Under Fire

“I hope you know what you’re in for, Bishop.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Those jocks in there are going to tease you to death, now that you’re flying with me.”

“I’ve been known to take a couple of hits on the chin and live to tell about it. I think I’ll survive anything they lob at me.”

Maggie liked his laid-back approach to life. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she countered, then asked the hostess for a booth in a corner where they could have some privacy. At this time of day, few people were eating. The bar, however, was elbow to elbow with jocks.

After Wes ordered the beers and Maggie paid for them, he leaned forward and said, “Okay, tell me about yourself.”

She sipped the beer, suddenly unable to relax. “I get jumpy when a guy starts hitting on me with twenty questions.”

“This is different. I’m your RIO for the next three months.”

“Do you always get what you want, Bishop?”

“No, but I try.”

Chuckling, Maggie stretched her long legs out across the leather seat of the booth and relaxed. She supposed it didn’t look very military or even socially acceptable to do it, but she didn’t care. “I’m a pretty private person.” Why did he want to know about her? Maggie shrugged the question off. Wes was the kind of guy who no doubt established a personal relationship with each person he had to work with. Somehow the realization was a blow to her heart.

“The Cherokee are like that, too,” Wes said. “They don’t like their pictures taken because they think it steals a part of their soul.” He cocked his head, studying her. “Is that how you feel when talking about yourself?”

“You amaze me with your perception,” Maggie replied, meaning it sincerely.

“As if men can’t have some of what you women have?”

A smile tugged at her mouth. She drank some more of her beer and reached for the basket that contained chips and pretzels. “Caught red-handed.”

“You’re a little bit of a female chauvinist.”

“Guilty as charged. I’ve got to try and watch that tendency.”

“Who sold you a bill of goods that all men were insensitive to you as a human being?”

Maggie quirked her mouth. “Not my father, that’s for sure. I came out of a family where women are looked upon as equals, Wes. There were four girls, and my parents taught us that we were just as strong, intelligent and capable as any man. Maybe it’s the Celt blood in our veins—you know, over in England and Ireland, up through Roman times, our women fought as warriors beside their men.”

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.”