Taking Cover (Wingmen Warriors 2)

Maybe he only took note now since he was between relationships himself. He liked having a steady woman in his life, regardless of what Kathleen might think. Okay, so his relationships usually self-destructed after about six months, but that didn't mean he hadn't tried.

Damn it, he wasn't commitment shy.

He could almost hear her snort of disdain over the clank of beer bottles.

"Bronco!" a male voice shouted from the back corner.

Tanner pivoted and found Daniel "Crusty" Baker waving from two tables over. Wiry and an inch shy of six feet, Crusty looked as if he'd just rolled out of the sack. A rumpled flight suit, crooked patches and a severe case of bed-head marked the guy as slack.

Appearances were deceiving. Reputation labeled him a sharp pilot with solid air sense that had gained him a chest full of medals for his flights over Afghanistan.

Tanner thumped his old classmate on the back. "Hey, bud! How's it going?"

"Bennett, my man." Crusty finished stuffing French fries in his mouth, then swiped his salty fingers down his flight suit before shaking hands. "I see you're still determined to pass up the big bucks and ball-field glory with the Broncos for a pair of silver wings."

"What can I say? The job comes with a leather jacket and cool toys."

"That it does."

Tanner waved for the Santa-clad bartender and ordered two beers. During their Academy days, Crusty had worked in the football video lab, taping games for later analysis. Tanner had spent more than a few hours with his classmate while Crusty spun tapes, as well as fantasies about their training officer, Cadet O'Connell.

Geez, couldn't a guy even go out for a beer without that woman creeping into his thoughts?

Crusty gripped his long-neck bottle like a throttle. "So you're here to hang me out to dry."

Tanner leaned back in his chair. "Should I?"

"What do the after-action reports tell you?"

"Not much, but my Squadron Commander says your hands brought the plane down safely."

Scratching along the neck of his flight suit, Crusty knocked his squadron scarf farther askew. "That doesn't mean they're not going to try and pin this on me by claiming something happened earlier."

"Did it? Hey, we're human. All it takes is for the airspeed to be a little off during the drop, the wings cranked—"

"No!" Crusty snatched his beer from the table. "Damn it, they always want to blame it on the pilot. It's easier than admitting they screwed up somewhere higher in the chain."

"I hear you." He understood too well, and it tore at him. A part of him sided with the brotherhood, didn't want it to be a career-ending crew mistake. "I don't want it to be your fault, but we gotta figure this one out before it happens again."

"Check the in-flight tapes." Crusty tipped his beer, nursing a long swig.

"Wish I could." Tanner eased his chair back on two legs. He searched his friend's eyes and waited.>Tanner stepped up and returned the firm shake, trying to place why the man's name seemed so familiar beyond just a line item in a file. "We could start with a tour of the facility, while you give us a handle on the testing process."

"Certainly. Happy to do what I can to speed this along, so you folks'll clear on out of my work space."

"That's what we're hoping for. While we're walking around, we'd like your secretary to make copies of some files. We'll need all the test data on your modification for the load ramp's cargo-release system." Tanner watched for any hint of hesitation, a flash of reluctance, and found nothing.

"Of course." Quinn Marshall snagged a phone from the wall, punched in a number and clipped out instructions. Replacing the receiver, he nodded to Tanner and Kathleen. "All set. Follow me."

As Kathleen strode past, her minty fragrance lingered, distracted, so much so that Tanner almost missed the scowl pulling her mouth into a tight line. What had her twisted now? And why was he letting her moods crank a new knot in his back?

No way did he need to waste time, energy and waking thoughts, not to mention sleeping ones, on Kathleen. He forced his attention to Quinn Marshall's tour guide explanations.

"The modification in question on the C-17 load ramp has ten parts. Each of those parts was tested before being installed on the plane. Stress tests. Repetition tests. Heat tests. Then they were X-rayed for cracks."

Marshall pushed open a door, revealing a room about half the size of a football field, dominated by what looked like a huge pizza oven. A vent funneled heat to the outside, but the place still dripped with sweltering humidity. And that humidity now carried the distinctive scent of Kathleen's shampoo.

Tanner skimmed his finger along the neck of his flight suit and wandered toward the mammoth oven—away from Kathleen. "Nice roomy setup you've got."