Red Tail. Lindsay McKenna

her instead of creating a chauvinistic rift, which would only intensify the friction between them.

      Storm adjusted the slender mike close to her lips, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Merlin was secure in his small chair, which was bolted near the entrance door. He was strapped in.

      “If you’ll call Tower, I’ll lift off,” she told Gallagher. “We’ve got five sling loads. I’ll do the first couple of loads and you watch. Then we’ll let you try your hand at it.”

      Bram nodded. “Fine with me, lieutenant.” A glint of laughter came to his blue eyes as he studied her serious features. “Sure you trust an ex-Air Force fighter jock?”

      She grinned back. “As long as you don’t think this helo has afterburners, Merlin and I will survive.”

      Their laughter was drowned out when she flipped the starter button on the cyclic stick, which sat in position near her gloved right hand. The shrill sound rang through the hollow interior of the H-52 Sea Guard Sikorski helicopter. The trembling began and subsided as soon as the engine turbine came up to speed. When ready, she released the rotor brake, and the rotor slowly started moving around and around above their heads. Very soon, the steady noisy beat of the rotor smoothed out, and the 52 sat shuddering and trembling around them, ready beneath her capable hands. After receiving clearance from the tower, Storm placed her right hand on the cyclic stick that sat between her legs, wrapped the fingers of her left hand around the collective and placed her booted feet against the rudder pedals. Pulling gently up on the collective, the rotors punctured the air as pitch was increased and the ship smoothly slipped its hold from the earth.

      Bram’s respect for her increased as they worked throughout the afternoon carrying the pallets. The 52 could lift a maximum of eight-thousand-three-hundred pounds, including its own weight, so the pallet loads weren’t large. He found Storm to be a natural instructor pilot. After watching her lift several loads with impressive ease, he tried his hand at it. The wind was picking up out of the northwest, and the pallets suspended beneath the 52 had a tendency to sway drunkenly from side to side. The helo’s movement had to be choreographed with the temperamental load by constant manipulation of the controls. He grew to appreciate Storm’s quietly-spoken suggestions with an air of relief. Although he had been at the top of his flight class, six weeks to learn how to fly helicopters did not compensate for the on-the-job experience that all new graduates had to accrue out in the field.

      “Anybody ever tell you you’re an IP by nature?” he asked, glancing over at her.

      Storm gave a distant smile. As always, her feet and hands were near her own set of controls. If Gallagher got into trouble, her lightning reflexes would have to save them. On any mission, the other pilot always maintained that position of readiness. “You mean I’m not yelling and cursing at you like the IP back in flight school did?”

      Bram liked her husky voice. Her eyes spoke volumes. Her voice reminded him of a roughened cat’s tongue stroking his flesh. It increased the air of mystery surrounding her. He knew nothing of her, and he wanted to know everything—especially now that he had had a chance to see her in action at the controls of a 52. She had what was known in their business as “hands.” Another term used was “top stick.” Even the IP in flight school didn’t have Storm’s silken touch with the helicopter, and it made him feel slightly in awe of her. She was a woman doing what he normally assumed to be a man’s job better than any man he had seen thus far. He nodded, answering her easy question. “Lady, if you had been my IP back in flight school, chances are I’d have flunked out on purpose, just to get another six weeks with you.”

      Storm avoided his openly admiring gaze, feeling heat sweeping up her neck and into her face. Oh, God, she was blushing! Compressing her lips, she looked away, forcing herself to concentrate on the task at hand. “You’re doing fine, Gallagher,” she managed. “Most copilots don’t understand cargo sling procedures, but you’re doing quite well.”

      Bram’s grin widened. “Business all the way, eh?” he teased.

      Storm refused to meet his eyes. He knew he had gotten to her! He had seen her face turn scarlet. “That’s right,” she informed him coolly, her heart beating traitorously in her breast.

      His laughter was deep and exhilarating over the intercom system. “I’ll let you have your way for now. But we aren’t always going to be sitting in a 52, Lieutenant Travis,” he warned her silkily.

      Storm absolutely refused to blush again. She willed her body not to respond. Damn his cavalier attitude! Bram Gallagher certainly knew how to get under her skin.

      “Hey, lieutenant, I’m starved!” Merlin wailed.

      She glanced at her watch. It was almost supper time. Where had time gone? “Okay. We’ll pick up this last load and then go eat!”

      “Anything the lady wants,” Bram murmured innocently, but he looked meaningfully at her.

      Storm ignored the implication. After the mission had been completed, they landed the 52 and shut it down, unstrapping themselves from their complicated harness system. Climbing out, Storm placed the dark blue baseball cap back on her head once again as did the others. Merlin and Gallagher joined her and they walked into the line shack. After completing his paperwork, Merlin went to the mess hall for some chow.

      “Let’s go up to the officer’s mess,” Bram suggested.

      She grimaced, giving him a sidelong glance. “We could grab something from the vending machine. It’s quicker.”

      Again Bram gave her that infuriating smile that threatened to make her blush. “Because I want to sit back and relax a little, Lieutenant Travis. Or are you going to give me an argument on that too?”

      Her gray eyes narrowed. “No argument, Lieutenant Gallagher,” she informed him lightly. Why did she have the feeling he was stalking her?

      Stuffing her cap into one the pockets of her flight suit, she walked through the doors of the officer’s mess. They stood out in their olive-green flight suits among the other officers who were dressed in dark blue serge pants and light blue short-sleeve shirts. Storm bridled when she saw Kyle Armstrong and his copilot grinning up at her when they entered. She felt like she had to explain why they were over here and then decided to hell with it. Let them think what they wanted. They went through the cafeteria line, and Storm found a couple of chairs at an empty table to give them some privacy from prying eyes.

      Bram sat opposite her, his tray filled. He gave a glance at hers.

      “You’re not eating much,” he noted, pointing disapprovingly at the soup and salad.

      Storm ran her fingers through her hair, wishing she had a brush right now. She knew her hair probably looked flattened against her skull after wearing the helmet. And then she laughed at herself—why, all of a sudden, did she worry about how her hair looked? She hadn’t before. She met Gallagher’s concerned gaze.

      “I like staying at one hundred and thirty pounds, that’s why. Don’t start picking on my eating habits too,” she said gruffly, picking up her fork.

      His smile was devastating as he paid attention to his plate heaped with slices of hot roast beef. “Am I picking on you?”

      “You know you are.”

      “My, my, aren’t we touchy. Are you like this every day?”

      “For your benefit, yes.”

      “My benefit?”

      Storm glared up at him. She felt giddy and happy—but why? It was him. Damn! “Yes, yours. And don’t give me that innocent look, Gallagher. You know what I’m talking about. We’re not boy meets girl. We’re adults. And I can see you coming from ten miles away.”

      He nodded, chewing thoughtfully in the silence afterward, his blue eyes dancing with laughter. “Want to play twenty questions with me?”

      Storm gave him a black look. “No.”

      “What are you hiding from?”

      “You.”