String pullers weren't high on her list of favorite folks, especially today.
This time General Pops had gone too far with the overprotectiveness. Sure, she'd been kidnapped in Guam as a kid. A terrifying experience for her family, and one she still couldn't dwell on for even thirty seconds without dropping her damned sunflower seeds all over the floor. But it was time to get past it.
Darcy cracked seeds one at time to focus her thoughts and calm her pissed-off senses. Maybe the time had come to confront her father, too. If only she didn't have to confront the inevitable worry on his dear craggy face, as well.
Why couldn't her dad understand that by clipping her wings, he'd always denied her the chance to put that week behind her? Her very nature, inherited from seven generations of Renshaw warriors, demanded she fight back. Like the squadron motto on her patch, she would be ready for Anything. Anywhere. Anytime.
She hadn't expected that to include hauling cetaceans across the Pacific.
Darcy jackhammered another salty seed with her molars.
Bronco spun her chair to face him. "Geez, Renshaw. How about I get you some rocks to chew? Wouldn't be half as noisy."
Bronco's linebacker bulk filled his chair as completely as his teasing filled the room. Darcy shrugged off her irritation and slid into the camaraderie with as much ease as zipping her flight suit. Childhood years spent as a squadron mascot while her classmates earned Scout badges had left her with a slew of surrogate big brothers and the ability to hold her own around any military watercooler.
She sprinkled a pile of sunflower seeds on top of the aircraft commander's chart. "Shelling is an art form, boss man. Didn't they teach you old guys anything when you went to pilot training?"
From across the table, Captain Daniel "Crusty" Baker scooped the shells. "We old guys must have been busy inventing the wheel."
"Old guys? Ouch!" Bronco thumped his chest. "Renshaw deals another lethal blow to the ego. My wife would be proud."
Crusty pitched the seeds into his mouth, swiped his hand along his flight suit and grabbed the bag for a second helping.
Darcy snagged it away, irritation creeping through in spite of her resolve. "Get your own, moocher."
Bronco eased back his chair, a big-brother concern glinting in his eyes she recognized too well. "What's got your G-suit in a knot today, Renshaw?''
Uh-uh. She wasn't answering that one. Her feelings were her own. Always had been since the terrorist raid on her childhood overseas home.
She clenched her fist around the shells until they sliced into her palm. One rogue seed spurted between her fingers and spiraled to the carpet. She inched her flight boot over it to conceal the seed as well as her momentary lapse.
Darcy popped another seed into her mouth. "I'm sorry. Were you talking?" She scavenged a quick grin. "I couldn't hear you over my crunching."
Chuckling, the two senior captains resumed pouring over Bronco's chart.
Tipping back her seat, Darcy dragged the industrial-size trash can forward and pitched her hulls inside. Time to launch this flight and bring her closer to launching her life, as well. She rolled her chair away from the table. "I'm going to find out what's keeping Keagan so we can get this mission off the ground."
Footsteps sounded from the hall, stalling Darcy half standing. The door swung open, voices swelling through as three men strode in, two in naval khaki uniforms, one in creased pants and a bow tie.
Ah, the professor.
Just as Darcy started to look away, another man strolled through the doorway. One glimpse at him and she lost all interest in studying flight data scrawled on the dry erase board.
Holy marine mammal, the guy was hot.
Six foot two, three maybe. Early thirties? Given his laid-back air and casual clothes, perhaps he was the graduate assistant accompanying the professor on the flight. A graduate assistant who looked as if he spent all his after-school hours on a surfboard.
Sandy-brown hair spiked from his head, the tips bleached from overexposure to the sun. The damp disarray could have been styled deliberately, but somehow she didn't think so. His five-o'-clock shadow at 8:00 a.m. hinted his only comb might be fingers tunneling through sun-kissed hair.
A sea-foam-colored windbreaker was zipped halfway up his broad chest. The banded waist grazed the top of his low-riding drawstring swim trunks. Slim h*ps and an incredible tush were covered by... flowers.
Loud tangerine and purple blooms blazoned from faded nylon hitting right around knee-length, obliterating her earlier frustration in a Technicolor sensory tidal wave.
After hanging out in an almost exclusively male world all her life, she wasn't often rattled by a man's physical appearance. So why were her fingers itching to comb through this guy's hair?
The senior Navy officer paused beside the dry erase board. "Sorry for the delay. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce Dr. Maxwell Keagan, head of Marine Mammal Communications at the University of San Diego. And his research assistant, Perry Griffin. Now that they've arrived, I'll set up the computer and projector while you introduce yourselves." The officer turned to the two civilians. "Dr. Keagan, we'll be ready for your brief in about five minutes."
"Thank you, Commander."