No Quarter Given. Lindsay McKenna
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“Yes, sir?”
“What the hell is going on here?”
“Sir?”
“You’ve made a typing error. There’s no way I’m taking on one of those women student pilots.”
Johnson shrugged apologetically. “Sir, Chief Yeoman Tracer gave me the list earlier. I know how you feel about it, and when I saw the assignment I asked the chief if it wasn’t a mistake. She said no.”
Griff got to his feet, grabbed the paper and shouldered past the yeoman. There had to be a mistake! Striding down the long, narrow hall toward Captain Ramsey’s office, Griff had to control his raging feelings. Ramsey knew he had no use for women in the military world. Over the years, Griff had softened his view somewhat, but had remained adamant that flying a military aircraft was a man’s job. Besides, how he felt about women right now made him rabid about not accepting Coulter.
Captain Burt Ramsey was leaning over his yeoman’s desk, giving her instructions, when Griff stepped into the outer office.
“Morning, Griff,” Ramsey said.
“Sir. May I have a few words in private with you?” Griff remained stiffly at attention. He was shaking inside.
“Certainly. Come on in.”
Making sure the door was closed so the yeoman couldn’t overhear, Griff stood at parade rest in front of the captain’s highly polished maple desk. Ramsey, a fifty-five-year-old officer, sat down. Folding his hands on the desk, he looked up at Griff.
“What’s on your mind?”
Trying to steady his hand, Griff thrust the assignment paper toward him. “This, sir.”
“Those are your assignments for the next six weeks.”
“I know, sir. But—there’s a woman in there.”
“I’m aware of that,” Ramsey replied coolly.
Struggling for self-control, Griff bit out, “Sir, I respectfully request that Ensign Coulter be reassigned. I don’t believe a woman can be a good pilot of a military aircraft. My best friend was just killed by a woman student pilot over at Pensacola. I—”
“Lieutenant, I feel Ensign Coulter has what it takes to be with the best instructor at Whiting. That’s you. You’re tough and exacting. Her grade point at Annapolis was a straight 4.0. That’s a rarity in itself. Take a look at her file, and I think you’ll agree, she’s fine material to work with. The Secretary of Defense is getting pressured to put more women in flight slots. We need P3 pilots badly. If she can handle your instruction, then I feel we have a candidate for the antisubmarine-warfare squadrons that are low in pilot manpower—er, person power.”
Despair ripped through Griff. “But, sir—”
“Ensign Coulter is your student, Lieutenant. And despite your personal prejudice, which needs work anyway, you are to treat her just like any male student assigned to you. Is that understood?”
Griff tensed. A lot of responses went through his head, but the only wise answer was “Yes, sir.”
“I don’t want to hear Coulter smacking us with a sexual-prejudice lawsuit, either.”
His heart sank. Ramsey expected him to railroad her out of flight school. Well, wasn’t that what he’d planned to do if forced to take her? “I’ll treat her like any student assigned to me, sir.”
Ramsey nodded. “Good. Dismissed, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.” Wearily Griff turned on his heel and left the office. Outside in the hall, he slowed his pace, wrestling with an incredible avalanche of feelings. A woman had killed Toby. Coulter could kill him. Women didn’t have good judgment in times of emergency. Carol fell apart under the most trivial circumstances. She had always cried and clung to him.
Rubbing his brow, Griff headed back to his small office. Glancing at his watch, he saw he had exactly half an hour before Coulter reported to him. It would give him the necessary time to bone up on her file. No doubt she’d be a lot like Carol: appearing strong on the surface, but internally flawed and weak, needing a man to tell her how to run things or make decisions.
Yeoman Johnson already had placed Coulter’s file on his desk. Reluctantly, Griff opened the thick folder. He nearly came unhinged at her physical statistics: five foot two, one hundred pounds and only twenty-two years old. She was too small to wrestle the weight of a screaming, out-of-control jet! His anger mounted as he continued to peruse Coulter’s file. In her plebe year—the first year as an underclassman—Coulter had won the right to carry the company colors. Who had she twisted around her finger to get that plum?
Academically, Coulter appeared to be brilliant. She excelled at mathematics and computers and earned a degree in aeronautical engineering. On the Annapolis swim team, she’d been first in freestyle and butterfly. She’d been appointed team captain in her third year at Annapolis, and under her guidance, the team had tacked up impressive wins over the next two years.
Griff wasn’t impressed. He slammed the folder shut, shoving it away. “That doesn’t mean you have hands, sweetheart. You might be good in the water, but air is an entirely different matter.” “Hands” was the term used for an individual’s feel for a plane. To have good flight hands meant possessing a natural knack with the aircraft and flying. Griff raised his head when Johnson gave a brief knock and stuck his head inside the office door.
“Ensign Coulter’s here to see you, sir.”
Girding himself, Griff growled, “Send her in, Johnson.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dana sat on a long wooden bench in the hall with several other student pilots. They were all nervous. The man nearest her, Ensign Manning, a fellow Annapolis grad, shook his head.
“I hear you got a screamer, Coulter.”
Dana frowned. “A screamer?”
“Yeah. Word’s gone ’round that the Turk’s a screamer. You know, he yells at you constantly in the cockpit.”
Dana’s throat got a little tighter. “I’ll take it one day at a time.” One hour at a time. First, she had to get past this initial interview. Ever since high school when she’d found out that the Navy pilots were considered the best in the world, Dana had dreamed of becoming one of them. Flying, for her, meant having the unshackled freedom of an eagle. To sail above the earth meant to sail over the misery that would meet her once she landed. No. Getting her wings was the most important goal she’d ever set for herself. And she’d win those wings—with or without the Turk’s help.
Manning shrugged. “Sorry you got such rotten luck. I wouldn’t wish the Turk on my best enemy.”
Dana managed a laugh, although it still hurt to smile. Her eye had nearly swollen closed again. “I’m known for my rotten luck, Manny. I’ll just persevere like I always do.” When they’d first met Manny at Annapolis, he’d hated the three women; but later, as part of Dana’s freestyle swim team, he’d been won over by her physical abilities. In the last year, Manny had become their staunch supporter.
“What do you think will happen when he sees that black eye?”
“He’ll probably think I started a barroom brawl somewhere and had it coming,” Dana muttered.
Manny shook his head. “You’re something else, Coulter. A sense of humor even as you walk into the jaws of death.”
Dana saw Sergeant Johnson crook his finger in her direction. Time to meet the dreaded Turk. She grinned as she rose, smoothing at the wrinkles in her too-large flight suit. “My black humor has gotten me this far, Manny.” If only it could get her successfully past this interview.
“Break a leg,” he whispered.
As Dana walked down the long, polished passageway, she wondered if the Turk would try