Taking Cover

Tanner stepped up and returned the firm shake, trying to place why the man's name seemed so familiar beyond just a line item in a file. "We could start with a tour of the facility, while you give us a handle on the testing process."



"Certainly. Happy to do what I can to speed this along, so you folks'll clear on out of my work space."



"That's what we're hoping for. While we're walking around, we'd like your secretary to make copies of some files. We'll need all the test data on your modification for the load ramp's cargo-release system." Tanner watched for any hint of hesitation, a flash of reluctance, and found nothing.



"Of course." Quinn Marshall snagged a phone from the wall, punched in a number and clipped out instructions. Replacing the receiver, he nodded to Tanner and Kathleen. "All set. Follow me."



As Kathleen strode past, her minty fragrance lingered, distracted, so much so that Tanner almost missed the scowl pulling her mouth into a tight line. What had her twisted now? And why was he letting her moods crank a new knot in his back?



No way did he need to waste time, energy and waking thoughts, not to mention sleeping ones, on Kathleen. He forced his attention to Quinn Marshall's tour guide explanations.



"The modification in question on the C-17 load ramp has ten parts. Each of those parts was tested before being installed on the plane. Stress tests. Repetition tests. Heat tests. Then they were X-rayed for cracks."



Marshall pushed open a door, revealing a room about half the size of a football field, dominated by what looked like a huge pizza oven. A vent funneled heat to the outside, but the place still dripped with sweltering humidity. And that humidity now carried the distinctive scent of Kathleen's shampoo.



Tanner skimmed his finger along the neck of his flight suit and wandered toward the mammoth oven—away from Kathleen. "Nice roomy setup you've got."



"Square footage is cheap in the desert." Quinn stopped by a temperature gauge, thumping the dial. "Here's where we run heat tests. The spectrograph gauges ensure the metal heats evenly. It shows the purity of the metal."



Kathleen tugged a notepad from her leg pocket. "Every part goes through this before it's installed?"



"Absolutely."



"So if there's an undetected problem with one, there could be a problem with all of them."



"In theory."



Frowning, Kathleen nodded as she jotted notes on the pad. She walked alongside Tanner while they toured the warehouse room by room. Tanner peppered Quinn Marshall with questions. Kathleen scribbled pages of notes.



Tanner listened, yet couldn't stop his mind from winging back to his crew. He might be out of action, but he tracked his squadron's missions. At that moment supplies were being off-loaded in a Sentavian refugee camp. Without him.



What if one of those planes had a defective part and it kicked in on this mission or the next? He thought of recent flights with Lance, how he'd hauled Lance's butt out of the fire more than once. Tanner shifted from foot to foot restlessly. If he wrapped this up in a few days, he could be back in action for a full month before upgrade…



Except for his back.



He wanted to put his fist through a wall. Which would probably throw his back out. Kathleen would toss him in the infirmary before he could say "upgrade slot."



Quinn completed his tour, ending in the main hallway of the brick office sections. "The copies you wanted should be ready by now. Detailed test data…" He pointed through the door to a slender man talking on a cell phone by the soda machine. "All signed by that guy over there. The defense department inspector."



Kathleen thumbed through her notes. "Randall Fitzgerald."



"Right."



Tanner assessed the man by the vending machine—late thirties, clean-cut with suspenders. A government paper pusher worth interviewing later.



Pencil poised, Kathleen nodded. "So, Quinn, how long does—"



Tanner jerked his attention from the government inspector and snapped his fingers. "Quinn! 'The Mighty Quinn' Marshall. I knew I'd heard your name before. You used to be on active duty, a C-130 pilot back in Desert Storm."



Quinn's chest puffed. "A lot of years ago."



Kathleen flipped her notebook closed. "I'm going to find a ladies' room while you boys shoot down your wristwatches with your hands."



Quinn nodded absently. "Yeah, sure, straight ahead past the soda machine, then right."



"Thanks."



Tanner's eyes trailed Kathleen without his consent. Even constrained in a braid, Kathleen's hair gleamed like a beacon in the dreary factory as she paused by the defense contractor. What was it about that woman?



An evening with his buds at the Wing and a Prayer and he would be back on track.



"What's the deal on her?"



Quinn's voice pulled Tanner's attention, if not his eyes. "She's the flight surgeon on the investigation team."



"No. I mean is she married? Seeing anyone? What?"



Tanner's gaze darted back to The Mighty Quinn. The answer fell free without hesitation. "She doesn't do relationships with pilots."



"Pilots!" Kathleen stepped out of the shower and kicked the boots lying on the bathroom floor. Too bad they didn't have a certain big, blond hotshot inside them.



Cinching her towel tighter around herself, she scooped the uniform off the tile floor. She stuffed it in her laundry bag and wished her frustration could be as easily discarded.



She hadn't accumulated years of medical training only to be banished from crew-dog interviews or to take notes, while Tanner and The Mighty Quinn talked airplanes. Give the doc a pat on the head and send her on her way. Kathleen whipped off her towel and flung it in the tub.



Willing her temper to fade, she slid on ivory lace underwear, her secret indulgence. She hadn't grown up in a house full of fashion-conscious sisters without picking up a few preferences of her own. Expensive matched sets of underwear nurtured a corner of her soul in need of pampering.



It also became her little secret she carried beneath her uniform. She would play by their flyers' club rules, compete wherever they set the bar, but she would do it as a woman.



She might not have a name like The Mighty Quinn, Bronco or even Crusty. But she knew who she was, and Tanner Bennett could take a flying leap off his own load ramp if he thought he could eclipse her.



Let him have his guy-talk meeting with Crusty. She'd scheduled her own investigative appointment with the government inspector, Randall Fitzgerald. Their little chat by the soda machine had netted more information than the entire tour through the factory.



Kathleen shrugged into her cream satin shirt, buttoning slowly. No way would she let Tanner's towering presence overshadow her tonight.



From the closet she unclipped and pulled free her favorite pants. Brown leather. One leg at a time she eased them on, savoring the sensation of the supple leather sliding over, then clinging to her. No need to tuck in her shirt as it stopped an inch below her waistband. She could enjoy the night breeze slithering the satin across her bare skin.



Kathleen slipped on low leather pumps and her standard pearl stud earrings. Nothing flashy like her sisters. No pouring on the charm like Tanner. Just herself, and damned if she planned to stand in the wings.



One spritz of perfume in her open neckline and she finger combed her damp hair, ready to leave. Let the desert night air dry it on her way to meet the inspector.



At the Wing and a Prayer Bar and Grill.



Tanner shoved open the door to the Wing and a Prayer, shooting a thumbs-up thanks over his shoulder to the friend who'd given him a ride. The aviator hangout was parked at the intersection of the middle of nowhere and the ends of the earth. The clapboard building sported the tail of a plane sticking out of the roof.



Cactus Christmas lights glowed around the door frame, offering a festivity he chose to ignore. Laughter and clanking bottles foretold the crowd he would find inside the always-packed bar.



He wouldn't wonder what Kathleen had decided to do with her evening. This was about getting his head on right again, while snagging time with Crusty to ferret out the straight scoop about what had happened on that flight.



Military and civilian locals alike gravitated to the bar decorated with Air Force test memorabilia dating back to the 1940s. Pieces of crashed aircraft—shell casings, metal skin off planes, busted flight instruments, propellers—covered the walls in the same way fishermen mount their prize bass. Straight ahead, a widescreen television blared nonstop aviation movies for those who opted for a table rather than the bar off to the left.



He wove around the dark wooden chairs in search of Crusty. Tanner sidestepped table after table with crews and…



Couples.



Why hadn't he ever noticed how many couples congregated in this bar during his other TDY visits to Edwards? He'd always thought of it as more of a crew hangout. Apparently not.



Maybe he only took note now since he was between relationships himself. He liked having a steady woman in his life, regardless of what Kathleen might think. Okay, so his relationships usually self-destructed after about six months, but that didn't mean he hadn't tried.



Damn it, he wasn't commitment shy.



He could almost hear her snort of disdain over the clank of beer bottles.



"Bronco!" a male voice shouted from the back corner.



Tanner pivoted and found Daniel "Crusty" Baker waving from two tables over. Wiry and an inch shy of six feet, Crusty looked as if he'd just rolled out of the sack. A rumpled flight suit, crooked patches and a severe case of bed-head marked the guy as slack.



Appearances were deceiving. Reputation labeled him a sharp pilot with solid air sense that had gained him a chest full of medals for his flights over Afghanistan.



Tanner thumped his old classmate on the back. "Hey, bud! How's it going?"



"Bennett, my man." Crusty finished stuffing French fries in his mouth, then swiped his salty fingers down his flight suit before shaking hands. "I see you're still determined to pass up the big bucks and ball-field glory with the Broncos for a pair of silver wings."



"What can I say? The job comes with a leather jacket and cool toys."



"That it does."



Tanner waved for the Santa-clad bartender and ordered two beers. During their Academy days, Crusty had worked in the football video lab, taping games for later analysis. Tanner had spent more than a few hours with his classmate while Crusty spun tapes, as well as fantasies about their training officer, Cadet O'Connell.



Geez, couldn't a guy even go out for a beer without that woman creeping into his thoughts?



Crusty gripped his long-neck bottle like a throttle. "So you're here to hang me out to dry."



Tanner leaned back in his chair. "Should I?"



"What do the after-action reports tell you?"



"Not much, but my Squadron Commander says your hands brought the plane down safely."



Scratching along the neck of his flight suit, Crusty knocked his squadron scarf farther askew. "That doesn't mean they're not going to try and pin this on me by claiming something happened earlier."



"Did it? Hey, we're human. All it takes is for the airspeed to be a little off during the drop, the wings cranked—"



"No!" Crusty snatched his beer from the table. "Damn it, they always want to blame it on the pilot. It's easier than admitting they screwed up somewhere higher in the chain."



"I hear you." He understood too well, and it tore at him. A part of him sided with the brotherhood, didn't want it to be a career-ending crew mistake. "I don't want it to be your fault, but we gotta figure this one out before it happens again."



"Check the in-flight tapes." Crusty tipped his beer, nursing a long swig.



"Wish I could." Tanner eased his chair back on two legs. He searched his friend's eyes and waited.