shit. Frankly, he was surprised he hadn’t run into her before this evening.
“You know, Mike, you’ve got a lot of nerve pissing me off in the first hour you’re on base.”
“I should’ve waited?”
“Well, let’s just think about the possibilities, shall we?”
Mike permitted a slow smile. “Please do.”
She seemed intent on taking the moment seriously. “This isn’t flying sorties over the enemy. To be honest, it takes a helluva lot more skill.”
“Sure,” he said. “I find it hard to imagine mortal danger. Much easier just to get hit in the face with the real thing.”
As she advanced, her whiskey eyes sparked with a fire that had Mike thinking really, really inappropriate things—probably why he was baiting her so badly. Forget the politics and the morality of women as combat pilots, he just wanted the rush of reaching for something dangerous. Leah Girardi was a lit cigarette near a gasoline spill.
She didn’t rail or rant. She didn’t lose her cool. Every minute effort to hold her temper in check stretched across wide cheekbones. Passion and control. Mike couldn’t think too long about that combination or he’d embarrass himself with a hard-on in the BX parking lot.
“You’re new here, Captain,” she said, emphasizing his rank. It irked the shit out of him that she had seniority. “And it’s the weekend, so I won’t dog on you too hard.”
“Yet.”
“ Yet . Because you’ve got a lot to learn before you climb into an F-16 for the Aggressors. No one goes up without the major’s say-so, and he listens to me.”
Mike didn’t actually voice what he was thinking. Sporting a black eye all weekend held no appeal. For a flash, he wondered about the connection between Leah and Major “Fang” Haverty, and why a tickle of jealousy snaked between his ribs.
“So while the rest of us are up in the air come Tuesday morning,” she said, “your butt will be in the simulator.”
“Like hell.”
“You think you can read a few manuals on enemy combat tactics and fly like one? If you do, we’re going to have an even bigger problem than your attitude.”
“You’re the one busting my balls.”
She punched the tip of her finger against his sternum. “Every eight weeks we get another batch of hotshots in here. Other branches of service, other nations. All of them are great pilots with the same piss-poor attitude. They think they already know everything. Our job, Captain, is to show them their weaknesses. That means knowing our opponents until we can fly like them in our sleep, until it’s deep muscle memory.” Leah tossed up her chin, looking him dead in the eye. “So, yeah. You and that simulator are gonna get to know each other real well.”
She headed back toward the hangars as the sun slanted long and low across the land. Mike forced himself to follow. His feet were heavy, weighed by his misgivings. Gut instinct and courage were all well and good. He had those in spades, with no doubt as to how he could handle himself during the big show. Anything that smacked of school, however, had his C+ gray matter cringing and looking for an opportunity to play hooky.
Beyond the looming workload, the mere idea of spending weeks, possibly longer, to get into the head of the enemy was almost…sick. He knew it wasn’t a logical reaction and that red force squads were responsible for improving allied pilots from all over the world. Didn’t mean he was into those kinds of head games. He’d spent the last eight years as one of the good guys.
Had he got his way, he’d still be flying over Afghanistan. Brass, however, had decided otherwise. The next time he took to the skies, he’d be wearing a red star on his helmet and ripping through the air in an F-16 painted the same gray camo as a Russian MIG. That held about as much appeal as shoving a lit blowtorch down his shorts.
Still. Leah didn’t need his shit. In her way, she was trying to help. He’d liked her all those years ago and
“You know, Mike, you’ve got a lot of nerve pissing me off in the first hour you’re on base.”
“I should’ve waited?”
“Well, let’s just think about the possibilities, shall we?”
Mike permitted a slow smile. “Please do.”
She seemed intent on taking the moment seriously. “This isn’t flying sorties over the enemy. To be honest, it takes a helluva lot more skill.”
“Sure,” he said. “I find it hard to imagine mortal danger. Much easier just to get hit in the face with the real thing.”
As she advanced, her whiskey eyes sparked with a fire that had Mike thinking really, really inappropriate things—probably why he was baiting her so badly. Forget the politics and the morality of women as combat pilots, he just wanted the rush of reaching for something dangerous. Leah Girardi was a lit cigarette near a gasoline spill.
She didn’t rail or rant. She didn’t lose her cool. Every minute effort to hold her temper in check stretched across wide cheekbones. Passion and control. Mike couldn’t think too long about that combination or he’d embarrass himself with a hard-on in the BX parking lot.
“You’re new here, Captain,” she said, emphasizing his rank. It irked the shit out of him that she had seniority. “And it’s the weekend, so I won’t dog on you too hard.”
“Yet.”
“ Yet . Because you’ve got a lot to learn before you climb into an F-16 for the Aggressors. No one goes up without the major’s say-so, and he listens to me.”
Mike didn’t actually voice what he was thinking. Sporting a black eye all weekend held no appeal. For a flash, he wondered about the connection between Leah and Major “Fang” Haverty, and why a tickle of jealousy snaked between his ribs.
“So while the rest of us are up in the air come Tuesday morning,” she said, “your butt will be in the simulator.”
“Like hell.”
“You think you can read a few manuals on enemy combat tactics and fly like one? If you do, we’re going to have an even bigger problem than your attitude.”
“You’re the one busting my balls.”
She punched the tip of her finger against his sternum. “Every eight weeks we get another batch of hotshots in here. Other branches of service, other nations. All of them are great pilots with the same piss-poor attitude. They think they already know everything. Our job, Captain, is to show them their weaknesses. That means knowing our opponents until we can fly like them in our sleep, until it’s deep muscle memory.” Leah tossed up her chin, looking him dead in the eye. “So, yeah. You and that simulator are gonna get to know each other real well.”
She headed back toward the hangars as the sun slanted long and low across the land. Mike forced himself to follow. His feet were heavy, weighed by his misgivings. Gut instinct and courage were all well and good. He had those in spades, with no doubt as to how he could handle himself during the big show. Anything that smacked of school, however, had his C+ gray matter cringing and looking for an opportunity to play hooky.
Beyond the looming workload, the mere idea of spending weeks, possibly longer, to get into the head of the enemy was almost…sick. He knew it wasn’t a logical reaction and that red force squads were responsible for improving allied pilots from all over the world. Didn’t mean he was into those kinds of head games. He’d spent the last eight years as one of the good guys.
Had he got his way, he’d still be flying over Afghanistan. Brass, however, had decided otherwise. The next time he took to the skies, he’d be wearing a red star on his helmet and ripping through the air in an F-16 painted the same gray camo as a Russian MIG. That held about as much appeal as shoving a lit blowtorch down his shorts.
Still. Leah didn’t need his shit. In her way, she was trying to help. He’d liked her all those years ago and
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