Point Of Departure. Lindsay McKenna

      Chapter One

      Lieutenant Callie Donovan wondered if it was a good idea to grab a quick dinner at the Officer’s Club. Lately, with all the hubbub over the newspaper article about Callie and her sister Maggie coming to Miramar Naval Air Station—home of the cream of the naval aviation crop known as Top Guns—things had been going from bad to worse.

      Callie frowned and pushed a lock of black hair off her forehead as she pulled into the Officer’s Club parking lot. She’d already changed out of her summer uniform in the women’s locker facility, and into a simple white, short-sleeved blouse, denim skirt and sandals. As she opened her car door, Callie laughed to herself, but the sound had a grim edge to it as she realized her carefully nondescript outfit was really more an attempt at camouflage than comfort.

      Last Sunday’s newspaper had featured a full-page profile on the Donovan sisters, under the auspices of “women challenging the male military bastion.” Callie hadn’t wanted to be interviewed, but effervescent Maggie, always happy to be in the forefront of leading women into male-dominated areas, had somehow talked her into it. Shutting the car door, Callie realized that it was Friday night, and the O Club parking lot was nearly full—mostly with vehicles of the young, eager pilots who attended Top Gun school. Again, she hesitated. The last place she wanted to be was on the firing line with a bunch of chauvinistic pilots angry about the newspaper article.

      Callie’s stomach rumbled. This was silly, she thought, impatiently smoothing her skirt. She needed to eat before driving to the local college to attend a still-life photography class, and the O Club was close and convenient. Shrugging off the intuitive warning, she slung her white purse across her shoulder and headed toward the club.

      Day had turned to evening, but the dry desert heat lingered, and her blouse clung slightly to her damp skin. The light blue sky held a golden cast at the horizon. Although the Pacific Ocean was ten miles away, Callie caught a hint of saltiness on the air. In another hour, twilight would settle on the famous Southern California naval base and neighboring San Diego. Miramar was the aviation arm of the navy—and the most prestigious assignment Callie had ever been given. In her position as a satellite and photo interpreter, she’d always been hidden behind doors marked Top Secret, pouring over photos for hours, then issuing reports, never interfacing much with anyone but photographic intelligence staff. But Miramar was a different stripe of cat: there was always excitement at this station because the Top Guns trained here year round.

      As she hurried across the asphalt, Callie saw many other young women heading for the club, mostly in groups of two and three. Her heart fell. These civilian women, dressed to the nines in snug skirts and high heels, were known as “groupies.” On Friday and Saturday nights, the women swarmed to the O Club, openly courting the cocky young pilots by flirting, dancing and drinking with them.

      Callie wanted none of the scene that generated so much excitement among the carrier pilots, who eagerly looked forward to the weekends. She never had. Naval aviators tended to be aggressive toward women, and usually had enough lines to sink a battleship—as she knew from hard-won experience. In four years, she’d fallen three times for navy pilots. And, as Maggie had informed her one day, she’d crashed and burned each time—sucked in with a line, her own damning naivetñae paving the way to the end of the relationship.

      Shaking her head, Callie slowed down and allowed the groups of civilian women to enter the O Club first. They would go to the bar, she knew, a huge area designed for heavy drinking, rowdy behavior, loud rock music and packed bodies. Callie, however, opened the door and entered the much-quieter dining room, adjacent to the bar. Here there was a lot less chance of being hit on by some drunk aviator.

      Not that she’d be much of a target, anyway, she thought as the hostess led her toward a table at the rear of the spacious room. With her short hair, bland clothes and lack of makeup, Callie was hardly the type to attract the roving “wolf packs.”

      As Callie reached the small table, she recognized Lieutenant Andy Clark, who was assigned to Miramar as an Aggressor pilot—one of the men who trained the Top Gun candidates how to shoot to kill up in the sky. Seated two tables to her left, Andy looked up and nodded deferentially in her direction. Callie smiled and raised her hand in silent greeting before she sat down. Andy was married and the proud father of two little girls, she knew. His wife was a teacher, with the local school district, and they had a home in Bonsall, not far from the station.

      Loud, irritating music drifted into the dining area, and with a sinking feeling, Callie realized that her table was easily viewed from the bar, which was packed, as usual, with aviators—in uniform to impress the multitude of circulating civilian women.

      Games, she thought tiredly, as she sipped a glass of ice water. Callie hadn’t known what games really were until she’d joined the navy, following in her sisters’ footsteps. She’d