The best thing he could do for Lance, for all the others, was keep his head on straight and find out what the hell went wrong, so it wouldn't happen again. It wasn't the same as flying combat, but at least he would be doing something. If the warehouse held those answers, he would find them.
Gravel crunched under the tires as Kathleen pulled precisely into a spot marked Visitor. One slim leg at a time, she stepped from the car.
Time to implement boundaries. Tanner joined her outside. "I ran into Crusty at the coffee machine earlier, back at the squadron."
"Oh?" Wind howled across the desert, tearing the door from her hands and slamming it closed. "What did he have to say?"
"Nothing much, not in the middle of squadron. We're going to meet later for a beer over at the Wing and a Prayer Bar and Grill."
"Good thinking." She tucked the keys in the leg pocket of her flight suit before following Tanner up the walkway. "Should I bring my tape recorder or just a notepad?"
And spend an entire evening together? Not a chance. "You're kidding, right?"
"About what?"
He tugged open the heavy steel door. "It's better if I meet him alone. You know, Doc. Crew dog to crew dog."
Her eyes narrowed. "Right. This doc definitely understands."
She shot through the entrance without another word, her determined stride kicking up a miniature sandstorm. What had he done now? He was only trying to plow through the investigation as fast as possible.
And avoid spending more time with her.
Tanner shrugged through a kink in his back brought on by an uneasiness that had nothing to do with a pinched nerve.
Inside the factory, the main warehouse gaped into a wide-open space. Tanner pulled off his sunglasses and hooked them in the neck of his flight suit.
Metal rafters webbed the ceiling over workstations. The rattle of machinery, grinding metal and repetitious clanging mixed a ragtag chorus with the low drone of Christmas music.
Jingle Bells gone rogue. How appropriate for his lack of holiday spirit.
From beside a workstation, a man stepped forward, wearing khakis and a red polo bearing the test facility logo. With a full head of prematurely gray hair, he might have been mistaken for older, but Tanner pegged him at around forty.
The man's easy swagger carried him across the warehouse toward Tanner and Kathleen. He squinted, staring at the name tags on their flight suits. "Captains O'Connell and Bennett from the base investigation. I heard you two were on your way." He thrust out his hand. "Quinn Marshall, head of this little corner of the testing world. What can I do for you?">"What happened?"
"There wasn't room in our bed for me and his ego." She paused, then mumbled, "Not to mention his girlfriends."
Tanner stayed silent so long Kathleen pulled her eyes from the road to glance over at him. He stared back, and she didn't have to see through his sunglasses to know his eyes weren't smiling.
His brows pulled together. "I'm sorry."
A sympathetic Tanner was even more tempting than an amusing Tanner. Kathleen focused on the road, a safer place to look, anyway. "I was, too, but not anymore. It's over, and I learned from it. Life's about learning from our mistakes, right?"
"Sounds like he was the problem. What mistake did you make?"
"Falling for a hotshot pilot."
Her peripheral vision caught the ripple and flex of muscles along Tanner's legs as his feet worked the floorboards again. When he didn't flash back with a smart remark, she found her own words bubbling free with unusual chattiness.
"I don't do relationships with pilots anymore. Call it my own mojo if you will. Besides, with my job it isn't wise to mix the personal and professional." She couldn't help but wonder who she was trying to convince.
His hand fisted on his knee, twitching. Like flying a plane?
Tanner was thinking too much, and that didn't bode well for her. She'd found he packed quite a brain behind those jet-jock glasses. Time to turn the conversation around before he had her sharing things she would undoubtedly regret. "What's your ritual? Or are you a lucky charm kind of guy? What do you cart around in those pockets?"
That stopped his pseudo flying. Tanner's hand unclenched. "A St. Joseph's medal."
A pulse throbbed faster in his temple. Apparently she'd hit an untouchable subject, and the last thing she wanted was to press for emotional confidences.