Read Online After Midnight by Merline Lovelace - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Merline Lovelace
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don’t know about you, but I sure as hell don’t want…”
With another snarl, his listener crashed down the phone. Billy Jack winced and hung up. His head pounded. The grits and sausage patties he’d downed for breakfast threatened to rise up and choke him. Swallowing, he forced the bile back down his throat and dragged his gaze to the crumpled newspaper.
Delbert McConnell smiled up at him from the front page of the Daily News.
Hunching over his desk, Billy Jack Petrie buried his face in his crossed arms and fought the urge to bawl like a baby.
Bill Petrie wasn’t the only one feeling the weight of Lieutenant Colonel Blackwell’s presence in Building 89. Sweat soaked Ed Babcock’s armpits and slicked his hands as he showed the colonel how to ground herself and reduce the static electricity in her clothing. Once inside the small, windowless lab, he pointed out the safety features.
“The exhaust vents will prevent the fumes from reaching noxious levels, but if you start to feel sick, either slip on an oxygen masks or go outside.”
Nodding, he indicated the oversized shower head suspended over the center of the room like a giant Kansas sunflower. “If something should spark and ignite the fumes, the shower will drench the entire lab in a half second.”
“You’ve actually timed it?”
“As a matter of fact, I have.”
With the tender care a mother might give her newborn, Babcock aligned the samples he’d drawn from the barges on a stainless steel worktable. The pale gold liquid looked so innocuous, yet Ed accorded the highly flammable fuel the respect it deserved.
“For safety purposes, the maximum amount of fuel we bring into the lab at any one time is ten gallons.”
Jess stood a few feet away, her green eyes curious while he measured various agents into five of the glass jars.
“What are those?”
“Chemicals to verify the presence of required additives. This one tests specifically for Biobor JF. It combats fungus and other microtive life in hydrocarbons. This…” He measured another agent. “…checks for diethylene glycol monomethyl ether, which is an anti-icing additive.”
The fuel fumes thickened, tainting the air. Ed could feel them seeping into his pores. Nervous as a cat in a yard full of stray dogs, he poured the samples through a series of filters to assess the sediment levels.
Was she watching his hands to see if he had the shakes? Did she think he couldn’t do his job? Resentment at being on probation like this percolated through his head. He was good at what he did, damned good, but his nerves were strung wire-tight when he readied for the final test. Centering a beaker of fuel in a special oven protected by a giant metal hood, he closed the glass door and set the temperature gauge.
“The military fuel package contains a special additive to increase its flash point to 100 degrees. This allows high performance jet aircraft to burn off most of the residue that builds up in the engines and, theoretically at least, prolongs engine life.”
The colonel nodded, her eyes riveted on the oven’s temperature gauge. The seconds ticked by, sliding slowly into minutes, while the needle inched from green, through white, toward red.
Ed had taken pride in his job, had loved knowing what he did contributed directly to the air force mission. So much he’d sweated through college courses at night to complete first a bachelor’s, then a master’s degree in chemistry. Over the years, he’d turned down lucrative offers from Exxon, from Texaco, from the American Petroleum Institute.
Until his marriage fell apart at the seams, he’d never seriously considered the offers. Until he started burying his ache for Eileen in a bottle, he wouldn’t have imagined that he’d trade a stripe, maybe even his right to wear an air force uniform, for a drink. But now, with the woman who had the power to destroy him standing just a foot or so away, he craved a slug of tequila so badly his entire
With another snarl, his listener crashed down the phone. Billy Jack winced and hung up. His head pounded. The grits and sausage patties he’d downed for breakfast threatened to rise up and choke him. Swallowing, he forced the bile back down his throat and dragged his gaze to the crumpled newspaper.
Delbert McConnell smiled up at him from the front page of the Daily News.
Hunching over his desk, Billy Jack Petrie buried his face in his crossed arms and fought the urge to bawl like a baby.
Bill Petrie wasn’t the only one feeling the weight of Lieutenant Colonel Blackwell’s presence in Building 89. Sweat soaked Ed Babcock’s armpits and slicked his hands as he showed the colonel how to ground herself and reduce the static electricity in her clothing. Once inside the small, windowless lab, he pointed out the safety features.
“The exhaust vents will prevent the fumes from reaching noxious levels, but if you start to feel sick, either slip on an oxygen masks or go outside.”
Nodding, he indicated the oversized shower head suspended over the center of the room like a giant Kansas sunflower. “If something should spark and ignite the fumes, the shower will drench the entire lab in a half second.”
“You’ve actually timed it?”
“As a matter of fact, I have.”
With the tender care a mother might give her newborn, Babcock aligned the samples he’d drawn from the barges on a stainless steel worktable. The pale gold liquid looked so innocuous, yet Ed accorded the highly flammable fuel the respect it deserved.
“For safety purposes, the maximum amount of fuel we bring into the lab at any one time is ten gallons.”
Jess stood a few feet away, her green eyes curious while he measured various agents into five of the glass jars.
“What are those?”
“Chemicals to verify the presence of required additives. This one tests specifically for Biobor JF. It combats fungus and other microtive life in hydrocarbons. This…” He measured another agent. “…checks for diethylene glycol monomethyl ether, which is an anti-icing additive.”
The fuel fumes thickened, tainting the air. Ed could feel them seeping into his pores. Nervous as a cat in a yard full of stray dogs, he poured the samples through a series of filters to assess the sediment levels.
Was she watching his hands to see if he had the shakes? Did she think he couldn’t do his job? Resentment at being on probation like this percolated through his head. He was good at what he did, damned good, but his nerves were strung wire-tight when he readied for the final test. Centering a beaker of fuel in a special oven protected by a giant metal hood, he closed the glass door and set the temperature gauge.
“The military fuel package contains a special additive to increase its flash point to 100 degrees. This allows high performance jet aircraft to burn off most of the residue that builds up in the engines and, theoretically at least, prolongs engine life.”
The colonel nodded, her eyes riveted on the oven’s temperature gauge. The seconds ticked by, sliding slowly into minutes, while the needle inched from green, through white, toward red.
Ed had taken pride in his job, had loved knowing what he did contributed directly to the air force mission. So much he’d sweated through college courses at night to complete first a bachelor’s, then a master’s degree in chemistry. Over the years, he’d turned down lucrative offers from Exxon, from Texaco, from the American Petroleum Institute.
Until his marriage fell apart at the seams, he’d never seriously considered the offers. Until he started burying his ache for Eileen in a bottle, he wouldn’t have imagined that he’d trade a stripe, maybe even his right to wear an air force uniform, for a drink. But now, with the woman who had the power to destroy him standing just a foot or so away, he craved a slug of tequila so badly his entire
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