Chapter 12
Gray gripped the stick and flew. Beach music pulsed trough the interphone. No one argued or grumbled. This was his flight.
But he wasn't singing. The shock on Lori's face when he'd told her about his move kept blindsiding him.
Damn it, he needed to fly the plane.
Air-to-air refueling demanded concentration. Twenty-five thousand feet in the air, he eased up behind the tanker that would off-load the gas they needed to complete the mission.
Routine grounded him as he maneuvered the stick and mumbled through steps he'd completed hundreds of times before. "Visual references … lined up. Bump the throttles— Oops, too much. Pull it back. Wings level. Got good closure. Back … off … it and … level it right there." Gray called to the copilot. "Refueling checklist complete?"
Bronco slapped his checklist closed. "Roger. Checklist complete. Two green lights. Tanker ready to pass some gas."
"Uh-huh." Not in the mood for crew dog exchanges, Gray had let Bronco's lame jokes slide all day.
The tanker's long metal boom, an enclosed gas hose, dropped, connected, and the two aircraft flew in tandem twenty-two feet apart. Gray settled in for the forty-five-minute refueling with none of his expected excitement.
Refueling offered the greatest challenge in Air Force flying, short of combat, and he couldn't even find a song he wanted to sing.
Damn.
Gray adjusted his air speed.
Bronco stretched in the confined space. "Done any house hunting up in Washington yet?"
"Nope."
"But you've got a couple weeks permissive leave to look, right?"
"Uh-huh."
Bronco shifted in his seat, drummed his fingers on the panel. Shifted again. "Sure hope those firemen down there got the right hoses hooked up for you. Remember when they sprayed Sasquach with the yellow foam? Guy looked jaundiced for a week."
"Yeah." On a normal day Bronco was talkative, but the guy was downright chatty today with no signs of letting up.
"You're gonna pull some awesome Pacific trips with this new assignment. Temporary duty to Hawaii. Guam. Philippines. Japan. Great shopping."
Shopping. Thoughts of Barbie houses and Capri pants made Gray flinch.
"Hey, Cutter?"
"What?"
"You'd better talk to me, man, or I'm going to yank these throttles, knock you off the boom and then tell everyone you screwed up refueling on your finit flight."
Gray shot a quick glance at Bronco before returning his concentration to the plane flying in front of him. "Sorry. Were you talking to me?"
"Funny."
"Hey, Lance," Gray shot over his shoulder to the senior pilot in the instructor seat. "You actually let your copilot talk?"
"Sorry. He snuck that in while my mouth was full. Really great cookies today. Want one?" The bag rattled behind Gray's shoulder.
"No, thanks."
Silence settled over them, broken only by sporadic calls through the headset. Not at all like times he usually flew with these guys.
Tag was best of the best, one of the old guard. Lancelot had a great set of flying hands, a solid pilot, even if Gray didn't hang with him much outside the airplane. Rumor had it Lance's party habits, combined with job stress, had put his marriage on the line more than once. But he had an air sense Gray trusted.