No Quarter Given. Lindsay McKenna

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СКАЧАТЬ thing had happened. His father back in Jerome, Arizona, was still alive and healthy. All his other pilot friends were alive—a feat in itself, considering the extreme hazards of fighter-jet duty. Toby had been the first casualty he knew personally.

      As he picked up his briefcase and opened the front door to face the apricot sunrise on the horizon, Griff wondered who his next three students would be. Maybe one out of the three would get past his demanding teaching methods. Today, there was no enthusiasm in his stride down the concrete walk. Griff barely saw the pink-and-white oleander bushes that hid his tan bungalow from the quiet street of homes that surrounded him. He felt only a terrible heaviness in his heart, and he had no desire even to get to Whiting Field in time for the 0700 IP meeting. The only thing that told him he was still alive, still capable of feeling, was thinking of Dana.

      As he unlocked his car door and got in, Griff allowed her face to remain with him—her short pixie-style black hair, the small earlobes graced with tiny pearls. Everything about her shouted exquisite refinement. How could someone who appeared fragile be so damned bold, stepping into the path of a crazed thief? he wondered. Shaking his head, Griff started up the Corvette. Somehow, he had to see Dana again. It was a crazy thought. Crazy! Anger welled within him at the thought of women—yet her face, her presence, had given him an island of peace within his shattered world. How could that be?

      * * *

      Nervously, Dana stood with Maggie and Molly among twenty-five other students. They had been processed and taken to the ready room at Whiting Field. Accustomed to the often hostile stares of the male students, Dana internalized her dread. They had all been assigned to VT2 upon arrival, and Maggie had discovered that VT2 had the highest washout rate of the three student squadrons. Molly had ferreted out that an 03, Lieutenant D. G. Turcotte, had the highest washout rate of the seven VT2 instructors. He was called the Turk, Molly had told them in a tense voice.

      God, let me have a good instructor, Dana thought. She sat with Maggie on her right, Molly on her left. Because Dana was so small, her olive-green flight suit fit sloppily. It would have to be taken in, the sleeves and pant legs shortened considerably. For now, Dana had rolled them into thick wads at her wrists and ankles. With her clownlike garb and glorious black eye, she was painfully aware of being the center of attention. Thanks to Molly’s grandmother’s recipe, though, her eye was opening this morning, and the swelling somewhat reduced from the night before.

      “Here he comes!” Maggie whispered, nodding to the left. A door on the stage opened.

      Dana’s heart began a slow pound. She swallowed convulsively. There were twenty-eight students. Each instructor would be given three to teach for the first six weeks. If a student managed a passing grade of 2.0, then he or she would have different flight instructors for the remaining nine weeks of training. Word was out that these six-week IPs made or broke the student. Only one out of ten students went on to become a Navy pilot. Dana felt dampness in her armpits as she watched Commander Hager walk confidently toward the podium at the center of the stage. He was dressed in his tan uniform, the gold wings glinting above his left breast pocket proclaiming that he was a naval aviator.

      “Good morning. Here are the flight-student and instructor-pilot assignments. Ensigns Wilson, Dunlop and Coulter to Lieutenant D. G. Turcotte.”

      Dana gasped softly. Molly gripped her hand, giving her a sad-eyed look. Maggie’s full mouth pursed.

      “Lieutenant Turcotte’s students will report to him in room 303 at the administration building in the following order and time. Ensign Coulter, 0900. You will fly at 0700 every other day, Monday through Friday.”

      Trying to still her panic, Dana wrote down the information. She had the Turk, the 03 with the highest washout rate at Whiting. What had she done to deserve this? It was 0800. There would be an hour’s briefing, and then all students would be dismissed to go about their respective duties. Her mind whirled with questions and haunting fear. Was Turcotte a woman hater? Was he like a lot of the Annapolis grads who thought women couldn’t hack it, or make good military officers?

      Molly’s hazel eyes were wide with silent sympathy. She leaned over to Dana. “Hang in there. Maybe he’ll consider you something special.”

      Dana shook her head. “I’ll just bet he will,” she whispered back. What would Turcotte think? Dana had to care, because suddenly her dream of a flight career hung precariously upon this stranger’s thoughts and feelings.

      * * *

      Griff stared disbelievingly at the assigned student list that had been given to him by Sergeant Johnson. “Danielle Marie Coulter, Ensign” stared back at him. He dropped the paper on his desk.

      “Ray!” he roared from his office. The black yeoman third-class appeared at the doorway.

      “Yes, sir?”

      “What the hell is going on here?”

      “Sir?”

      “You’ve made a typing error. There’s no way I’m taking on one of those women student pilots.”

      Johnson shrugged apologetically. “Sir, Chief Yeoman Tracer gave me the list earlier. I know how you feel about it, and when I saw the assignment I asked the chief if it wasn’t a mistake. She said no.”

      Griff got to his feet, grabbed the paper and shouldered past the yeoman. There had to be a mistake! Striding down the long, narrow hall toward Captain Ramsey’s office, Griff had to control his raging feelings. Ramsey knew he had no use for women in the military world. Over the years, Griff had softened his view somewhat, but had remained adamant that flying a military aircraft was a man’s job. Besides, how he felt about women right now made him rabid about not accepting Coulter.

      Captain Burt Ramsey was leaning over his yeoman’s desk, giving her instructions, when Griff stepped into the outer office.

      “Morning, Griff,” Ramsey said.

      “Sir. May I have a few words in private with you?” Griff remained stiffly at attention. He was shaking inside.

      “Certainly. Come on in.”

      Making sure the door was closed so the yeoman couldn’t overhear, Griff stood at parade rest in front of the captain’s highly polished maple desk. Ramsey, a fifty-five-year-old officer, sat down. Folding his hands on the desk, he looked up at Griff.

      “What’s on your mind?”

      Trying to steady his hand, Griff thrust the assignment paper toward him. “This, sir.”

      “Those are your assignments for the next six weeks.”

      “I know, sir. But—there’s a woman in there.”

      “I’m aware of that,” Ramsey replied coolly.

      Struggling for self-control, Griff bit out, “Sir, I respectfully request that Ensign Coulter be reassigned. I don’t believe a woman can be a good pilot of a military aircraft. My best friend was just killed by a woman student pilot over at Pensacola. I—”

      “Lieutenant, I feel Ensign Coulter has what it takes to be with the best instructor at Whiting. That’s you. You’re tough and exacting. Her grade point at Annapolis was a straight 4.0. That’s a rarity in itself. Take a look at her file, and I think you’ll agree, she’s fine material to work with. The Secretary of Defense is getting pressured to put more women in flight slots. We need P3 pilots badly. If she СКАЧАТЬ