Under Fire

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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