The Gauntlet. Lindsay McKenna

       Chapter One

      “How could you do this to me, Molly?” Jason Rutledge demanded. “My only daughter fails Navy flight school!”

      Molly stood uncertainly before her father in the den of her parent’s spacious, richly appointed, New York City penthouse. She felt heat flame up her neck into her cheeks, and inwardly chastised herself for blushing. At twenty-three, she wished she’d outgrown such girlish reactions.

      Her father, standing rigidly behind his desk, was a lean, spare sixty-year-old with steel-gray hair and steel-rimmed glasses. Scott, her brother, sitting nearby in his motorized wheelchair, was a younger, much less harsh version of the older man. Molly’s stomach knotted as her parent glared at her, his blue eyes narrowed. “Father—”

      Jason gestured irritably to the left. “You graduated from Annapolis with honors, Molly, and won the right to go to Navy flight school. So few are chosen for it. Foreign countries send their best and brightest to train there. And you failed, Molly. You failed. What about Scott? You’ve let your brother down, too. You promised both of us you’d do your best to win your wings.”

      Molly opened her mouth, then shut it. Having just driven to New York from Whiting Field near Pensacola, Florida, she was physically and emotionally exhausted. For six weeks she’d trained at Whiting, trying to make the grade at the toughest flight school in the world. She hadn’t attained the level of flight skills necessary to receive her wings. All the way home, she’d tried to prepare herself for this confrontation; but to no avail. Since her mother’s death thirteen years ago, her father had run their family with an ironclad hand. Molly longed to see some sign of softening in her father’s set, demanding features, but found none. Scott was hanging his head, staring disinterestedly at his hands clasped in his lap.

      Pacing back and forth behind his huge maple desk, neatly stacked with files, Jason shook his head. “All my—I mean, our—hopes were pinned on you. I was an ace in the Navy during Korea! Your grandfather was in the Navy during World War II, and was also an ace. He even earned the Navy Cross.”

      “I know that.” Unable to hold her father’s incisive glare, Molly stared down at her simple leather shoes.

      “If Scott hadn’t had the accident he’d have gone on to Annapolis instead of you. He would have gotten his wings.”

      Hurt, more than anger, stirred in Molly’s heart. Licking her lips, she whispered, “Father, I did the best I could for both of you. I’m sorry, truly I am. I gave it all I had.” She shrugged, her voice softening. “I just don’t have what it takes in the cockpit. My instructor said I’d make an excellent commercial pilot, but not a fighter pilot.”

      With a snort, Jason crossed to the bar and poured himself a Scotch on the rocks. “We supported you all the way through Annapolis. Weekly letters from Scott. Phone calls from both of us. My God, short of flying for you, Molly, we couldn’t have done more. We couldn’t get the wings for you!” He took a hefty gulp of the Scotch and shook his head.

      The hurt in Molly’s chest widened. She had dreaded coming home for her thirty-day leave before her next assignment. Lifting her chin, she tried to smile but failed terribly.

      “I’ve been assigned to the Navy test pilot facility at Patuxent River, Maryland, to train to become a flight engineer. Do you know how many Annapolis graduates want that plum? Maggie and Dana both agree that working on testing planes is just as respectable a vocation as being a pilot.” Her best friends, whom she’d met at and gone through Annapolis with, were still at Whiting Field, finishing flight school.

      “Good God, Molly! Hasn’t four years at Annapolis done anything for you? Navy pilots are recognized as the best in the world. Being a flight engineer is like being the bridesmaid.”

      Frowning, Molly held her father’s gaze. “I disagree with you. My grades were excellent, Father. Not everyone gets a shot at testing. I think I can do it.”

      “You thought you could get your wings, too,” Jason pointed out angrily. He set his glass on the desk with a sharp bang. “What makes you think test-pilot school is going to be any easier, Molly?”

      “Well, I don’t—”

      “Damn right, it won’t be. It will be ten times harder! Everybody and their brother wants to test planes, to be a ‘Golden Arm.’ Out of all those jet jocks, only a handful make it to that level of skill. If you thought flight school was tough, believe me, young lady, think again about Patuxent River. They wash out nearly everyone—only ten percent graduate.”

      Molly glanced over at Scott, who was watching her silently, accusation in his green eyes. She sighed. “All I can do is try, Father.”

      “Besides,” Jason went on as if he hadn’t heard her, “the test pilots are the stars. Flight engineers never get the glory.”

      “It’s my understanding that the flight engineer is the test,” Molly gritted out. “The flight engineer makes up the program that the pilot uses to test the aircraft. No engineer—no test. I think that’s pretty important.”

      “But the world only recognizes test pilots—not the shadows behind the scenes!”

      “Besides,” Scott added dejectedly, “my friends don’t know anything about flight engineers.