Sniffing, Patty hung her head, stared at her dinosaur and refused to speak.
“Maybe,” Megan suggested softly, “if you color the rest of him with bright colors, your day will go better. Would you like to try it?” At that moment, she heard the throaty growl of an F-15 taking off in the distance. Was it Sam? Was the test beginning? Inwardly, Megan chastised herself. She’d been around bases too long, able to identify the type of plane that was flying by sound alone. Desperately, she forced herself to address Patty’s problems.
“I don’t want to! Mommy’s black. Daddy’s black. Everything’s black,” Patty said, her lower lip protruding.
Rubbing Patty’s shoulder, she placed a red crayon in her hand. “Sometimes, honey, parents do have bad days. The best way to help yourself is color your world differently.” Megan wasn’t going to infer that Patty had to make her parents happy, or that it was her fault. “Go, try some red, or maybe yellow, for sunshine. I’ll bet if you do, your day will go better. Why not try it and see?”
Reluctantly, Patty made a long red line on the dinosaur. Her pout receded. She took the yellow crayon from Megan. “Yellow for sun?”
Rising, Megan smiled. “That’s right. And green for grass and trees. You could even have a rainbow dinosaur, if you wanted. Think how happy your day would be, then.”
Patty shrugged. “It’d get black when I got home.”
Hiding her reaction, Megan said nothing and moved on to the next child. All the old feelings she thought were gone forever came back. She remembered sitting in her fourth grade class and dreading the ringing of the bell telling all children that it was time to go home. The nausea in her stomach was nonstop from the moment that bell rang—it just got worse as the school bus approached her house. By the time she stepped off the bus, Megan was close to vomiting. Sometimes, when her mother’s drinking was worse than usual, she would run to the bathroom and do exactly that.
With a shake of her head, Megan stood in the middle of her classroom. Coming back to Edwards to face old ghosts was much worse than she’d ever anticipated. Patty’s problems had dug out her own childhood. And Sam…Taking a breath, Megan tried to push his smiling face and easygoing nature away.
It was impossible. She heard the F-15 jet engines grow louder. That meant the fighter was parallel with the runway, barely a half a mile from the school complex. It took everything Megan possessed not to run to the window and look to verify what she already knew. Hands growing damp, she turned her back on the windows and tried to escape her fear. Sam was testing the brakes on the bird. The last time, they’d caught on fire. Megan knew what could happen if the wheel well fire spread and was not caught quickly by the fire crews. The aviation fuel in both wings could ignite, killing everyone on board.
“Another round of tests down the drain,” Jack muttered, sitting at the Design table with fifteen other people. To his delight, the F-15 hadn’t been able to make the fifteen-hundred-foot marker even with the reinforced brakes installed.
Lauren jerked her head toward him. She was sitting midway down the long, rectangular table littered with ashtrays, foam cups filled with coffee, calculators and papers. “Captain, I didn’t ask for your assessment of today’s test!”
Stang heard the anger vibrating in her voice. He had to be careful. Adding a brilliant smile, he looked at everyone. “Hey, I’m just as disappointed as you are.”
“Yeah, well, if you’re so disappointed,” Holt snarled, “why don’t you come up with a better idea on how to anchor that bird at fifteen hundred feet?” He was disappointed in his own flying performance. And he knew Port was, too, but she hadn’t said anything. Two out of the seven tests were blown by his lousy flying.
“Look,” Bill Hodges, the civilian test pilot soothed, “it’s just one of those days when nothing goes right. Let’s chalk it up to that and put our heads together on how we can get this bird slowed down enough, without going into a stall situation, to nail it at fifteen hundred feet.”
Running his fingers through his hair, Sam realized with a sinking feeling that the session wasn’t going to end quickly. He wouldn’t be able to call Megan and alleviate her fears or worry. Damn. That made him even more irritable, if possible. The knot of fear in his stomach was still with him. During the flight, it felt like he was carrying around a twenty-pound stone in his gut. His flying showed it. He was sure Lauren was going to grade his lackluster performance fairly. Last time, she hadn’t—this time, she would have to.
“Well,” Stang murmured, “I believe I’ve got the answer.” All heads turned to him, expectant. He saw disbelief and anger in Porter’s eyes. Holt grimaced. Jack’s mouth lifted into a broad smile. “You flight engineers have overlooked one intrinsic factor.”
“What?” growled Lauren, taking the insult personally.
Jack picked up a plastic model of the F-15 sitting on the polished maple table. He pointed to the engines at the rear of the plane. “Simple. I suggest we redesign part of the engine shape. Right now, the afterburner exhaust nozzles are round. How about we make them square? That might create a flaplike surface that might slow the bird down enough for a short landing. A round nozzle doesn’t add that much drag, a square one would.”
“He might be right,” Sam said, thinking out loud. Turning to his right, he saw Lauren pondering the suggestion. “Design could make a model with the redesigned exhaust nozzles and test it in the wind tunnel. The computers would tell us if it has possibilities.”
Lauren nodded. It would be just like Stang to have sat on this idea for weeks, making her military and civilian team look bad, just so that he could time his suggestion to make himself look very good. Right now, they were behind schedule, and General Dalton wasn’t happy. He had let it be known that she was instrumental in keeping this testing on time—or else. Hatred for Stang soared through her. Just looking into his eyes, Lauren knew he’d been sitting on this design change idea for quite some time.
General Dalton would read her report, single out Stang and sing his praises. Yes, there was more than one way to get noticed and make points with the higher-ups. Lauren grudgingly gave Stang his due. The bastard was the purest kind of political animal she’d ever had the misfortune to work with. He ought to run for president.
“Okay,” Lauren said, buttonholing her civilian counterpart across the table, “let’s do it—now. I want all test pilots to stay after this meeting. We need to discuss the nozzle shape in minute detail. Then, I want all flight test engineers in here after that, and we’ll go over the particulars of redesigning, making up new software for the program, and getting a model into the wind tunnel as quickly as possible with the redesign. Questions?”
Holt sat back in the chair, disgusted. He knew Lauren well enough that when she locked on to an idea, everyone stayed until it was hammered out. It was going to be impossible to call Megan. Looking to the left, he saw that Curt Merrill wasn’t very happy about it, either. A whole day locked away in a smoky room wasn’t a test pilot’s idea of joy.
“If we push on this—” Lauren punched numbers into the calculator between her hands “—we ought to have a test flight prepared three weeks from now.” She turned to Stang. “I’m sure General Dalton will schedule you to fly it.”
Sam said nothing, his Friday flight scrubbed. Because of his lousy performance today, Lauren was assigning Stang, not him, to the next flight. Stang was grinning.
“Fine by me!” Jack said.
Lauren sat back, thinking for a moment. “Sam, do me a favor?”
He sat up. “What do you need?”
“Call Patuxent River and talk to their design people. If my memory serves me correctly, didn’t they consider square nozzles on the engines of one of their fighters? I know they didn’t carry through with it, but I’d like you to get any test data you can, plus talk to the people in Design.”
“Okay.”
“Better yet,” Jack volunteered, “why don’t you TDY him to the navy test pilot school for a week or two and do an in-depth investi
gation? Phone calls aren’t going to get what you want, Major.”
Holt saw Stang’s deft maneuver: on temporary duty, TDY, he’d be out of sight, out of mind. Stang was afraid he’d protest the change of pilots. He was damned right he was going to. But one look back at Lauren, and his hopes sank. She was delighted with the suggestion.
“Great idea! Sam, I’ll talk to Colonel Yale and get TDY orders cut for you. Fly down today, retrieve the information we need. I can give you up to seven days back there to get it.” Lauren smiled at him. She trusted Holt’s ability to get what she wanted, making her job easier.
“Will do,” Sam said. Personally, he felt Porter was expecting too much, too soon. How could they possibly redesign in such a short period of time, even if the wind tunnel tests verified Stang’s suggestion? But Lauren was responsible for keeping this project on schedule, and she didn’t have a choice. And thanks to his screwing up two test flights in a row, that helped put them behind. He considered the TDY assignment just punishment and said nothing further. Still, Sam wanted to try and get ahold of Megan, one way or another. He didn’t want to suddenly drop out of her life—especially after their fight.
Trying to sit still, Sam’s mind was elsewhere. If he could keep Megan informed, that might take the edge off her anxiety. Part of Curt’s problem with Becky was that he never discussed any flight and never would call her after he landed to neutralize her fears. Holt believed if Megan knew, her anxiety level would dissolve. Education and communication were the keys. Now, if only he could cut free of this meeting.
Curt Merrill looked positively harried, scribbling idly on a pad of paper in front of him. Lately, he hadn’t been volunteering much of anything for the testing. Sam grimaced to himself. Was this whole project cursed?
Curt knew something was wrong the moment he entered their home at seven o’clock. He’d called earlier to tell Becky that he was going to be late. Today had been a marathon session centering on redesigning the engine nozzles. Tossing his garrison cap on the sofa piled with clothes that needed to be washed, he waded through Patty’s strewn toys in the living room and made it to the kitchen.
“Becky?” No answer. Normally, if he were late, his dinner was in the oven. He was starved. Opening the stove, there was nothing in there. Scowling, he shut it and went to the laundry room at the rear of the house.
Outside the screen door, he saw Patty playing in a small sandbox. Becky looked up from loading the washer.
“Hi, honey,” she greeted. Lifting her arms, Becky placed them around his neck.
Curt kissed her gently, concerned at the paleness of her features. “What’s wrong, Sparrow? You don’t look good.” He brushed a limp strand of blond hair off her damp brow. Her smile was halfhearted.
“Ohhh, nothing. I’m just in one of my moods.”
He rocked her to and fro in his arms, enjoying her slight form against him. “I didn’t fly today,” he reminded her. The odor of liquor was on her breath, and he stilled his anger and fear.
“I know. But—” she eased out of his arms and returned to loading the washer “—it just seems every day is harder to get through even if you don’t fly.”
Merrill stood here, vacillating between reading a manual on the engine design of the F-15, or talking to Becky. Every time he tried to, they always ended up in a fight. He was too tired to do that tonight. “Well,” he said, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder, “you’re just going to have to hang in there for me, Sparrow. Things are bad over on the project right now.”
Instantly, Curt was sorry he’d phrased it that way. Becky swung around, her eyes growing huge and shadowed. “I mean,” he said, “we’re having problems getting the bird to land within fifteen hundred feet.”
“So,” Becky quavered, “Melody was right. You really are in trouble.”
“What does Melody Stang have to do with this?”
Wincing, Becky shut the lid on the washer. “She called me this afternoon and told me there were design changes on the Eagle. I got worried.”
Gripping her shoulder, he turned his wife toward him. Her delicate face was pinched with worry. “And so you took a drink because of that?” he demanded in a lowered tone.
Becky nodded. “It soothed my nerves, Curt.” She held out her hands. They shook perceptibly. “I had to do something! My nerves are shot!”
Groaning, Curt’s voice rose a notch in frustration. “Becky, I told you to never talk to that Stang woman! She’s out for herself and her husband. Can’t you get that through your thick head?”
“Don’t yell at me!” she cried, walking down the hallway toward the kitchen.
Merrill followed. “Dammit, I will! She called and deliberately upset you. I told you to stop hitting that bottle of whiskey. It isn’t good for you, Becky!”
In the kitchen, she jerked open the refrigerator and pulled out a lasagna casserole. “Well, just how am I supposed to get information, then?” She slammed the door shut, opened the stove and literally dropped the casserole into the oven.
Hands draped across his hips, Merrill growled, “Look, I don’t tell you anything because most of it’s classified top secret and you know that! What I can tell you, I do. Every time, I do, you nosedive into one of those depressions of yours.” His voice cracked. “Just what the hell am I supposed to do, Becky? I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t. You don’t want to hear anything because it upsets you. And if I do tell you something, it puts you on edge for days afterward, and you hit that goddamn bottle of yours.”
She stood there, hands clasped in front of her, barely able to look at him. “I’d rather know, Curt,” she said in a small voice.
“I don’t believe this,” he shouted, throwing his arms up in frustration. “Years ago you told me not to say anything. So I didn’t.”
“I guess I’ve changed my mind….”
Breathing hard, Curt rasped, “Fine!”
Tentatively, her voice barely audible, Becky said, “Melody says that Jack always calls her before and after he flies. That way, she doesn’t worry so much, and she knows he’s safe.”
Lips thinning, Curt studied his wife, wrestling with real anger. How the hell had Stang been able to worm his way into their life? Melody wasn’t to be trusted. “Look, the Stangs are out for themselves, Becky. They set people up. Don’t listen to her!”
Lifting her head, Becky’s voice became strident with anger. “Curt Merrill, you’re acting like an ostrich with his head in the sand! Melody Stang has helped me. I have someone I can talk to now, when I’m feeling blue. She listens. She understands.”
Stalking around the kitchen, Merrill muttered, “Better than I do? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Well…you come home, eat and then lock yourself in your office to study some stupid jet manual! I can’t talk to Patty because she doesn’t understand. What do you want me to do?”
Frustration ate at him. “Look, I’ve got to study tonight, Becky. We’re at a critical juncture with this damn project. I can’t afford to screw it up now.” He lifted his hand. “I’ll try and talk to you each night at bedtime, okay? Maybe we can steal a few minutes then. I don’t want you talking to Melody Stang. She hasn’t got your best interests at heart, believe me.”
Hope showed in her voice. “We’ll talk?”
Anger sloughed off him. “Yes, we’ll talk tonight, when we go to bed.” Looking at his watch, Curt asked, “Will you bring me my dinner in the office? I’ve got to get on those manuals or else.”
“Sure,” she whispered, managing a crooked smile filled with hope.
Becky’s eyelids began to droop. She lay in bed, fiddled idly with a loose thread on the blanket, and waited for Curt to get done with the manual. The novel she was reading had been tossed aside. It was 1:30 a.m. Nodding off, she awoke the instant her chin dropped downward. Where was Curt? All evening she’d looked forward to the quality time he’d promised.
Because she felt happier, Patty had responded, too. She wasn’t the little imp she usually was
every evening. For that, Becky was grateful. Sliding down beneath the covers and nestling her head into the pillow, she centered on their daughter. Today, Patty had brought home a rainbow-colored dinosaur from school. The front half was black, but the other half was colorful. Becky had proudly pinned it up in Patty’s room. For once, an evening had almost gone smoothly.
Almost…Patty had stood crying outside her father’s office door because, as usual, it was locked and he didn’t want to be disturbed. Becky had picked her up, kissed her and taken her for her nightly walk down the block, and then had given her a bath.
With a sigh, Becky could no longer keep her eyes open. The day had been too stressful, and the argument with Curt had taken a further toll on her. In moments, she was asleep. And alone.
13
Becky met the bus and smiled as her daughter came racing around the front of it, her pigtails flying. She opened the gate for her, picked Patty up and kissed her cheek. Fridays were always special because Patty looked forward to the weekend, and perhaps, an hour or so with Curt. Time was something he couldn’t give her during the week.
Walking up the steps, she carried Patty to the door and opened it. Curt had called earlier, saying that they had run into some problems over at Design, and that he’d be a couple hours late. As long as he wasn’t flying, Becky didn’t care. A part of her wondered if Curt was lying to her. He’d done that on occasion when he didn’t want her to worry. She knew the pilots and engineers had spent longer than normal hours over at testing this week, because of a design change. Were they going to secretly fly a test before the day was out? It was 4:00 p.m. Curt said it would be at least two hours before he was home.
Frowning, Becky put her daughter down and went to the kitchen. She knew they were behind schedule, at least, that’s what Melody had said in her last phone call. Was Curt lying? Were they going to fly a last-minute test today?
Bending down, Becky opened the liquor cabinet and pulled out the whiskey bottle. Hands shaking, she took down a tumbler from the cupboard. Melody had also said Sam Holt was flying in today from Maryland. That made it even more likely that a test would be flown. But, by who? If she called Ops, they wouldn’t tell her who was scheduled in Sam’s place. Uneasy, Becky swallowed some of the whiskey. Immediately, as it burned its way down her throat and into her stomach, she began to feel a slight soothing effect on her jangled nerves.
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