Taking Cover. Catherine Mann
a sharp turn left. The plane howled past a shower of light. He hurt like hell, but considered it a small price to pay. By tomorrow night, women and children would be fed because of his efforts, and he liked to think that was a worthwhile reason to risk his life.
Yeah, saving babies was a damn fine motivator for going to work every day. No way was he watching from the sidelines.
He accepted that none of it would bring his sister back. But each life saved, each wrong righted, soothed balm over a raw wound he knew would never completely heal.
Tanner’s hand twitched on the stick, and he jerked his thoughts back to the cockpit. He couldn’t think of his sister now. Distractions in combat were deadly.
He reined his thoughts in tight, instincts and training offering him forgetfulness until he flew out over the Adriatic Sea.
“Feet wet, crew.” Tanner announced their position over the water. “We’re in the clear all the way to land in Germany.”
He relaxed his grip on the stick, the rest of his body following suit. The blanket of adrenaline fell away, unveiling a pain ready to knife him with clean precision. Tanner swallowed back bile. “Take the jet, Lance.”
“Bronco, you okay?”
“Take the jet,” he barked. Fresh beads of sweat traced along his helmet.
Lance waggled the stick. “Roger, I have the aircraft.”
Tanner’s hand fell into his lap, his arm throbbing, nearly useless. He clicked through his options. He couldn’t avoid seeing a flight surgeon after they landed. But if he waited until morning and locked in an appointment with his pal Cutter, he would be fine. Doc Grayson “Cutter” Clark understood flyers.
No way was Tanner letting Dr. Kathleen O’Connell get her hands on him again—
He halted the thought in midair. Her hands on him? That was definitely an image he didn’t need.
Keep it PC, bud. Remember those soft hands are attached to a professional woman and a damned sharp officer.
All presented in a petite package with an iron will that matched her fiery red hair.
Forget reining in those thoughts. Tanner dumped them from his mind like an off-loaded trooper.
Lance pressed the radio call button on the throttle. “Control, this is COHO two zero. Negative known damage. Thirty point zero of gas. Requesting a flight surgeon to meet us when we land.”
“What the—” Tanner whipped sideways, wrenching up short as a spasm knocked him back in his seat. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Calling for a flight surgeon to meet us on the ground.”
In front of the crew? Tanner winced. “No need, Lance. I’ll be fine until I can get to the clinic.”
“Yeah, right.” Lance swiped his arm across his damp brow as he flew. “I’ve seen you like this before. You’ll be lucky to walk once we land. You need a flight surgeon waiting, man. I’m not backing off the call.”
“Listen, Lance—” Tanner wanted to argue, fully intended to bluster through, but the spasm kinked like an overwound child’s toy ready to snap.
He couldn’t afford to be grounded from flying again, not now. He only had six weeks left until he returned to the states to begin his rescheduled upgrade from copilot to aircraft commander. Not only could he lose his slot, but he would also lose six weeks of flying time, of making a difference.
Why the hell couldn’t he and O’Connell have pulled different rotations, leaving her back at Charleston Air Force Base with her perfectly annotated regulation book and haughty cat eyes?
The strain of ignoring the stabbing ache drizzled perspiration down Tanner’s spine, plastering his flight suit to his skin. Options dwindled with each pang.
“Fine.” Tanner bit out the word through his clenched teeth. What a time for Lance to resume control. “Just have them find Cutter to meet us. He’ll give me a break.”
Not like Doc O’Connell. She probably hadn’t colored outside the lines since kindergarten.
“And, Lance, tell Cutter to keep it low-key. Would ya? No big show.” Rules be damned, he wasn’t going to end a combat mission publicly whining about a backache. Cutter would understand. Tanner was counting on it.
If by-the-book O’Connell ran the show, he would be flying a desk by sunrise.
Waiting on the tarmac, Captain Kathleen O’Connell braced her boot on the ambulance bumper and tugged down the leg of her flight suit. Lights blinked in the distant night sky, announcing the approaching aircraft carrying her patient. Time to report for duty.
Snow glistened as it drifted past the stadium-style lights casting a bubble of illumination over the airfield. She shivered inside her leather jacket and longed for her sunny Charleston town house rather than the American airfield in Germany. White Christmases were highly overrated.
Of course, the holiday season hadn’t held much allure for her since her divorce.
Thank God she had her job. She loved working flight medicine, but dreaded calls like this one. Familiar with Captain Bennett’s medical and personal history, she knew what to expect.
The tussle of a lifetime was only a short taxi away.
Why couldn’t he understand her job required keeping flyers healthy for future missions? Her mission demanded more than simply slapping a Band-Aid on a sucking chest wound so some jet jock could finish out the day with his ego intact.
Flyer egos.
Those required more technique in handling than a vasectomy in a cold room.
Maybe if she’d mastered the art of navigating aviator psyches earlier, her marriage might have lasted. Logic told her otherwise. Dual military careers were hell on even the most compatible of couples. She and Andrew hadn’t stood a chance.
At least her parents had restrained themselves from spouting a litany of I-told-you-so. No big family secret, she sucked at relationships. Had from the cradle. Give her a textbook anyday. The dependability of science, rules, regimen offered her a lifelong security blanket against being hurt, and she was smart enough never to bare herself to anyone again.
Snowflakes caught and lingered on her eyelashes while she watched the jet circle then land. As the cargo plane taxied closer, battle damage revealed itself. Runway lights glared on half-dollar-size chinks and dings under the wings and along the tail. Like the edges of a twisted soda can, the ragged metal gaped.
Kathleen shuddered inside her jacket. She knew it was rare for larger combat planes to land without holes. That didn’t lessen horrific images of the wreckage that one better-aimed scrap of flak could cause.
The C-17 taxied to a stop, parking beside a line of other planes, engines whining, silencing. Wind howled from the rolling hills, stirring a mist of snow from the evergreen forest surrounding the flight line.
With trained precision, crew chiefs swarmed the plane. A refueling truck squealed to halt. BDR—Battle Damage Repair—began their assessment and patching. All joined to prep the plane for its next mission while she patched the flyers.
The side hatch swung open, and Major Lance Sinclair bounded down the stairs to wait by the rail. Kathleen squinted, searching for her patient. What kind of shape would he be in? Did he need a stretcher?
The jet’s doorway filled, sealing closed with a body as Tanner Bennett eased into view. Halogen lights glinted off his golden-blond hair, shadowed the bold lines of his bronzed jaw, his square chin and a twice-broken nose that somehow added a boyish appeal. He ducked and angled sideways to clear the hatch, had to for his leather clad shoulders to fit. Slowly he tackled the steps, his gloved hand gripping the rail for support.
Her breath hitched, a glacial gasp of air freezing a path to her lungs. At the oddest times his incredible size caught her unaware.