Under Fire

Maggie braided her hair each morning and put it into a chignon instead of cutting it short as most women in the military finally did. The world she lived in was such a masculine one she insisted on remaining feminine. Her nails were always manicured and polished. Although she had never worn much makeup, she did wear lipstick regardless of whether she was flying or on the ground that day. Although the flight suits she wore were made for men, not women, Maggie had long ago started having them retailored to fit her tall form.

Her duffel bag contained many feminine articles. Once on the ground after a flight, she put on a tasteful pair of pearl earrings surrounded in gold. She also reapplied her lipstick and used a small spray bottle of perfume to neutralize some of the more unsavory fuel odors that inevitably lingered from around the hangars of the air station.

As she walked down the main hall of Ops after dropping her flight gear off at the women’s locker room, Maggie wondered what Hall had told her boss. Knowing Hall, he’d probably exaggerated to make her look like the heavy. Would Parkinson remove her from Red Flag training and replace her with another pilot and RIO team?

Maggie broke out in a sweat at that thought. She slowed her step as she walked into the outer office of her boss. Yeoman Susan Walter, a woman in her early thirties, smiled.

“Your fame has preceded you, Lieutenant,” she warned lightly.

Maggie grimaced. “I was afraid of that. Is the commander in?”

“Oh, yes. And he’s been waiting for you.”

“I’ll bet. Thanks, Susan.”

“Go right in.”

The look on Susan’s face told Maggie everything. Obviously Hall had come busting in here like a tornado. How much damage control would she have to implement to salvage her Red Flag training? Like those of all navy pilots, Maggie’s hand shook. It was a natural result of landing on carrier decks, one of the most dangerous of all flight maneuvers. Maggie reached out and gripped the brass doorknob that led to Parkinson’s office as Susan announced her over the intercom.

Maggie stowed her feelings deep inside as she entered the spacious office. Parkinson, in his early forties and partially balding, looked up. His wire-rimmed glasses sat on the bulbous end of his nose. He was a big man, appearing more so in a uniform that always seemed one size too small for him. Maggie quietly shut the door and came to attention in front of his desk.

“At ease, Maggie. Sit down, sit down.” He gestured for her to take the chair nearest his maple desk.

“Thank you, sir.” Her stomach quivered and knotted. Parkinson’s dark brown eyes could rip someone apart if he chose. But Maggie knew that he liked having women in the service, and was at the forefront of getting them combat qualified in combat aircraft as part of the congressional trial. Maggie couldn’t afford to have her career smeared by Hall. If she failed, then all the women who were struggling to follow in her footsteps would suffer because of it. Maggie couldn’t live with that possibility. She sat up straight and alert.

“Brad Hall was in here,” Parkinson said, leaning back in his leather chair and studying her.

“Yes, sir. I’m sure he was.”

“He wasn’t very happy, Maggie.”

“I wasn’t, either, sir.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

Maggie didn’t like the probing look Howard gave her. Had he swallowed Hall’s tirade? His lies? Sweat popped out on her upper lip. To rant and rave immaturely about Hall would put her in a bad light with her boss. Diplomacy wasn’t Maggie’s forte, either, but she had to try to dredge some up from somewhere. Her career could be hanging on the line. Her fierce belief that a woman could do anything a man could might be scuttled by one lousy, jealous man.

“Sir, Lieutenant Hall and I have tried to adjust to each other over the last three months. We’ve had a personality conflict since the get-go.”

“He called you a bitch.”

Maggie’s mouth tightened. “I suppose I can be that upon occasion, sir. It’s been my experience, however, that if a woman is assertive, she’s labeled a bitch, while if a man uses the same tactics, he’s called bold and his aggressiveness is applauded.”

Howard grunted. “He said you were a nagger.”

“‘Worse than a wife,’ I believe, were his exact words.”

“Yes. That, too. He accused you of telling him what to do all the time in the cockpit.”

Squirming in her seat, Maggie controlled her temper with difficulty. Between clenched teeth, she said, “Sir, when I’ve got a bogey on my screen with the radar screaming in my ear that I’ve got him dead to rights and my RIO is sitting on his thumbs back there, I’m taking the shot with or without his help.”

Parkinson’s straight black brows rose slightly. “Did you get the kill this morning?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“Good.” He leaned forward. “Hall is refusing to fly with you again, Maggie, even if it means a court-martial. Those are pretty strong words for a career officer. He’s serious.”

“Yes, sir, I know he is.”

Tapping his fingers on the files beneath his hand, Howard rolled his eyes. “I’ve got a dilemma, Maggie. Hall was chosen because he’s the very best RIO the Navy has. In my opinion, you’re our best combat pilot. I wanted the best paired with the best. We’ve only got three more months to prepare for Red Flag. You know how important teamwork and timing between the pilot and RIO is. It takes time to develop.”

“No one realizes that more than I do, sir.”

Getting up, he went to his coffee maker and poured himself a cup. “Want some?”

What Maggie wanted right now was a good, stiff belt of Irish whiskey. “No, thank you, sir.”

“Cut the ‘sir’ stuff, Maggie. Relax. I’m not hauling your ass off this assignment, so stop looking like I’m going to end your career at any moment. Do you want some coffee?”

Relief cascaded through Maggie. She managed a slight smile. “Yes, sir… I mean, oh, hell. Yeah, give me a cup. My nerves are shot from squaring off with Hall.”

Howard handed her a mug. He sat on the edge of the desk and thoughtfully sipped his coffee for several minutes before speaking.

“Why didn’t you come to me sooner about him?” he asked finally.

Maggie got up, unable to sit still any longer. She’d always had an overload of nervous energy. “I thought it was me, at first.”

“Oh?”

“You know how bullheaded and opinionated I can get.”

“Yes. Like an overfocused laser on occasion.”

Maggie nodded and sipped her steaming-hot coffee. “It’s a weakness. But I also know my strengths, Commander. The first month with Hall was awful, but I assumed it was my fault. The second month, after changing tactics and trying my best to be diplomatic, nothing changed.” She shrugged. “This last month I just said to hell with it and went back to being myself, hoping Hall would adjust.”

“He didn’t.”

She sighed unhappily. “No.”

“You’re still buying into the double standard, Maggie.”

She stared at Parkinson in disbelief.

“Close your mouth, Maggie. I didn’t hit you, for heaven’s sakes.”

Snapping her mouth shut, she said, “Okay, what gives?”

“You followed the classic conditioned reflex of assuming it was your fault that Hall was reacting to you the way he did.” The commander drilled her with a dark look. “Now, I know pilots and RIOs all have big egos, Maggie. They have to. Ego clashes are common in this little world of combat aviation. It takes a healthy ego to fly a thirty-five-million-dollar jet fighter on and off the heaving deck of a carrier. That RIO sitting behind you is helpless, dependent on your flight skills. He’s not only got to think you’re the best damn pilot in the world, but that he’s the best damned RIO. Sometimes, seasoned RIOs get pretty plucky—even more egotistical than a pilot, if you can believe that. And when they do, they start encroaching on the pilot’s territory. The problem usually only rears its head in combat circumstances.”