48 hours before
Lieutenant Colonel Francis Conrad stretched in front of the hangar, inhaling the clean, warm morning air and listening to the Royal Australian Air Force’s music wafting across the runway. No matter how many noise citations they received from Colonel Cameron, the base commander, they never wavered in their mission to give everyone a headache first thing in the morning. What the fuck was a “Waltzing Matilda” anyway?
He rolled his neck, wincing as it cracked in protest. The beds at the Nellis Air Force Base lodging were not known for their comfort.
“At least you had lodging beds, not barrack beds,” a voice as familiar as his own said from behind him.
Missy. And then everything was right in his world. He turned and grinned at her. “How do you read my mind like that?” He’d asked her that a thousand times. She anticipated his every move both in and out of the aircraft. It was like she lived in his head. Not just in my head.
“I really am just that good,” she said, raising her hand for their customary high five. “What’s the program today?”
This was their daily routine. He knew very well that she was probably already on top of what they would be doing, but she always allowed him the opportunity to give her instructions. It was a courtesy not many other majors would afford a lieutenant colonel. “Flight briefing, then up into the wild blue yonder…,” he said, quoting the U.S. Air Force song with a degree of cheese he found quite dismaying.
“The wild blue yonder, huh?” she said with her hands on her hips “Well, I guess sometimes you do surprise me, Cheese-Meister.”
“That’s Cheese-Meister, sir, to you, Major,” he replied, matching her grin.
Missy just rolled her eyes, another thing she did pretty often. “How was the gymnast? Cirque du Soleil?”
“What?” He frowned, not understanding how they jumped from cheese to gymnastics.
“The gymnast,” she said, as if he should know what she was talking about. “Oh my God. How have you already forgotten? Women really are just disposable to you, aren’t they?”
Shit. He remembered now. He’d told her he’d been with a gymnast when she’d last called him. “No, they are not. I didn’t only consider her a gymnast. I considered her”—he eyed Missy’s short brunette hair—“a beautiful blonde called…” Oh shit. He looked over Missy’s shoulder and saw the flight chief, Sally Weiss. “Sally.”
Missy bit her lip and followed his line of sight and saw the chief. “You can’t even remember her name, can you?”
It was hard to remember the name of someone who didn’t actually exist. He blew out his cheeks and hung his head. To his relief, she laughed.
“Come on, let’s get the road on the show.” She nodded toward the main administrative building, where they were due to receive their flight brief.
They started walking. “So, where does she work? I mean, is ‘gymnast’ an actual profession or just a hobby? Is she an Olympian? Does she work in Cirque du Soleil? I’ve been wanting to see their Vegas show for ages. Was she nice?”
“She was…” He searched for something to say. “Bendy?” Goddamn it. Why was he having such trouble lying to her today? He lied to her nearly every day. What made today different?
Missy snorted and shook her head sadly. “One day you’ll appreciate a woman’s mind, maybe even remember her name, but probably by then you’ll be way too old to do anything about it.”
“Don’t hold your breath. Anyway, I appreciate your mind, Mindy. I mean Missy.”
She punched him on the arm, like he knew she would. Then she changed the subject. “Have you inspected the aircraft?” she asked.
“Not yet. I’ll do that preflight. Why?”
“Eleanor and I couldn’t get into the hangar last night. And then while we waited for someone to remove the lock, the doors opened and some guys came out on a freaking golf cart.”
“Jesus. That’s not right. Who were they?”
“They wouldn’t tell us. Didn’t say what they’d been doing either. Eleanor said she was going to talk to her father about it, but I didn’t get a good feeling about it at all.”
“Okay, no problem. We can do the preflight inspection together. Don’t worry.” He reached out and gave her head a noogie without actually touching her head.
She batted his hand away as she always did. “I need to talk to you later. Can you save some time for me after the mission debrief?” she asked, head still down as they walked.
“Is everything okay?” His mind spun.
She smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her—he wanted to say eyes, but in reality it hadn’t really reached her mouth either.
“Sure. After our last flight of the day?” In years of them flying together, she’d never asked for a meeting like that.
She nodded. “Don’t worry, though. I won’t keep you away from your extracurricular ladies for too long.”
“So funny. So, so funny. Listen. Can you hear? My ribs are actually cracking because I’m laughing so hard,” he deadpanned. He sneaked a quick look at her to see if he could glean anything from her expression. All he could see were the morning rays reflected in her sunglasses.
She’d done it. She’d actually made a firm appointment to speak to him. Now she had to figure out what to say that wouldn’t leave him thinking she was hopelessly in love with him. Not that she was, but if she wasn’t careful, she was pretty sure that was all he’d take away from the conversation.
Well, maybe she was. God, life was so difficult. Why couldn’t she have been the weapons officer for Lieutenant Colonel Walsh? He was smart, married to a wonderful woman, and had kids he doted on. He was funny too. In a kind of 1990s sit-com way. Maybe more of a groan-at-his-jokes way.
Sitting behind Conrad day in, day out, anticipating his every move, working so closely that she could read his body language from behind him, not to mention being able to smell his shower gel mingling with his own unique scent, had become pure torture.
She had to get away. She couldn’t—didn’t want to—change their relationship. There was no legit way to do anything about the feelings she had for him. If she made the first move and he rejected her, he could report her for behavior unbecoming. If he didn’t reject her, they could both be fired for fraternization. It was a lose-lose proposition that was making her crazy. And that had to stop.
Besides which, Conrad was with a different woman every night. She’d spent nights wondering what he looked like under his uniform and her days wondering why he needed to bed so many women. So. Many.
Her heart wanted to be closer to him in every way, but her brain had finally come to the realization that he wasn’t going to change. He wasn’t going to suddenly wake up and see what was under his nose. And her dating life had suffered for it.
When she’d first met him, she compared every date to him. Now she just didn’t date, and that was bad. Everyone told her that she needed something other than work and her horses. She didn’t necessarily agree, but the one thing she could figure out for herself was that staying around Conrad wasn’t going to further her career or help her find someone to share her life with.
Transferring to a different squadron was the only option. Out of sight, out of mind. And hopefully it would put half the country between them. She needed to get on with her life, find someone who liked her, and give dating a chance. Anything but be stuck in this painful limbo. She needed a life. A fucking fun life.
The flight briefing was fast, because all the F-15 weapons officers were in charge of planning the strategic mission, while the pilots just got them to their destination. In real terms, up in the air, she was the mission commander and he was the aircraft commander.
Their mission this morning was to deploy with the French Air Force and to bomb an unknown moving target. The U.S. Aggressor Squadron would be tasked with trying to stop them. Which meant they’d be flying against her barracks roommate, Eleanor Daniels. Missy grinned, her head firmly in the game. Eleanor was totally buying the drinks tonight if she and Conrad hit the target. And they would. Failure was not an option for either of them. That was at least one thing they agreed on. Conrad and Missy had never been “shot down” at Red Flag before, and today wouldn’t be any different.
Besides which, she would probably need a drink after the conversation she had to have with him later. Eleanor would understand, and join her.
But for now, Missy had to keep her laser focus. It had become harder and harder to compartmentalize. Conrad was a work colleague. Nothing more. She just had to complete this Red Flag, and she would have a new life and a fighting chance at a real future.
She suited up and made her way to the flight line, where all the U.S. Air Force planes were chocked, awaiting departure. She instantly recognized Conrad in the distance. Not that she could see his face, but she knew the way he walked and how he held himself: head up, one hand trailing on the aircraft’s fuselage, and one hand tapping against the outside of his thigh. He tapped his leg every time he checked something. She wondered if he was mentally reciting a mnemonic but had never asked.
“Everything look okay to you?” she asked, switching her helmet from one hand to the other as she grabbed the ladder to climb into her seat.
“Everything looks fine. No dings, no scrapes—she looks as beautiful as she always does.”
She smiled. “Good.” She’d been a little worried since the previous night. But if Conrad said it was in working order, she 100 percent believed him. Damn stupid civilians with their stupid golf cart. She cursed under her breath at the thought. Just a tiny ding could damage the airworthiness of a plane…and cause unspeakably bad crashes.
Missy took a deep breath and got into flight mode. She slipped a bandana around her hairline to stop sweat from dripping into her eyes or onto her instruments and fastened her helmet securely in place. Her heartbeat flicked up a notch, and she smiled. She’d always told herself she’d give up the job when she failed to feel the small shiver of preflight excitement that tickled her spine every time she slid into her seat.
She couldn’t, however, bring herself to avert her eyes as Conrad slipped into his. His ass was a work of art. It would be virtually rude not to admire it. At least that was what she’d been telling herself for years now. Shaking her head to herself with a private smile, she checked her instruments and her comms.
“Do you copy?” she said
“I certainly do,” Conrad replied with an audible smile and an exaggerated Southern accent. Ah certain-lay do. The boy was from Savannah, Georgia, and his redneck charm was what they said made him so popular with women. She couldn’t disagree.
She let him run through his preflight check, affirming each question that pertained to her. It was such a routine that she had to totally focus to ensure she wasn’t just going through the motions. She snapped a rubber band against her wrist as she checked her own instruments and weaponry. It kept her focused, and thankfully, no one could see her doing it and imagine that she was trying to distract herself from what voices were telling her to do. She grinned at the thought. Conrad would crap himself if someone told him that the woman sitting behind him at twenty thousand feet was snapping a rubber band on her wrist.
In truth, it just made her focus and helped take away any distraction or her predisposition to think ahead. It was a part of her flight routine that one of her instructors had passed on in her training. She had started her weapons officer training trying to think three steps ahead until the trainer had told them all that they had to stay utterly focused on the one thing that was happening at that moment. Her rubber band had become like a talisman, and a reminder that her training was all that mattered.
Conrad started the engines and they awaited the crew sergeant on the ground to give the signs that the chocks had been removed. There was a momentary engine whine as he throttled forward, and she nodded to the sergeant who saluted them as they left the stand.
Soon enough they were accelerating down the runway, through the heat waves hovering above the tarmac. One day maybe she’d be able to just sit and enjoy the ride, but as always, she was swiveling her head to get a visual on other aircraft in the pattern and inputting coordinates for the mission.
“We’ve got Stone Man on our six. Suggest we hold in a pattern over Guardian Lake for the others to catch up,” she said.
Conrad was banking left toward the lake before she’d finished her sentence. They needed to fly to their target in formation. It was a good place to await the other pilots, especially if there was a delay in takeoff.
As they were circling the lake, she watched as a beautiful British Typhoon soared into the sky. “Look at that,” she said with a sigh. As Conrad’s head swiveled, the plane banked to the right, away from them, giving them a spectacular view of its undercarriage with its camo paint and Royal Air Force target-shaped roundel design on its wings. “She’s beautiful.”
“I’m hurt. So is Lana. Don’t let her know you’re ogling another aircraft,” Conrad replied. Only he would name his aircraft after a sexy cartoon spy.
“Lana can take the hit. I’m not sure your ego can, though,” she replied with a laugh. “Maybe you can introduce me to the pilot when we’re on the ground?” she said, not meaning it at all. This was the game they played. Or she played at least. It made her feel better about all the gymnasts, exotic dancers, and nurses Conrad spent his off-duty hours with.
“I don’t know every pilot at Red Flag, you know.” His voice had taken an edge of outrage that made her grin.
“Well, if you cared about me at all, you’d be scoping out all the single pilots and screening them for me.”
He was silent, and she scanned her instruments and the sky around her for a reason he wasn’t replying to her. There was nothing out there except another French pilot joining their holding pattern. “Well?”
He cleared his throat. “If you want me to pimp for you, I’m certainly happy to. I’ll go find him after our chat.” His voice had put air quotes around the word chat, making it seem like an imposition.
“Thank you,” she said, wondering why she’d pushed him. Hopefully the British pilot was married.
This. This was what her life had become. They’d chitchat until one of them said something that would give the other ass ache; then it would be weird. She swore that she spent half the time trying to figure out what she’d said to make him clam up or straight-up get annoyed at. It wasn’t natural—especially since from day to day he was often the only man she spent any time with. It was unhealthy. Hell, the whole thing was unhealthy. And that’s why she needed to get out of Dodge.
His head flicked to the right, and that coupled with a change in the engine vibration told her they were ready to go. Before he’d even said anything, she was giving him the radar reading on their route to the target. “We’ve got turbulence between seventeen and twenty-one thousand feet,” she reminded him. “And our fastest way there is skimming around Mount Irish Wilderness, keeping Bald Mountain on our port side.”
“Copy that,” he said, repeating the route on the frequency for their sortie. All the other pilots clicked in, acknowledging the instructions.
She propped her left arm up on the small ledge where the canopy met the airframe to give herself a little more space. She watched the radar for other aircraft movements and checked and double-checked the missiles they were carrying below them. They weren’t dropping real missiles until the last few days of Red Flag; they just had flares loaded for now.
Missy could close her eyes and tell immediately who she was flying with. Some pilots embraced the turbulence, some tried to avoid it for her sake—because it was bumpier toward the rear of the aircraft—and some accelerated and decelerated, trying to get the perfect vector on a target, making her head bob back and forth.
Conrad embraced the turbulence. Which meant that she had to as well. And sometimes she wished the rattling would shake some sense into him, but it never did. The turbulence kept him sharp, and she always wondered if that’s why he fought stability in his personal life too. Entanglements dulled the instincts, as common wisdom held.
He called out direction to their sortie. “We’re coming in north, northeast. Aggressor Squadron is directly ahead on the radar, so let’s take flanking positions on the target to spread them out.”
Conrad dipped Lana’s wing, and the engines roared as he punched forward toward the fight. That’s what he always did. No strategizing, no hiding, just jumping right into the fray.