Beginning with You (5 page)

Her large eyes were huge with hurt. “That’s an awfully big thing to forget!”

He raked his fingers through his recently washed hair. “Jesus Christ, Eve! It isn’t like we haven’t been a little busy the last three months at the station. Due to Crane’s screw-up, the pilots have duty every other day. We’ve had more SAR cases than normal. We’re all tired and whipped to the bone. Quite frankly, hearing about that broad coming on board was the last thing on my mind. We’ve had a record number of transfers in the past quarter, and I’ve been working my ass off with housing duties.” He met her mutinous stare. “And what have you been doing? You’re here at home. You have no job to make a demand on you.” He avoided dredging up the fact that they didn’t have children—another sore spot between them. “All you have is your weekly bridge club, the library meeting and a few do-gooder organizations. You try living the schedule I’ve been on and see just how damn much you forget.”

“I don’t care, Gil! And stop making fun of the organizations that I volunteer my time to! It’s the proper thing for a military wife to do.” Wasn’t he proud of the fact that she tried hard to be exemplary?

With an explosive curse, Gil got out of bed. He stood naked against the moonlight, every muscle in his body taut. “I’m so sick and tired of hearing about what’s proper, I could—”

“Stop behaving like an animal! All you can do when you’re angry is shout and curse. A gentleman wouldn’t do either.” Insecurity jagged through Eve, and she wanted to cry.

Knotting his fists, Gil glared down at her. She looked so slender and vulnerable to him. But she was defensive when her security was threatened. “Shove this ‘gentleman’ crap. I’ve never been one in your eyes, so why keep harping about it?”

“You were one when I met you.”

He laughed harshly, pacing back and forth in the large master bedroom. “The only thing you were hot about was getting a husband, and we both know it.” He stalked over to the bed and leaned down, gripping her soft, delicate wrist. “Let’s face it, Eve, I was your meal ticket out of a miserable existence in that tin shanty town you left behind. I didn’t know it then, but I know it now. And all these airs you put on about who’s coarse and who’s a gentleman is rubbing me raw.” He released her and sat down, holding her glare. “I’m doing“’ the best I can for us. Things are tough now, like they were when we were stationed in Alaska.”

“That was a hellhole!” she spat, shrinking away from him. She rubbed her wrist tenderly. Gil had barely held her in check, but she wanted to make him think he had hurt her. “And the last six months have been hell on me!” Why couldn’t he understand when she was bored and unhappy?

“You?” he roared. “Well, what about me? I drag my ass home after twenty-four hours of duty, with the probability of SAR cases thrown in on top of it. The next day I have eight hours of collateral duty to perform. And when I finally get home, the dinner’s cold. You haven’t even had the decency to keep it warmed up in the oven.”

“How dare you! I cook all day long for you, and what do I get? Abuse!”

“I’ll trade you,” Logan snarled. “I get heartburn. Your food isn’t cooked with love, it’s cooked with venom.”

Tears glittered in her eyes that were filled with genuine hurt. “Get out of here, Gil! I can see talking isn’t going to help a thing. Take your blanket and sleep out on the couch.”

He jerked the sheet aside and climbed back into bed. Pulling it up to his waist, his back to Eve, he growled, “You feel that way, you take the couch. I’ve got a tough day ahead of me tomorrow, and there’s no way in hell I’m losing any more sleep tonight.”

With a little cry of exasperation, Eve leaped out of bed and ripped off the bedspread, her head held high as she marched imperiously from the room. Gripping the knob, she slammed the door shut just as hard as she could.

Standing in the middle of the living room, Eve dropped the bedspread and sobbed. Oh, why couldn’t he realize that she was important, too? Him and his damned beloved Coast Guard! She clenched her fists, walking the length of the room, trying to get rid of all her frustration.

Sniffing, Eve scrubbed her cheeks dry. She had to do something to show Gil that she was worthy of his attention. She was just as important as the Coast Guard. Wasn’t she? Eve picked up the bedspread and dragged it behind her to the couch.

Sitting down, she pulled the silk coverlet across her legs, staring into the darkness. There had been an ad in the
Star
for a reporter. Suddenly, hope filtered through Eve. She pressed her brow against her hands. If she became a reporter, that might give her stature in Gil’s demanding eyes. He might pay more attention to her.

Still, fear ate at her. The only things Gil respected were his fellow pilots and his father’s thirty-year marriage. He admired longevity and toughing things out, obviously. Well, maybe if she took an important and glamorous job, he’d ignore this Rook Caldwell who was coming on base tomorrow morning.

Lying down, Eve closed her eyes. Gil always respected fellow pilots. Rook was a woman pilot. She gave a shuddering sigh. As much time as he spent at the station, it would be easy for Gil to fall in love with this woman. She flew aircraft, and God knew Gil rated that career as the most important in the world. Opening her eyes, Eve blinked away fresh tears. How could she compete with a woman pilot? Somehow, she’d have to get that job and make a name for herself fast—fast enough to grab Gil’s attention and make him proud of her, for once. That way, he’d not be enticed into falling into Rook Caldwell’s scheming clutches.

Rook’s overall expectations of Air Station Port Angeles dimmed as she drove out the thin, curved ribbon of road toward the end of Ediz Hook. Within the safety provided by the rock retaining wall and narrow sand spit lay a natural deep-water harbor. Embraced within the hook was a busy timber operation. Hundreds of logs floated within corrals, waiting to be picked up by foreign freighters out in the harbor. Off to her left stood a huge pulp-and-paper mill, its stacks spewing out tons of steam and white smoke. She wondered how much pollution was tolerated by the state of Washington. At 0745, the day was crawling over the horizon, the sky an overcast gray. The straits were a muddy green color, but calmer than the day before. Rook felt as if the whole world around her was holding its breath.

God, I’m nervous, she thought. Then she smiled wryly at herself, something she did in times of high stress. Her mother had taught her to make fun of her own frailty in moments like this. A sharp memory of the timber truck accident entered Rook’s thoughts. After driving into Port Angeles and checking in at the Red Lion Inn for the night, she’d collapsed on a chair after taking a shower. It was then that her hands began to shake and the tears came. Her mother had taught her to never be afraid to cry. It was the human thing to do, and it served as a natural vent and escape valve for one’s emotions.

She slowed her rental car to a stop at the front gate. There was no guard—just a button to press. A metallic voice answered, and she explained that she was reporting for duty. The chief manning the SAR desk told her to come on board and gave her directions to the administration building. Crawling at fifteen miles per hour, Rook gazed at her new home. On the left were a newly built commissary, a few small white stucco structures and, finally, Admin. Across from it was the hangar. She longed to go there first but vetoed the idea. To the left, she spotted the cutters anchored at their respective docks. As Rook parked the car in the designated visitor’s space, she got out. The quiet station was nearly deserted. Port Angeles lay across the harbor, oblivious to the importance of this Sunday morning.

Nervously checking her dark blue uniform and straightening the colorful tie at her throat, Rook settled her hat on her head. She slung her purse over her left shoulder and picked up her orders and other records. Then, mouth dry and heart pounding in her constricted throat, she entered Admin.

Gil Logan was behind the operations center desk at the other end of the hall when he heard the door open and close. He glanced down at his watch: 0755. Caldwell was due to report in at 0800, and the chief who had just spoken to her had informed him of her arrival. At least she was on time, unlike Eve, who was perennially late. Grabbing his third cup of coffee for the day, which had started at 0600, Gil scalded his tongue. Muttering an oath under his breath, he set the cup aside and wiped his mouth.

“Hot as it is, I think I could use a cup of coffee, too. Lt. (jg) Rook Caldwell reporting as ordered, sir.”

Gil managed a sheepish smile. His first impression of Caldwell was far from what he expected. She wasn’t ugly, her voice was a pleasant contralto and—surprise of surprises—she had a sense of humor. She was tall for a woman, though. He liked the alertness he saw in her wide, gray eyes. Eyes of a hawk, maybe.

“Take it easy,” Gil murmured, noticing how stiff and formal she was. He took the pack of orders she offered him and placed them on the desk. “I’m Gil Logan, the senior duty officer for the day.” He offered his hand, shocked at himself. He was treating her as if she were a newly arrived male helo pilot. Well, why not? He had enough problems to juggle without trying to play the wounded, defensive, macho male, too. “Welcome aboard.”

Relief flooded through Rook as she gripped his hand. “Thanks, Mr. Logan.”

“Call me Gil, if I can call you Rook. You still want a cup of this coffee? It’s guaranteed to eat chrome off a car bumper.”

“Yes to both questions.” The bulk of her nervousness passed and Rook removed her hat, setting it on the counter. Behind Logan was a detailed map of the straits, British Columbia and Northwest Washington. There were a bank of phones of various colors on the desk console and bulletin boards with lists of telephone numbers. This was where the SAR calls came in. Excitement began to thrum through Rook.

Gil poured her a cup. “Black, or sweet and blond?”

She smiled. “Will you hold it against me if I say sweet and blond?”

Pushing the creamer and sugar bowl toward her, Gil shook his head. “I haven’t got a thing against you, Rook. If the truth be known, we’re so short on pilots right now, if a pelican came through those doors and said he could fly, I’d sign him up.” And then he grinned, belatedly. “Not that I’m comparing you to a pelican.”

It was her turn to smile. “No offense taken.”

Gil sat down and opened the manila envelope that contained her orders. “No chips on your shoulder?” he teased.

“None that I know of.”

“Good. You’ll get along fine here, then. With the few pilots we have, we’re a close-knit family in many respects.” He separated the papers for Admin and for Operations. “And, I’ve been assigned as your sponsor, to help you get the lay of the land here at the station. We’ll start that at 0755 tomorrow morning.” He glanced up to see what kind of effect that had on Rook. Sponsors were assigned to every newly arriving person. He wasn’t about to tell Eve of this latest assignment, which would put him in close contact with Caldwell for the next couple of days, until she got acclimated to Port Angeles.

Rook gratefully sipped her coffee. She liked Gil Logan. “I’m in good hands, then.” When she saw a red flush crawl up his neck and into his face, Rook’s heart went out to the pilot. He was just as nervous about this first meeting as she was. Logan resembled many of the inspector pilots she’d flown with at Pensacola and then, later on, in Mobile: fairly tall, well-built and lean. He had dark brown hair, intense blue eyes and pale skin, as if he saw very little sun. The one-piece, olive-green flight suit he wore was what she longed to wear. They were comfortable compared to the uniform skirt and jacket she currently had on.

“Why are you short on pilots? I thought each station was given enough of a complement so that duty was only every fourth day or so.”

Although he liked Caldwell initially, Gil didn’t feel comfortable spilling the ugly truth about Port Angeles. He had yet to be called in by the new skipper, and she might be a gossip, like Eve. Instead, he said, “Just one of those situations you run into occasionally. We’re in the midst of quite a few changes. We just got a new skipper yesterday.”

“Uh-oh.”

Gil glanced up. She had grasped the implications immediately. “Captain Stuart’s aware you’re coming on board this morning. He wants to meet you as soon as I’m done with the initial paperwork here.”

“Great.” The word mirrored her pained expression.

He grinned. Rook was going to get along fine with the troops. He gave her back some of the necessary papers and was about to alert Captain Stuart of Rook’s presence, when the red phone rang shrilly. Frowning, Gil picked it up. It was the SAR telephone, a direct line to Seattle office, which received most of the distress calls and then sent them out to the appropriate base nearest the SAR case for action.

Rook listened closely as Logan took down the necessary SAR information. Her heart began to pound. She wanted to take part in the rescue, but there wasn’t any possible way. In order for her to begin to fly on a regular basis, she had to go through at least a week of orientation.

Gil hung up the phone, leaned over and keyed the SAR alarm. He gave Rook an apologetic look as he leaned down and flipped a switch on the console. “Men overboard at Pillar’s Point.” He released the key on the mike and glanced over at Caldwell. “Gotta run,” he told her. “I’ll see you a little later.” He headed for the door. With Annie Locke on board as their enlisted flight mechanic, Gil felt good. She was reliable and cool-headed.

Rook stepped aside, out of the way, when a shorter, sandy-haired officer in a green flight suit came down the stairs double-time. He gave her a piercing look—one laced with curiosity—and then raced out the doors, running toward the hangar that sat across the parking lot from Admin.

Walking to the doors, Rook watched as both pilots disappeared through an open door at the rear of the hangar. Envy ate at her. If only she could be going along. Soon, Rook promised herself. Soon, I’ll be a copilot flying with someone like Logan. Taking a last sip of her coffee, Rook picked up her purse, set the mug on the console and headed up the stairs in search of the CO’s office.

“What have we got?” Lt. (jg) Reno Gunnison asked, strapping into the copilot’s seat.

Logan glanced up from his preflight duties, already strapped in, his helmet on his head. “A distress call from a fishing vessel near Pillar’s Point in the straits. The boat hit something, and the two crewmen jumped overboard.” They quickly went through the mandatory preflight checklist together.

“How long ago?” Reno was thinking about hypothermia, from the low water temperature, which killed most people within half an hour to an hour after jumping off a sinking vessel.

“Ten minutes. We still got hope.” In no time, they were ready for liftoff. Annie Locke gave a thumbs-up, taking the last chock away from the two rear wheels and climbed aboard. The blades swung faster and faster above them, the ’60 shaking with the additional power Logan was feeding the engines.

Reno calculated in his head. It would be fifteen minutes before they’d reach Pillar’s Point, which lay west of them on the coast. “We’ve got Annie with us. That’s a good omen.”

Logan pulled up on the collective, feeling the aircraft lift off immediately. “Yeah, we got lucky,” he agreed, watching the instruments closely. Sun glared through the Plexiglass, heating up the cockpit immediately. Already Gil could feel the familiar trickle of sweat from beneath his armpits as he jockeyed the ’60 to an altitude of one thousand feet. The green landscape raced beneath them. The dark marine blue of the straits was off to their right.

“Hey, was that the new woman helo pilot there at the desk?”

Logan nodded. “Yeah. Seems like an okay sort. I feel for her. She’s gotta meet the new skipper.”

Reno grinned, busily coordinating radio broadcasts between themselves and the air station. “Better her than us. Our turn’s coming soon, though!”

Ward lifted his head when a firm knock sounded at the inner door to his open office. He saw a woman officer standing there uncertainly.

“Ah, Lieutenant Caldwell. Come in, I was expecting you.” Ward wondered why Logan hadn’t brought her up himself. He got his answer when he heard the whine of a jet engine on a ’60 starting up. There must be a case.

“At ease, Lieutenant. Sit down,” he invited, gesturing toward one of the two leather wing chairs that sat positioned at either comer of his massive cherry desk.

Managing a slight smile, Rook tried to relax. “Thank you, sir.”

He gave her a nod, hoping to make her feel more comfortable. “Well, you and I share one thing in common.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“We’re both brand spanking new to the base. I arrived yesterday and you, today.”

“Is that an omen, sir?” she asked, smiling.

“Omen? That sounds sinister. I’d hope our showing up here isn’t a negative. Let’s just say it’s symbolic—of what, I’m not sure yet.” He liked her sense of humor. She was attractive without makeup. Her fingernails were blunt-cut and unpolished. Her hair was short and shone like the wing of a raven. The cut was flattering to the structure of her facial features. Ward was pleased that her uniform was meticulously kept, but then, she was fresh out of boot camp.

Rook sat stiffly in the chair, hands clasped in her lap. Captain Stuart was short. It was a shock—at first. But she saw the glint in his eyes and sensed he missed little. That kept her even more on guard. Was he pro-or anti-woman helicopter pilots? She’d find out soon enough. Stuart could either make her first tour—the foundation of a career she wanted for the next thirty years—a positive experience or a disaster. If he was a dyed-in-the-wool male, he could make it so tough on her that her fitness reports would get her drummed out of the service after her first five-year stint. Sweat popped out on her upper lip.

Rook hung on to all her questions, realizing silence was proper while Stuart read over her personnel file. She wanted to fidget. Instead, she swung her attention to the white MH-60 helo with the international orange stripe on its tail as it lifted beyond the hangar, heading out in a westerly direction over the straits. She ached to be on board, to be part of the team trained to save lives. Would Gil and Reno arrive in time to save the two fishermen?

“Your credentials are impressive, Lieutenant,” Ward complimented her. “I see you’ve been flying rotary-winged aircraft since you were sixteen. How did you get into that?

Most sixteen-year-old girls have more pressing interests.” He was thinking of Kenny, who mimicked the latest fashions and made dating the highlight of his life.

“We…my mother and I…lived near Brownsville, Texas, at the time. I hung around a crop dusting airfield after school every day, sir. The money a pilot made was pretty good, so I asked Old Jake if he’d teach me to fly. I was fifteen at the time. He sort of liked me. His daughter had died two years before, and I guess I reminded him of Becky. So, he’d take me on crop-dusting flights, and by the time I was seventeen I had my license.”

Ward leaned back, folding his hands across his stomach, studying her. He saw Noah Caldwell’s stubborn chin and high cheekbones in her face. In some ways, they were similar, possessing that necessary drive to make something of themselves. “And you did this flying for the money?”

“I did at first, sir. My mother would never accept welfare, even though things were pretty tight. I had a newspaper route in the different towns we lived in from the time I was eight, and that helped. Money was my first objective, but as soon as I flew in a helo I changed my mind.”

“Oh?”

Rook gave Ward a shy smile. “I fell in love with flying, sir. From sixteen on, I ate, slept and breathed it. Old Jake made me see the importance of top grades. He was the one who suggested the Coast Guard as a place to use my talents.”