God, he loved flying.
But today's mission wasn't about flying.
The crew bus jarred along the South American runway. Zach scanned the horizon, morning sun cradled between two mountains. He would take to the skies soon. Today, come hell or high water, he would find answers to Lance Sinclair's crash.
As the Squadron Commander, Zach accepted he would live with the weight of that crew's death on his shoulders for the rest of his life. But through this flight he hoped to find a sort of closure, lay Lance Sinclair's ghost to rest in his own mind so he could claim Julia as his own.
Nothing from the past between them.
Rows separated each member of his crew as they spread throughout the bus. No normal pre-flight banter or laughs rang through the tin can of a bus rattling along the asphalt.
The runway stretched ahead of them alongside a string of mountains, control tower perched to the left. Lush green peaks characteristic of the tropical landscape made flying through this airspace challenging—and potentially deadly.
Silence echoed. A funeral-like solemnity fogged through the compartment.
Grayson "Cutter" Clark, co-pilot for the mission, sprawled sideways in his seat, back against the window. The renegade flight surgeon, one of the few who flew as well as healed, had packed away his do-rag and CDs. No practical jokes or impromptu concerts today.
In the middle of the last row, normally chatty Bronco Bennett sat, looming stone-silent, boots planted, hands on knees and staring straight ahead. With his prior experience as a C-130 navigator, he would plot a detailed longitude-latitude log. Forget relying solely on computerized data. And finally the loadmaster, Jim Price, senior in service years, but still an enigma around the squadron when it came to anything other than work. The man lived for the Air Force and would go to any lengths to protect military honor.
Zach could identify with that.
Flipping his headset over in his lap, he bent and twisted the ear cups to adjust the fit, steadying himself in pre-flight routine. Damn things never stayed set right. He tossed them aside restlessly.
The gray aircraft loomed ahead of them, tip to tail one hundred and seventy-four feet long and nearly that long across in wingspan. Two days ago, they'd flown in medical supplies for a local village, then spent the next day mission-planning for the flight out when they would refly Sinclair's doomed mission.
Retracing the route was a common investigative technique in accident inquiries and had already been utilized. Twice. With the same conclusion. Pilot error—for lack of a better answer.
Pilot error. The epitaph every flyer dreaded.
Every man on the bus knew that accident report could have held his name. Their wives and children could have been the recipients of the front-porch visit from the commander.
Military spouses deserved the assurance that the Air Force would do whatever it took to retrieve the fallen body or honor of a comrade in arms. They'd all pulled combat time with Lance, trusted him with their lives as he'd entrusted his to them.
They wouldn't fail him now.
Zach grabbed his headset from the seat again, tweaking the fit. Julia would understand his silence about the mission once he explained. He'd worked like hell for five months to find something that would clear the accident report. Yeah, he'd kept quiet about more details than security required. But after a year where Julia was already juggling new baby with special needs and coming to terms with widowhood, he couldn't see that she needed to hear about him flying her dead husband's final flight.
Zach shoved aside niggling reservations. Now wasn't the time to question himself, not when doubts could shake his focus.
Had Lance allowed home-life concerns to rock his concentration?
No. Once they closed the hatch, training and instinct from thousands of hours in that seat assumed command. The flyer became one with the machine. Zach had to believe that or he was going to be in a helluva mess once he took to the skies.
The bus jerked to a stop beside the aircraft.
Mission time. Today, he would erase that "pilot error" blot. Today, for this crew, the outcome would be different from the results of the investigative team, because for these men, it was personal.
And for Zach, it couldn't get any more personal than the woman waiting at home for him.
"Okay, crew, let's roll."
* * *
"You sure did roll in late last Friday night." From the picnic table, Kathleen pinned Julia with a curious stare and mischievous gleam that promised a lengthy girl-chat to pump for information. Strolling to the tire swing, Julia looked to Lori Clark by Patrick's swing for help and found nothing more than a second set of inquisitive eyes peering back. She reminded herself that the friends surrounding her in her backyard were a blessing.
A nosy blessing.
Julia pushed the tire swing dangling from the tree, launching squeals from the Clarks'