A tall, flight-suit-clad body filled the doorway. For a funky, time-fugue kind of moment, Julia thought her husband stood in front of her after all. Her breath snagged on an ache so powerful it stole the air from her room.
Eight months faded to a time of promise for a fresh start with a baby. That new beginning for her marriage had ended the day she'd pulled into her driveway after work to find every military wife's worst nightmare. An ominous, uniformed trio of chaplain, doctor and commander had waited on her front porch. She'd known before being told by the Squadron Commander.
Her husband would never come home.
The commander. Reality dispersed her dreams like bubbles hitching a ride on an afternoon breeze.
The superimposed image of Lance faded, Squadron Commander Zach Dawson easing into focus. His rangy body towered until his head just missed brushing the doorway.
How could she have mistaken the two men for even a second? The shorter Lance had been built more like a wrestler as opposed to the commander's lean runner's frame.
No, he wasn't Lance. But he was here and in her doorway for a visit. Time to piece together some composure and quit gawking at the man before she proved once again what a flop she was at being a reserved Air Force wife. No surprise, since she'd never fit the white-glove mold from day one. Those barefoot childhood years in the commune had left their indelible stamp on her.
"Hello, Colonel," she said, dropping the lieutenant part of his rank as protocol demanded in conversation, just another inexplicable quirk of military lingo. They may have developed a surprising friendship over the last few months, but even so, protocol stood.
er 1
Lieutenant Colonel Zach Dawson liked to think he'd learned a few lessons after sixteen years in the Air Force, ninety-seven combat missions, two weeks as an Iraqi POW and one very speedy divorce. More important, he'd learned that being him was a hell of a lot easier than being married to him.
And today, being Zach Dawson was tougher than snow removal in Thule, Greenland.
Zach scooped his LMR—land mobile radio—from the front seat of his truck and loped across the steamy South Carolina hospital parking lot at a slow jog. Nineteen minutes left until visiting hours ended.
Nineteen more minutes, then his longest Friday on record would be over.
Duty dictated he pay a courtesy call to new mother Julia Sinclair, the widow of one of his pilots. Conscience insisted her loss couldn't be repaid with any simple hospital visit. But for today, that's all he could do, give her nineteen inadequate minutes of his time as if it might somehow erase her past eight months alone.
If only the radio gripped in his hand would stay silent. Zach clutched the LMR tighter, sprinting past a decorative pond toward the glass doors.
As commander of a Charleston Air Force Base C-17 squadron, he kept that radio plastered to his side—his walkie-talkie "pipeline to the flight line." Since the radio was tailor-made, with frequencies acceptable even in a hospital, Zach never slipped out of range. He even slept with the thing. Not much of a life to offer someone else.
Nope, he didn't blame his ex in the least for walking. He did, however, resent like hell that she'd abandoned their children when she'd strolled off with her cooking instructor boyfriend.
Ruined Zach's lifelong penchant for brownies—and robbed his two daughters of their mother.
He swallowed a curse as the hospital doors swooshed open to release a blast of cool, antiseptic air. Normally, he didn't let Pam's leaving get to him. His father had shown him well how anger had a way of leveling everything it touched faster than a SCUD missile.
Zach had too many people counting on him to indulge in a momentary vent that wouldn't accomplish anything constructive.
But as he entered the hospital to visit Julia Sinclair and her fatherless son, thoughts of children missing a parent just hit Zach damned wrong.
He flipped his wrist to check his watch. Seventeen minutes left and—
The radio crackled. "Wolf One, this is Command Post. Over."
Wolf One, radio code for the Squadron Commander, which meant trouble. He'd checked in with the control tower before leaving. While he couldn't be off-line, he'd requested non-emergency questions be directed to Wolf Two, his second in command.
Zach shifted his focus to work-mode and answered without breaking stride. No need to change course until he assessed the situation. "Wolf One here, go ahead, Command Post."
"Sir, this is Lieutenant Walker. I have a phone patch from Moose two-zero. Please initiate."
"Roger, Command Post. Break, break," he answered, chanting the lingo to change who he was speaking to as he rounded the reception desk. He mentally scanned the day's flight schedule. The mission flying under the call sign Moose two-zero would be—Captain Tanner "Bronco" Bennett's crew. A crew not scheduled to land until 0100 hours. The early call could only mean an in-flight problem. "Moose two-zero, this is Wolf One. Go ahead."
"Roger, Wolf One." The connection buzzed with interference from the plane's roaring engines. "This is Bronco. Moose two-zero is aborting the mission due to equipment malfunction. Nose gear's stuck in the Up position. We've tried everything, sir. We're currently holding ten miles east of the field while waiting for word on what to do next."
Damn. The day from hell had just plunged to a level lower than even old Dante could have penned. Zach twined around a couple carrying flowers, past the gift shop, toward the elevators. "Roger, Bronco. Put a call through to the aircraft's manufacturer for further input on options."
"Yes, sir. I'd like to do just that, but Command Post refused our request to speak with the technicians on-call at the manufacturer."