"Square footage is cheap in the desert." Quinn stopped by a temperature gauge, thumping the dial. "Here's where we run heat tests. The spectrograph gauges ensure the metal heats evenly. It shows the purity of the metal."
Kathleen tugged a notepad from her leg pocket. "Every part goes through this before it's installed?"
"Absolutely."
"So if there's an undetected problem with one, there could be a problem with all of them."
"In theory."
Frowning, Kathleen nodded as she jotted notes on the pad. She walked alongside Tanner while they toured the warehouse room by room. Tanner peppered Quinn Marshall with questions. Kathleen scribbled pages of notes.
Tanner listened, yet couldn't stop his mind from winging back to his crew. He might be out of action, but he tracked his squadron's missions. At that moment supplies were being off-loaded in a Sentavian refugee camp. Without him.
What if one of those planes had a defective part and it kicked in on this mission or the next? He thought of recent flights with Lance, how he'd hauled Lance's butt out of the fire more than once. Tanner shifted from foot to foot restlessly. If he wrapped this up in a few days, he could be back in action for a full month before upgrade…
Except for his back.
He wanted to put his fist through a wall. Which would probably throw his back out. Kathleen would toss him in the infirmary before he could say "upgrade slot."
Quinn completed his tour, ending in the main hallway of the brick office sections. "The copies you wanted should be ready by now. Detailed test data…" He pointed through the door to a slender man talking on a cell phone by the soda machine. "All signed by that guy over there. The defense department inspector."
Kathleen thumbed through her notes. "Randall Fitzgerald."
"Right."
Tanner assessed the man by the vending machine—late thirties, clean-cut with suspenders. A government paper pusher worth interviewing later.
Pencil poised, Kathleen nodded. "So, Quinn, how long does—"
Tanner jerked his attention from the government inspector and snapped his fingers. "Quinn! 'The Mighty Quinn' Marshall. I knew I'd heard your name before. You used to be on active duty, a C-130 pilot back in Desert Storm."
Quinn's chest puffed. "A lot of years ago."
Kathleen flipped her notebook closed. "I'm going to find a ladies' room while you boys shoot down your wristwatches with your hands."
Quinn nodded absently. "Yeah, sure, straight ahead past the soda machine, then right."
"Thanks."
Tanner's eyes trailed Kathleen without his consent. Even constrained in a braid, Kathleen's hair gleamed like a beacon in the dreary factory as she paused by the defense contractor. What was it about that woman?
An evening with his buds at the Wing and a Prayer and he would be back on track.
"What's the deal on her?"
Quinn's voice pulled Tanner's attention, if not his eyes. "She's the flight surgeon on the investigation team."
"No. I mean is she married? Seeing anyone? What?"
Tanner's gaze darted back to The Mighty Quinn. The answer fell free without hesitation. "She doesn't do relationships with pilots."
"Pilots!" Kathleen stepped out of the shower and kicked the boots lying on the bathroom floor. Too bad they didn't have a certain big, blond hotshot inside them.
Cinching her towel tighter around herself, she scooped the uniform off the tile floor. She stuffed it in her laundry bag and wished her frustration could be as easily discarded.
She hadn't accumulated years of medical training only to be banished from crew-dog interviews or to take notes, while Tanner and The Mighty Quinn talked airplanes. Give the doc a pat on the head and send her on her way. Kathleen whipped off her towel and flung it in the tub.
Willing her temper to fade, she slid on ivory lace underwear, her secret indulgence. She hadn't grown up in a house full of fashion-conscious sisters without picking up a few preferences of her own. Expensive matched sets of underwear nurtured a corner of her soul in need of pampering.