She'd said she would, for Magda to say goodbye. For good.
They hadn't spoken all week, but she hadn't called to cancel, either. The flight had taken off before his parents would have even left to pick her up, so he wouldn't know if she'd come until he taxied down the runway.
There wasn't a thing he could do about it now. Might as well plaster on the smile and put on a good front. "Hey, Lancelot, did you hear what they said about Bronco at the last training meeting?"
Lance chuckled, picking up the teasing thread as any decent crew dog would. "Refresh my memory, Cutter."
"Something about copilot upgrades to aircraft commander. And how he'll never get one … because he talks too much!"
Lance coughed into the headset. "Almost made me choke on a cookie with that, Cutter. Good one, huh, Bronco? Or should we change your call sign to 'Motor Mouth'?"
"Upgrade me and it won't be a problem," Bronco growled, then fell silent. Before long, the big guy was squirming predictably in his seat. "Hey, you're making up that stuff about the meeting—right?"
"Whatever you want to tell yourself." Gray jumped into the familiar routine of crew camaraderie. Everything would be fine. He'd just experienced a ripple, a mental air pocket, before he leveled out. "Got any more cookies back there, Lancelot?"
Gray reached over his shoulder, downed the cookie, then decided he'd tortured Bronco long enough.
"Hey, Bronco." He winked. "I'm just yanking your chain. Get over yourself."
"I knew that." Bronco sniffed, then grinned.
Gray decided he should take the same advice for himself. He'd fallen into the trap of letting things get too complicated, and he knew better. The sky unfolded before him, cloud after cloud whipping past. Keep it simple. Just him and the sky—
Wham.
The pop reverberated through the aircraft. It echoed, like a baseball bat to the side of the plane. Gray's hand convulsed around the stick.
Fog rolled into the cockpit. An ominous white cloud churned, filling his rapidly fogging brain.
Rapid.
Rapid decompression.
His mind flashed with thoughts of Lori waiting on the ground. Lori, smiling because of a silly cracker.
No time to bite out a curse or waste on distractions. Training kicked in. He had less than twenty seconds of useful consciousness left.
Gray stared up at the refueling plane ahead of them and smashed the disconnect button.
"Breakaway! Breakaway! Breakaway!" He whipped the quick-don oxygen mask over his face.
A deep inhale started to clear his brain. "Rapid dee," he barked over interphone. "Everybody on oxygen and report up."
"Copilot up on oxygen."
"Instructor pilot up on oxygen," Lance called.
"Loadmaster up."
"Bronco, tell center we're descending to ten thousand feet." Gray clipped orders over the headset. He rammed the stick forward. Nosedown the plane dived, faster, rattling, increasing vibration, gaining speed as they descended toward breathable air.
His mind clicked through causes, everything from a popped seal to an explosion. He couldn't evaluate until they reached ten thousand feet. If they got there.
Lori's face flashed in front of him again at absolutely the worst time. He did not need distractions. Not now. And Lori had always been the biggest distraction he'd ever known.
The plane rattled louder, noises picking up, whining. Clouds whipped past the windscreen.
Still Gray couldn't shake thoughts of Lori. He could almost smell peaches. Was this what guys like Lance and the squadron commander, all those married flyers went through every time they faced danger?