Under Fire. Lindsay McKenna

       Chapter One

      “I wouldn’t fly with you again if you paid me to!”

      Maggie Donovan glared at her radar information officer, Lieutenant Brad Hall. They stood tensely, inches apart, on the revetment area next to her F-14 Tomcat fighter jet. “Yeah? Well, you don’t see me digging into my pockets to give you any money to do it, do you, Hall?”

      Hall jabbed a finger in her direction. “You’ve got a real problem, Donovan. It’s called ‘You wanna run the whole goddamn show’!”

      Her eyes narrowed in fury. “I’m the pilot! You’re damn right I run the show. If anything happens to that bird, it’s my responsibility and my rear on the line—not yours! You sit in the back cockpit and fiddle with your knobs and dials. You should do as I tell you. That’s your job, mister, in case you forgot it.”

      “Man, you’re as tough as they come, Donovan,” he rattled, taking a step back from her. “There’s no way in hell I’m sitting in the cockpit with you again. I’m going to Commander Parkinson to ask for a transfer. Get some other poor jerk to listen to your tirades. I already feel sorry for whoever it is. You’re worse than a nagging wife!”

      Maggie, dressed in her flight suit and the body-hugging G-suit, jerked off her Nomex gloves and stuffed them into her pocket. “Hall, you can take a long walk off a plank, for all I care! I’ll be going to Commander Parkinson, too. I’ll make sure he gets the full story on your screw-ups in the cockpit.”

      “I didn’t screw up. I’m just tired of you telling me how to do my job! No RIO in his right mind will fly with you. I’ve had it. Screw Red Flag and screw you!” Hall whirled on his heel and stalked off across the concrete apron, heading toward the waiting van that would take them back to Operations.

      Breathing hard, Maggie tried to get control of her hair-trigger temper. “Good riddance,” she whispered under her breath as Hall disappeared into the van. She waved at the driver, indicating he should go on without her. She needed time to calm down.

      Day had just dawned over Naval Air Station Miramar, just north of San Diego, California. At 0800 the July sun’s long rays shot westward toward the Pacific Ocean, not far from the station. Muttering under her breath, Maggie returned to her fighter and climbed up the ladder to retrieve her knee board.

      “What a rotten start to the day.” She rummaged around on the side of her ejection seat and located the board. Below, Maggie heard her crew chief’s voice.

      “Lieutenant Donovan, how did Cat perform this morning for you?”

      “A hell of a lot better than my RIO did,” Maggie retorted. She struggled to put her anger away. “Cat” was the name she had given her fighter. To many pilots a fighter was nothing but metal, wire and computers. But to Maggie, the F-14 seemed to come alive under her hands. And she’d given it a name worthy of its abilities.

      Petty Officer First Class Chantal Percival, Maggie’s dark-haired, darked-eyed crew chief, stood expectantly down below, dressed in a green one-piece uniform. Despite her petite size, Chantal, in Maggie’s opinion, was the best crew chief in Fightertown, U.S.A. She had a magic touch with aircraft, and Maggie was glad Chantal was her mechanic for the daily flights. Besides, Maggie believed in women helping women, and she’d lobbied hard to get Chantal two years ago when she was first assigned to fly at Miramar. That was what the Sisterhood was all about, and Maggie enjoyed putting it into action every chance she got, working on behalf of enlisted women as well as the female officers based at the station.

      Maggie climbed down the ladder. “Cat’s back on target. You did good work on that heads-up display. Thank you.” Crew chiefs were the backbone of any fighter squadron, and any good pilot knew it. Maggie’s full name was printed on the side of the cockpit of her F-14, and just below her name was Chantal’s. Rapport between pilot and crew chief was critical, and those who cared for the aircraft had just as much pride in it as the pilot who flew it.

      Chantal frowned. “I was just coming out of the hangar when I heard voices. Everything okay?” Her hair was cut very short. Absently, she pushed aside her wispy front bangs with grease-stained but capable fingers.

      Maggie crouched down, unzipped her duffel bag and placed the knee board in it. At twenty-five, Maggie’s own age, Chantal had been in the Navy seven years—she knew the wisdom of tiptoeing diplomatically around such touchy subjects as two officers having a verbal fight in public. As an officer, Maggie couldn’t talk about the incident to an enlisted person. But, knowing Chantal, she’d heard every word Maggie and Hall had traded.

      “Lieutenant Hall and I were just talking about our flight.” That was the truth.

      Chantal smiled knowingly, rocking back on the heels of her black boots. “He must have been real excited about something, huh?”

      Maggie straightened and grinned back. “You might say that.”

      “Any flight discrepancies to report?”

      “A few minor things. I’ll note them in my discrepancy log and get them to you before noon,” Maggie promised. “I’ll see you later.”

      Chantal came to attention and saluted her smartly. “Yes, ma’am.”

      Maggie returned the salute and headed toward the huge hangar with the name Fightertown, U.S.A. painted across it. Miramar was the home to Top Gun, where fighter pilots were trained and challenged to become the very best combat-worthy pilots in the world. The smell of JP-4 aviation fuel, the whine of jet engines and roar of several FA-18 Hornet fighters taking off