“One o’clock. There’s a MiG-28
headed straight for us.”

The news didn’t worry Zach. Since the Gulf War, Iraqi and American fighters did everything they could to avoid confrontation.

“He’s not supposed to be in the no-fly zone. Let’s chase him home,” he ordered, putting his jet into a quick U-turn that would bring him in low on the bogey.

“Copy. Got you covered, Tomcat Leader.” Michelle then followed his lead.

The MiG pilot had enough maneuvers to keep them on the edge of their seats as they raced through the skies at speeds that exceeded the sound barrier. Something wasn’t right. Zach felt it in his gut.

If this was all for laughs, the MiG pilot would have bugged out by now. This guy was playing cat and mouse as if he wanted to get caught. Which could mean only one thing—he was the cheese. So they’d better keep their eyes open….

“Two more bogeys closing in, Zach.”

The dogfighting was fast and furious after that, with three MiGs and two Tomcats vying for supremacy.

“He’s got a lock.” Michelle put her Tomcat into a barrel roll, launching chaff to confuse any heat-seeking missiles. “I can’t shake him.”

Then it happened. The MiG fired, scoring a direct hit. The tail of Michelle’s Tomcat burst into flames. Her plane spiraled toward the ground.

Sign, SEAL, Deliver
Rogenna Brewer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

My father was an Air Force veteran, and after he left the service he obtained a private pilot’s license. He and my mother honeymooned in Niagara Falls and he caught a 7.25-pound walleye there. The fish was mounted and stuffed and in my possession until it simply disintegrated years later. That’s pretty much all I know about my father, because he died in an auto accident at the age of twenty-six—six months before I was born.

My mother’s parents were very much a part of my life as I was growing up. And most of the stories I know about my father were told to me by my grandma. One such tale was how she’d run outside the house on Bank Street in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, waving a dishcloth, every time she heard a plane overhead—just in case it was my dad. Grandma once told me her only regret was that she’d never flown with my father.

Grandma died of cancer when I was a young mother with two sons, and I mourned her daily. About a year after she died, during a rare afternoon nap, I found myself in a state of twilight sleep with tears spilling from my eyes. I heard Grandma’s voice as clearly as if she were in the room. “Don’t cry, Genna, I’m flying with your dad now.”

My tears dried that day because I had not one but two guardian angels. I have a lot of fond memories of my grandma. I have only memorabilia from my dad: the flag that draped his coffin, his name—given to me by my mother when I was born—the ring he gave my mother on their wedding day, and his pilot’s wings, which inspired me when I started to write this book.

Though I never knew him, I have felt my father’s absence every day. I hope you enjoy the story I wrote for him and my grandmother.

Sincerely,

Rogenna Brewer

P.S. I’d love to hear from you. Write to me at Rogenna@aol.com

For the people missing from my life:

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

0445 Tuesday

USS ENTERPRISE CVN65,

Persian Gulf

IN THIS PART of the ship a man alone risked a brush with nature, but Lieutenant Zach Prince didn’t mind the tight squeeze through a passageway full of female personnel. Or the swat one junior officer delivered to his behind.

“Hey, hotshot, what’s your hurry?”

Zach cocked a grin and carried on. “You ladies have been at sea too long.” One hundred and sixteen days too long to be exact. Whatever the reason, at twenty-nine he rather liked the celebrity that came with being a Top Gun, the top one percent of naval aviators.

Tart language and feminine laughter followed his progress past cramped quarters shared by six female ensigns, a “six chick” in ship slang. The term smacked of sexism, but wasn’t crude, compared to the idiom used for six male ensigns.

Zach sidestepped another whack. After all, he didn’t want the produce bruised before it left the market. Patting the upper left pocket of his flight suit, the one closest to his heart, he started to whistle. And if it sounded a little like “Here comes the bride,” well, that was probably because he was a man with a mission.

It had taken him the entire cruise, four months of having his advances shot down by a certain admiral’s daughter, to finally figure it out. Women didn’t want words that amounted to empty promises. Or even romance. They wanted commitment.

So even though he could feel a trickle of sweat running down the back of his neck toward the yellow streak that served as his spine, he was going to take the plunge and ask Michelle to marry him.

Reaching her stateroom, Zach delivered a preemptive knock and at the same time swung the hatch inward on its hinges. Stepping over the lip, he caught Michelle’s roommate, Skeeter, in the middle of tugging on a T-shirt.

“Sorry,” he said in apology.

“Don’t you ever knock?”

“I knocked.” He turned up the wattage on his smile, showing off even white teeth that had never needed braces. He’d learned to use that smile to his advantage at a very early age and managed to coax one out of her, as well, albeit a skeptical smirk.

“After the fact doesn’t count, Prince.”

Shrugging into her flight suit, she did a quick zip-up. The leather wings stitched to her uniform identified her as S. Daniels. He’d be damned if he could remember what the “S” really stood for; everyone just called her Skeeter. The navigator was Michelle’s RIO, radar-intercept officer.

“Where’s Her Royal Highness?”

Skeeter nodded toward the adjoining bathroom, and he rewarded the petite brunette with a quick kiss. She let out an exaggerated huff of annoyance.

“You know you love me, Skeeter.”

“Keep dreaming, jet jock.” She slammed her wardrobe shut and headed for the hatch, where she paused for effect. “If you get caught, it’s not just your ass in a sling. It’s hers, too.”

After the RIO left, Zach stared long and hard at the closed portal. Deep down he knew Skeeter spoke the truth. But he chose to dismiss the warning. As far as he was concerned, his objective outweighed the risk. Rules were made to be broken. Or at the very least bent.

Besides which, Skeeter tended to be a bit over-protective when it came to her driver. Although the last person who needed someone looking out for her was Lieutenant Michelle Dann.

He heard the shower running even before he opened the door to the compact head. “Man on deck.” He announced his presence, sweeping aside the white utility shower curtain.

Startled brown eyes that set off lovely rounded features met his. Everything about Michelle was rounded…and soft…

“Zach Prince! Don’t you ever knock?”…except her demeanor.

He winced. He hated it when she said his name as if it were a curse. “I already had this conversation with your roommate.”

“Then maybe you should listen. For a change.”

His wandering gaze traversed the slope of her dripping backside. Almost.

“Give me that.” She snatched the shower curtain from him and used it for cover.

He’d long since etched every nuance of her body into his heart. “All you need, sweetheart, is that JP-5 you’re wearing.” JP-5—jet fuel—mingled with wash water on board. Sailors and aviators alike never really got rid of the smell during a cruise. They just got used to it.

On Michelle it was like the finest French perfume to his fighter pilot’s soul. He breathed in its addictive scent.

“Get out.” She tossed her head, whipping wet hair across the swell of her breasts.

Zach ignored the seriousness in her tone and reached out to finger a burnished-brunette strand. Just touching her ignited his desire…or looking at her…or thinking of her. “Is there room in there for two?” He knew from experience the stall barely held one. But he liked to imagine the possibilities.

“You know you’re not supposed to be here, Zach. I could have you put on report.”

“So why don’t you?” he dared, knowing an empty threat when he heard one.

She heaved a frustrated sigh, finally admitting it to herself. “You’re going to get us both in trouble. You know that, don’t you?”

“Only if we get caught.”

“My point exactly. It’s only a matter of time. The Navy’s cracking down on fraternization. You read the new policy, or knowing you maybe you haven’t. But if you think I’m going to throw away my career just to be another hash mark on the helmet of some hotshot jet jock, you’re sadly mistaken, mister.”

Zach didn’t deny the statement. Like many other fliers, he had kills stenciled on his helmet and painted on his plane. He had four, one for every enemy fighter he’d shot down. Five would make him an ace.

Some guys put stickers on their helmets to mark their conquests with women. Hash marks on Zach’s helmet represented every time she’d shot him down, figuratively, not literally.

So far he’d suffered seventeen hits to his ego.

But this time would be different.

She was softening. He stared at her mouth as the tip of her tongue darted out to wet her full lips.

“You’re not even listening to me, are you.” Her brown eyes blazed from behind spiked lashes. “I absolutely hate that about you.”

“I love it when you’re riled.” He’d listen when she said something he wanted to hear. He leaned in, felt the contours of her body through the vinyl and pressed closer. “Besides, I earned the bragging rights to every one of those hash marks.”

She shoved her hand in his face. “Zach, your arrogance is astounding.”

“I know,” he said with a grin.

Maybe she hadn’t meant it as a compliment, but he equated arrogance with self-confidence, and that wasn’t exactly a fault in his estimation. “You know you love me.” He crowded her by leaning a forearm above his head and against the bulkhead connected to the stall.

She drew the shower curtain tighter, but stood her ground. “Ha!”

“Admit it.”

“Not on your life.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “What about yours? I’m desperate enough to take a deathbed confession.”

She snorted, obviously trying to hold back her laughter. There was nothing delicate about the deep throaty sound.

But he liked it.

“A woman’s entitled to her secrets. And I’m definitely taking this one to the grave.” Her tone teased him.

Zach relished the torment.

He pressed his advantage while he still had one. “Why not save us both the heartache, sweetheart? Admit it,” he murmured, looking deep into her eyes where he could see what she wouldn’t confess. She loved him. “We’ve known each other forever. There are no secrets between us.”

Her smile cooled. Her eyes frosted over.

Zach felt a blast of freezer burn.

The Ice Princess was back.

He’d said the wrong thing. Their history went back to the womb. And he had pictures of their pregnant mothers standing side by side to prove it. Their lives were so intertwined he didn’t even know where to begin to separate them. Through the years he’d learned to read her like a book. But lately she’d become a mystery, a woman of secrets.

And he’d began to wonder if he really knew her at all.

Lack of persistence was not one of his shortcomings, however. “One of these days you’ll realize you can’t live without me.”

He’d wear her down eventually. Like the minute he popped the question.

He hoped.

“Don’t hold your breath.”

Why did she have to play so damn hard to get?

Zach leaned in again. “When you figure it out,” he whispered close to her ear, “just say where and when and I’ll be there with wings on.” He backed off, running a hand through his precision military cut and making it stand on end.

All the while her eyes never strayed from his. Their liquid depths held a yearning that equaled his own.

He’d ask. And she’d answer yes.

Feeling reassured, Zach turned to leave, but stopped short with a snap of his fingers. “Almost forgot. We have a preflight briefing in half an hour.”

“Why didn’t you just say so?”

He made a big show of looking her up and down as if he could see right through the shower curtain. “I had other things on my mind.”

It didn’t pay a guy to be honest. A bar of soap shot past his ear. It would have hit him square in the jaw if he hadn’t ducked when he saw it coming. With a hearty chuckle, Zach closed the door behind him. He’d have to put in for an increase in hazardous-duty pay once they were married.

And a new assignment.

According to current Navy policy, Michelle couldn’t be both his wife and his wingman.

MICHELLE TURNED the cold water all the way up, though it didn’t make much difference. There was no such thing as a hot shower with a crew of more than five thousand on board. Still, she wasn’t as indifferent to Zach Prince as she pretended. And she needed the cold spray to counter his effect on her libido.

Wouldn’t he have been shocked to realize just how much she’d wanted to forget the rules for once? How much she’d wanted to drag him into that tiny shower stall, strip him down to bare rippling muscles, run her hands through jet-black hair and lose herself in sky-blue eyes for two minutes of hot, unbridled sex?

Two minutes, hell. If she had her way, he wouldn’t be walking until next Sunday.

She heaved a frustrated sigh. The only reason he professed to want her at all was that he couldn’t have her. As soon as the challenge was gone, he would be, too.

He’d done it to others.

And he’d done it to her…

Zach was a dreamer with an innate inability to commit.

Michelle shut off the water with more force than necessary. She’d been waiting forever for him to grow up, mature into the man she wanted him to be—a one-woman man. Not in this lifetime.

At least not during her reproductive years. She felt the familiar stab of regret as she thought wistfully of all she’d given up just to advance this far in her chosen profession.

Reaching for the Navy-issue towel stenciled with her name, Michelle rubbed her skin vigorously. She’d already wasted a dozen or so years thinking herself in love with Zach Prince. It wasn’t as if she’d give up flying for him or any man. And then there was the possibility of advancement to lieutenant commander; the shortlist would be out in a few months. With any luck and a lot of hard work her name would be on it.

Love. Who needed it?

Oh, but how easily Zach Prince threw that word around.

I love it when you’re riled.

You know you love me. He used that line with every female on board.

Yet he never said those three little words that mattered most.

I love you.

Did he love her? Really?

How could he when he didn’t know the true meaning of the word? Tucking the towel in place, she moved to the mirror above the sink. She swiped at the lingering condensation, then confronted her blurred image.

Did she love him?

Even though there wasn’t room in her life for anything that wouldn’t fit into her already cramped quarters, her heart wanted more. But her head insisted a man wouldn’t be worth the complications. So why bother?

Zach, on the other hand, liked the idea of being in love. He liked the whirlwind emotions of falling in love. So he fell hard. And often. But he wasn’t the kind of guy to be in it for the long haul. He’d get bored and restless…

…and when things got really tough, he wouldn’t be there at all.

If she was smart she wouldn’t waste another day on him. Or so she kept telling herself over and over. She had her career to think of, a future all carved out that didn’t, couldn’t, include a hotshot pilot like Zach Prince.

Besides…

With her flight physical coming up next month, if she didn’t start watching her weight now, she’d be over the maximum for her five-foot-six-inch frame and be given the “NAMI whammy” by the Navel Aerospace and Operational Medical Institute. The slightest imperfections, such as headaches, bad dental work or a few extra pounds, and a pilot would be grounded.

She took great care of her health. She ate right. Exercised. And still carried around an extra ten pounds despite her best efforts. Cover-girl beauty might not be important in the greater scheme of things, but she still realized she didn’t have a face that would launch a thousand ships.

Finger-combing her hair, she held it back from her face and gazed at her reflection with a critical eye. “Look at you. Your hair is dirt brown. Your nose is just…there.” Not to mention the freckles that made her look about twelve. She attempted a seductive pout, vamping her way out of puberty straight to old maid. “And you look like you’ve been sucking on a lemon.”

Why would Mr. Tall, Dark and Top Gun want you? If she knew the answer to that, maybe she’d believe in his sincerity.

Michelle let go of her hair. It fell past her shoulders to her waist in a cascade of damp waves. Some might think her vain for not cutting it. Short would be so much easier. It would dry faster, too. But short hair required maintenance. And styling products. Not to mention frequent trips to the ship’s barber. In the long run, longer hair was the hassle-free choice.

Too much trouble was also the excuse she gave herself for not wearing makeup or perfume, or an assortment of other feminine accoutrements meant to attract men. But then, it wasn’t the spotlight she wanted. It was respect.

She wanted the other pilots, especially Zach, to take her seriously. And how was anyone supposed to do that if she spent all her time primping in front of the mirror, instead of poring over flight manuals?

Michelle ran a brush through her wet tangle of hair and secured it in a damp but functional bun, using only a rubber band—stray bobby pins tended to play havoc with a plane’s control systems. Now she felt more like the pragmatic woman she was.

Moving away from the mirror, she dismissed her image.

Ironic, really, that a woman confident enough to fly multimillion-dollar jets for the military could be so insecure about her appearance.

Of all her unremarkable features, her eyes were probably the only thing she liked about her looks. They were intelligent and hazel-brown. Zach had once remarked they sparkled the exact color of root beer. They’d been kids then and she’d been thirsty for his affection, so she’d foolishly believed him.

Michelle shook her head at the memory, seventeen and wearing her heart on her sleeve. What a mistake.

But she’d learned a lot since that summer.

Such as the only way to keep Zach Prince close was to keep him at arm’s length.

THROUGHOUT THE PREFLIGHT briefing in the ready room, Michelle listened intently to Captain Greene, commanding officer of the USS Enterprise, as he outlined the upcoming mission for their squadron. She took diligent notes, but occasionally her gaze wandered across the aisle to Zach.

He sat slouched in the comfortable theater-style leather seat, long legs sprawled out in front of him. His slightly lowered eyelids with their thick black lashes gave the impression of boredom. But she knew better. Beneath the facade he remained alert and ready for anything.

As per his usual preflight ritual, he popped a piece of Bazooka in his mouth, the only brand of gum he chewed. Fliers were a superstitious lot and Zach was no exception. He showed the comic strip to his RIO, Ensign Steve Marietta, who went by the call sign Magician. They shared a chuckle. And Michelle felt a twinge of something in the pit of her stomach.

Jealousy?

She loved to fly with Zach.

They’d been through the academy together. Flight school. Then Fighter Weapons School. And currently assigned to squadron VF-114 out of Miramar, California, as part of the Air Wing assigned to the Enterprise.

But her ambition wouldn’t allow her to take a back seat to anyone. So it had been a long time since they’d piloted a plane together.

Zach caught her looking at him and winked.

She rolled her eyes with practiced indifference. But the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. He took a piece of bubble gum from his upper left pocket and tossed it to her. Disguising the smile, she offered a wry grin in return. He knew she didn’t chew the stuff.

She started to stow it in a pocket.

“Open it,” he mouthed.

So that was it—he wanted her to read the joke. Occasionally he tampered with the cartoons to make them X-rated, although he usually didn’t share those with her. Probably because he understood she wouldn’t appreciate that brand of humor.

Michelle opened it only to find the cartoon unaltered. Nothing the least bit risqué. She looked at him with a puzzled frown.

His eyebrows drew together as he trained those perfect baby blues on the strip of paper from across the aisle. He turned to Steve and snatched a still-wrapped piece of Bazooka out of the ensign’s hand, then tossed the confiscated gum to her.

Michelle raised a questioning eyebrow at his odd behavior.

“Open it,” Zach mouthed again.

“Passing notes in class, Prince?” Captain Greene asked.

Heat rushed to Michelle’s cheeks. All eyes turned toward her. Skeeter offered a sympathetic smile, but the rest of the room rumbled with male laughter.

She hated the feeling of being under a microscope. As an admiral’s daughter she’d lived her whole Navy career that way. As a woman in the macho world of naval aviation she’d had more than her fair share of scrutiny already.

“Perhaps you two would care to share with the rest of us.”

“Sure, why not?” Zach offered with his usual nonchalance.

Michelle shook her head at the senior officer’s suggestion and tucked the gum into the cargo pocket of her pants leg.

“Good, because this isn’t high-school chemistry, and you two aren’t teenagers. So keep the raging hormones in check.”

As soon as the captain turned his back, Zach tried to get her to go for the gum. She put a hand up to block her peripheral vision and ignored him for the rest of the briefing.

“Any questions?” Captain Greene concluded, clearly anticipating none.

“Yo.” Steve raised his hand. “I just thought since we were back in high school…” He got his requisite laugh, then launched into the really stupid stuff everyone expected of him. “I don’t think I’m hearing straight. You did say you were giving us two days R&R in Turkey? Would that be a full forty-eight hours, Captain? And where exactly is the nearest strip joint, anyway?”

The room let out a collective groan and bombarded Steve with paper airplanes while the ensign mumbled something about belly dancers and seven veils.

“Magician, you dumbass,” Greene admonished. “Figure it out for yourself. If there are no further questions, everyone is dismissed.”

“No sweat, Magic Man,” Zach said, pushing to his feet. “We’ll just fly around until we find one.”

They were kidding, of course. At least, she hoped they were. There really was no telling with those two. It irritated her that Zach felt the need to play the dunce when he was probably one of the smartest men she knew. But all too often he hid his intelligence and slid by on his charm. He certainly never had to try as hard as she did.

Flying didn’t come easy for her; nothing came easy to a perfectionist. Michelle stood and Zach held up foot traffic to let her and Skeeter pass in front of him.

“I’ll spring for the hotel room. First-class all the way,” he offered.

“Any other guy would have asked me to dinner first.” Michelle tossed the comment over her shoulder as she continued up the aisle.

“But he’d have been thinking about getting you back to his room.”

“He’s right, you know,” Steve piped in. “All I ever think about is getting laid.”

Steve grunted and Michelle realized Zach must have given his RIO a well-deserved elbow to the gut. They were boys, both of them, Peter Pans who would never grow up.

And they deserved each other.

What had she been thinking? She didn’t miss flying with Zach at all.

“If you feel like dinner, we could order up room service,” he persisted. “But I was thinking more like breakfast.”

“Come on, Skeeter. Let’s get out of here,” Michelle urged her roommate forward.

“Just do me a favor,” Zach whispered. “Read the comic strip—”

“Prince, Dann, a moment of your time.” Captain Greene stopped them short.

“Yes, sir.” Michelle popped to attention next to Zach while everyone else filed out around them. Within moments there was just the three of them, leaving the ready room unusually quiet.

Normally, pilots were coming and going. Preflight, postflight, the one thing flyboys loved most next to flying was talking about it. It wasn’t unusual for them to evaluate each other or own up to mistakes. Especially since a single error could mean the difference between life and death.

She had a niggling suspicion about what was coming.

“At ease,” the captain ordered.

Michelle opened her stance, even though she felt far from relaxed. She focused on the captain’s bald spot and tried not to think about this little incident getting back to her father. Just like everything else she did.

After the lecture from the captain, she could look forward to one from the admiral.

“Let me start by saying I don’t create policy, I just enforce it. I know you kids grew up together and have come through the ranks together, but that doesn’t excuse your conduct…”

Michelle could tell by the lack of bluster in Captain Greene’s normally booming discourse that he really meant it this time. She found herself tuning out the rest. She knew it by rote. How many times since they were kids had Zach gotten her into trouble by refusing to play by the rules? Even though he somehow always managed to come out smelling like a rose, she took on the distinct odor of Pepe LePew.

She shifted her focus to the “greenie board” over the captain’s shoulder. Similar charts hung on the bulkhead of every squadron ready room aboard the ship.

Naval aviation was a competitive field fueled by testosterone. Not only did pilots critique themselves and each other, they were formally graded by a landing signal officer.

Color-coded boxes followed a pilot’s last name. Green for an okay landing. Yellow, fair with some degree of deviation. Red, no grade for an ugly approach. Brown, because the pilot had to be waved off due to unsafe conditions. And a blue line meant a “bolter,” which was a pilot who’d missed the wires and had to try again.

Not many aviators had the nerves of steel required to touch down on a floating airstrip at full throttle. But if a pilot couldn’t land on the deck and not in the drink he was useless to the Navy.

Though LSO scores were subjective, Michelle never lowered herself to lobby for preferential treatment. But one F-14 pilot stood out among the rest.

A line of green followed the name Prince. And it wasn’t because he was any better than she at landing the bulky F-14 Tomcats. He was simply a better schmoozer.

Captain Greene droned on. Zach shifted restlessly at her side while Michelle stewed over the yellow block at the end of her green streak.

Fair. She was better than fair.

For that particular landing she’d snagged only the third arresting wire strung across the deck. Sure she’d made a lineup correction at the start of her final pass, settling below the correct approach. But only because the carrier had been late turning into the wind. Flying low as she tried to “chase the lineup” had cost her an okay landing.

Zach never had to settle.

He flew with an instinct she envied. But no one was perfect, especially not Zach Prince.

“This isn’t the time or place.” Captain Greene’s raised voice intruded on her thoughts. “Both of you signed off on that memo I sent around last week, so I’m going to assume you read it. Fraternization among male and female pilots will no longer be tolerated, nor will any appearance of impropriety.

“The way I hear it, the two of you make regular treks to each other’s quarters. Those visits are to cease and desist at once. Here’s how it’s going to go down. This time you get off with a warning. Next time it goes in your record. And if it happens a third time—” he paused for effect “—one of you is out of here. Is that understood?”

The two of them?

Once again she’d been lumped together with her rule-breaking running mate. Guilt by association. And she could guess which one of them would be shipping out.

“Aye, aye, sir,” they responded in unison.

“You have a job to do. I expect you to do it in a professional manner. That’ll be all,” he dismissed them. “And Prince,” the captain called Zach back. “No more harassing Lieutenant Dann over the airwaves. It doesn’t set a good example…”

As the captain continued to rag on Zach, Michelle hurried to the hatch. She’d really had it with Zach this time. Seething with pent-up anger, she didn’t trust herself to say two words to the man. And she sure wasn’t about to wait around and let him smooth-talk her out of her fit of righteous indignation.

“Michelle!” Zach called from the other end of the narrow passageway, but heavy foot traffic kept him from reaching her.

Ignoring his pleas, she picked up her pace, weaving her way between shipmates.

As she headed toward the ship’s elevator, which would take her to the squadron changing room and then up to the flight deck, she cursed herself for being a class-A fool. Captain Greene’s warning was a serious one. Fat chance Zach would listen. She’d be better off putting in for a transfer now, before it became compulsory and a smear on her exemplary record.

Damn, Zach.

Why did she always have to be the responsible one?

Michelle pushed the elevator button repeatedly until it finally arrived and passengers emptied out. Then she quickly stepped inside and held down the close-door button.

“Michelle, wait up.” Zach reached in and sent the doors sliding in the opposite direction. “Going my way, Lieutenant?” he asked with a sheepish grin as if nothing was wrong.

“Do I have a choice, Lieutenant?” She waited just long enough for the doors to close, shutting off the two of them from curious onlookers. Then she turned and vented her anger by socking him in the arm. “I told you so!”

As the elevator started its ascent, he rubbed his shoulder. With his little-boy charm, he exaggerated the harm she’d inflicted “You don’t have to be so smug about it.”

“Smug? Because you’ll receive a slap on the wrist while I’ll get booted out of the Navy? If you won’t think about your career, at least think about mine. Do you have any idea how serious this is? We were lucky to get off with just a warning.” She faced forward and folded her arms.

“I know how serious I am about us…” The doors started to part. He moved to the control panel and held down the close-door button despite the rumble of protest from those waiting outside the elevator.

Because he stood directly in her line of vision she had no choice but to look at him. He stared at her with such burning intensity it would have been hard for her to ignore him, but whatever the promise in his eyes, she didn’t want to see it.

“There is no ‘us,’ Zach.”

“There’s always been an ‘us,’ Michelle.”

She could almost hear the sincerity in the deep baritone of his voice. But it only made her want to lash out, inflict more pain until he was feeling as conflicted as she felt every time she looked at him, every time she got behind the controls of her Tomcat. There was no room in her life for the two things she wanted most.

In the end she could only have one.

She knew what to expect from a machine. Her expectations for this particular man could only lead to heartbreak. The ability to compartmentalize one’s mind was a critical skill for a pilot. Zach didn’t fit neatly into any aspect of her life. Friend, boyfriend? Lover, squad leader?

Competition.

She had no option left but to cut him out completely.

“Get it into that thick skull of yours, Prince. I don’t love you! I’ve never loved you. Why can’t you just leave me alone?” She batted his hand away from the hold button and fled as the doors slid open. She didn’t wait to hear if maybe, just maybe, his answer would give her the one thing she didn’t need right now.

Hope.

CHAPTER TWO

LEAVE HER ALONE? Zach stood in the wake of Michelle’s words and his own total disbelief. Like hell he would!

He was just about to start after her when the elevator began to fill up around him, bringing him back to his senses. She needed space. And he needed…damn, he couldn’t think of anything he needed except her.

He changed direction midstep. Jostling a senior officer on the way out, Zach mumbled a hasty apology. The commander growled something in return. Great, that probably cost him a grade on his next landing. The guy had a reputation for being a hard-ass LSO. But Zach didn’t feel like sucking up today.

He turned aft down the amidships passageway toward the nearest officers’ mess. He’d long since chewed the sugar out of his gum, but he punctuated his thoughts by snapping bubbles in rapid-fire succession.

Michelle had brought him as close as he’d ever come to losing his cool. As a rule, he had the easygoing nature of a middle child. With an over-achiever for an older sister, he’d naturally learned to keep up or get left behind. And because his kid brother worshiped the ground he walked on, he’d made sure the squirt came along for the ride. They were a competitive family.

But with Michelle, it was just that much easier to let her be the boss. He didn’t mind taking the back seat in their as-yet-undefined relationship. What he did mind was being dumped out on the highway at ninety miles an hour, mowed down and left as roadkill.

I don’t love you! I’ve never loved you. Why can’t you just leave me alone?

He didn’t believe her, but something was definitely wrong. She’d grown distant these past few months. He could feel her slipping away with each passing day. And he didn’t know how to hold on. So he’d taken the action of a man desperate and damned.

He’d bought an engagement ring.

Duty free. Right out of the Navy Exchange Catalog. Zach almost groaned out loud thinking about his lack of sensibility. He considered himself a pretty smart guy. He knew better than to purchase a diamond sight unseen.

For one thing it didn’t have any romantic appeal. The parcel had arrived yesterday at mail call—dripping wet after the helicopter had dropped a couple of mailbags into the ocean during transfer. The bundles had been retrieved by divers. Postal clerks had somehow managed to sort through illegible ink smears and soaked care packages to find their disgruntled recipients.

When he’d taken the ring from the soggy box, the plain gold band with its substandard crystallized carbon looked just about perfect nestled in the palm of his hand. From that moment on he couldn’t wait to slip the logical, if somewhat flawed, token of his esteem onto Michelle’s finger.

Hell, he could always buy her a bigger rock. And he’d have a lifetime to get used to the idea of being married.

Marriage. A big step. Maybe the biggest he’d take in his lifetime. Making the decision to leap felt kind of like an emergency ejection during an aborted takeoff. Damned if you did, and damned if you didn’t. Odds were you’d survive a crash in front of the ship only to be dragged under and drowned.

And that was what he felt like right now. A drowning man. But Michelle was his life preserver.

As he neared the mess, the deceptive smells of sizzling bacon and frying eggs—any-way-you-like-’em as long as you liked them runny and scrambled—ambushed his senses. There hadn’t been eggs on board since the last port of call.

Above the cacophony of sounds from the busy kitchen and several simultaneous conversations from the dining area, he zeroed in on his RIO’s street-smart, New York accent.

“Yo, Zach! Over here.” Steve waved from a corner cloth-covered table where he sat eating breakfast with Skeeter. The white linen was supposed to remind them they were officers. And somehow make them forget they were eating the same chow as the enlisted personnel.

Zach nodded as he entered and picked up a tray. Moving quickly through the breakfast buffet line, he chose his favorite preflight carbo load—a short stack of pancakes drowned in imitation maple syrup with a tall glass of powdered milk on the side.

God, he missed whole milk, fresh eggs and a long grocery list of other favorite foods. But this far into deployment just about everything came reconstituted.

Welcome to shipboard life, haze gray and under way.

Plastering a smile on his face, Zach pulled out a chair next to Skeeter and sat down.

“The old man rip you a new one?” Steve asked.

“You could say that,” Zach admitted “Where’s Michelle?”

“I’ve already had this conversation once today and it’s not even 0600. He’s all yours, Marietta.” Skeeter got up, leaving the rest of her breakfast untouched.

Plucking the dusty plastic rose from the bud vase, Zach held it out to her. “Are you sure you have to go?”

Skeeter rejected the faux flower and his insincerity by turning away.

“I don’t think she likes me,” Zach confided in his RIO once the other navigator was out of ear-shot. Not that he cared. Sticking his gum on the side of his plate, he picked up his glass.

“Aren’t you barking up the wrong skirt?”

Zach almost choked on a swallow of chalky milk headed down his windpipe. He coughed to clear his throat.

Steve offered a sheepish grin. “So Skeeter doesn’t like you and Michelle is pissed at you—what else is new?” Steve sopped up the gravy on his plate with his last bite of biscuit, a Navy specialty called SOS.

“‘Pissed’ is an understatement.” Zach dug into his pancakes. “Michelle acts as if I’m out to destroy her career,” he managed to say between bites.

“And you probably will. Admit it, Prince, you’re a nonconformist. You don’t give a damn about your career. But you’re a helluva F-14 pilot, which is why the Navy puts up with you. Your call sign isn’t Renegade for nothing, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” Even before this latest ass-chewing, he’d been thinking about what he had to offer the Navy and what he wanted in return. But despite what anyone thought, it bothered him that Michelle thought he was out to destroy her life when all he wanted to do was be a part of it. Maybe he’d have been better off following in his father’s footsteps to the SEAL teams, instead of pursuing Michelle into aviation.

He loved to fly, but his laid-back approach in a world that moved at Mach II sometimes made him look indolent. Maybe he’d be better off out of the service altogether. “If I start submitting my résumé now—”

“Whoa. Back up.” Steve pushed aside his plate. “You want to fly for a commercial airline?”

“Why not? I’m at the end of my obligated service. I could have a civilian job by the end of the cruise.”

It was no secret the airlines recruited military pilots right out of flight school. He and Michelle could both easily get real jobs. Was that what he wanted to do with the rest of his life? A commuter run between Sioux Falls and Cedar Rapids? Two point five kids? A white picket fence?

He wasn’t sure.

But sometime during the past four months the idea had taken hold and wouldn’t let go. Now all he had to do was convince Michelle.

“Wipe those thoughts right out of your head. Talk about conforming—” Steve reached for Skeeter’s bowl of unfinished cereal and started shoveling soggy shredded wheat into his mouth “—that is not what’s going to make you happy, my friend.” Steve let his less-than-objective opinion be known between swallows of slop. Zach was used to his friend’s garbage gut and his convictions.

Steve’s eyesight had kept him from becoming a pilot and fulfilling his own dream of becoming a Blue Angel, the Navy’s elite exhibition fliers. Even after laser surgery corrected his vision, the Navy rejected his request to retrain from a designated NFO—naval flight officer—to a pilot. Retreads, as the Navy liked to call them, had a higher percentage of crashes. But that didn’t stop Steve from trying to cut through the red tape, however.

“Don’t take it personally, Magic Man. You’re the best radar I’ve ever had in my back seat. And you’d make one helluva pilot. Even Greene is pulling for you on this one.”

Beyond that, Zach didn’t offer any encouragement. Whether or not Steve would ever find himself behind the controls of a jet all depended on the needs of the Navy.

“You can’t be serious about giving up jets, Prince.”

Do you have any idea how serious this is? We were lucky to get off with just a warning.

“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.” Or anyone. His deepest personal thought caught the tail end of his sentence and went along for the ride.

It didn’t matter what he did as long as they were together.

If he and Michelle married while in the service, they’d see less of each other than they did now. There’d be long separations. Restrictions when they were together. And he didn’t have a clue how they’d ever manage a family. But if he could convince her they had other options…

The ensign leaned forward in his seat. “Take my advice, Prince. Forget about it. You’re a naval aviator, there’s JP-5 running through your veins. If the Navy wanted guys like us to have families, they’d have issued a wife and kids along with the seabag.”

Steve spoke the truth. Not too very long ago the Navy hadn’t even allowed married men to train as pilots. Single guys were discouraged from tying the knot. Firstborn sons from two-parent families with stay-at-home mothers and domineering fathers were considered ideal candidates, according to one Navy study, because of their natural arrogance.

Opportunities for women, once nonexistent, were just now opening up. Michelle’s pride was all wrapped up in being among the first female fighters. And he was going to ask her to give that up?

She’d never go for it. Even he had to admit how much she loved flying.

What had he done?

“I appreciate the warning, Magic Man. But it’s too late.” He’d already popped the question, so to speak. But he was no longer sure about her answer.

A CORNER OF the squadron changing room was sectioned off by a hanging bedsheet. The easy locker-room banter subsided as Michelle entered, then picked up again as she crossed to the other side of the jerry-rigged drape.

Since her introduction to the Fighting Aardvarks of VF-114, she’d seen as much of these men as their wives and proctologists. Yet the barriers remained.

The partition only served as a reminder.

It certainly wasn’t there to protect her already compromised modesty.

Michelle grabbed her G suit from its hook and put it on over her flight suit. In the post-Tailhook era male fliers acted with caution around their female counterparts. When asked, they dutifully acknowledged women as their equals, but resentment brewed beneath the surface.

Michelle shut out thoughts of equality as she shrugged into her survival vest. She had a job to do. The same as the men. For better or worse, for now at least, she was a Vark.

Hearing Zach’s familiar voice from the other side of the curtain, she realized he’d come into the room and wasn’t attempting to sweet-talk her out of her bad mood. In fact, he ignored her altogether as he carried on a conversation about weather conditions with the rest of the guys.

Michelle paused in putting on her gear.

What did she expect? She’d made it clear she wanted him to leave her alone. Even if deep down that wasn’t what she wanted at all. She’d made her choice, the right choice, and now she had to live with it. Still, it would be tough going on without him. He’d always been a part of her world.

He’d smoothed over the rough waters of squadron life. And she credited him with the fact that the men even tolerated her at all. His easy acceptance of her as his wingman made them all more comfortable.

It was her job to ride his wing. Follow his orders. But she’d always felt as if he didn’t mind being the one watching out for her, something she didn’t always appreciate, but remained grateful for nonetheless.

There were pilots who considered it bad luck to have a woman walk the wings of their parked planes, let alone ride in them.

Michelle’s gaze involuntarily darted to an eye-level rip in the sheet, searching for Zach on the other side. Some smart-ass had printed the words peep show in Magic Marker on the guy side. Skeeter had retaliated by drawing the male symbol around the hole, the arrow pointing to the words no show on the gal side.

Even though Skeeter was only on her first carrier cruise, she could hold her own with this bunch of bandits.

When she realized what she was doing, Michelle forced herself to look away. If they caught her peeking, she’d never hear the end of it.

Well, that would be one way to lose her icy reputation. Though she’d hate to think of what they’d call her then. Behind her back the Varks referred to her as the Ice Princess. Which was fine. Because the one thing they’d never call her was Quota Queen.

She’d earned her gold wings. And the price she’d paid may very well have been her only chance at happiness. Certainly it was higher than the price paid by a man.

Bending over in an exaggerated bow, she cinched her parachute harness tight, reminding herself of at least one advantage to being a woman. She didn’t have to worry about crushing her balls during an emergency ejection.

Sweeping aside the curtain, she strode past the men with all the regal bearing of a condemned royal, pausing only long enough to pick up her oxygen mask and helmet with the call sign Rapunzel emblazoned across the front.

A flight instructor had given her the tag after her first solo. In the aftermath of excitement, she’d taken off her helmet and let down her hair.

A mistake she’d never make again.

ON THE FLIGHT DECK, winds buffeted Michelle’s face. Jet engines roared in her ears and rattled her teeth, while the familiar heady scent of jet fumes filled her nostrils.

The sun put in its first appearance of the day, highlighting the light cloud cover with streaks of bright orange and pink.

A fine Navy day, as her father would say.

God, she loved this life. Nothing compared with a dawn launch off an aircraft carrier. She’d take that adrenaline rush over a man any day.

Pausing to check the safety of her 9-mm pistol, she placed the gun back in the holster pocket of her survival vest. Then ran a confident hand across the sleek underbelly of her assigned F-14 Tomcat. This was the point when she pushed aside all self-doubt and donned the persona of Xena Warrior Princess.

“I read the maintenance log,” Skeeter shouted above the din as she joined in the preflight walk-through. “The last pilot reported a problem with the left rudder, but the ground crew didn’t find anything.”

“Thanks, I’ll check it out.” Even though she trusted the “Vark fixers,” Michelle didn’t believe in leaving anything to chance. As a Navy pilot, she knew her plane inside and out.

Circling the aircraft, Michelle scanned the overall structural integrity of the jet. After she inspected the hydraulic gauges, she moved on to check the tires. And more importantly, she made sure the tailhook was pointed down. If the hook couldn’t catch the arresting wire and the jet couldn’t be diverted to a land base, the pilot had to fly into a steel-mesh-and-canvas-net barricade strung across the deck. A terrifying experience she could do without.

“You okay? You seem distracted,” Skeeter observed.

“Well, you know Captain Greene.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse.”

“I thought maybe you and Zach had a fight.”

Michelle didn’t respond at first, needing the few moments it took to round the plane and come up on the nose again. But finally she had to satisfy her curiosity. “What makes you think Zach and I are fighting?”

“For one thing,” Skeeter answered, “he keeps looking over here with those soulful blue eyes of his.”

Michelle feigned indifference, but from the look on her RIO’s face, Skeeter wasn’t buying it. She pushed on the nose of the Tomcat to make sure the cone wouldn’t flip up during the catapult launch and crack the windshield.

Her gaze darted toward Zach’s plane a few feet away. They made eye contact from where he crouched on the wing checking an access panel. But he didn’t offer a jaunty salute or wave as he normally would have.

The corner of her mouth turned up in a sad smile. “He always looks like that.”

“Maybe when he looks at you. Personally, I don’t know what you see in him,” Skeeter said.

“Nothing,” Michelle denied automatically. Skeeter was probably the only person she knew who wasn’t taken in by Zach’s charisma. “In fact, I’m putting in for a transfer when we get to Turkey. I’m thinking about joining the Nintendo generation and retraining to fly the F/A-18 Hornet,” Michelle confided. The thought hadn’t even occurred to her until she shaded her eyes to watch as one of the newer, more maneuverable jets landed on deck.

The pilots were younger, from a generation where working mothers were the norm, and less likely to see a female flier as a threat. Hell, as sobering as the thought was, they’d probably think of her as mom.

Motherhood. With thirty approaching at Mach speed, she couldn’t deny thinking about it a time or two lately. Mostly with regret for what would never be.

A son with dark hair and blue eyes, toddling after his daddy…or a daughter, slipping her tiny hand into a much larger one…

“What about an F-14 squadron on the East Coast?” Skeeter asked.

A tidal wave of homesickness washed over Michelle for her home state of Virginia. For her mom and dad.

For forfeit fantasies.

“You don’t really want to fly with Bitchin’ Betty, instead of me, do you?” Skeeter persisted.

Michelle forced her attention back to her RIO, who was referring to the soft feminine voice of the computer system in the newer aircraft. The Hornet and the Super Hornet didn’t need a navigator. The pilot viewed operating systems from a four-inch screen with a touch pad, instead of having to scan countless dials and gauges.

The jet was equipped to do the job of two planes—the fighter and the attack bomber—while utilizing only one-quarter of the personnel. In a few short years fighters like the F-14 Tomcat would be as obsolete as bombers like the A-6 Intruder. And so would she. Why hadn’t she seen the writing on the wall sooner?

“If you stayed with the F-14, I could ship out with you.” Skeeter sounded a little desperate. And no wonder. As a pilot, Michelle had more options than her flight officer did. An NFO qualified to ride in, but not drive, a plane.

In Skeeter’s case, she was too short. Skeeter had received a waiver for the back seat only after proving she could reach the farthest control, the handle that jettisoned the canopy during an emergency ejection.

The Navy had built its planes decades earlier to accommodate males from five-six to six-three. Michelle’s height and build worked in her favor. “You’d want to do that?” she asked, weighing Skeeter’s feelings against her own motives. She didn’t want to hurt her dear friend with careless words or deeds. It wasn’t necessary to make up her mind right now.

“We’re a team, right?”

“Teammates,” Michelle agreed, but wondered in the end if she wouldn’t be moving on. She stole another glance at Zach, gabbing with a grape, a person wearing the purple vest of aviation fuels. The young enlisted woman appeared to hang on his every word. The knot in Michelle’s stomach tightened.

She knew what that girl and others saw when they looked at Zach, his movie-star looks for one thing. The charm that radiated from every pore for another.

But what did she see in him? Nothing…

Except that he was everything she wasn’t. A better pilot. A better person. And she resented him for it. And some resentments took a lifetime to overcome.

Michelle climbed onto the left wing to check the rudder. Was it possible to be jealous of and in love with your best friend?

WITH ONE LAST LOOK in Michelle’s direction, Zach put on his helmet and pulled down the visor, then climbed into the cockpit of his Tomcat.

It was already too late for his heart. And as soon as she got around to that piece of bubble gum in her pocket, it’d be too late for his pride.

He had nothing left to lose. Except her friendship.

Why hadn’t he left well enough alone?

Why did this restlessness he felt have him acting on impulse? He should have waited. Until her birthday, at least. By then maybe he’d have come to his senses. He’d waited four months already, since the ship left port, and that wasn’t exactly impulsive. Hell, who was he kidding? He’d had this particular itch for more than twelve years. He’d just been too spineless to scratch it before now. So why then, when he’d finally worked up the courage, was he breaking out in hives?

Steve climbed into the back seat and closed them off inside the Plexiglas canopy. Zach hooked up his G suit, oxygen mask and fastened the torso harness of his ejection seat. With a map strapped to the top of one knee and a scratch pad with notes secured to the other, he cinched the straps that held his legs in position. Flailing appendages could get chopped off in an emergency ejection.

Some pilots liked the snug feeling, but it made him feel claustrophobic, at least until he was airborne and could forget about the harness altogether.

He fired up the jet engines.

“You sure you want to give all this up?” Steve asked from behind him as they slowly taxied to the launch, following the taxi director’s signal. Hands above the waist were for the pilot, below were for the ground crew.

Zach smiled to himself. “I’m sure.” It wouldn’t be easy. But either way his life would never be the same.

That was why he’d stopped by Greene’s office and submitted a request for SEAL training. If Michelle didn’t want to marry him, there’d be no use hanging around the Air Wing.

They were launching from one of two forward positions today. Rapunzel and Skeeter from the other. The trip to Turkey wasn’t all fun and games. They’d meet up with allied forces for a week of training exercises before earning their forty-eight hours of liberty.

That gave him between takeoff and landing to convince Michelle to come along for the ride of her life. He pulled his lucky charm from his pocket, a photo of them together at Top Gun graduation. Removing the wad of gum from his mouth, he stuck it to the back of the picture and fixed it to the dashboard.

As he taxied into the catapult position, a square of deck angled up to deflect exhaust. A yellow vest—a catapult launch officer with Mickey Mouse ears to protect his hearing—signaled for him to extend the launch bar. Zach obliged and crewmen scurried underneath to hook the bar to the track. Zach pushed the throttle forward to full power.

The jet shuddered as the engines roared.

He ran an automatic check of his control stick and rudder pedals as he eyeballed the panels and gauges.

So far, so good.

Zach switched the launch bar to the retract setting, then grabbed the catapult hand grip in his left hand and locked his elbow. Releasing the wheel brakes, he braced his heels against the floor so he wouldn’t accidentally tap a rudder pedal.

The launch bar tightened. The nose dipped. And the launch officer took over.

Zach’s blood pumped with anticipation. He gripped the joystick with his right hand, but wouldn’t have control of the Tomcat until they were clear of the bow.

“Ready to rock and roll.” Zach gave the launch officer a sharp salute.

Like a projectile propelled from a slingshot, the Tomcat took to the horizon. Zach’s eyes remained glued to the gauges, when they weren’t rolling back into his head. His helmet stayed pinned to the headrest and his stomach was up somewhere near his throat. But his adrenaline hummed, then sang as the F-14 shot from the boat.

He had exactly two seconds for the jet to reach 120 knots; if it didn’t, he’d pull the yellow cord between his legs. Ejecting in front of the ship could be as dangerous as failing to eject. Being keel-hauled, dragged under a 130-foot-long beam held little appeal. And little chance for survival.

God, he was going to miss this.

“We’re clear!” Steve whooped from the back seat, knowing the microphones to the tower weren’t keyed up yet.

As Zach took control of the stick, the dawn promised a clear azure sky and miles of visibility. Pink cotton-candy clouds overhead and bottomless blue ocean below gave him a sense of freedom that was hard to define. Since that very first day he’d taken to the sky, he knew it was where he belonged. Just as he knew he and Michelle belonged together.

As a fighter pilot he had to possess the right combination of nerves and daring to take off and land a thirty-eight-million-dollar jet on a moving airstrip about the size of a football field.

Not to mention a little bit of attitude.

Zach had all three in abundance.

The one thing he didn’t have was the girl. And he intended to rectify that very soon.

“Tomcat Leader, this is Two. I’ve got your ‘six’ covered,” Michelle reported in on the tower frequency, having launched right behind him.

“‘Anytime, baby,’” Zach quoted the Tomcat motto. “Angels nineteen, recommend two-twenty,” he called back.

“Copy, Tomcat Leader. Cruising altitude nineteen thousand feet. Airspeed 220 knots,” she rattled off the nautical miles in her soft alto static. “Two, on the way to heaven.”

“Roger, Two, I’ll meet you there.”

Zach eased back on the stick, taking the Tomcat up to their designated rendezvous as he wondered what the view was like from a jumbo jet. “This is your captain speaking,” he said into his mouthpiece. “The temperature in Istanbul is a balmy seventy-two degrees…. In a few minutes you’ll see Saudi Arabia coming up on your left, and to the right, Iraq.

“Your stewardess, Steve, will be around with peanuts and all the booze your kidneys can hold. Thank you for flying Renegade Air.”

“Practicing?” Steve asked.

“Thought it might be a good idea.” Maybe he’d be able to convince Michelle there were friendlier skies where they could be together.

“There’s something I gotta ask you, Rapunzel.”

“Not today, Renegade. I’m not in the mood.”

“PMS with wings,” Steve shared on the back mike.

“I was just wondering how you felt about United.”

“United? The airline?” Michelle asked.

“Renegade!” Captain Greene’s bellow vibrated through his helmet. “I’ll bust your butt all the way down to seaman recruit if you keep talking like that.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Smart-ass,” Greene shot back.

“That’s an affirmative, Captain.” Zach chuckled. The captain liked a good verbal spar as much as he did—only, the senior officer had the rank to back up his bluster.

“Right now I’ve got a bigger problem than your mouth, hotshot. I’ve got a broken catapult and a plane in the drink. Next launch in ten…” The captain paused to listen for the report, then let out a string of expletives. “Make that twenty.”

“Roger, twenty. One and Two going on alone.” Zach hoped the poor bastards whose jet had taken a nosedive into the water lived to tell about it.

Their flight path would take them over the Persian Gulf into the coalition-enforced no-fly zone over southern Iraq, where they’d do a little policing for Kuwait. Then over Saudi Arabia, Jordan and Syria until they reached their destination, Turkey.

“Copy.” Michelle acknowledged the message.

Zach switched to the prearranged frequency that would keep their cockpit conversations private just in time to hear Michelle chewing him out.

“Must you provoke him like that?” she demanded.

Michelle took Captain Greene a lot more seriously than he did. She took life a lot more seriously. So how did he prove he was serious enough about her to take on more responsibility? She’d be good for him. And he’d be good for her. Why couldn’t she see that?

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.”

“Are you calling me uptight?”

“If the shoe fits.”

“Now you’re mixing up your fairy tales. That’s ‘Cinderella.’”

Zach chuckled. “United. Think about it. Lead’s breaking for a G warm-up.” He banked the jet right ninety degrees, diving one thousand feet in a 4G maneuver to test his reaction times.

Four times the force of gravity meant he now weighed eight hundred pounds and his movements were harder to control. When the aircraft’s weight sensor detected the increase, air from the engine rushed in, inflating his anti-G suit and squeezing the lower half of his body to keep blood pumping to his brain and to keep him from passing out. No one could ever accuse a jet pilot of thinking with his lower extremities.

At least not while flying.

“Renegade, checks out okay,” Zach reported.

“Magician, okay.”

“Two breaking.” Michelle followed his lead.

Zach gave her enough time to pull off the stunt, but she didn’t report back right away. “Two?”

“Roger. Skeeter, okay.”

“Rapunzel, okay.”

She’d hesitated a moment too long. “Two?” he asked again.

“Let’s put the pedal to the metal,” she responded.

“Negative, Two.” A body reacted differently to the G force from one day to the next. And as far as he knew, she’d skipped breakfast. As squad leader, if he suspected a serious physical impairment to her flying, he could order her back to the carrier. She wouldn’t like it. But he’d do it. “Run through that G warm-up again.”

“What—”

“Humor me. That’s an order, Two.”

“Two breaking for another G warm-up,” she answered back with a little too much sass.

Just the way he liked it.

Zach craned his neck to watch her jet bank, then dive against the backdrop of blue sky.

“Rapunzel, checks out okay,” she reported back, right away this time.

“Skeeter, okay.”

“Copy, Two. Recommend Mach I.” The speed of sound.

“Roger, Tomcat leader. I concur.”

Zach maintained a somber mood for the rest of the flight. It went against his nature, but playtime was over. They were without backup. And it wasn’t that long ago he’d been a raw ensign flying sorties over Iraq. That thought was enough to sober him up fast.

F-14 Tomcats were fighters. So he hadn’t participated in bombing runs. Though he’d thrilled to the experience of hair-raising dives and recoveries in trainers, he wouldn’t trade his fighter for a bomber or the new fighter/attack bomber like the F/A-18 Hornet for the world.

It would be even worse than a jumbo jet.

Give him a good dogfight any day, the last arena of gentleman warfare. There were rules of engagement, and both pilots had chosen to be there.

“Tomcat Leader, this is Tower. We have a bogey 800 knots and closing.”

“Single?” Zach queried the tower and his RIO at the same time. “Magic Man?”

“Got him on the screen,” Steve answered first. “Looks like a single.”

“I see him, too,” Skeeter reported.

“Eyes open,” Zach ordered.

“One o’clock, MiG-28. Headed straight for us,” Steve supplied as the more maneuverable Russian-made aircraft bearing the red, white and black colors of Iraq broke through the clouds and into their line of vision.

Nothing to lose his breakfast over, Zach surmised. Since the Gulf War, Iraqi and American fighters did everything they could to avoid confrontation with one another. Zach didn’t expect today to be any different.

“He’s not supposed to be in the no-fly zone. Let’s chase him home,” he ordered, maneuvering his jet into a split S, a quick U-turn that would bring him in low on the bogey. He craned his head to the left as he turned right.

“Copy. Got you covered, Tomcat Leader.” Michelle followed his lead.

Dogfighting had changed little since WWI, but it wasn’t as easy as it looked on the big screen. First you had to get in the control zone, the cone behind the other jet. And you could only attack from the same angle of plane. A dogfight lasted all of sixty seconds or less. After that first minute survival rates dropped dramatically.

At any given moment a pilot handled a dozen or more calculations in his head. In training they practiced juggling tennis balls and solving mathematical equations at the same time. A well-trained fighter pilot’s instincts were so honed he could fly without thinking and concentrate on making split-second decisions.

The MiG pilot had enough maneuvers to keep them on the edge of their seats as they raced through the skies at speeds that exceeded the sound barrier.

“This guy’s pissin’ me off. Why isn’t he leaving the zone?” Zach questioned the Iraqi pilot’s motives. “Let’s see if we can get him to panic and run.” He zeroed in on the target. “I’ve got a lock!” The beep of the HUD—heads-up display—confirmed it. “He’s bugging out.” The MiG sped ahead just as alarms blared in the cockpit. “Shit! Surface-to-air missiles.” They were about to cross over into Iraqi airspace.

“Radar’s trying to get a lock,” Steve confirmed.

“We’ve got bells going off here,” Michelle warned.

“Bug out!” Zach ordered as he switched to evasive tactics.

“Affirmative.” Michelle took the lead in the turn.

“Renegade, MiG’s in pursuit,” Steve informed him.

“What does this guy think he’s doing?” They were back in the coalition controlled airspace, the no-fly zone over southern Iraq and Kuwait.

Something wasn’t right. Zach felt it in his gut.

If this was all for shits and giggles, the MiG pilot would have bugged out by now. This guy was playing cat-and-mouse as if he wanted to get caught. Which could mean only one thing—this MiG was the cheese. So they’d better keep their eyes open for more enemy fighters.

“Tower, this is Tomcat Leader—”

“Keep your cool, hotshot,” Captain Greene broke in with instructions. “See if you can lead him out over the gulf.”

“How much fuel do we have, Magic Man?”

“Not enough for this shit,” Steve answered even before calculating the amount of fuel in exact pounds. Dogfighting was the difference between a Sunday drive and drag racing when it came to fuel consumption.

“Keep an eye on it for me. Copy, Tower. Two, whaddya say we make a MiG sandwich. Can you get behind this guy?”

“Affirmative. I’m pulling around behind.”

“Renegade, two more bogeys closing in,” Steve warned.

“Copy. What’d Iraq do—send up their whole damn air farce today?” The Iraqi fighters wouldn’t be led out to sea, and keeping the three jets out of southern Iraq and away from Kuwait forced them all deeper into the Republic of Iraq. But every time the Tomcats gave up chase the Iraqi fighters came back around. “Tower, recommend radio Saudi for some backup from the Air Force.”

“Negative. We’ve launched four of our own. ETA, ten minutes. By the time the Air Force gets off the ground, we’d already be there.”

“We’ve got two bogeys on our tail,” Skeeter reported.

“Gotcha covered.” Zach slammed on the air brakes. Pulling back hard on the stick, he maneuvered the jet in an over-the-top back flip known as an Immelmann—named after the WWI German flying ace who’d invented it.

Then he rolled in behind the lag MiG.

Lag pursuit required a patience Zach didn’t possess right now. He opted for lead pursuit. Taking a high yo-yo shortcut through the other pilot’s circle, he cut off bogey number three from Michelle.

Meanwhile, she lured the MiG directly behind her into a rolling scissors, a dizzying Ferris-wheel form of pure pursuit that pulled as much as eight G’s. But with a little luck and a lot of skill she would eventually put her Tomcat behind the MiG.

That took care of bogey number two.

And left number one, the lead MiG open to come in behind either him or Michelle. Zach was the easier target. He made sure he kept it that way.

Everything happened fast and furious with three MiGs and two Tomcats vying to lock on to enemy craft. Zach’s head moved on a swivel, trying to keep up with his jet. Steve rattled in his ears, tracking both friend and foe.

Michelle dropped below two thousand feet before she managed to get into the cone zone of MiG Two. As soon as she did, MiG One lined up behind her.

“He’s trying to get a lock.” She sounded composed and in control, pulling from her bag of tricks a countermaneuver for every maneuver the MiG tried.

God, she was good.

The way she kept her cool made him hot all over. “Shake your tail feathers, baby,” Zach ordered. He wanted her safe. And he wasn’t about to play games with her life. “Tower, where’s that backup?”

“ETA, eight minutes.”

“We’re over Iraqi-controlled airspace,” Steve warned.

G’s slammed Zach’s body. Winds buffeted the plane. Alarms rang in the cockpit and throughout his head.

“He’s got a lock.” Michelle put her Tomcat into a barrel roll, launching chaff and flares to confuse any heat-seeking missiles. “I can’t shake him.”

“I’m lining up right behind him.” Zach had two MiGs on his tail now. The one directly behind him locked on. He launched a confusing barrage of chaff and stuck like glue to the MiG riding Rapunzel’s six.

The bogey kept on her.

Sweat gushed from every pore of his body, soaking through his flight suit as he sucked down oxygen from his face mask.

Hold him off, sweetheart.

Lock on, lock on, he demanded of himself.

The HUD showed the bogey in the “pickle” and beeped. “Yes! Enough of this shit. Tower, I’ve got a lock.” Zach’s thumb hovered over the trigger of the Sidewinder, a close-range air-to-air combat missile. “Permission to fire.”

“Do not engage,” Captain Greene spouted policy. They were not to fire unless fired upon.

“He’s all over Rapunzel’s ass!”

Then it happened. His worst nightmare.

The MiG fired, scoring a direct hit.

The tail of Michelle’s Tomcat burst into flames. Her plane spiraled toward the ground.

“Eject! Eject, dammit!” Zach shouted.

CHAPTER THREE

One month later

LIEUTENANT PRINCE’S OFF-BASE RESIDENCE,

Miramar, CA

“EJECT, eject, dammit!” Zach awoke with a start. Heart thumping, sweat beading his forehead, he kicked free of the tangled sheets to sit on the edge of the mattress.

The glaring red numbers of the electric alarm clock on the nightstand flashed twelve noon.

He didn’t give a rat’s ass what time it was, or what day, for that matter. If it wasn’t for the nightmares, he’d just as soon stay in bed. With a shaking hand, he reached for the half-empty bottle of bourbon, poured two fingers into a dirty glass and slammed it down in one swallow.

Resting his head in his palms, he tried to keep the forming headache at bay while the liquor burned a hole straight through his gut.

The pounding in his head became insistent before he realized someone was knocking at the door.

“Go away!” he shouted. He realized his mistake when the echo of his words reverberated throughout his aching head.

The pounding persisted. He could hear doors opening and closing up and down the breezeway as neighbors added their complaints. Great. Just great.

“Keep your socks on,” he grumbled, searching for something to cover his bare butt. “I’m coming!”

Zach found a pair of boxer briefs, discarded near the foot of the bed and stepped into them. He needed a shave. He needed a shower. And he had no idea where the rest of his clothes were until he tripped over them on the way to answer the door.

Wanting to connect his fist with whomever waited on the other side, Zach flung open the door. A naval officer stood on the stoop.

“Shit!” Zach eyeballed his brother-in-law, Marc Miller, with the shiny new rank of captain pinned to the collar points of his khaki uniform. “What do you want?”

Zach turned his back on the other man and headed straight for the waiting bottle. He’d managed to avoid his family for the better part of the past month. He’d even unplugged his phone.

But they must have decided to send in reinforcements. The last thing he wanted or needed right now was his family descending on him. When Miller didn’t speak, Zach was forced to turn around and look at him.

“You didn’t show up for rehab,” Miller said at last, closing the door behind him.

Zach tipped the bottle to the glass. “So I’m a couple hours late. Can you blame a guy for one last binge?”

“Must have been one hell of a party.” Miller scowled at the pizza boxes and other remnants of fast-food trash scattered around the place. “You’re two days late. You were supposed to report to the naval hospital in San Diego on Wednesday. It’s Friday.”

“Hours, days. So I’m late. Is that what you came to tell me? Message delivered.” Zach offered a mock salute with the bottle.

Miller didn’t look the least bit amused. “The thing is…you’re all out of chances, Prince. Those billets in rehab are reserved for personnel who really want them.”

“What the hell. It doesn’t matter.” He set the bottle aside and clung to the glass.

“Probably not,” Miller agreed. “But by not showing up you’re UA—unauthorized absence, in case you forgot. Good thing for you you’ve got friends in high places. If it was up to me, I’d leave you to wallow in your self-pity. But you’re right, I’m just the messenger. So here it is.” Miller handed him a folded piece of paper. “Orders to SEAL training starting Monday, 0700.”

Zach took the orders, but didn’t bother to read them. He’d forgotten about submitting the request. It didn’t matter now, anyway. He had no intention of falling back on the family tradition of becoming a Navy SEAL, commando of sea, air and land. His father had been a notorious Navy SEAL frogman before his retirement. His sister, Tabby, had become the very first female SEAL. And his brother-in-law was the commanding officer in charge of SEAL training.

No way in hell would he subject himself to that.

He was already in hell. And like Miller said, he was out of options. He’d sabotaged rehab because he couldn’t stand the thought of opening a vein and bleeding his emotions in front of fellow substance abusers.

Zach unfolded the orders with more curiosity than enthusiasm. Any blood he might shed in SEAL training would likely be real. There’d be blisters. And punishing endurance tests metered out to make his body stronger—physical pain to mask the raw emotional pain in a way that alcohol couldn’t.

And rehab wouldn’t.

Besides, he could quit drinking any time he wanted to. He just didn’t want to.

Famous last words. He set down the glass of bourbon with disgust. Actions spoke volumes.

He didn’t want to drink his life away.

He didn’t think Michelle would want that for him, either. He felt the all-too-familiar stabs of pain.

Zach gave the paper in his hand a cursory glance, looking for the signature he knew he’d find. “Why’s he doing this?”

“Maybe he thinks you deserve one more chance.” Miller stalked over to the window and mercilessly drew back the curtains, letting in the blinding light of day. He threw open the sash, a cool California breeze diffusing the stench. “The family’s expecting you for a late dinner tonight at the Hotel Del Coronado, 2100 sharp.” Marc completed his circle of Zach’s small one-room apartment. “This place stinks. Think about picking up after yourself once in a while.” He stopped on his way to the door and looked Zach up and down. “A shower wouldn’t hurt, either.”

Put on the defensive, Zach scoffed at the suggestion, even though he intended to shower. Most days it was all he managed.

“Don’t let the admiral down, Prince. Or the next time someone comes knocking at your door, it’ll be the shore patrol.” With that parting shot, Miller left.

Zach sank onto the mattress, all the wind knocked out of his sails. The Chief of SEALs, Admiral Mitchell Dann, had stepped in to keep him from going back to the brig where he’d spent the better part of the past four weeks. And now the man had pushed through his request for SEAL training.

Michelle’s father.

His godfather.

A man whose grief probably equaled Zach’s own, yet the admiral managed to put on a better face for the world. How could Admiral Dann be so forgiving of the one person who didn’t deserve it?

Zach threw the glass of bourbon. It smashed against the wall and shattered. Shards of glass fell to the carpet. Amber liquid rolled down the wall-paper like the tears he wouldn’t allow himself to shed.

Moving to his dresser, he pushed aside his wallet with the paltry sum of forty-two dollars—all that was left of his military paycheck after drinking most of it away. He touched his lieutenant’s bars and tried not to think.

He’d been reduced to the rank of lieutenant junior grade right after he’d punched Captain Greene. That incident had landed him in the brig the first time. The hard drinking that followed had taken its toll, too, costing him his flight qualifications until he got his act together. Hence rehab. His one and only chance to do that.

A formal inquiry into the incident over Iraq had absolved him of any responsibility. The Navy had gone over everything with a fine-tooth comb. From cockpit banter to maintenance logs. And found nothing. In the end, top brass had determined enemy fire responsible.

He and Steve could have told them as much from their eyewitness accounts.

But he couldn’t let himself off the hook that easily.

He picked up the gold wings he was no longer allowed to pin to his uniform. Closing his hand over them, he stared at the stranger in the mirror.

Miller was wrong.

Zach couldn’t even muster pity for the poor bastard with the empty eyes. He shifted his gaze to the snapshot tucked into the corner of the frame, the same photo he’d once carried in the cockpit of his fighter. Now water-stained and tattered, the picture hadn’t fared any better than he had.

Zach stared at it, at Michelle’s achingly familiar smile. When was the last time he’d even seen her smile?

That day in the shower? In the briefing room?

Across the flight deck the corner of her mouth had turned up in a sort of sad smile. He’d wondered what she was thinking.

Now he’d never know.

As much as he blamed Greene for not letting him take that shot, he blamed himself even more. If only…

If only he’d taken it, anyway.

In one angry swoop he cleared the dresser and laid his head down. Every night Michelle called to him to come fly with her. And every morning he awoke from the nightmare of losing her all over again.

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