Under Fire

Maggie stood very still, assimilating Parkinson’s statement. “That’s exactly what happened. Hall started second-guessing me when we were closing in for a kill on radar or the heads-up display. I wouldn’t stand still for his badgering me to fire before I felt it was appropriate. We got into a lot of squabbles on the intercom.”

“I was hoping it wouldn’t happen,” Howard murmured, sitting down at his desk. “But I knew there was a possibility it could.”

Her eyes rounded. “Well, why didn’t you warn me?”

“Maggie, if I told you everything I’ve learned, would you remember it, much less use it?”

“I’d give it one hell of a try.”

He shook his head. “Making a good fighter pilot is part teaching and part letting them learn from their own experience. You’ve had three RIOs here at Miramar over the years. Hall was your fourth. You got along well with the first three. That’s why I didn’t swallow all of Hall’s accusations. Unfortunately this assignment went to his head. Being touted as the best RIO in the Navy is no small boast, Maggie. He swallowed his own press—hook, line and sinker.”

She snorted. “And I see my responsibility as the first woman fighter-pilot in the Navy to be just the opposite. It’s a load to carry. If I screw up, every other woman will be pointed at and told she’s just like me. And that’s not true. Why didn’t Hall see his assignment the way I do?”

“Because the double standard’s still alive and kicking, Maggie. Hall’s a man, and moving higher up on the ladder of success breeds ego, confidence and, in some, a swelled head. Because you’re a woman, you took exactly the opposite tack: your elevated status equaled responsibility and nothing more. Women have had it drilled into them for five thousand years that they’re to be meek and subservient.”

Maggie sat back down, deep in thought. “Okay, so I’ve learned a valuable lesson, Commander. But this sure isn’t going to help us at Red Flag. How can I train a new RIO to work with me when it’s only three months away?”

Howard raised his brows. “Good tactical assessment of our problem.”

Maggie felt a tiny bit better when Parkinson framed it as “our” problem and not just hers. She liked his ability to work as a team, guiding everyone toward working for a common goal.

“However,” Parkinson went on, “I also want you to realize, Maggie, that Hall may have had some valid criticism of your performance. I’m not talking about his name-calling.”

Her conscience pricked her. “Yes, sir, I do tend to come down on the RIO when things get tense. I just don’t want to get nailed by the enemy, that’s all. I have to perform outstandingly every time.”

“I know that, Maggie, and that’s why I’m not hauling you on the carpet over Hall’s transfer. The work between a pilot and an RIO is like a marriage. It can be made in heaven or hell.”

Quirking her mouth, Maggie nodded. “Well, ours went straight to hell,” she conceded softly. “I know I didn’t help things, sometimes. But, dammit, Hall just got my goat!”

“No, he pushed the buttons on that temper of yours.”

“I’ve been working on corralling it. Honest to God, I have.”

“Hmm.” Parkinson eyed several folders on his desk. “I’ve got three new RIO candidates flying in today for Top Gun classes. I’m going to look over their records and see what we’ve got to choose from. Then, I’ll pick one for you—”

“Sir, may I interview the potential candidate?” Maggie knew she shouldn’t even ask such a question. In the military system, you took what you got without saying anything.

“That’s a highly unusual request.”

Maggie placed her hands flat on his desk, holding his gaze. “Yes, sir, it is. But I’m in a highly unusual situation.”

“Don’t use reverse female chauvinism on me, Maggie. It won’t work.”

“No, I didn’t mean it that way!”

“Sure?”

Maggie felt some heat creep into her cheeks. She knew she was blushing. Brazenly, she held her boss’s dead-level gaze. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re trying to bluff your way through this, Maggie.” He grinned. “But, I don’t blame you. Okay, I’ll let you interview your new RIO.”

“And if I don’t think the chemistry’s there after a familiarization flight?”

“You can check out the other two. Fair enough?”

A smile leaked from her tightly compressed lips. “More than fair, skipper. Thanks.” She straightened into an at-attention posture.

“When I get done, which will probably be sometime tomorrow, I’ll contact you over at the hangar and get you and the potential RIO together,” Parkinson growled. “Now, get out of here, Donovan. I’ve got work to do.”

Smiling, Maggie said, “Yes, sir!” then made a neat about-face and left his office.

Because she was part of the Top Gun instruction team at Miramar, her office was located in Ops on the second floor. Humming a lively Celtic tune under her breath, she felt the weight on her shoulders dissolve. Maybe Hall leaving halfway through the six months of Red Flag training would be okay, after all.

In her small, plain office, Maggie got down to work. Every once in a while, the thought of her new RIO leaked into her mind. Would she be able to get along with him? What would he be like? A good pilot-RIO combination was like a winning dance-competition couple: their every movement smoothly choreographed and flawlessly executed. A bad combo was like the result of a shy ten-year-old boy getting dragged out onto the dance floor by an overenthusiastic girl: a disaster in lack of coordination. But the combat dance a jet-fighter couple performed in the air was more critical than dance competition on the ground. The deadly dance they performed together in the sky could keep them alive…or let them die.

So, what would her partner be like? The professional who knew she had to be the boss in the air? Or the gawky ten-year-old boy stumbling over his own feet?

Chapter Two

“Hey, Lieutenant Donovan!” an air crewman from the side office in the hangar shouted. “Commander Parkinson wants to talk to you on the phone.”

Maggie was head deep in one of Cat’s engines with Chantal when the petty officer called to her. Muttering, Maggie carefully withdrew from the engine intake, with Chantal at her side. Her crew chief gave her a clean rag to wipe off her hands.

“Thanks, Chantal.”

“Maybe news about your new RIO?” Chantal guessed.

Maggie glanced at the watch on her left wrist. It was exactly noon. “I hope so. I’ll be back a little later.”

“Yes, ma’am. Good hunting,” the chief teased.

With a grin, Maggie settled her garrison cap on her head. “Thanks.” She entered the little hangar office and picked up the receiver.

“I think—” Parkinson’s voice on the phone held a degree of humor “—that you’re going to like your replacement RIO, Maggie.”

Her heart beat a little harder. Nerves. “Oh?”

“His name is Lieutenant Wes Bishop. I wanted you to come over and check him out here at Ops, but he said he’d rather meet you at the officers’ club for lunch.”

She frowned. “Great.” Bishop must be one of those jocks who thought he could impress her with lunch and a bottle of wine.

“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.