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Darcy fished out an apple and polished it on the leg of her flight suit. Max had been right. They were both too busy to breathe, much less indulge in a wild, fantasy-worthy fling on a sandy beach. If only she didn’t feel his eyes on her every time she turned around.
Yanking her mind back to work, Darcy finished punching in the landing coordinate data into the C-17’s computerized instrument panel. Her job was too important to her to risk it for anyone, no matter how hot or interesting. She lived to fly. She thrived on making a difference, and while today’s mission might not have been Cantou-kick-butt material, she’d made her mark. She didn’t know any other way of life.
Darcy pressed the interphone button to check in with the aircraft commander in the left seat. “Landing calculations complete,” she reported, crunching a bite of her apple.
The plane bucked. She grabbed for her green military bag as it slid toward the floor. “Hey, Crusty, how about give me heads-up next time you opt for acrobatics.”
“No problem,” Daniel Baker slid a finger under the earpiece of his headset. “If you’ll warn me before you blow out my eardrum crunching your lunch. Or better yet, let’s go to hot mike so I can hear every bite.”
Laughing, Darcy pitched a wadded napkin at him. “Bite this,sir.”
“They sure breed copilots mouthy these days.”
“I try my best.” Darcy flipped the microphone to the side while she finished her apple.
The plane flying wingman eased into view, high and to the right. Bronco manned the helm, flashing a thumbs-up just before the headset crackled with his voice. “Way to pound through the skies. Did Crusty just take over the controls?”
Baker snorted. “Funny.”
“What kind of flying they call that?”
“Good,” Baker quipped without hesitation. “We’re talking real, warrior flying, in case you didn’t recognize it when you saw it. The kind that makes lesser men hurl.”
“Well, go easy on Wren. Wouldn’t want her ralphing up her lunch.”
Darcy thumbed the mike button. “Not a chance of that.”
Laughter filtered over the headset as the other plane held steady, one of the C-17s from McChord AFB. The Washington squadron had deployed a detachment unit to assist with the relief effort, packing Guam with cargo crewmen. Today Bronco crewed with his old buddy Major Grayson “Cutter” Clark, a dual qualified pilot and flight surgeon.
Crusty tore the wrapper off a Snickers bar with his teeth as he flew. “Guam approach, Reach one-four-five-two, lead aircraft level at twenty-one thousand feet, wingman level at twenty-two thousand. Request one turn around the island before landing.”
“Roger, Reach one-four-five-three,” the control tower acknowledged. “You are the only traffic in my scope. Cleared for one turn around the island. Call me when ready for landing instructions.”
Darcy pitched aside her apple core just as they descended to seven hundred feet for a low-level approach to the island. She enjoyed this part of her job, seeing the world at its best from a primo box seat. Bird’s-eye views didn’t come any more magnificent than this. Waves crashed in foaming white breakers against the shoreline of the dormant volcano land base.
Crusty was a blast to crew with, fun and edgy in the air, likely a holdover from his test-pilot days. He knew just how far to push performance boundaries for his craft. Like a kid gripping a joystick, he guided the C-17 in a soaring low-level approach that rippled the surf. Transparent water revealed the wreckage of a Japanese freighter below.
Crusty circled around a cove, a speedboat easing into sight. “Well, lookie there.”
The boat bobbed as a diver hauled himself up the back ladder. Sun glinted off the water as the diver combed his hand through his spiky hair.
Crusty shot Darcy a piercing, curious look. ““Three guesses as to who that is. You remember the dolphin dude, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh.” Tough to forget about a guy when she bumped into him every time she turned around. Who’d have thought the island was so flippin’ small? Everywhere she went, she felt like someone was three steps behind her.
Crusty waggled the wings in greeting. Max stretched a hand in a return greeting, bringing his other hand to his mouth. To whistle?
A dolphin exploded from the water, arcing over the bow of the boat, followed quickly by the second. The moment was glittered with fun and wonder. Regret whispered through her over things not meant to be. Worse yet, she’d made things awkward between them so she couldn’t even enjoy talking to him about his work.
“Hey, Wren,” Crusty said over the headset as he angled into the turn to circle the island. “Do you have anything in there besides apples? Preferably something with lethal fat content.”
Darcy pulled her gaze off Max and back to her job. “How about a PBJ?”
“Not chocolate, but it’ll do in a pinch.”
Why couldn’t she have been attracted to Captain Snickers Bar instead? His rumpled good looks garnered a steady supply of women wanting to “fix” him. Smooth his disheveled, coffee-brown hair. Iron his rumpled flight suit.
Bring him meals so he didn’t die from junk food overload.
