Free Blackbirds by Garry Ryan Page A

landed somewhere else.”
    Sharon stood up and walked away. “Maybe the air taxi is here.” Couldn’t have been her! You arrogant pricks! She felt her body vibrate with anger.
    As she passed the mouth of a hangar, a voice said, “I hear the female pilots are getting four extra days off every month. It seems they’re unable to fly because of the curse.”
    Sharon turned and saw Bloggs in the shade next to the hangar. There were other men with him, smoking.
    One of them laughed.
    â€œWhat did you say?” Sharon walked toward them. You superior bastards!
    Two of the men laughed and prodded Bloggs. His face turned red.
    â€œI asked you a question!” Sharon stopped less than a yard from Bloggs.
    Bloggs took a step back.
    â€œWell?” Stop baiting him!
    He moved a bit to her right.
    Sharon’s hands made fists. “Having trouble dealing with a woman who’s not afraid of you?”
    Bloggs turned to the men, who were laughing at him. One held his arm up to point at Sharon, then dropped it limply to his side.
    â€œHey, you lot!” the voice came from behind Sharon.
    The men stopped laughing and dropped their cigarettes.
    Sharon turned to face her father.
    â€œThe war’s not waiting on you boys. We’ve got a new Spitfire that needs guns and ammunition. We’re short of aircraft after that shambles this morning!” Patrick had his shirtsleeves rolled up and his fists on his hips. “And you!” He pointed at Bloggs. “Is that any way to talk to a young lady?”
    Bloggs smirked. “She’s far from being a lady.”
    â€œYou smarmy bastard, she’s my daughter!” Patrick cocked his arms, made fists and moved closer to Bloggs.
    Sharon had never felt a combination of pride at being her father’s daughter and fear that he was about to beat Bloggs to a bloody pulp.
    Mechanics appeared from inside the hangar to join the smokers. “Oi!”
    â€œWhat’s got your wind up?” a mechanic asked.
    Several of the men got in between Patrick and Bloggs.
    One said, “Sergeant Major! He’s just another posh bastard with a pair of wings!”
    Bloggs backed up a few steps, then retreated down the side of the hangar.
    The mechanics studied Sharon with renewed interest.
    â€œShould’ve known!” one said.
    â€œWhat’s that mean, Nigel?” Patrick asked.
    â€œI heard the pilots talkin’ over there.” Nigel pointed toward the canteen. “They said a pilot broke up a bomber formation, and at least two Jerries went down. They thought she couldn’t have done it, but if she’s your daughter, that would make it entirely possible.” Nigel pushed his shoulders back, waiting for Patrick to do his worst.
    Patrick turned to Sharon. “You flew through a Nazi formation?”
    Sharon nodded.
    Patrick put his hand to his forehead. “Christ!”
    â€œIt’s not like I went looking for trouble,” Sharon said.
    â€œBut trouble sure has a way of finding you!” Patrick pointed at his men. “Get that new Spitfire fitted out. We’ll need it to be ready to go as soon as possible.”
    The crew wended its way into the hangar.
    â€œI’d better go and get a ride back to White Waltham,” Sharon said.
    â€œThat might be a bit of a problem.” He walked alongside her.
    She breathed in the scent of him under the oil and the shaving cream.
    The pilot of the air taxi was asleep under the wing of the Anson.
    â€œDrunken bastard,” Patrick said.
    Sharon saw Roger on his back with an arm draped over his eyes. He was snoring. “Dad, can you give me a hand?”
    The word was out before she could think about it. It hung there for a minute.
    â€œYes.” Patrick’s voice broke. He put his hand over his mouth and pretended to cough.
    They picked up the snoring Roger and hefted him in through the back door of the aircraft.
    Patrick said, “Christ, he