No Quarter Given. Lindsay McKenna
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feeling, and Dana didn’t respond to it. All three of them had butterflies in their stomachs. What would tomorrow bring? As Dana smeared the last of the paste on her face, she wondered if she would dream about Griff again tonight, when she closed her eyes.
* * *
Griff awoke in a foul humor. He’d cut himself shaving, having refused to look into what he knew were bloodshot eyes. Dreams had kept his sleep restless. The first half of the night his mind had run over and over Toby’s unexpected death and the funeral Griff had attended yesterday. Near morning, unwilling thoughts of Dana, of all things, had filled his head.
Irritably, Griff turned on the shower. He threw the disposable razor into the wastebasket and stripped off his light blue pajama bottoms. The material pooled around his feet, and he kicked the pajamas aside. Dana. The word echoed gently in his heart. Tendrils of warmth flowed through him, and he savored the wonderful feeling her name evoked. Absently, Griff rubbed his chest. Since his divorce, he hadn’t felt much of anything except anger, frustration and loneliness. And realizing that the healing process must take place first, he hadn’t been much interested in women, either.
As he stepped into the hot, steamy shower, Griff closed his eyes, allowing the water to wash the stench from his body. He’d awakened last night sweating heavily, replaying Toby’s crash in his mind. Grabbing the soap, he scrubbed himself savagely, trying to escape the numbness that came with thoughts of Toby.
There would be no familiar phone call from his friend this morning. Griff was an acknowledged grump in the morning, and Toby often called to cheer him up as he drank his first cup of coffee. No more. As he shut his eyes and allowed the water to hit his face, Griff saw Dana’s face dance before him. Miraculously, the pressure in his chest disappeared and the tightness gripping his heart eased. Shaking his head like a dog coming out of water, Griff turned off the faucets and allowed the water to drip from him.
How could a woman he didn’t even know take away his grief? An awful numbness that inhabited him since he’d been notified of the accident, and his recent dislike of women had soared alongside his grief over Toby’s loss. Over the past five days, he’d tasted real anger toward women. It was unreasonable, Griff knew, but he couldn’t help himself. Maybe it was the divorce, compounded with Toby’s death. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. His emotions felt raw and shredded.
After toweling dry, Griff stepped out of the bathroom and pulled a clean one-piece flight suit from his bedroom dresser drawer. Dana came back to his thoughts. She wasn’t beautiful. No, she had an arresting face; and her huge blue eyes were her finest feature. Pressing the Velcro closed on his flight suit, Griff sat down on the bed and pulled on his dark blue cotton socks. Next came his highly polished flight boots, shining like mirrors. They weren’t patent leather like what a lot of the IPs had. Griff lovingly and carefully shined the leather for hours with polish—the old-fashioned way; the way it was done before patent leather invaded the military.
Sitting on the huge king-size bed, Griff looked around, feeling the awful silence that seemed to sit heavily in his chest. His hands on his long thighs, he stared toward the hall. Funny, even after six months, he missed Carol. Well, maybe not her, but their routine. Griff missed waking up with a woman’s warmth beside him and having her make him breakfast before he left for Whiting Field at 0630.
Frowning, he stood, automatically checking to make sure his name tag was in place over his left pocket, his IP badge over his right. Locating a bunch of pens on top of the dresser, he shoved several into the upper-left sleeve pocket of his uniform. His stomach growled, but somehow he wasn’t really hungry. When his mother died, the same 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