Authors: Lindsay McKenna
Holt sat back in the chair, disgusted. He knew Lauren well enough that when she locked on to an idea, everyone stayed until it was hammered out. It was going to be impossible to call Megan. Looking to the left, he saw that Curt Merrill wasn’t very happy about it, either. A whole day locked away in a smoky room wasn’t a test pilot’s idea of joy.
“If we push on this—” Lauren punched numbers into the calculator between her hands “—we ought to have a test flight prepared three weeks from now.” She turned to Stang. “I’m sure General Dalton will schedule you to fly it.”
Sam said nothing, his Friday flight scrubbed. Because of his lousy performance today, Lauren was assigning Stang, not him, to the next flight. Stang was grinning.
“Fine by me!” Jack said.
Lauren sat back, thinking for a moment. “Sam, do me a favor?”
He sat up. “What do you need?”
“Call Patuxent River and talk to their design people. If my memory serves me correctly, didn’t they consider square nozzles on the engines of one of their fighters? I know they didn’t carry through with it, but I’d like you to get any test data you can, plus talk to the people in Design.”
“Okay.”
“Better yet,” Jack volunteered, “why don’t you TDY him to the navy test pilot school for a week or two and do an in-depth investigation? Phone calls aren’t going to get what you want, Major.”
Holt saw Stang’s deft maneuver: on temporary duty, TDY, he’d be out of sight, out of mind. Stang was afraid he’d protest the change of pilots. He was damned right he was going to. But one look back at Lauren, and his hopes sank. She was delighted with the suggestion.
“Great idea! Sam, I’ll talk to Colonel Yale and get TDY orders cut for you. Fly down today, retrieve the information we need. I can give you up to seven days back there to get it.” Lauren smiled at him. She trusted Holt’s ability to get what she wanted, making her job easier.
“Will do,” Sam said. Personally, he felt Porter was expecting too much, too soon. How could they possibly redesign in such a short period of time, even if the wind tunnel tests verified Stang’s suggestion? But Lauren was responsible for keeping this project on schedule, and she didn’t have a choice. And thanks to his screwing up two test flights in a row, that helped put them behind. He considered the TDY assignment just punishment and said nothing further. Still, Sam wanted to try and get ahold of Megan, one way or another. He didn’t want to suddenly drop out of her life—especially after their fight.
Trying to sit still, Sam’s mind was elsewhere. If he could keep Megan informed, that might take the edge off her anxiety. Part of Curt’s problem with Becky was that he never discussed any flight and never would call her after he landed to neutralize her fears. Holt believed if Megan knew, her anxiety level would dissolve. Education and communication were the keys. Now, if only he could cut free of this meeting.
Curt Merrill looked positively harried, scribbling idly on a pad of paper in front of him. Lately, he hadn’t been volunteering much of anything for the testing. Sam grimaced to himself. Was this whole project cursed?
Curt knew something was wrong the moment he entered their home at seven o’clock. He’d called earlier to tell Becky that he was going to be late. Today had been a marathon session centering on redesigning the engine nozzles. Tossing his garrison cap on the sofa piled with clothes that needed to be washed, he waded through Patty’s strewn toys in the living room and made it to the kitchen.
“Becky?” No answer. Normally, if he were late, his dinner was in the oven. He was starved. Opening the stove, there was nothing in there. Scowling, he shut it and went to the laundry room at the rear of the house.
Outside the screen door, he saw Patty playing in a small sandbox. Becky looked up from loading the washer.
“Hi, honey,” she greeted. Lifting her arms, Becky placed them around his neck.
Curt kissed her gently, concerned at the paleness of her features. “What’s wrong, Sparrow? You don’t look good.” He brushed a limp strand of blond hair off her damp brow. Her smile was halfhearted.
“Ohhh, nothing. I’m just in one of my moods.”
He rocked her to and fro in his arms, enjoying her slight form against him. “I didn’t fly today,” he reminded her. The odor of liquor was on her breath, and he stilled his anger and fear.
“I know. But—” she eased out of his arms and returned to loading the washer “—it just seems every day is harder to get through even if you don’t fly.”
Merrill stood here, vacillating between reading a manual on the engine design of the F-15, or talking to Becky. Every time he tried to, they always ended up in a fight. He was too tired to do that tonight. “Well,” he said, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder, “you’re just going to have to hang in there for me, Sparrow. Things are bad over on the project right now.”
Instantly, Curt was sorry he’d phrased it that way. Becky swung around, her eyes growing huge and shadowed. “I mean,” he said, “we’re having problems getting the bird to land within fifteen hundred feet.”
“So,” Becky quavered, “Melody was right. You really are in trouble.”
“What does Melody Stang have to do with this?”
Wincing, Becky shut the lid on the washer. “She called me this afternoon and told me there were design changes on the Eagle. I got worried.”
Gripping her shoulder, he turned his wife toward him. Her delicate face was pinched with worry. “And so you took a drink because of that?” he demanded in a lowered tone.
Becky nodded. “It soothed my nerves, Curt.” She held out her hands. They shook perceptibly. “I had to do something! My nerves are shot!”
Groaning, Curt’s voice rose a notch in frustration. “Becky, I told you to never talk to that Stang woman! She’s out for herself and her husband. Can’t you get that through your thick head?”
“Don’t yell at me!” she cried, walking down the hallway toward the kitchen.
Merrill followed. “Dammit, I will! She called and deliberately upset you. I told you to stop hitting that bottle of whiskey. It isn’t good for you, Becky!”
In the kitchen, she jerked open the refrigerator and pulled out a lasagna casserole. “Well, just how am I supposed to get information, then?” She slammed the door shut, opened the stove and literally dropped the casserole into the oven.
Hands draped across his hips, Merrill growled, “Look, I don’t tell you anything because most of it’s classified top secret and you know that! What I can tell you, I do. Every time, I do, you nosedive into one of those depressions of yours.” His voice cracked. “Just what the hell am I supposed to do, Becky? I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t. You don’t want to hear anything because it upsets you. And if I do tell you something, it puts you on edge for days afterward, and you hit that goddamn bottle of yours.”
She stood there, hands clasped in front of her, barely able to look at him. “I’d rather know, Curt,” she said in a small voice.
“I don’t believe this,” he shouted, throwing his arms up in frustration. “Years ago you told me not to say anything. So I didn’t.”
“I guess I’ve changed my mind….”
Breathing hard, Curt rasped, “Fine!”
Tentatively, her voice barely audible, Becky said, “Melody says that Jack always calls her before and after he flies. That way, she doesn’t worry so much, and she knows he’s safe.”
Lips thinning, Curt studied his wife, wrestling with real anger. How the hell had Stang been able to worm his way into their life? Melody wasn’t to be trusted. “Look, the Stangs are out for themselves, Becky. They set people up. Don’t listen to her!”
Lifting her head, Becky’s voice became strident with anger. “Curt Merrill, you’re acting like an ostrich with his head in the sand! Melody Stang has helped me. I have someone I can talk to now, when I’m feeling blue. She listens. She understands.”
Stalking around the kitchen, Merrill muttered, “Better than I do? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Well…you come home, eat and then lock yourself in your office to study some stupid jet manual! I can’t talk to Patty because she doesn’t understand. What do you want me to do?”
Frustration ate at him. “Look, I’ve got to study tonight, Becky. We’re at a critical juncture with this damn project. I can’t afford to screw it up now.” He lifted his hand. “I’ll try and talk to you each night at bedtime, okay? Maybe we can steal a few minutes then. I don’t want you talking to Melody Stang. She hasn’t got your best interests at heart, believe me.”
Hope showed in her voice. “We’ll talk?”
Anger sloughed off him. “Yes, we’ll talk tonight, when we go to bed.” Looking at his watch, Curt asked, “Will you bring me my dinner in the office? I’ve got to get on those manuals or else.”
“Sure,” she whispered, managing a crooked smile filled with hope.
Becky’s eyelids began to droop. She lay in bed, fiddled idly with a loose thread on the blanket, and waited for Curt to get done with the manual. The novel she was reading had been tossed aside. It was 1:30 a.m. Nodding off, she awoke the instant her chin dropped downward. Where was Curt? All evening she’d looked forward to the quality time he’d promised.
Because she felt happier, Patty had responded, too. She wasn’t the little imp she usually was every evening. For that, Becky was grateful. Sliding down beneath the covers and nestling her head into the pillow, she centered on their daughter. Today, Patty had brought home a rainbow-colored dinosaur from school. The front half was black, but the other half was colorful. Becky had proudly pinned it up in Patty’s room. For once, an evening had almost gone smoothly.
Almost…Patty had stood crying outside her father’s office door because, as usual, it was locked and he didn’t want to be disturbed. Becky had picked her up, kissed her and taken her for her nightly walk down the block, and then had given her a bath.
With a sigh, Becky could no longer keep her eyes open. The day had been too stressful, and the argument with Curt had taken a further toll on her. In moments, she was asleep. And alone.
Becky met the bus and smiled as her daughter came racing around the front of it, her pigtails flying. She opened the gate for her, picked Patty up and kissed her cheek. Fridays were always special because Patty looked forward to the weekend, and perhaps, an hour or so with Curt. Time was something he couldn’t give her during the week.
Walking up the steps, she carried Patty to the door and opened it. Curt had called earlier, saying that they had run into some problems over at Design, and that he’d be a couple hours late. As long as he wasn’t flying, Becky didn’t care. A part of her wondered if Curt was lying to her. He’d done that on occasion when he didn’t want her to worry. She knew the pilots and engineers had spent longer than normal hours over at testing this week, because of a design change. Were they going to secretly fly a test before the day was out? It was 4:00 p.m. Curt said it would be at least two hours before he was home.
Frowning, Becky put her daughter down and went to the kitchen. She knew they were behind schedule, at least, that’s what Melody had said in her last phone call. Was Curt lying? Were they going to fly a last-minute test today?
Bending down, Becky opened the liquor cabinet and pulled out the whiskey bottle. Hands shaking, she took down a tumbler from the cupboard. Melody had also said Sam Holt was flying in today from Maryland. That made it even more likely that a test would be flown. But, by who? If she called Ops, they wouldn’t tell her who was scheduled in Sam’s place. Uneasy, Becky swallowed some of the whiskey. Immediately, as it burned its way down her throat and into her stomach, she began to feel a slight soothing effect on her jangled nerves.
Patty came racing into the kitchen.
“Mommy, Mommy, come and play with me!”
“No, honey, not right now.”
Pouting, Patty walked toward the front door. “You said you’d play with me.”
Taking another huge gulp, Becky gave in to her daughter. She couldn’t stand to see tears in Patty’s eyes. “Oh, all right. Come on, we’ll play out in the front yard and wait for Daddy to come home.” That way, if she saw an Eagle take off, she’d know there was a final test before the week drew to a close. The only question would be: who was flying it? Curt or Jack Stang?
Standing out on the front porch, Becky’s heart began a frantic pound. She saw an F-15 coming in from the east, headed toward the runway. An icy fear hit her, and she clutched her stomach as the gray fighter loomed closer. It was one of the test planes. Mouth dry, she whirled around, stumbling back inside, going to the kitchen. Finding the bottle, Becky poured as the contents sloshed out of the tumbler and onto the counter. She gulped down what was left in the glass. Who was flying? Who was flying?
Leaning heavily on the sink, Becky closed her eyes and tried to shut out the growling sound of the approaching jet. Sweat broke out on her brow, and she was consumed by the thought of Curt dying in a crash. How many minutes she stood there, frozen, Becky had no idea. The alcohol was fogging her brain and taking away some of the fear.
Suddenly, she heard the low, mournful wail of the crash siren begin to shriek out its message across the base: a jet had crashed! It had to be the Eagle she saw coming in for a landing! With a cry, the tumbler slipped from between her nerveless fingers, hit the floor and shattered. Becky sobbed, lurching toward the front door. She flung it open, staring wide-eyed toward Operations in the distance.
There was a huge plume of black smoke rising off the desert floor, toward the end of the runway. She could hear the high-pitched wail of sirens as they sped toward the site. Because of distance and hangar buildings in the way, Becky couldn’t actually see the plane that had gone down. The dreaded column of black smoke rising hundreds of feet into the air was all the evidence she needed.
“Oh, my God, my God,” she moaned. There was nothing she could do but wait. The instant the crash siren was heard around the base, the network of wives would wait for calls from their husbands. Every husband knew he must call home instantly to reassure his wife that he wasn’t the unlucky pilot who had augered in. In turn, each wife would call the next wife, to tell her who was on the ground, or confirm who was flying at the time. It was a terrible thing to wait. The woman who received no phone calls was the unlucky individual. She would then wait for two officers to drive up, grim-faced, and announce that her husband had been killed in a crash.
Twisting around, Becky moved drunkenly toward the phone in the kitchen, grabbing the whiskey bottle. Even now, the radio stations would be contacted, and within seconds, the same message would reach Lancaster, blaring out the tidal wave of bad news. Many wives of pilots lived there, and not on the base. They, too, would have to wait in a special hell, praying the phone would ring, letting them know their husbands were safe.
Megan was at school when the crash siren went off. The pen in her hand slipped and dropped to the desktop. Megan gave a little cry. Sam was to fly the test this afternoon!
“No…” she whispered. “No!” Sam had that flight! Reeling, Megan left her classroom and staggered outside. She saw an ugly cloud rising into the bright blue sky near the end of the runway in the distance. Jerking her gaze upward, she searched for a parachute. There was none! Sam couldn’t be dead! He just couldn’t be! A huge sob tore from her. In that instant, Megan felt the total love she’d held at bay for Sam, and had tried to ignore for so long. Sam’s face wavered in front of her. She loved him! How and when it had happened, Megan had no way of saying. Was he dead? Injured?
Knees shaking, she ran down the hall to the teachers’ lounge and reached for the phone. What was the number at Ops? If she could only get through to them! Trying to stop sobbing, Megan found the number and dialed it. A loud busy signal met her ear. She hung up and tried again. Vision blurred by tears, she shakily wiped her eyes. Of course, every pilot at Edwards would be calling his wife to tell her he was safe. She had to persevere, to find out about Sam. The phone was the only way to get information. Dazed, she remembered Becky Merrill’s number. Maybe she knew something. Wives of pilots had a grapevine in times of emergency and they inevitably knew who had augered in.
Barely able to dial the number, Megan sat down before she fell down. The phone rang and rang and rang.
“C-Curt?”
Megan swallowed hard. “No…Becky, this is Megan Roberts—”
“Crash…the crash…”
“I—I know. Becky, have you heard who it is, yet?”
“Curt…it might be Curt…no call…no call yet…”
Megan tried to steady herself, realizing Becky’s voice was heavily slurred and very faint. “Becky? Becky, are you okay?” There was silence at the other end of the phone. Licking her lips, she felt a wave of panic hit her. Something was wrong with Becky.
“H-help…”
“Oh, my God,” Megan breathed. “Hang on, Becky, just hang on. I’ll be over there in just a few minutes!” Shock made thinking difficult. Megan got up and turned, her movements jerky and robotlike. She reeled between Sam being dead or injured and Becky’s plea for help.
Megan mounted the wooden steps to the Merrill home on shaky legs. She heard Patty crying somewhere inside the home and jerked open the screen door.
“Becky? It’s Megan Roberts,” she called. Patty sat on the floor in the hall next to a closed door. Her heart rate picked up and she hurried toward the child.
“Mommy, Mommy…”
Megan picked up Patty and held her in her left arm. “It’s going to be all right, honey. Shh, it’s all right.” She tried the door. It opened. Patty stopped crying as the door swung wide.
“Oh, my God…” The words were torn from Megan as she stood poised at the entrance to the bedroom. The air reeked of whiskey, and it made her wince visibly. Becky Merrill lay unmoving, stretched out across the bed, unconscious. Her gaze moved from the woman to the dresser. On top of it was a nearly consumed quart of whiskey. Megan tightened her embrace around Patty. She fought the urge to scream.
Whirling around, Megan walked unsteadily down the hall and located Patty’s room. She got the child in her room, and shakily put crayons and paper before her.
“Stay here,” she said, “no matter what happens, stay in your room, Patty.” Megan winced as Patty’s tear-filled eyes moved to her. She was looking at a replica of herself at Patty’s age. Swallowing against a lump that threatened to shut off her breathing, Megan left and went back to Becky.
As she approached the bed, Megan saw an opened prescription bottle on the green carpet. Hand trembling, Megan read the label: Darvon. It was a well-known tranquilizer. Choking against the bile in her throat, Megan tried to ignore the stifling odor that hung in the room. She couldn’t control her own escaping emotions.
Megan made sure Becky’s head was tilted back so that she could breathe properly. This was like one of those weekly nightmares she had had as a child, and then as a teenager. How many times had she found her own mother like this? Fighting the urge to vomit, Megan grabbed the phone and called the base hospital.
Her mind spun with options. If she said Becky had tried to commit suicide, it would be logged on the hospital records. It would be a black mark against Curt, and his career could be destroyed. Suddenly, Megan didn’t care. Becky’s life was at stake, and this was no time to skirt the issues, career or no career.
The second phone call she made went to Ops. Megan knew she had to get a hold of Curt. Miraculously, the line was open and an airman answered it.
“This is Megan Roberts. I’m over at Captain Curt Merrill’s house. His wife Becky is very ill. I’ve called an ambulance. Get ahold of him and tell him to get over here. Now!”
“Yes, ma’am. Right away, ma’am!”
The phone dropped from Megan’s hand, and she sobbed, holding her hand across her mouth. Forcing herself past her own nightmarish past and reactions, she got up to help Becky.
“Who in the hell hit that crash siren button?” Holt cursed from the Ops desk. He’d just returned from Maryland, landing at 5:00 p.m., when it had gone off. An oil fire had been deliberately set ablaze near the end of the runway seconds after he’d landed the F-15. Every once in a while unsuspecting fire crews were tested on their response time to a crash. Fires were lit in several oil drums in a fire pit specially made to resemble a real crash. The only problem was the crash siren wasn’t supposed to be triggered.
“Don’t know, sir,” the airman at the desk replied, taking his completed flight plan.
Worriedly, Holt walked out to the front of Ops and looked out the wall of glass windows that faced the runways. He saw the lime-green fire trucks screaming down toward the contained fire. It was simply a drill. Turning, he couldn’t shake the terrible feeling stalking him.
“Hey, listen to this,” the airman said, “the radio over in Lancaster is even announcing there’s been a crash. Talk about stupid.”
At that moment, Curt Merrill appeared in the hallway, his brow wrinkled.
“Curt,” Sam shouted, “better call Becky. It’s a false alarm.”
“Oh, Christ,” Merrill muttered, whirling on his heel and making his way back to Design to make the call.
Sam swore under his breath. That cinched it! Megan would be home by now, in her apartment. Had she heard that announcement? She still thought he was flying a test today because he hadn’t been able to call her and tell her he had been in Maryland until today. Damn! Picking up one of the many phones, Holt dialed her residence. No one answered.
The airman behind the desk answered another phone. When he hung up, he had a pained look on his youthful features. “Captain Holt, you’d better go get Captain Merrill. A Megan Roberts just called from his residence. She just found Mrs. Merrill real sick and needs help.”
Momentarily stunned, Sam grabbed his duffel bag. He’d just landed and was still in his G-suit. “I’ll get him,” he rasped, running around the desk and down the hall toward Design. Megan was with Becky? How? Why? And something was wrong with Becky! He swung through the door and Curt was still on the phone.
“I can’t believe this,” Merrill said angrily, “the line’s busy.”
Holt tried to steady his breathing. “Curt, Megan Roberts is at your house. Something’s wrong with Becky. Come on, let’s get over there. She’s probably calling an ambulance.”
Curt froze, the phone clutched in his hand. “Becky? What’s wrong with her?” Merrill went white.
Holt took the phone and put it down in the cradle. “I don’t know. Let’s go!” His Corvette was parked out in the lot adjacent to Ops. Sam knew Megan had heard about the crash.
Racing out of the doors and down the steps, they quickly made it to his car. In moments, they were driving away from Ops and heading for Sharon Drive. Sam knew it was against regulations to wear a G-suit on base except for Ops, but right now, time was of the essence.
Grimly, Sam wondered how the wives of the pilots were taking the stupid crash-siren error. It always sent such a wave of fear and lethal dreads through the small, tight community.
Agitated, Curt whispered, “What could be wrong with Becky? And why is Megan over there? Jesus Christ.” He pressed his hands to the sides of his head.
“Becky! Becky!” Merrill took the stairs two at a time up to the front door of his home. He heard Patty shrilly crying. Jerking open the screen door, and breathing hard, he squinted against the gloomy interior. No lights were on. Patty was sitting on the carpeted floor, crayons and paper in hand, wailing.
“Curt!” Megan cried, running out of the bedroom upon hearing the door open and close. She stared past the pilot, seeing Sam at his shoulder. Relief shattered through her. Sam was alive! Alive! Gulping, Megan cried out, “Come in here. I think Becky took pills and alcohol together, and she’s unconscious!”
With a cry, Merrill ran down the hall. He kneeled at his wife’s side, sweeping her into his arms. Her face was very pale, mouth slack. Fingers shaking, he touched her skin. It was cool to his touch. There was an odor of alcohol on her breath.
“Becky!” he sobbed. “Jesus, Becky! Wake up! Wake up!” Tears blurred his vision as he held her limp, frail body to him.
“Easy,” Sam breathed, gripping Merrill’s shoulder. “Let’s get her up and try to get her to come around.”