Disbelief slowed Zach's steps. "Say again."
"Command Post refuses to place the call."
Disbelief gave way to a slow burn. Zach stopped in front of the elevator, stabbing the Up button. "Break, break," he called to switch speakers. "Command Post, I assume you have a good reason for denying my man's perfectly reasonable request."
Bronco might be a new aircraft commander, but he had solid air sense, a gifted set of flying hands and top-notch knowledge of the aircraft. And all that could only haul him through so far if he didn't have the proper ground support, support Zach would make sure became available.
No way in hell was he losing another crew on his watch. Never again would he tell a woman her husband wasn't coming home. Julia Sinclair's eyes full of restrained tears still haunted his waking as well as sleeping hours. "Well, Lieutenant?'
“Sir, Training Flight is already reading through the tech manuals to find a solution."
That burn simmered hotter, firing Zach's determination. Not that he would let it overheat.
Once the shouting started, the battle was lost. "Let me get this straight. While my flyers are up there tooling around the skies with busted nose gear, you're telling them not to worry because you've got folks holding a study session with the instruction manual?
Lieutenant, if my man Bronco says he's tried everything, then that's exactly what he's done. Time to look for answers outside our base."
"The Wing Commander says we're over budget. No unnecessary consultation calls. We can handle this one in-house."
Zach stepped into the elevator, ignoring the curious stares from an elderly couple wearing Proud Grandparent pins. "Now maybe I'm just slow on the uptake today, Lieutenant, but I have a question," he drawled, taking his sweet Texas time to let the quiet heat of his words steam through the radio waves. "Do you really think the Wing Commander meant that to save five thousand dollars on a consultation call we're gonna land a plane nose gear up and do half a million dollars worth of damage? Do you think that's what the Wing Commander meant about saving money?'
Silence crackled for three elevator dings. "Sir, I'm just repeating what Wolf Two said. He gave the order."
Frustration bubbled closer to the surface. He should have known his second in command was behind this, a narrow-minded, micro-managing ass who couldn't see the big picture if it swallowed him whole. All the more reason Zach couldn't relinquish control of his squadron for even a second.
"And this is Wolf One overriding that command," Zach enunciated softly, slowly. He would take the hit from the Wing Commander later without hesitation. "I assume full responsibility, Lieutenant. Place the call."
"Dialing now, sir."
Zach exhaled with the swoosh of the opening elevator doors. "Roger, Lieutenant. Expect me on the runway in—" He glanced at his watch as he plowed into the hall. "Forty minutes."
That would give him ten minutes with Julia Sinclair and still have him back at base well before they put that plane down. No need to leave now. There was nothing he could do on the runway until Bronco landed. Time management was everything in his job. He couldn't fritter away valuable minutes waiting around, because he would undoubtedly need them for some other emergency in the morning.
Seeing Julia wouldn't be any easier tomorrow anyway.
He checked the arrows directing him toward her room number and turned left. So much for finishing up early enough to enjoy a video and popcorn with his kids.
The crisis made for a fitting end to a hell of a day. A day that had started with a memorandum stating the Inspector General's intent to reopen the investigation into the fatal crash of one of Zach's crews eight months ago.
And now it was time to face Lance Sinclair's widow, a woman as much Zach's responsibility as any of his aviators. A woman who needed the one thing he could never give her back.
A father for her child.
* * *
Julia Sinclair had never hurt so much in her life. If she didn't get some help from the nursing support group soon, her br**sts would explode.
Sitting on her hospital bed with a pillow in her lap, Julia jostled her son and tried to urge his face into the correct nursing position. At least, she thought it was right from everything she'd studied in childbirth classes.
Breastfeeding had seemed so easy, so natural—in theory. Hadn't women been doing this since the beginning of time? Apparently her son didn't know that. After twenty minutes of unproductive attempts, he'd fallen asleep.
Julia burrowed her hand under the baby blanket to tickle his toes. Patrick tucked his tiny knees into the swaddling and snoozed on.
"Headstrong little guy, aren't you?" Her watery laugh tripped over itself. Tears blurred the soothing birthing room decor of mauve and forest-green to pure gray.
She wanted this so damned much. Just a simple wish, to nurse her child, likely the only baby she would ever have.
One persistent tear eked free. Julia knuckled it aside with a determined swipe. "Stupid hormones."