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Authors: M. L. Buchman
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hated it so vocally was a question she’d stopped asking a thousand missions ago. Every protest made by Helen Cartwright Magnuson Beale had driven her daughter deeper in.
Not flying! When it had been recreational.
Not helicopters! When she’d discovered rotorcraft.
Not the military! When she’d understood they flew the very best machines.
Not West Point! When it could have been Bard or Brown or Smith.
By the time she went SOAR, her mother didn’t even understand the distinctions, but it didn’t matter. By then Emily’s motivations had become completely her own. She loved what she did and why she did it in the present tense, even if the past tense had been a bit murkier.
For a while, this understanding, at least on Emily’s part, had brought a truce into the relationship. Right until the moment her mother realized that Emily’s career decision included helicopters first and men a distant second. That blew the whole mess up again. A battle, Emily knew, far from having fought its final round.
The main consideration her father mentioned that the briefing team hadn’t touched on was a little freakish. Freakish even to someone inured to life on an overseas military base.
Emily was about to enter a security bubble the likes of which existed nowhere else on Earth. Inside the circle of the United States Secret Service constituted the most guarded and secure place in the world. Ironically, placing it atop the target list for every crazy on the entire planet.
Her father could shed no further light on why the First Lady wanted a combat pilot for her chef. That Emily would have to find out for herself.
Chapter 11
Mark had started with the carrier’s communications shack. No joy. They wouldn’t even let him near the door without the day’s password.
His next stop, after he’d washed off the worst of the soda, was Pri-Fly. He managed to sweet talk his way into the tower, since the Mini Boss on duty owed him. Jim wore a bright blue turtleneck with “Mini Boss” in six-inch letters across his back, and his attention was focused on the aircraft landing over the stern.
The Air Boss, in bright yellow with his own title stamped large, offered Mark only the briefest nod and then turned back to watch the deck. Between them, they juggled the flight operations from Primary Flight. When they dropped from launching off two catapults to one, everybody eased down and Mark judged that was his moment.
“Hey, Jim.” He’d managed to find a spot to lean not far from the Mini Boss. “How’s the wife?”
Jim glanced over and swore, but softened it with a good smile and a punch on the arm. “What the hell happened to you? Go swimming?” He rubbed his hand against his pants. “Why are you sticky?”
Mark raised his mostly empty Coke can and wiggled it. “Someone shook it.”
“And you fell for it? Typical Army. You aboard tonight? Let the Navy teach you how to drink.”
No alcohol aboard, but that didn’t spare him the flak.
“What do you need?”
“Can’t I come by and ask about my cousin? Old pals, cousin-in-law, and all that?” Mark did his best to sound innocent, but could tell Jim wasn’t buying in.
“Your cousin’s fine. More than.” He offered a wolfish grin, the kind that Christy had always elicited from men, especially her husband. “Even if you did introduce us, that’s not why you’re bothering me during active operations. So give. What do you need?”
Jim turned to scan the skies with his binoculars. For the moment the sky was as clear as the radar, but once a Mini Boss, always a Mini Boss.
“You shipped out one of mine about half an hour back. Can you tell me where and why?”
Jim glanced at him, then over at the Air Boss.
Commander Richards shrugged. “We should be clear for five. Be back in six.”
Jim nodded toward the glass door and led them out onto vulture’s row, the narrow walkway that wrapped around the tower. Mainly used for washing Pri-Fly’s windows.
As soon as the
Not flying! When it had been recreational.
Not helicopters! When she’d discovered rotorcraft.
Not the military! When she’d understood they flew the very best machines.
Not West Point! When it could have been Bard or Brown or Smith.
By the time she went SOAR, her mother didn’t even understand the distinctions, but it didn’t matter. By then Emily’s motivations had become completely her own. She loved what she did and why she did it in the present tense, even if the past tense had been a bit murkier.
For a while, this understanding, at least on Emily’s part, had brought a truce into the relationship. Right until the moment her mother realized that Emily’s career decision included helicopters first and men a distant second. That blew the whole mess up again. A battle, Emily knew, far from having fought its final round.
The main consideration her father mentioned that the briefing team hadn’t touched on was a little freakish. Freakish even to someone inured to life on an overseas military base.
Emily was about to enter a security bubble the likes of which existed nowhere else on Earth. Inside the circle of the United States Secret Service constituted the most guarded and secure place in the world. Ironically, placing it atop the target list for every crazy on the entire planet.
Her father could shed no further light on why the First Lady wanted a combat pilot for her chef. That Emily would have to find out for herself.
Chapter 11
Mark had started with the carrier’s communications shack. No joy. They wouldn’t even let him near the door without the day’s password.
His next stop, after he’d washed off the worst of the soda, was Pri-Fly. He managed to sweet talk his way into the tower, since the Mini Boss on duty owed him. Jim wore a bright blue turtleneck with “Mini Boss” in six-inch letters across his back, and his attention was focused on the aircraft landing over the stern.
The Air Boss, in bright yellow with his own title stamped large, offered Mark only the briefest nod and then turned back to watch the deck. Between them, they juggled the flight operations from Primary Flight. When they dropped from launching off two catapults to one, everybody eased down and Mark judged that was his moment.
“Hey, Jim.” He’d managed to find a spot to lean not far from the Mini Boss. “How’s the wife?”
Jim glanced over and swore, but softened it with a good smile and a punch on the arm. “What the hell happened to you? Go swimming?” He rubbed his hand against his pants. “Why are you sticky?”
Mark raised his mostly empty Coke can and wiggled it. “Someone shook it.”
“And you fell for it? Typical Army. You aboard tonight? Let the Navy teach you how to drink.”
No alcohol aboard, but that didn’t spare him the flak.
“What do you need?”
“Can’t I come by and ask about my cousin? Old pals, cousin-in-law, and all that?” Mark did his best to sound innocent, but could tell Jim wasn’t buying in.
“Your cousin’s fine. More than.” He offered a wolfish grin, the kind that Christy had always elicited from men, especially her husband. “Even if you did introduce us, that’s not why you’re bothering me during active operations. So give. What do you need?”
Jim turned to scan the skies with his binoculars. For the moment the sky was as clear as the radar, but once a Mini Boss, always a Mini Boss.
“You shipped out one of mine about half an hour back. Can you tell me where and why?”
Jim glanced at him, then over at the Air Boss.
Commander Richards shrugged. “We should be clear for five. Be back in six.”
Jim nodded toward the glass door and led them out onto vulture’s row, the narrow walkway that wrapped around the tower. Mainly used for washing Pri-Fly’s windows.
As soon as the
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