Maggie placed her hands flat on his desk, holding his gaze. “Yes, sir, it is. But I’m in a highly unusual situation.”
“Don’t use reverse female chauvinism on me, Maggie. It won’t work.”
“No, I didn’t mean it that way!”
“Sure?”
Maggie felt some heat creep into her cheeks. She knew she was blushing. Brazenly, she held her boss’s dead-level gaze. “Yes, sir.”
“You’re trying to bluff your way through this, Maggie.” He grinned. “But, I don’t blame you. Okay, I’ll let you interview your new RIO.”
“And if I don’t think the chemistry’s there after a familiarization flight?”
“You can check out the other two. Fair enough?”
A smile leaked from her tightly compressed lips. “More than fair, skipper. Thanks.” She straightened into an at-attention posture.
“When I get done, which will probably be sometime tomorrow, I’ll contact you over at the hangar and get you and the potential RIO together,” Parkinson growled. “Now, get out of here, Donovan. I’ve got work to do.”
Smiling, Maggie said, “Yes, sir!” then made a neat about-face and left his office.
Because she was part of the Top Gun instruction team at Miramar, her office was located in Ops on the second floor. Humming a lively Celtic tune under her breath, she felt the weight on her shoulders dissolve. Maybe Hall leaving halfway through the six months of Red Flag training would be okay, after all.
In her small, plain office, Maggie got down to work. Every once in a while, the thought of her new RIO leaked into her mind. Would she be able to get along with him? What would he be like? A good pilot-RIO combination was like a winning dance-competition couple: their every movement smoothly choreographed and flawlessly executed. A bad combo was like the result of a shy ten-year-old boy getting dragged out onto the dance floor by an overenthusiastic girl: a disaster in lack of coordination. But the combat dance a jet-fighter couple performed in the air was more critical than dance competition on the ground. The deadly dance they performed together in the sky could keep them alive…or let them die.
So, what would her partner be like? The professional who knew she had to be the boss in the air? Or the gawky ten-year-old boy stumbling over his own feet?
Chapter Two
“Hey, Lieutenant Donovan!” an air crewman from the side office in the hangar shouted. “Commander Parkinson wants to talk to you on the phone.”
Maggie was head deep in one of Cat’s engines with Chantal when the petty officer called to her. Muttering, Maggie carefully withdrew from the engine intake, with Chantal at her side. Her crew chief gave her a clean rag to wipe off her hands.
“Thanks, Chantal.”
“Maybe news about your new RIO?” Chantal guessed.
Maggie glanced at the watch on her left wrist. It was exactly noon. “I hope so. I’ll be back a little later.”
“Yes, ma’am. Good hunting,” the chief teased.
With a grin, Maggie settled her garrison cap on her head. “Thanks.” She entered the little hangar office and picked up the receiver.
“I think—” Parkinson’s voice on the phone held a degree of humor “—that you’re going to like your replacement RIO, Maggie.”
Her heart beat a little harder. Nerves. “Oh?”
“His name is Lieutenant Wes Bishop. I wanted you to come over and check him out here at Ops, but he said he’d rather meet you at the officers’ club for lunch.”
She frowned. “Great.” Bishop must be one of those jocks who thought he could impress her with lunch and a bottle of wine.
“Don’t jump to conclusions. He’s a good candidate. Spend all the time you need with him, give him an FAM flight and then get back to me with your assessment and decision.”
“Yes, sir.” Maggie hung up the phone. Her dark green flight suit had smudges of grease and God knew what else on it from helping Chantal tinker with Cat’s engine. With her degree in aeronautical engineering, Maggie knew a great deal more about the mechanical workings of her plane than most pilots.
“I look like a pig.”
“Ma’am?” the petty officer behind the desk asked, raising his head from his paperwork.
“Oh…nothing.” Maggie spread out her hands before her. Last night she’d taken the polish off her nails to let them breathe for a day or two before coating them with another color. Groaning, she realized that grease was stuck stubbornly beneath them. Great. She was going to look like a grease monkey to this guy.
Why do I care? He ought to be more worried about what I think of him. With that thought, Maggie tossed the rag into the receptacle for just such items, picked up her purse and slung it over her left shoulder. Leaving the hangar, she hitched a ride in a truck going in the direction of the O club.
On the way over, Maggie took the mirror out of her purse. Her hair looked frizzy. Not that she had curly hair, but a number of auburn strands had worked their way out of the chignon, especially from her temple area. Putting on some lipstick made her feel a bit better, but Maggie knew, at best, she looked more like a mechanic today than a pilot.
And then her temper got the better of her. Why should I worry what I look like? Double Standard Donovan. Knock it off. This is business. Strictly business!
Of course, Maggie thought as the truck dropped her off at the O club, she was going to check out Bishop with a fine-tooth comb. Her mother had trained her to pay attention to faces, voice tones, body language and eyes. Eyes were the most important consideration.
As she hurried up the concrete sidewalk, she prayed Bishop’s eyes showed honesty and intelligence. Ignoring the small palm trees and bougainvillea that surrounded the spacious O club, Maggie entered through the double doors.
Taking off her cap, she hesitated in the foyer. Bar or dining room? She snorted softly. Bishop, she was sure, was probably in the bar—like every other macho Navy jet jock. She hated going there because the civilian women groupies were always hanging around trying to hook up with a flier. The games they played made her nauseous. Taking a deep breath, Maggie dived into the huge bar. It was crowded for this time of day, and a number of civilian women mingled with the men dressed in uniform and flight suits. The hunt was on.
How was she going to find Bishop? It meant she had to walk up and down the entire bar looking at the name on each man’s flight uniform. The cigarette smoke and the loud hard-rock music jarred her frayed nerves, but Maggie persevered, eyeballing each man’s name tag.
After fifteen minutes of close inspection, Maggie still hadn’t found Bishop in the bar. Going back out to the foyer, she frowned. Okay, she was wrong about Bishop. He wasn’t a groupie jock. At least, not today. Maybe he was on his best behavior. Who knew? She headed to the dining room, a much quieter, well-lit place with lots of greenery, soft music and a far
