Point Of Departure. Lindsay McKenna
games hadn’t stopped with her recent promotion to Miramar, Callie thought glumly after the waitress had taken her order for a hamburger and fries. Her new boss in the Intelligence section, Lieutenant Commander Hal Remington, had, since her arrival here a month ago, been more than a pest. Tall, darkly tanned and arrogant—and carrying the nickname “Honcho”—Remington embodied the stereotypical pilot image, making him a favorite of the groupies.
No, the games Remington played were barely disguised displays of hostility toward women. At first, coming to Miramar had looked like a wonderful feather in her career cap and the achievement of Callie’s primary goal—job security. Transferring from the dark photographic rooms of the Pentagon to here, she’d felt like Persephone coming from the bowels of Hades to the topside of the world where there was sunshine, life and beauty.
Callie had earned her promotion. She’d paid her dues at the Pentagon, and her personnel jacket reflected her much-heralded abilities. But with Remington assigned as her immediate superior, Callie’s joy at coming to Miramar had been quickly eclipsed. He was like a wolf on the prowl, harassing and intimidating the women in his section. Worse, he seemed to zero in on Callie with his insinuating remarks and barely veiled come-ons. But fear of losing her job, or at least getting bad marks in her personnel jacket, had kept her tight-lipped about the problem—even to Maggie.
Within twenty minutes her meal had arrived and Callie was glad. Although she tried not to show it, she was nervous. From time to time, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed some of the pilots at the bar pointing disparagingly in her direction. The entire station knew about the newspaper article, which, thanks largely to Maggie’s outspokenness, had stirred up a lot of heated debate.
Why had she allowed Maggie to drag her into that interview? Callie thought for about the thousandth time since last Sunday. Not that she’d said much anyway. Maggie was so fiery and confident in comparison to Callie that the female reporter naturally had honed in on her. And for that, Callie was grateful. She concentrated on quickly eating her meal, mentally preparing for her upcoming class. Tonight she would be showing some photo techniques in the darkroom, and she wanted to get there a little early to look at her notes and doublecheck the equipment.
“Hey, sweet thing…”
Callie’s heart took one gigantic bound, and a french fry halted halfway to her mouth. She’d recognize that grating voice anywhere. It was Lieutenant Commander Remington. Lifting her head, Callie firmly ordered herself not to react although fear sizzled through her gut, tightening it into a knot.
Remington smiled and lifted his hand in a sloppy salute. “You know, you could dress in a burlap bag and it wouldn’t matter, Donovan,” he said, his words slurring slightly. He weaved unsteadily and took a step back to peer down at her crossed legs. “Your legs have been driving me nuts all day. I’m glad you stopped by the O Club. It gives me another chance to look at them.”
Callie gulped and saw that Remington’s narrow blue eyes were hazed from alcohol. He was her superior. What should she do? Her heart was bounding like a rabbit’s—a rabbit caught between the paws of a slavering wolf.
Maybe if she played along, tried teasing him back, it would make him go away, Callie thought. Attempting to smile, she set her food aside.
“Commander, I’m sure your wife has a very nice set of legs, too.” Remington had just recently married for a third time, from what she understood.
He lurched forward and placed his hands flat on the white linen cloth of the table. Patches adorned each arm of his olive green one-piece flight suit, and his name was printed in gold on a black leather square above the left breast pocket. His mouth drew into a little-boy smile as he pinned her with his gaze. “Sweet cheeks, I still think you’ve got the best legs on the station, despite that asinine article I read last Sunday.”
Inwardly, Callie winced. The article. The light in Remington’s assessing gaze was neither kind nor friendly. No, she saw savagery linked with a hatred that made her blood chill. He was smiling, but the expression never reached his eyes. Callie felt trapped—there was no place to run.
“Look, Commander, I’m in a hurry. I’ve got a class to teach tonight—”
Reaching out, Remington grazed her cheek with his fingers. “Damn, you’re a nice piece of flesh. Why did you have to side with your red-haired witch of a sister? Are you an ice queen like her?”
Paralyzed with fear, Callie allowed Remington to stroke her cheek for several seconds before she slowly pulled away. She felt heat flare up from her neck into her face. Blushing had always gotten her into trouble at Annapolis, she thought distractedly. Remington was her boss. She couldn’t make a scene or he’d put low ratings in her personnel record, and the promised rank would be pulled from her. She couldn’t overreact. Belatedly, Callie thought about what Maggie would have done: she’d have called him on his drunken behavior and insisted he leave. But Remington wasn’t Maggie’s boss….
Her mind whirling with options that might defuse Remington, Callie stammered, “My—my sister has her opinions. If you read the article, you probably noticed that I had very little to say about it. I’m not the pilot, she is.”
Remington slowly straightened, looked back to the bar and raised his hand. Two other aviators, obviously young Top Gun students, waved back, big grins on their faces. He smiled lopsidedly and placed his hands arrogantly on his hips.
“Honey, you got the same fighting blood in your veins. I don’t care whether you’re a pilot or not. You Donovans are nothing but man-hating Amazons. You think you’re better than us, don’t you?”
The pulse at Callie’s throat was throbbing. She’d completely lost her appetite. She felt like a cornered animal beneath Remington’s attack. In vain, she tried to smile again.
“Maggie is happily married, Commander. I don’t think that classifies her as a man-hater, do you?”
With a snort, Remington leered at her. “You know what, Donovan? You need a real man. You’re skittish. You’re distrustful. I can see it in your eyes. I see it at work. You don’t like to be touched. You don’t like men’s attention at all, do you?” His smile was deadly as he asked, “What’s the problem? Do you prefer the company of women over men?”
Callie gasped. Remington’s voice was deep and carried a long way. Inwardly, she felt as if she were dying. She was sure that Lieutenant Clark could hear every word. This wasn’t the way Callie wanted to start out three years of duty at Miramar. She knew what happened to women in the service when they got labeled; fair or not, the rumors followed them like a disease and could destroy their career.
With a brittle laugh, Callie sat back and held Remington’s gloating look. “Commander, I think you’ve had a few too many drinks.”
“That may be, honey,” he said as he lurched toward her. “Are you a lesbian?” He held out his hand and touched her cheek again. “Maybe what you need is someone like me. You split tails are all alike. You need a little taming.”
Callie froze again at Remington’s touch. There was no end to this torture, to this horrible, escalating humiliation. The few other patrons in the dining room were far away and mostly couples. She didn’t dare look in Andy’s direction, too mortified to ask for help.
Moving away from his touch again, Callie whispered, “Commander, I have a class coming up in less than an hour. If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my meal.”
Backing away, Remington grinned and flipped off a salute. “Sure, honey. You feed that beautiful brain of yours.” He winked at her. “I’ll take care of that hot property you call a body. Be seeing you around….”
Shattered, Callie shivered in terror and relief as Remington staggered back to the bar, toward his two young charges. Callie could see them slap him heartily on the back when he returned. Remington leaned over and said something, and all three broke out into raucous gales of laughter.
Thoroughly humiliated, Callie wanted nothing more than to get up and run out of the O Club as fast as her legs would