Crusty thrust a bag of nacho chips her way. "Want some?"
He rattled the bag. The king of moochers sharing?
Darcy searched the label for some kind of gag reading or passed-expiration date.
"No, thanks." She shook her head and transferred her attention back to the control panel.
If he dared crack a PMS joke, she'd off-load him out the back into the Pacific. He and Bronco both stayed diplomatically silent, shooting her sympathetic looks instead.
Worse somehow than being razzed.
Think about work, not about Max and when she might see him again. If she would ever see him. Where she would find the courage.
Ugh! She hated cowardice more than bugs. Darcy flipped through her logbook and updated the fuel reading. She needed to concentrate. No small task in a plane with the capacity to carry 180,000 pounds of gas to balance.
She studied her instruments again, cross-referencing with her notations. Something didn't add up... "Crusty, the center of gravity's moving aft." Not unheard of even though the body tanks of fuel should feed evenly. But worth watching. "I'm going to shift three thousand pounds of fuel forward into the mid-body to equalize."
"Roger, co," Crusty answered.
Darcy keyed in the computerized shift...and over the space of twenty minutes, watched the same damned thing happen again. She tallied up the math. Twice. Only two hours into the flight and they were already four thousand pounds of gas light. Rechecking her math wasn't going to change the numbers. And those numbers kept shifting at an increasing rate too damned coincidental in a month full of "bad luck" hammering her way.
She'd wanted a second chance to talk to Max in Guam, but sure as hell not this way. If her suspicions were correct, they needed to haul ass back to the island—if they didn't end up ditching in the ocean first. Unease trickled down her spine.
What if the target of Max's investigation had given her a parting gift?
Willing training to override emotions, Darcy keyed up her mike. "Crew, I think we have a fuel leak."
Max stood at the end of the dock that thrust out into the dolphin sea pen. One at a time he nicked fish toward Lucy and Ethel bobbing below with open mouths. Since the incident with Lucy's food poisoning, he'd kept closer watch over what the dolphins ate.
Another couple of days and they would both be released into the wild, due to government cutbacks in funding. He was slated to take the place of a retiring trainer working with the marine mammal program and SEALs at Coronado. A kick-ass assignment that would route him around the world.
After he put the bastard responsible for attacking Darcy into that very dark, very cold grave.
Max flung another fish by rote. At least he had Darcy off the island. Now he didn't have to be cautious for her sake. Finally he could do his job, no holds barred,
His world was so damned silent. The dock so damned empty.
Reaching into the bucket, he pitched handfuls of herring and squid farther into the water. Lucy arched over and away with a splash. Ethel stayed behind. Bobbing. Silently.
Max crouched down and stroked her rostrum. "Hey, girl."
He didn't need to say more. Words weren't needed here. Wise eyes stared back, radiating sympathy.
He understood well that humans only communicated with dolphins when dolphins chose. An irony that was lost on many frustrated trainers—the difference between bribing a few repetitious jumps and developing a working relationship. Odd, but he'd never really thought about it before.
Before Darcy made him stretch the boundaries of his world.
Yeah, he felt the sympathy. Too bad Ethel didn't have any more answers than he did.
A low drone echoed in the distance. Built. Swelled into a siren whine.
Max looked over his shoulder. Foreboding knotted in his gut. "What the—''
The alert siren pulsed. Again and again. From the base.
Foreboding fisted into certainty. Max shot to his feet, pounded down the dock and through the gate. Raced for his jeep and launched inside. Cranking the engine, he reminded himself that Darcy was somewhere over the Pacific in her airplane. He'd watched her take off, damn it, to be sure.
But the siren was too coincidental in an op where coincidence had bitten him on the butt more than once.