Ride the Thunder. Lindsay McKenna

men like the one standing in front of her. This guy wasn’t going to respect her as an aviator who could do just as good of a job at the stick as he could.

      “Look,” Nolan growled, “this isn’t going to work out. I fly with men only. Okay?” Yet his mind was racing. Copilots didn’t grow on trees. Joyce had said McGregor was the only one available, that replacements weren’t going to be coming in for another three days, the flights into Camp Reed were so stacked up.

      Rhona felt a spurt of anger. “Beggars can’t be choosers, Lieutenant Galway.” Her eyes narrowed. “And from where I’m standing, if I were in your shoes, I’d be grateful for whoever showed up to help you pilot this bird.”

      Rubbing his mouth, he took another step away from her. “Look, I just don’t like women in the cockpit with me, okay?”

      “You’ll have to put up with it, Lieutenant. This isn’t up to you.”

      “Just who the hell are you, anyway? You’re wearin’ our squadron patch and you’re not one of us.”

      Rhona sat down on the lip of the Huey, her hands clasped between her thighs. Galway had gall. A lot of it. She eyed him assessingly before speaking. “I used to fly in the navy, Lieutenant. I’ve been out six months. I’m still air qualified on Hueys and CH-46E Sea Knights. I volunteered my services here at Ops yesterday. They were glad to see me. Too bad you aren’t. I’m here to help those people out there.” She pointed in the direction of the L.A. basin. “What are you here to do? The same thing, I hope.”

      Stung, he glared at her. All up and down the flight line, things were starting to get busy. Pilots were coming out to check their birds before they took off for the first of many flights today. Cargo masters with lists in hand were double-checking the loads aboard the Hueys.

      “This is a mistake. A big one. Joyce knows I don’t fly with women. And besides, you’re a civilian! That’s not allowed. You can’t just resign your navy commission and step in here and start flying again.”

      Rhona saw the desperation in his taut face, the downward curve of his mouth. Oh, he had a wonderful-looking mouth, in her opinion, and under any other circumstances, Nolan Galway would be the kind of tall, dark and handsome man she would go for. But not now. His looks didn’t do a damn thing for her at the moment.

      “Luckily, that isn’t for you to decide. Ops was fine with my credentials. You will be, too.” She left off the “or else” because Rhona had no desire to fan the conflagration occurring between them right now.

      Nolan paced. On the one hand, if he went back to complain to Joyce, she might remove him from the roster due to gender harassment. This wasn’t acceptable behavior, Nolan knew. No, if he complained to Ops, more than likely he’d get his tail in a bind and wouldn’t be allowed to fly at all. Damn.

      “Look at the real reason I’m here,” Rhona told him grimly. “I walked in from Bonsall yesterday. I saw the devastation. I know you’re running shorthanded because all the pilots have eaten up their mandatory flight time under FAA laws. I volunteered, Lieutenant Galway, because I care for the people out there.” Again she jabbed her finger toward the west. “And I can make a difference. Now, if you have an objection to me being a woman, that’s your problem. Not the Marine Corps’s. Not mine. I think you’d better widen your vision. Let go of that narrow-mindedness and look at the bigger picture. Why are you taking these missions? Just to fly? Or are you trying to help people who are starving to death out there? Who are thirsty? Or who might need medical help?”

      Rhona stood up, placed her hands on her hips and held his stormy green gaze. “That’s why I’m here. Why the hell are you standing there? To get more flight hours?” That was an insult and Rhona knew it.

      Anger sizzled through Nolan. Especially when he saw that they’d given her the rank of first lieutenant—the same as his. She was his equal in every way under military law. In fact, her rank made her a full-fledged pilot, so she wasn’t really his copilot. That meant her skills were commensurate to his, whether he liked to admit it or not.

      Running his fingers distractedly through his hair, he glared at her. “Climb down off your high horse, will you, McGregor? Okay, you’re my co. I don’t like it, but I’m not gonna argue any further under the circumstances.” He saw his crew chief, Corporal Tavis Burt, ambling toward them. “It’s time to turn and burn, McGregor. You say you know Hueys. Well, I’ll be watching your every move until I’m satisfied you know what the hell you’re doing in that cockpit with me. If you’ve been out six months, your skills are gonna be rusty. You just sit in that seat and I’ll do the flying. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just a pretty bauble taking up space in my cockpit to fulfill military and FAA requirements, and that’s it. I don’t need you. I don’t need your help or your input. Got it?”

      A wave of hurt washed through Rhona. She stood there, digging her fingers into her hips to stop the anger from spilling out. The venom in his look, in his words, scalded her. She saw the crew chief, a young man with red hair and blue eyes, hurrying toward them.

      “Yeah, I hear you, Lieutenant Galway,” she said with gritted teeth.

      With a sharp nod of his head, he snarled, “Fine. Now make your walk-around, Lieutenant, and I’ll talk to my crew chief.”

      The bastard. Rhona allowed her tense hands to drop from her hips. The walk-around was a necessary component of flying. She had to look for hydraulic leaks, make sure that all surfaces were intact and that nothing was loose or leaking. Beginning at the nose, she slowly moved around the Huey, her hand skimming the fuselage almost lovingly as she checked out the bird.

      Trying to put Nolan Galway and his acidic hatred of her out of her mind, Rhona kept one ear tuned to the conversation between him and the soft-spoken, gangly crew chief, who looked to be in his midtwenties. Rarely did an aircraft have all instruments operational. There was always something that was down or needed to be fixed, but wasn’t essential to the act of flying. A crew chief went over those errors with the pilot, so he knew ahead of time that a button, knob or piece of software wasn’t working right. If it was bad enough, the bird would be grounded until the spare part could be replaced. As Rhona looked up to check the tail rotor of the Huey, she saw that the young crew chief had dark circles under his eyes. The realization that everyone was working long, arduous hours with little sleep hit her again.

      As she came around to the fuselage door, where the dark green nylon netting held the cargo in place, the crew chief looked up. When he approached her, saluted and came to attention, Rhona did the same.

      “At ease, Chief,” she murmured. “I’m Lieutenant McGregor. Nice to meet you.”

      He flushed. “Yes, ma’am, same here.”

      Rhona saw Galway enter the chopper through the door and work his way forward to the right seat, where the pilot sat. She focused her attention on the nervous crew chief. He had acne, which had scarred most of his face, leaving it pockmarked. Feeling for him, she smiled slightly.