Willard watched Major Louise “Pickles” Johnson, ignoring a spat of angry mumbling from Thomas. She was marching across the apron as if any minute she was going to break into a run. Captain Alex “Blackman” Franklin walked a couple of steps behind her to her left. He was watching her as if he expected any moment he was going to have to jog after her.
No one walked with Pickles. Willard smiled. Perceptively, she made a slight course correction and headed toward him. Why in the hell did he have to smile?
“I think I will go check the aircraft that replaced the one destroyed,” Thomas said quietly.
Willard turned to reply, but the technical sergeant was gone. Willard looked both ways, then over his shoulder. Thomas was walking quickly toward the replacement aircraft. The sergeant threw his hand up, as if knowing Willard was staring at his back. Chief Master Sergeant Willard wished he had been quicker.
“Chief!” Johnson shouted as she neared. “Is the flight ready for launch?”
“Yes, ma’am. We fueled and checked both last night…” he started to reply, raising his right hand in a salute.
“Last night is unacceptable. How about this morning?” she asked sharply, returning the salute.
“And we did it again this morning. Sergeant Thomas just finished doing it a third time.”
She had her helmet tucked under her left arm. Her dark black hair bounced a couple of inches above her shoulders, exposing small gold earrings. Willard watched her frown. Her lower lip pushed up and over the upper, as if waiting for tusks to appear at the corners of her lips. She was silent for a few seconds.
“Okay. I’ll still need to preflight it myself,” she said, the frown disappearing. She marched by Willard without waiting for a reply.
I hope to shout you will, Willard thought. For an instant, he saw the physical beauty of the woman, but shook his head quickly at the thought.
“I said, I’ll still need to preflight it, Chief!”
“Yes, ma’am!” Willard replied. No pilot accepted an aircraft without a preflight check, even if every minute the plane had been sitting on the apron it was being checked. The Air Force held the pilot responsible for his or her aircraft, not the ground crew.
“Afternoon, Chief,” Franklin said as he walked by Willard. “How’s Fast Pace, sir?” Willard asked quietly, falling in step with the wingman.
“He’s still at the burn center in San Antonio. Looks as if it may not be as bad as we thought.”
“He looked pretty bad.”
Franklin looked down at Willard’s hands. “How’s the hands, Chief? I see you still have gloves.”
“Inside the gloves, the hands are bandaged and covered with this slip-on latex gloves.” He lifted his left hand. “This hand is worse. The right hand is about back to normal. Doctor said to keep making and unmaking fists to keep scar tissue from forming. He asked if I was allergic to latex. Told him if I had been, there’d be a lot of little Willards running around the world.”
Franklin chuckled. “Glad you’re okay.”
“Doc says the hands are going to be an ugly sight.”
“Hate to hear that.”
Willard smiled. “Naw. It’ll fit right in with being a chief.” He raised his left hand and made a fist. “Ought to scare the shit out of junior officers.”
“Well, I know it’d work on me.”
Willard wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir. But some junior officers are beyond salvation.” Johnson continued toward the far aircraft. Franklin stopped at the one parked alongside hers. “I exchanged e-mails with
Fast Pace last night,” he said as he squatted to look into the front wheel-well. “It was daytime in Texas and they’re sending him home. That’s the good news.”
Franklin stood and walked toward the right wing, his eyes scrutinizing the fuel and flush panels for anything out of place. “Bad news is that he may never fly again. His wife is in Texas with him. Air Force has put her up at Lackland. Her folks are taking care of the children. He said the Air Force is going to let him go home at the end of the week and finish his recovery there. He said the doctors told him he could do his rehab at the Naval Hospital in Portsmouth. They’ll fly back to Langley and they won’t have to fly commercial.”
“That’s good. Too many stares for commercial.”
Franklin touched the fuel cap. Satisfied, he put the cover back in place. “Civilians do tend to stare,” Franklin replied. He let out a deep breath. “I miss him and I worry about him.” “We all do. It was a messy crash.”
Franklin faced Willard. “That was a brave thing you did. Not many would have rushed onto a burning plane.”
Willard turned red. “Good thing I didn’t have time to think about it. Captain Nolan should be ready to fly again soon,” Willard added, changing the topic.
“Doctor says he should be good to go in another week. Unlike your hands, the good captain had less burns on his.” “Without the two of us, we’d.. ” He felt his throat constrict. Franklin slapped him on the shoulder. “I know what you mean, Chief. If you two had not ignored your own safety…” Franklin stopped. This was getting too emotional for him. Fast Pace was alive. He was Stateside. And he was with his family. He, on the other hand, had inherited the coveted spot of being the DETCO’s wingman. For that, he would never forgive Captain Ronny Walters, near-death experience or not. “Chief, anything I need to know about my airplane?”
“Should be okay, sir. Sergeant Thomas has paid close attention to both.”
A young female technical sergeant emerged from beneath the aircraft.
“Captain Franklin, this is Sergeant Norton — Kathy Norton. She came aboard the mail plane two days ago and is now a valued member of our ground crew.”
Franklin nodded at the dark-haired, deeply tanned woman, and welcomed her on board. When she walked away, his eyes followed.
“Yep, she has that effect on people — especially us men. She has one of those bird tattoos on her right ankle. Quiet sort of a person.”
Franklin brought his eyes back to Willard and started walking toward the rear of the aircraft. “Back to my fighter, Chief?”
“It’s ready to go, sir. We’ve been over it, done our ground check, and now it’s up to you.”
“Good,” Franklin said as the two men turned around the tail, heading toward the other wing. Franklin stopped at the tire and kicked it. He smiled at Willard. “I know what you’re thinking, but it gives me great pleasure to kick the tires.” “Getting used to your new lead pilot?”
“Chief, don’t go there,” Franklin replied lightly. “We’re still adjusting to each other. But you know something — she’s not a bad pilot. Knows her shit.”
“Chief!”
Willard turned toward Major Johnson, who stood with her hands on her hips facing him. “See you, sir,” he said with a wave as he turned toward Johnson’s summons. “Have a great flight and an even better landing. Remember the secret of a good flight, sir.”
“The number of takeoffs and landings must be an equal number,” Franklin replied.
Franklin watched for a moment as Willard walked toward the DETCO. In five minutes, Chief, he thought, you’ll still be here on the deck of this floating island, but I’ll have three to four hours of fun flight time with her.
“Glad to have you aboard, Agent Montague. Hope your flight out was okay. It would have been nice if Headquarters had told us you were coming before the flight left Japan,” Zeichner said. He pointed to the chair across from him.