow it to be approved?”
Chappie felt sweat running down either side of his rib cage. His pulse began to pound at his temple, creating a monstrous headache. “Sir, things weren’t exactly shipshape around here the last year.”
Ward ignored his feeble protest. “Let’s go to Seth Davis. Explain why he stood so much extra duty. He’s got a fine record and had high marks until he came here. What happened?”
“It was his attitude, sir.”
“What exactly is his attitude problem, Chief?” Ward saw the instant hatred in the chief’s squinted blue eyes. Jarvis was one of those salty old bastards who wore the label “redneck” well.
Chappie wanted to wipe his forehead; he could feel sweat collecting on it. “He had a bad attitude when he got here, sir. He didn’t like being told what to do and when. So, I assigned him extra duty to straighten him out.”
“Did you go to Lieutenant Welsh about Davis’s attitude problem, Chief?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I figured I could handle it, sir.”
Ward stared at him, allowing a good minute to pass in silence. The chief was sweating profusely. Slowly, he turned the page on his copious notes. “What about Angelo Marchetti? He’s a flight mech, too, but he seems to have fewer duty days than anyone.”
“He was sick an awful lot, sir.”
“Did you send him over to the dispensary to get a chit to prove it, Chief?”
“Uhh…no, sir, I didn’t.”
“So, you just gave him time off?”
Swallowing convulsively, Jams croaked, “Yes, sir.”
“You know, Chief, I can check all this out. As you can see, I’m writing down your explanations to all the questions I asked.”
“Yes, sir.” He blinked away the sweat, dragging in a couple of deep breaths. His back hurt from standing at such rigid attention for so long.
Ward pressed down the intercom. “June, get me the personnel files on Locke, Davis and Marchetti. Also, I want their medical records from sick bay.”
“Right away, Captain Stuart.”
“Thank you, June.”
Ward returned his attention to Jarvis, his eyes hardening. “Chief, I’ve got to tell you, I’m not happy with what I’ve discovered so far. The transfer rate, absenteeism and disciplinary rates are the highest I’ve ever encountered. They indicate something is wrong. You were in charge of the line. I’ve already alerted Lieutenant Welsh that he’s to take a stronger day-by-day interest in what is going on over there until this investigation can yield some solid answers. From this minute on, Lieutenant Welsh must approve your duty roster before you can institute it. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Ordinarily, no officer took interest in the duty sections. That was a chief’s responsibility. Now, Stuart was taking his power away from him and treating him like an errant child. He was almost twice Welsh’s age and felt humiliated by the order. Stuart was trying to embarrass him in front of the line crew.
“Further, Chief Andy Johnson will take over all maintenance on the MH-60s from this day on.”
Jarvis gasped, and he lost his stiff posture for an instant. “Captain, you can’t do that! I—”
Stuart leaped to his feet, both clenched fists resting lightly on the desk. “You’re at attention, Chief,” he whispered tautly.
Squaring his shoulders, Chappie stared straight ahead. Controlling his violent emotions, he rasped, “Why are you taking my job away from me?”
“To give you time to think about how you’ve played favorites with my people, for one. Let’s get something real clear between us, Chief. I don’t let anyone come down on the people who work under me. They’re all treated the same.”
It had to be Locke who blew the whistle on him, Chappie thought. He was reeling in shock. Davis had probably squealed, too—the bastard. Gathering what was left of his shredded ego, he muttered, “I have treated everyone fairly, sir.”
Ward relaxed. “I’ll know the answer to that soon enough, Chief. That’s all for now. Dismissed.”
Silence filled the office after Jarvis left. Ward was angry that the chief had tried to cover his ass and had lied to him. Restless, he got up and paced the spacious office. The wall of windows afforded him a view in two major directions: from the hook, he could look across the straits. In the distance, he could see British Columbia and its capital, Victoria. The other set of windows gave him a view behind the hook. The deep-water harbor was busy with freighters from Japan, which were hauling logs aboard with huge cranes. His thoughts turned to Rook Caldwell. Logan had taken her out on her first FAM flight, and he wondered how she was doing.
“This is CG 1406, Port Angeles.”
Rook glanced over at Gil. He had given her permission to fly and he answered the radio call from their station.
“This is CG 1406.”
“CG 1406, we’ve got a SAR case for you.”
“Wait one.” Gil always kept the knee board strapped to his right thigh. He took out a pen, ready to write. “Port Angeles, CG 1406. Go ahead.”
Rook listened intently, her heart picking up in beat. A SAR case! And Gil was going to take the call, even though she was a green copilot! Excitement wove with sudden fear as Rook wondered if she could do her end of the job without screwing up. True, they had an experienced flight mech with them. Angelo Marchetti seemed to know the ropes well enough. And Beau Jones was their rescue swimmer on board.
Gil signed off and gestured toward the open ocean just ahead of them. They had flown the coastline in a westerly direction, acquainting Rook with various important points that the pilots used when flying by sight.
“Possible boat sinking about four miles dead ahead.”
Rook glanced at him and then increased airspeed. The ’60’s rotary blades beat harder, and the shudder within the fuselage increased slightly. “The air station said it was telephoned in. Is that normal?”
“Smart cookie,” he congratulated her, pulling the map across his lap. “No, it’s not normal. You’re going to find out that some idiots think it’s funny to call in phony rescue calls. I can’t begin to tell you how much time, fuel and concern have been wasted on these false alarms.”
Anger made Rook frown. “Isn’t there any way to intercept that kind of call?”
“If there was, believe me, the Coast Guard would have employed it. Okay, let’s go down to five hundred feet. We’ve got good viz, visibility, and it will give you an edge on spotting the debris or people in the water a little quicker. If,” he said grimly “there really is a sinking.”
Clouds were moving in from the west, blotting out the sun. Rook knew this was ideal. Flight crews had a tough time spotting anything floating in the water when it glinted blindingly with sunlight.
Directed by Gil, Rook eased the ’60 into the first leg of an expanding square. They both kept a sharp lookout for debris, an oil slick or people on the fairly calm surface of the Pacific.
Gil fumed to himself. They’d dropped
a DTM, datum marker buoy, which would record, via radio signal, the winds, tides and current direction. After forty-five minutes of widening the pattern, they’d seen absolutely nothing, not even debris or a telltale oil slick. “The ocean’s fairly calm today, with no strong currents in any particular direction,” he pointed out to Rook. “If it was running confused, we might have missed one of the indications for a yacht sinking, but this isn’t adding up.”
“You think it was a fake call?”
“You bet I do. I’m radioing Port Angeles. I’m recommending they suspend the search.”
District 13 Operations Center approved the suspended search. Logan got permission from Port Angeles to continue the FAM flight. At Gil’s request, they climbed to a thousand feet. Rook saw the rolling ocean beneath her booted feet. It was a patchwork of greens and grays as the sunlight moved through the swells.
“Hey, Mr. Logan, whales at four o’clock!” Marchetti sang out in an excited voice.
Whales? Rook craned her neck to the right, trying to get a look.
“Roger, four o’clock. Let’s go down and take a look,” Logan told her.
Excited by the possibility of seeing the beautiful, large mammals, Rook followed his orders. She banked the helo to the right, rapidly descending to a hundred feet. There, just below and a quarter mile ahead of them, was a large herd of sperm whales. Their black, barnacled backs shone sleekly as they surfaced and blew huge plumes of spray into the air.
“Can you see the new calves?” Gil asked, grinning. He pointed to a baby whale between its two gargantuan parents.
“Yes!” Rook’s excitement increased. “Aren’t they beautiful! There must be fifteen or twenty in this pod. And look! Are those porpoise over there?”
“Sure are. A lot of them, too. Here, let me take the controls. I want to go down for a closer look. I’ve got a camera I always carry. It’s behind my seat. Get it, and we’ll try and shoot a couple of pictures for your scrapbook.”
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