Under Fire

“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.