Free Hover by Anne A. Wilson Page B

frustrated—a host of emotions playing on his face. “Come on,” he says, finally. “We’re going to be late.”

 
    9
    â€œAbout time you two showed,” Stuart calls out as we walk into the wardroom.
    â€œSorry, my fault, Grady,” Eric says, using what I now gather is the preferred way for the group to address Stuart—by his last name.
    We pull out chairs to sit when Brian leans into Eric’s ear. “Did you get the word that the skipper wanted to see you?” he asks.
    Eric nods grimly. “I just came from there.”
    â€œWhat is it?” Brian says worriedly.
    Eric lets out a resigned sigh. “It’s confirmed.”
    â€œConfirmed…?” Brian looks at Eric for some time with a questioning expression, but I see it in his eyes when he figures it out—whatever “it” is. They share a long and knowing look before taking their seats and turning their attention to Grady, who has started … singing?
    Stuart Grady can’t be more than five foot five, but it’s sixty-five inches of spunk and madness. The episode with Captain Plank and the brief exchange between Brian and Eric are soon forgotten as Grady leads one of the funniest, most dynamic training lectures I can remember, launching into an extended rap about Russian submarines, the backbeat provided by Ben, Rob, and Ken.
    Over the course of the hour, Eric’s mood lightens, not only because of Stuart’s hilarity, but also because of the easygoing chemistry of this pilot group. Even after the song ends, the guys keep it fun, jokes flying nonstop, one snappy witticism after another.
    Through it all, I’m lulled into a false sense of security. I sit next to Eric, who now laughs alongside me. We joke. We smile. The defenses that are normally up and shored well have slackened. I don’t need them here.
    So I’m totally unprepared for what Commander Claggett has waiting when I return to the hangar to check in prior to lunch. I walk into the maintenance office and he’s standing there, red. Make that purple.
    â€œCome with me,” he says.
    He leads me out of the hangar to the far end of the flight deck behind our aircraft so we’re hidden from view. And then he explodes.
    â€œWhere have you been?” he shouts.
    â€œI—”
    â€œHow long did you wait after I left before you took off?”
    â€œWhat—”
    â€œThis isn’t a fucking vacation! The men need to see you here and you need to learn this shit! It’s called professionalism!”
    Professionalism? How dare he accuse—
    â€œI want your ass in front of this bird until the transmission is in!”
    He starts to march away and I think he’s finished.
    â€œAnd you sure as hell better be in the fuckin’ aircraft the very second we’re cleared for functional checks!” he says, turning.
    I grit my teeth, fists clenched. Hold your tongue, Sara. Hold your tongue.
    He stomps away. But he’s still not finished. He wheels back, his body rigid.
    â€œAnd you haven’t once come to me to debrief the flight. Fuck, I have no idea where you’ve been hiding! I had to search you out for the goddamn Hazard Report. And has there been any follow-up on your part for that? Let me answer that. No. Has there been any initiative shown on your part whatsoever to ask me what’s needed or what you can do to help this process along? No. But hey, you got your shower in. That was high on the priority list. I saw the guys waiting in line for you. I saw that! And then you had your fucking clothes washed? Are you fucking kidding me? And you were supposed to write the award nominations! Not Marxen! You’re treating this whole thing like a goddamn slumber party when this is fuckin’ serious shit!”
    â€œBut I was there!” I shout, pointing. “I was right there! All morning!”
    â€œSave it!” he says, and storms off before I can get in