investigation, but these orders encompassed everything: personnel, equipment, aircraft, and timelines—before and after the accident.
Ordered to act as if the flight had been cancelled, he was not to discuss the night's events, nor mention Lieutenant Croft's status. Since when did a man's death become a status?
Not that he'd had the opportunity to talk with anyone. Under virtual house arrest, Jake had been instructed not to leave his home. Relieved from duty, he was to spend the remainder of the day and subsequent night resting. Major Tinsdale told him to expect additional instructions the following morning. However, he wasn't sure how that information would arrive. Perfectly functional the previous day, neither his iPhone nor his home phone worked now. Even his Internet was down. Also, a nondescript Government-Issue sedan sat parked out front, its occupant hidden in shadow.
The mortgage-like stack of documents he'd signed promised forfeiture of his left nut and first born should he ever discuss any aspect of the night's events.
A metallic chime yanked Jake from his thoughts. It was the doorbell. He checked his watch: 10 p.m.
Rocked by a sudden epiphany, he sat bolt upright on the mattress. "Sandy!"
He jumped out of bed and scrambled to the closet, searching blindly for his robe. Can't believe I forgot.
The doorbell rang again.
"I'm coming!" he yelled. Sliding to a stop on the tiled foyer, he opened the door.
His girlfriend, Captain Sandra Fitzpatrick, pointed an admonishing finger. "You'd better not be starting without me—" Seeing his face, she stopped. "Oh my god, baby. What happened?"
Looking into her deep blue eyes, he felt the day's tumultuous stress drain from his body. "I love you."
Eyes softening and stepping through the door, she enveloped him in her sensuous arms. "That's not an answer, but I'll accept it for now."
"Thank you." He nodded toward her embrace. "By the way, that's my job."
Ever the competitor, she raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I'm allowed to comfort you."
Jake gave her a meaningful look. After a moment she capitulated, allowing him to wrap her up in his strong arms. Fiercely independent since their first meeting in Air Force flight school, Sandy was loath to let anyone do anything for her. As an Air Force fighter pilot, it was a character trait that had served her well. It was only during their private moments that she lowered the ever-present shield and exposed her soft feminine side to Jake.
Melting into him, she snuggled her cheek into his chest. Her limpid blue eyes stared deeply into his. "I've missed you."
"I missed you too, baby," he reassured her.
She leaned back in his arms. "So, what happened to you this morning? You didn't call or text me after your flight."
"My phone went on the fritz," he said, only half-lying.
"Your home phone too? Both of your phones are going straight to voicemail. I didn't know your home number had voicemail."
"It does now." Apparently.
"How was your flight?"
Unwilling to lie outright, he changed the subject, guiding her toward the bedroom. "I thought you were coming here so I could help you relax."
The previous night—only a few hours before his and Vic's fateful flight—Sandy had complained that the next day's schedule included a grueling twelve-hour battery of tests on a new F-22 avionics configuration.
Sweeping her up, he carried her the remaining distance to the bedroom.
Sandy wrapped her arms around his neck.
Jake smiled. In a French accent, he whispered, "Mon amour, your velocity-induced accelerated stall has firewalled my adiabatic lapse rate."
"Oh, I love it when you whisper dirty pilot talk to me."
Laying her gently on the bed, Jake grasped the top of her flightsuit's full body-length central zipper. Drawing it down, he slowly exposed her heaving breasts, then her dimpled abs, and finally the top of her lace panties. With a devilish grin, he said, "There's my favorite landing strip."
"It better be your only landing strip,
Ordered to act as if the flight had been cancelled, he was not to discuss the night's events, nor mention Lieutenant Croft's status. Since when did a man's death become a status?
Not that he'd had the opportunity to talk with anyone. Under virtual house arrest, Jake had been instructed not to leave his home. Relieved from duty, he was to spend the remainder of the day and subsequent night resting. Major Tinsdale told him to expect additional instructions the following morning. However, he wasn't sure how that information would arrive. Perfectly functional the previous day, neither his iPhone nor his home phone worked now. Even his Internet was down. Also, a nondescript Government-Issue sedan sat parked out front, its occupant hidden in shadow.
The mortgage-like stack of documents he'd signed promised forfeiture of his left nut and first born should he ever discuss any aspect of the night's events.
A metallic chime yanked Jake from his thoughts. It was the doorbell. He checked his watch: 10 p.m.
Rocked by a sudden epiphany, he sat bolt upright on the mattress. "Sandy!"
He jumped out of bed and scrambled to the closet, searching blindly for his robe. Can't believe I forgot.
The doorbell rang again.
"I'm coming!" he yelled. Sliding to a stop on the tiled foyer, he opened the door.
His girlfriend, Captain Sandra Fitzpatrick, pointed an admonishing finger. "You'd better not be starting without me—" Seeing his face, she stopped. "Oh my god, baby. What happened?"
Looking into her deep blue eyes, he felt the day's tumultuous stress drain from his body. "I love you."
Eyes softening and stepping through the door, she enveloped him in her sensuous arms. "That's not an answer, but I'll accept it for now."
"Thank you." He nodded toward her embrace. "By the way, that's my job."
Ever the competitor, she raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I'm allowed to comfort you."
Jake gave her a meaningful look. After a moment she capitulated, allowing him to wrap her up in his strong arms. Fiercely independent since their first meeting in Air Force flight school, Sandy was loath to let anyone do anything for her. As an Air Force fighter pilot, it was a character trait that had served her well. It was only during their private moments that she lowered the ever-present shield and exposed her soft feminine side to Jake.
Melting into him, she snuggled her cheek into his chest. Her limpid blue eyes stared deeply into his. "I've missed you."
"I missed you too, baby," he reassured her.
She leaned back in his arms. "So, what happened to you this morning? You didn't call or text me after your flight."
"My phone went on the fritz," he said, only half-lying.
"Your home phone too? Both of your phones are going straight to voicemail. I didn't know your home number had voicemail."
"It does now." Apparently.
"How was your flight?"
Unwilling to lie outright, he changed the subject, guiding her toward the bedroom. "I thought you were coming here so I could help you relax."
The previous night—only a few hours before his and Vic's fateful flight—Sandy had complained that the next day's schedule included a grueling twelve-hour battery of tests on a new F-22 avionics configuration.
Sweeping her up, he carried her the remaining distance to the bedroom.
Sandy wrapped her arms around his neck.
Jake smiled. In a French accent, he whispered, "Mon amour, your velocity-induced accelerated stall has firewalled my adiabatic lapse rate."
"Oh, I love it when you whisper dirty pilot talk to me."
Laying her gently on the bed, Jake grasped the top of her flightsuit's full body-length central zipper. Drawing it down, he slowly exposed her heaving breasts, then her dimpled abs, and finally the top of her lace panties. With a devilish grin, he said, "There's my favorite landing strip."
"It better be your only landing strip,
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