The Hot Pilots (3 page)

Actually, Steve had even more kills, but they weren’t official. Back in ’41 he’d flown a volunteer stint with the Flying Tigers
in China, during which he’d knocked down five Japanese airplanes while taking part in one awesome and glorious dogfight over
Rangoon. Unfortunately, the kills could not be added to his official tally because he’d only been seventeen years old. When
the Flying Tigers had learned that he’d lied about his age in order to join up, they booted him home and wiped clean their
records of any trace of him …

Steve now grinned as he thought about how Pop still enjoyed busting his balls about that, ribbing him that if the kills weren’t
official it was as though they’d never happened. Steve knew his father was just kidding; his old man was real proud of his
son’s war record.

Steve continued walking with his feet in the water. As he passed a retaining wall that divided the beach and had been blocking
his view he saw that there was another person out here today, after all. It was a woman wearing a black bikini, a wide-brimmed
straw hat, and sunglasses. She was semi-reclining in a white canvas sand chair, with her legs—
nice, long, legs
—stretched out on a red and white striped beach towel.

As he approached he saw her glance at him, and then look away in that kind of initially bored, disinterested way that he liked
so much in women because it made things so much sweeter when he got their attention in bed. The closer Steve got, the better
she was looking. He was figuring that it was worth a shot to try and strike up a conversation—

And then he realized that he was looking at Linda Forrester—

At that instant she gave
him
a double-take. He knew that she had recognized him by the way she quickly grabbed a book off her towel and ducked her head
into it. It was obvious that she was just as flustered as he about this chance encounter, and like him, didn’t know what to
do …

He was still far enough away to credibly pretend that he hadn’t recognized her. He could just turn around and walk back the
way he’d come, but that seemed cowardly. He wasn’t about to let her think that he was
afraid
to talk to her. On the other hand, he didn’t want to cause any uncomfortable awkwardness … At least, no more than they’d
both already experienced with each other …

So what the fuck was he going to do? He couldn’t just keep on walking past her, and pretend not to see her…

He looked out at the ocean, and decided that the way out of this mess was to go for a swim. What the hell—He was feeling hot;
a dip would be refreshing. It would also give Linda the chance to pack up and move away down the beach if she preferred not
to talk to him. If she did so, he’d take the hint.

But if she stayed …

He shrugged off his terry-lined, shirt-jac, its pockets bulging with his car keys, wallet, and sunglasses. He put the garment
down on the sand, took his cigarettes and lighter from the pocket of his boxer swim trunks, and laid them on top. He put his
sandals on top of everything, and then ran out into the cold, clean water. When he was in up to his waist he pushed off, swimming
with strong strokes until he was out beyond the point where the waves broke. He splashed around for a while, either floating
on his back or treading water, watching the sun glint on the aquamarine sea as he thought about Linda Forrester.

They’d met in 1947, on a sultry summer Friday afternoon in Washington, during the Senate B-45 bomber hearings. Steve had been
a captain assigned to the Air Force’s Office of Public Information, and she had been a free-lance journalist, hired by Amalgamated-Landis
to do a puff piece on their young engineer Don Harrison, who was in Washington to testify on behalf of the bomber he’d designed.
Steve still remembered how happy he’d been when he’d found out that the relationship was strictly business between the bookish
young engineer and the knockout brunette with shoulder-length curly hair and blue eyes to die for.

The next day had been a Saturday. Linda had asked Steve if he wouldn’t mind showing her around Washington. The sight-seeing
excursion had ended up in Steve’s apartment, and finally, in his bed. The spark they’d lit that Saturday afternoon back in
1947 had burned fitfully for five years. It wasn’t like they were boyfriend and girlfriend, or going steady, or anything like
that. Hell, they’d only managed to get together for a weekend maybe half a dozen times a year. In between their get-togethers,
he saw plenty of other women, and if he knew Linda, she saw plenty of other men, but somehow they’d always made the effort
to get back to each other. Steve didn’t think it was love—at least it didn’t seem to him to be like the love they wrote about
in books—but the sex had always been outstanding, as had their friendship …

Funny how the relationship had always remained less than the sum of its parts
, Steve now thought as he began to swim back toward shore.

The end of the relationship had come two years ago, at Chusan Air Field in Korea, where he’d been serving with the 44th FIS,
an F-90 BroadSword fighter-interceptor squadron. Linda, a senior correspondent for the
Los Angeles Gazette
, had been part of a contingent of reporters on a tour of the front. As soon as Steve had learned that Linda was on her way
to Chusan he’d bribed an airman a couple of bucks to get the key to an out-of-the-way storeroom in Operations Center. He and
Linda had enjoyed themselves on the cot he’d stashed in the storeroom. For that couple of days Steve had thought that life
was as good as it could get: By day he’d had MIGs to joust with up in the sky, and by night there’d been Linda, waiting for
him in the sack …

It had been outstanding, all right, but during their third night Linda had gotten all mushy, starting in about how she loved
him, and maybe they should be thinking about marriage … In hindsight, he guessed that he’d probably been a bit too emphatic
about how marriage wasn’t likely. Not then, and not ever…

Well, good old Linda hadn’t been much interested in joining him in the sack after hearing
that
. The contingent of journalists had moved on, Linda with them, and that had been the last Steve had seen or heard from her,
except for her postcard from Japan a week or so afterward, letting him know in a couple of terse, scrawled sentences that
the two of them were through, as if he hadn’t already gotten
that
message loud and clear…

In the time since, he’d had no contact with her. It had been as if they’d never met. He’d been home in Los Angeles on leave
for almost a month now, but it had never occurred to him to call her. Sure, he’d thought about Linda a couple of times … He
guessed he even missed her … a little …

But she’d been
real clear
about how as far as she was concerned they were through. He knew how to take a hint.

As he swam back he resisted the temptation to see if she was still there. He wondered which way he’d bet if this were a wager:
Would she stay, or leave? It wasn’t until he was striding out of the ocean, the breaking waves pushing at the backs of his
knees, that he allowed himself to look. She was still there; still reading, or maybe pretending to be reading…

It didn’t matter. She was still there, and that was all he needed to know.

He slicked back his dripping hair, gathered up his things, and confidently walked toward her.

The mid-morning sun was bright against the page of Linda Forrester’s book. After a couple of stabs at trying to concentrate
she decided that she wasn’t in the mood for reading. She felt guilty as she tossed aside the copy of James Baldwin’s
Go Tell It on the Mountain
. Friends at the paper had been after her to read the book since it came out last year, but it was tough going at the beach.

Anyway, it seemed like I spend my whole life generating print, or else absorbing it
, she thought as she wiggled her toes in the warm, white sand.
Today is supposed to be a time out
…

She closed her eyes, leaning back against the chair canvas, listening to the shrieking laughter of the gulls swooping above
the crashing surf. As she baked in the sun she thought about going into the water. Maybe later.

She sat up slightly, opening her eyes as she reached for her beach bag, and rummaged through it looking for her suntan lotion.
It was then that she saw him walking toward her along the waterline. She didn’t recognize him at first, but merely registered
his presence, thinking that he was a good-looking guy wearing a short-sleeved cabana top and matching bathing trunks in a
yellow-on-black paisley print. From the way he moved she could tell that he was fit and athletic.

It was as she was looking away that something clicked in the back of her mind: She did a quick double take, peering at him
from over the top of her sunglasses. As he came toward her his image wavered like a mirage in the wriggling heat waves rising
up off the hot sand.

But of course he wasn’t a mirage
, she thought, a little perturbed and a little pleased as she watched Steve Gold coming toward her. Nope, he was no mirage.
A bit of a dream, he might be—although there’d also been nights since she’d seen him last when he’d been leading man in her
nightmares—but today he was very real.

As she stared at him now she was able to guess from the almost imperceptible falter in his stride that he’d also recognized
her. She quickly snatched up her novel; the book was on her lap upside down, but what the hell; he was still too far away
to notice.

She took quick peeks at him while she pretended to read. He was just standing there about thirty yards down the beach, shuffling
his bare feet in the sand as he looked out at the ocean. She guessed that he was trying to decide if he should come over …
She wondered what he was going to do—and what she should do if he
did
come over…

She couldn’t figure out what he thought he was up to as he abruptly took off his jacket, emptied his pockets, and went slogging
into the water. Then she realized that this was his way of giving her a chance to beat a retreat.

What
nerve
! What
ego
! It’d be a cold day in Malibu when the likes of
him
could run
her
off—

She flung aside her book and angrily smoked a cigarette while she waited for “The Creature from the Black Lagoon” to get tired
of splashing around out there with his fellow cold fish, and come say hello. Finally she saw him swimming back toward the
shore. She removed her straw hat and quickly ran her fingers through her tousled curls to fluff them out, thinking that she’d
been wearing her hair shorter since she’d seen him last. She then plopped her book back on her lap, this time right side up.

She watched as he shook the water out of his eyes, put on his top, and came swaggering over like the conceited lug that he
was. He probably thought that she was going to be an easy touch just because he hadn’t managed to scare her off the beach.
Well, she had news for him …

“Hi there, blue eyes.” Steve grinned, coming up to her. “I thought it was you.”

Linda pretended to go back to her book.”What the hell are you doing here?” she murmured, trying hard to sound like she didn’t
in the least care.

“Enjoying the view,” Steve said.

She snuck a peek at him staring down at her, and then quickly averted her eyes. The way he was staring made her acutely aware
of just how little of her oiled, tanned body was hidden from view by her skimpy black bikini.

Then again, she thought wistfully, it was kind of silly—and late—to be feeling modest. It wasn’t as if the two of them didn’t
already know every square inch of each other’s bodies,
outside and in
…

“Mind if I sit down?”

“It’s a free beach.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”

He settled down beside her on her towel. She was about to tell him to get the hell off, but then decided,
Why act childish? Why let him know that he’s still under my skin?

His unbuttoned beach jacket gaped open as he took out of his pocket a pack of Pall Malls, allowing her a glimpse of his broad
chest and his flat stomach. She was remembering how she’d used to run her fingers over his hard belly, and how he’d reacted
when she’d touched him there, and then she thought that maybe
he could tell
that she was looking at his body—

She quickly looked up into his eyes, which were so extraordinarily brown. He seemed to be looking right through her.

“Want one?” he asked, his own cigarette dangling from his lip.

At first she didn’t quite understand, but then she realized that he was holding out the scarlet cigarette pack. She nodded,
taking a cigarette, and then leaned toward him to accept the light held cupped in his hands against the sea breeze.
That
was a mistake, she thought as she saw him devour her cleavage with his eyes.

“What
are
you doing here?” she asked again. She knew that Steve had won the Medal of Honor, and had been promoted to lieutenant colonel
for having shot down some famous North Korean honcho fighter pilot. The Air Force, wanting to get a leg up on the other service
branches when it came time to do battle for appropriations, had put their newest war hero on a public relations tour. Every
newspaper in the country, including her own, had run pieces on him, and she remembered the big cover story on Steve that
PhotoWeek Magazine
had done.

“Last I heard you were traveling around, selling the Air Force to the Cub Scouts,” she said. “Or was it vice versa?”

Steve chuckled. “I was, but the Korean War ended. The Air Force decided that maybe the Cub Scouts would rather hear from test
pilots, so the war hero has been retired from public speaking.”

“Too bad …”

“Nah, I’m glad,” he said. “It was getting to be a chore reciting that speech they wrote for me. Toward the end it felt like
the story I was telling had happened to somebody else. I’m still assigned to the Air Force’s Office of Public Information,
in Washington.”