Chapter 1 #2
Millie Aldrich might have been a dish, but no woman was worth risking his job over.
They walked over to the breakroom, and Ernie scanned the whitewashed picnic tables and chairs for his new charge. No sign of her.
“Where is she?” The room was empty except for a young pilot with his back to them, studying the enormous blackboard covering one wall that displayed everyone’s flight schedules for the week ahead. Then the pilot turned.
Holy mackerel! It was her. She might have had a slim, boyish figure, but there was no mistaking the feminine contours of her face or the inviting pink bow of those lips.
Mr. Dickson cleared his throat. “Miss Aldrich, this is Mr. Pritchard. He’s the best pilot we have, and he’ll be showing you the ropes. Pritchard, Miss Aldrich.”
“Thank you. Nice to meet you, Pritchard.” Millie Aldrich held out her hand expectantly, standing there in tan canvas pants and brown leather jacket, her blonde hair peeking out of her aviator cap, goggles askew on the top of her head.
She was a devastatingly attractive woman despite her mannish attire. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining those gams in silk stockings and one of those nice short flapper-girl dresses like she wore in the magazine pictures. Steady now, Ernie. Remember what Mr. Dickson said about fraternization.
“A pleasure to meet you too, Miss Aldrich.” Ernie met her gaze, finding his tongue at last. She looked him straight in the eyes with an intensity that made him uneasy as he took her hand and shook it.
Something sparked between them when their hands touched, though whether it was good or bad, he couldn’t say.
Probably bad. This assignment had disaster written all over it.
Ernie straightened. “Thank you for the introduction, Mr. Dickson, I’ll take it from here.”
Mr. Dickson made a beeline for the door, leaving Ernie alone with her. Under other circumstances, he might have tried to charm her. But he couldn’t afford to get sidetracked. “Tell me, Miss Aldrich, how much experience do you have with distance flying?”
“A little,” she answered. “But not as much as I’d like. Mostly, I’ve flown in air shows and films.”
As if that was supposed to impress him. Ernie shook his head.
“Distance flying isn’t like barnstorming.
It requires different skills and more stamina.
And most of the old rust buckets we fly are on the verge of falling apart.
In this line of work, a mistake or malfunction can be deadly.
Are you sure this is something you want to try? ”
She narrowed her eyes at him, her lips a thin line. “Quite sure.”
So she was stubborn. This was going to be harder than he thought.
Letting out a long sigh, he poured himself a cup of coffee. He was far too tired for this nonsense.
“Come on.” He took a scalding sip and headed for the door. “Let me show you the planes.”
Dear God, the coffee was awful, but it least it lifted his brain fog.
He led the way from the breakroom back to the hangar, trying to come up with better ways to dissuade her.
Wending his way through the dozen or so airplanes in the cavernous space, he tried to ignore the curious gazes of the mechanics at work.
Fortunately, the reporter was nowhere in sight.
He stopped beside the oldest, most beat-up plane they had in service, hoping it would make her nervous.
“You know, flying the mail is a dangerous job. We fly long distances in all kinds of weather. It isn’t like barnstorming where you can call off for the day if conditions don’t look right.
” It wasn’t a job for a dilettante or anyone in their right mind, really.
Fire flashed in her eyes. “And you think I’m not up to it.”
“No offense, Miss Aldrich, but I wouldn’t recommend this job to anyone, man or woman. Do you have any idea how often we go down? Fourteen people have died in the two years since service started. They’ve nicknamed us Uncle Sam’s Suicide Club.”
“Then why do you do it?”
Good question, but he wasn’t going to take the bait. “I love to fly. They pay me to do it, and no one shoots at me.”
“But you don’t think I should do it.”
Not if you’re just here to show me up. Of course, he couldn’t say that out loud.
His stomach growled, and he ignored it. “Miss Aldrich, these planes aren’t built for the distances we fly.
I’d say my fuel runs out shy of my destination one out of five trips, and I end up landing in a farmer’s field without engines.
And that’s if I’m lucky and haven’t had a mechanical failure.
Our fleet is made up of army hand-me-downs. They break down as often as they work.”
He patted the fuselage of the beat-up Jenny.
The paint was scratched and worn down to the wood in places.
“Then there’s the fact that you’re in an open cockpit at altitude.
Even with a leather suit, it is painfully cold up there, especially come winter.
And we fly all year round, Miss Aldrich, regardless of weather.
If it is physically possible to get off the ground, we fly. ”
She bristled beside him.
Good. He was getting through.