Free Touch the Heavens by Lindsay McKenna Page A

were pushing in on her chest. Chris moaned, calling to Jim.
    Jim , what’s wrong?
    I don’t know.
    The pressure of the dive increased as the sleek, needlelike T-38 dived toward the earth thirty-nine thousand feet below them. The Gs were so awesome that Chris was smashed against the seat, barely able to move her hands from their position on her thighs. Her heart was racing. She heard Jim’s harsh breathing coming through the earphones.
    “Damn—Chris, grab the stick and hit the left rudder hard. I can’t unlock the right rudder.”
    Her heart pounded as the T-38 hurtled into the spin, its long nose pointed at the dry Texas desert, now thirty-thousand feet below them. Was it hydraulic failure? It took every vestige of strength to get her hand to the stick. Her fingers wrapped strongly about it. She shoved her booted left foot forward, putting all her weight on the rudder beneath it. Nothing moved! The scream of the jet continued. Her head was pressed against the seat, and she was unable to move it one inch either way. The altimeter showing their altitude was unwinding like a broken spring.
    “We’ve got to punch out!” she cried. “It’s locked! It’s locked!”
    “No!” Jim gasped. “It’s not hydraulic. Something’s jammed under the rudder. Damn! Pull harder!”
    Fear twisted through her. Her eyeballs felt as if they were getting pushed through the back of her skull. The T-38 spun in an almost vertical dive toward the parched brown earth. Chris could feel the right rudder give slightly. But not enough. Not enough! “It’s stuck!” she gasped. “Punch out!” Sweat bathed her body, and a scream tore from her lips as the altimeter showed only fifteen thousand feet left between them and the ground. As always in the recurring nightmare, everything from this point on became a slow-motion blur. She was on the edge of blacking out, Jim’s frantic breathing rasped over the headphones. In wild desperation he tried to work the right rudder free.
    Chris moaned, crying out. Suddenly she was thrown violently awake by the ejection sequence. Another man’s voice broke through the chaos of wind howling at her, pounding her body, tearing the visor off her helmet. Chris became aware of arms around her, holding her, rocking her. A sob tore loose from deep within her. The scent of Dan’s body, his warmth and lean strength sponged slowly through her fragmented, cartwheeling brain. Chris felt the texture of corduroy against her wet cheek, heard the steadying beat of his heart against the turmoil of hers. “Oh, God,” she whimpered, burying her head more deeply against his cradling shoulder. “Oh, God....”
    Dan held her tightly, one hand against her blue black hair, the other around her trembling sweat-soaked body. “Ssh,” he soothed softly against her ear, “it’s all right. You’re here now and you’re safe, Raven.” His eyes mirrored the anguish he heard. Dan had arrived at exactly eight and knocked on the door. There had been no answer at first. And then he heard Chris cry out. He called her name. She had not answered. Grimly, he had put his hand around the doorknob, twisting it open. Luckily it was unlocked, and he stepped into her apartment. She was lying there on the couch, face contorted in sleep, sobbing.
    Her words were almost unintelligible as he sat down on the couch, taking her into his arms. He was no stranger to nightmares himself and recognized that Chris was reliving some tragic flying sequence. Words such as “punch out” and “it’s locked” were torn from her lips as she wrestled to escape the clutches of the event clothed in the mantle of sleep.
    Dan held her, stroking her ebony hair, whispering words of comfort. Her body was damp and trembling. He closed his eyes, pressing his head against her fragrant hair. How many times had he awakened in a sweat after his days in Vietnam. Far too many. It was no different for Chris. What trauma from her past had caused this kind of reaction? His