No Quarter Given (SSE 667) (5 page)

"Yes, sir?"

"What the hell is going on here?"

"Sir?"

"You've made a typing error. There's no way I'm taking on one of those women student pilots."

Johnson shrugged apologetically. "Sir, Chief Yeoman Tracer gave me the list earlier. I know how you feel about it, and when I saw the assignment I asked the chief if it wasn't a mistake. She said no."

Griff got to his feet, grabbed the paper and shouldered past the yeoman. There had to be a mistake! Striding down the long, narrow hall toward Captain Ramsey's office, Griff had to control his raging feelings. Ramsey knew he had no use for women in the military world. Over the years, Griff had softened his view somewhat, but had remained adamant that flying a military aircraft was a man's job. Besides, how he felt about women right now made him rabid about not accepting Coulter.

Captain Burt Ramsey was leaning over his yeoman's desk, giving her instructions, when Griff stepped into the outer office.

"Morning, Griff," Ramsey said.

"Sir. May I have a few words in private with you?" Griff remained stiffly at attention. He was shaking inside.

"Certainly. Come on in."

Making sure the door was closed so the yeoman couldn't overhear, Griff stood at parade rest in front of the captain's highly polished maple desk. Ramsey, a fifty-five-year-old officer, sat down. Folding his hands on the desk, he looked up at Griff.

"What's on your mind?"

Trying to steady his hand, Griff thrust the assignment paper toward him. "This, sir."

"Those are your assignments for the next six weeks."

"I know, sir. But—there's a woman in there."

"I'm aware of that," Ramsey replied coolly.

Struggling for self-control, Griff bit out, "Sir, I respectfully request that Ensign Coulter be reassigned. I don't believe a woman can be a good pilot of a military aircraft. My best friend was just killed by a woman student pilot over at Pensacola. I—"

"Lieutenant, I feel Ensign Coulter has what it takes to be with the best instructor at Whiting. That's you. You're tough and exacting. Her grade point at Annapolis was a straight 4.0. That's a rarity in itself. Take a look at her file, and I think you'll agree, she's fine material to work with. The Secretary of Defense is getting pressured to put more women in flight slots. We need P3 pilots badly. If she can handle your instruction, then I feel we have a candidate for the antisubmarine-warfare squadrons that are low in pilot manpower—er, person power."

Despair ripped through Griff. "But, sir—"

"Ensign Coulter is your student, Lieutenant. And despite your personal prejudice, which needs work anyway, you are to treat her just like any male student assigned to you. Is that understood?"

Griff tensed. A lot of responses went through his head, but the only wise answer was "Yes, sir."

"I don't want to hear Coulter smacking us with a sexual-prejudice lawsuit, either."

His heart sank. Ramsey expected him to railroad her out of flight school. Well, wasn't that what he'd planned to do if forced to take her? "I'll treat her like any student assigned to me, sir."

Ramsey nodded. "Good. Dismissed, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir." Wearily Griff turned on his heel and left the office. Outside in the hall, he slowed his pace, wrestling with an incredible avalanche of feelings. A woman had killed Toby. Coulter could kill him. Women didn't have good judgment in times of emergency. Carol fell apart under the most trivial circumstances. She had always cried and clung to him.

Rubbing his brow, Griff headed back to his small office. Glancing at his watch, he saw he had exactly half an hour before Coulter reported to him. It would give him the necessary time to bone up on her file. No doubt she'd be a lot like Carol: appearing strong on the surface, but internally flawed and weak, needing a man to tell her how to run things or make decisions.

Yeoman Johnson already had placed Coulter's file on his desk. Reluctantly, Griff opened the thick folder. He nearly came unhinged at her physical statistics: five foot two, one hundred pounds and only twenty-two years old. She was too small to wrestle the weight of a screaming, out-of-control jet! His anger mounted as he continued to peruse Coulter's file. In her plebe year—the first year as an underclassman—Coulter had won the right to carry the company colors. Who had she twisted around her finger to get that plum?

Academically, Coulter appeared to be brilliant. She excelled at mathematics and computers and earned a degree in aeronautical engineering. On the Annapolis swim team, she'd been first in freestyle and butterfly. She'd been appointed team captain in her third year at Annapolis, and under her guidance, the team had tacked up impressive wins over the next two years.

Griff wasn't impressed. He slammed the folder shut, shoving it away. "That doesn't mean you have hands, sweetheart. You might be good in the water, but air is an entirely different matter." "Hands" was the term used for an individual's feel for a plane. To have good flight hands meant possessing a natural knack with the aircraft and flying. Griff raised his head when Johnson gave a brief knock and stuck his head inside the office door.

"Ensign Coulter's here to see you, sir."

Girding himself, Griff growled, "Send her in, Johnson."

"Yes, sir."

Dana sat on a long wooden bench in the hall with several other student pilots. They were all nervous. The man nearest her, Ensign Manning, a fellow Annapolis grad, shook his head.

"I hear you got a screamer, Coulter."

Dana frowned. "A screamer?"

"Yeah. Word's gone 'round that the Turk's a screamer. You know, he yells at you constantly in the cockpit."

Dana's throat got a little tighter. "I'll take it one day at a time." One hour at a time. First, she had to get past this initial interview. Ever since high school when she'd found out that the Navy pilots were considered the best in the world, Dana had dreamed of becoming one of them. Flying, for her, meant having the unshackled freedom of an eagle. To sail above the earth meant to sail over the misery that would meet her once she landed. No. Getting her wings was the most important goal she'd ever set for herself. And she'd win those wings—with or without the Turk's help.

Manning shrugged. "Sorry you got such rotten luck. I wouldn't wish the Turk on my best enemy."

Dana managed a laugh, although it still hurt to smile. Her eye had nearly swollen closed again. "I'm known for my rotten luck, Manny. I'll just persevere like I always do." When they'd first met Manny at Annapolis, he'd hated the three women; but later, as part of Dana's freestyle swim team, he'd been won over by her physical abilities. In the last year, Manny had become their staunch supporter.

"What do you think will happen when he sees that black eye?"

"He'll probably think I started a barroom brawl somewhere and had it coming," Dana muttered.

Manny shook his head. "You're something else, Coulter. A sense of humor even as you walk into the jaws of death."

Dana saw Sergeant Johnson crook his finger in her direction. Time to meet the dreaded Turk. She grinned as she rose, smoothing at the wrinkles in her too-large flight suit. "My black humor has gotten me this far, Manny." If only it could get her successfully past this interview.

"Break a leg," he whispered.

As Dana walked down the long, polished passageway, she wondered if the Turk would try to break her spirit as a way of washing her out. Nervously she wiped her damp palms against her thighs. Johnson opened the door, giving her a slight smile that she read as encouragement.

"Go right on in, Ms. Coulter. Lieutenant Turcotte is waiting."

"Thanks," she said. Dana moved around the door and closed it quietly. The small office was filled with bookshelves. Behind the massive oak desk sat a man, his head bent, studying what might be her file. Sweat popped out on her upper lip. Dana faced him and prepared to snap to attention. But before she could, he raised his head. A gasp escaped her.

"You!" she croaked.
Griff.
Dana saw the shock in his eyes. He was no less stunned than she. Her defenses shattered as his gray eyes momentarily thawed from ice to smoldering heat. Then, just as quickly, they hardened again. Off balance, Dana stood, her lips parted, words deserting her. How could Griff be the dreaded Turk? This man, his words, his incredibly gentle touch on her shoulder, had been anything but threatening at the airport.

Griff stared up at her in utter disbelief. She stood helplessly, her hands open in a gesture of peace toward him. "Dana?"

"I—yes, it's me. But—you said your name was Griff."

He stared down at the file, a gamut of emotions colliding within his heart. "Griff is my middle name. Your file said Danielle Coulter."

"Yes," she choked out. "But I've always been called Dana. No one calls me Danielle."

Angrily, Griff noticed his hand tremble slightly over the file. Of all the tricks to be played on him! Her left eye was nearly swollen shut, her entire cheek black-and-blue. A huge part of him wanted simply to get up and hold her. She had to be in constant pain from that injury. Her eyes were huge, and he could read the shock in them. He was sure his IP reputation was foremost in her mind. She was probably trying to reconcile it with the man who'd helped her capture the thief at the airport.

Dana watched as the care that had again surfaced in his dove-gray eyes dissolved. Automatically she snapped to attention, tucking her chin against her chest. "Ensign Coulter reporting as ordered, sir."

Griff wanted to curse so badly he could taste it. Life was one lousy joke after another. Dana's face, once open and readable, was now closed, showing no expression at all. Griff reminded himself that she was a ring knocker, an Annapolis grad, one of the elite few. She was tougher than most women, he told himself, but still a cream puff underneath it all.

Slowly rising, Griff glowered at her. As much as he wanted to stop himself, stop the anger from boiling up and out of him, he couldn't. "Remain at attention, Miss Coulter!" he snapped at her, and rounded the desk. His nostrils flared as he approached her. Griff waited to see her melt, but she remained unwavering beneath his towering scrutiny. She was such a small, helpless thing! He was six foot three, casting an ominous shadow across her.

"All right," he rasped, watching as her eyes remained fixed straight ahead. "This is the end of the line for you or any other woman who thinks she can take it to become a Navy pilot." Griff stalked around her, his hands behind his back. "You might be real special back in Annapolis, Miss Coulter, but here, you're nothing more than a plebe. I break men who think they've got what it takes to fly a Navy jet. They come in here cocky and full of confidence. After two or three weeks with me, they wash out."

Dana froze inside. Griff's deep voice was like a chain saw cutting into her heart and her barricaded soul. If only she hadn't seen his human side! He threw his words at her like a glove in a duel. The hatred in his voice was real, further eating away at her normal defensive array. Anguish soared within Dana. She had to forget the human named Griff. This was the Turk, the IP who wanted her washed out. He circled her like an eagle ready to strike at her, the quarry. Her mouth flattening, Dana rapped out, "Sir, I'll do my best to earn your respect behind the stick."

Turcotte glared at her. Her voice was firm, but lined with grating resolve. "These next six weeks are a survival school, Coulter."

"Survival is one thing I'm very good at, sir."

Taken aback, Griff moved around the desk, putting it between them. He'd had students cower like whipped dogs by the time he'd finished his initial briefing, but Dana showed absolutely no fear of him. She seemed to gather strength from his assault on her confidence. Opening his mouth to retort, Griff suddenly remembered her sitting on the concrete sidewalk at the airport, a rueful, almost painful smile on her mouth as she'd told him it wasn't the first time she'd had a black eye. God, what a mess!

"I don't tolerate tardiness, Coulter."

"I'd be late for a flight only if I were dead, sir."

"Women can't take the punishment of flying."

"I don't accept that, sir."

"You will," he ground out softly.

Dana pinned him with an equally frosty gaze. "I know what prejudice is all about, Lieutenant. You don't like me because I'm a woman. Fine. You've drawn the battle lines."

Griff stared at her, nonplussed. What a hellion. "If you were a man, I might be impressed with your guts in standing up to me."

"If I were a man, you wouldn't be giving me this speech," Dana retorted coldly. His gray eyes turned black as a thunderstorm. A part of her cried inside at the loss of the Griff who had been so gentle with her and the old woman at the airport.

"You're wrong, Ensign. Every student that enters that door leaves knowing I'm intent on only one thing: failing you. You either have what it takes to stay in the kitchen and take the heat I'll turn up on you, or you get out. I don't want to be flying with any student of mine someday, unsure if he's got what it takes when the chips are down in combat."

"I'd say this is combat right now," Dana whispered.

"As close as you'll ever get to it, Ensign."

The gauntlet had been flung. A sharp pain shot through Dana. Griff was turning out like so many other military officers she'd run into during her four years in the Navy. It would do no good to continue lobbing verbal grenades at each other. What was going to count was her performance in the cockpit of the single-engine trainer.

As always, Dana knew she would retreat to that safe place deep within herself when things got unbearable. It was a survival tool learned through years of painful experience. To everyone else, she would appear calm, cool and collected. Like swimming, retreating deep within herself meant safety.

"What time do I report for flight duty, sir?"

Griff stood, his hands on his hips, and watched her. With that swollen left eye she'd have trouble seeing. If she were a man, he'd send her to sick bay to get a chit until the eye was properly healed. Making her start in this condition didn't give her a fair chance. Even as he thought it, though, his anger at women—and this no-win situation—surfaced. "Be at the ready room at 0800 tomorrow morning, Coulter. And be ready to fly."