8. Bogey
EIGHT
BOGEY
Jules
“Mother-fucking-bliss.”
It’s one of those rare mild days in Houston and I’m standing in one of my favorite places, Ellington Air Field, looking at one of my favorite things, a T-38 jet. Painted white, hence the term “white rocket,” this particular T-38 has a long blue stripe and NASA’s emblem on the side.
Besides the space shuttle and my Ducati, the T-38 is the only other engine that could give me an orgasm on sight. It’s that beautiful.
Bodie nudges me with his shoulder. “And just how did you manage to convince Aircraft Ops to sign off on you taking me up for training while you’re on ‘vacation’?” He air quotes for me.
Idiot.
“Please.” I scoff. “The brass knows any PR spot with NASA’s Starr is a good thing.” I tip my head, gesturing behind him to the crowd of reporters and cameramen.
And I may have bullied my way into getting some air time. Baby cows are cute. Wedding plans—handled. But by God, I need a little reminder of who I am.
Looking over the journalists, Bodie’s eyebrows jump. “Please, you know they’re here for my good looks.”
“Uh huh, sure. Whatever you got to tell yourself at night to stop you from crying over being a glorified human flashlight on EVAs.”
That wipes the grin off his face. He may be a tad insulted over the joke I made when he and I saved the day on our last space walk. But come on , that shit was funny.
“I can’t you wait ‘till I get you up there.” I point to the sky then rub my hands together in glee. “You’ll be the Goose to my Maverick.”
Bodie shoots me a look. “You do know Goose died , right? That’s not a good way to make me feel better about being your wingman.” He mumbles something about wanting to fly next time.
“Ah, details.” I’m feeling happy for the first time since the creeptastic texts from my stalker started.
Bodie’s grumbling isn’t going to get me down.
Honestly? It only helps put me in a better mood.
Plus, flying eight hundred miles per hour through clear skies ought to really get my system back in check.
I clap Bodie on the back, laughing. “Come on, flashlight.” I drop my arm and push him toward the crowd nearby. “Let’s get the boring PR stuff over with.”
“Jules! Can you give us the status on Dr. Lee’s relationship with Flynn West?” a woman shouts.
“Yeah, Jules. What’s the status?” Bodie whispers to me, in a Valley-girl like voice. He bats his lashes too but keeps his faced turned out of sight from the press.
Ugh, how do I live in confined quarters with this guy for months at a time?
“Same as always…” I scan the reporter’s press pass. “Susan from CNN.”
“How is Flynn West these days?” Susan rotates toward me, eager for a juicy detail.
Stepping forward, arms folded across his chest, Bodie glares at the woman.
“Don’t you think there are more important questions to ask than who an astronaut is dating?
” One dark brow raises as he looks the reporter over, contempt on his features.
“Or is it because they’re women you think this is relevant? ”
“Damn, Bodie-wodie, when did you grow a sack?” I mutter while trying to hold my big PR smile in place.
That gets me an eyeroll, which he somehow manages while still staring daggers at the reporter.
Another reporter clears his throat. “Uh, could you tell us about the plane you’ll be flying today?”
I get a look at his pass. “Sure thing, John.” I step back and gesture to the plane behind us.
“This bird here is the Northrop T-38 Talon , a supersonic jet trainer. It has two tandem seats, perfect for training purposes. In fact, this baby is the same model I learned to fly on in the Air Force. Well, almost. NASA’s paint job is a bit nicer. ” I wink for the camera.
“How fast can it go? How high?”
“Great question…”—I squint at his pass—“Harrison. We go 40,000 feet up, 10,000 above general airliners. And the really fun part? It can get up to Mach 1.6.”
“What is the training purpose of astronauts flying the T-38?” another reporter asks.
Not one to play wingman for too long, Bodie answers.
“The T-38 has been an integral part of astronaut training for thirty years. Though it can take astronauts through more than seven Gs, which makes even moving hands and feet difficult, the real importance of having astronauts in the T-38 are the real-time situations and quick thinking needed during flight.”
“What do you mean by real-time?”
While Bodie explains the difference between simulators and actual in-flight training, I scan the sky, impatient to be airborne.
Bodie and Jackie are good with technical talk.
I’m better at doing . My mind wanders to my lists, the wedding thumb drive, and finally to Holt.
I’ve tried not to think of him and his callused hands.
Hands that helped birth a cow. Then watched me video conference in to an all-girls science class I’m mentoring this fall.
And rounded out my interesting day on the ranch by making me a sandwich and discussing varying shapes of crystals to hang from rustic ceiling lights.
I like a guy who can multi-task, who’s comfortable watching me take charge without trying to take over.
My stomach grumbles. He makes a damn good sandwich, too.
Bodie nudges me with his shoulder. Susan looks at me expectantly.
Shit. Focus . Holt doesn’t exist here. I’m about to show these reporters what I can really do. What I’m great at. What will hopefully put me one step closer to commander.
“Care to comment on the reports that you’ve lost your edge?” she asks with an evil smirk. “That the vacation you’ve taken is due to the last spacewalk’s toll on your mental state?”
I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”
Bodie places a hand on my shoulder, making me realize I’d taken a step forward. “Seeing as no one here has any idea what you are talking about, care to elaborate on your so-called reports?” Bodie asks.
I stay quiet. Nothing I say will benefit me or NASA at this point. But if looks could kill, Susan would be a pile of ash right now.
“A source at NASA has come forward with concerns on Julie Starr’s mental state,” Susan finishes, looking smug. I hate salacious reporting. And what I hate even more is a woman trying to snuff out another woman’s moment with petty, untrue bullshit.
“A source at NASA?” Smiling, Bodie manages to look both agreeable and contemptuous at the same time.
“Really, that’s what you’re going with?” He laughs, which serves two purposes.
One, it makes what Susan said seem foolish.
Two, and probably what Bodie was going for, it loosens the knot in my stomach and unwinds the muscles I had spring-loaded to do something I’m sure PR would not be pleased with.
He shakes his head, his dark, long hair, a trait from his Native American ancestors, falling across his forehead.
“You do realize that NASA employs over one hundred medical personnel whose sole purpose is to promote and maintain the physical and mental well-being of agency employees, right?” Bodie asks the now uncomfortable reporter.
“And that doesn’t even include the specialized team dedicated solely to the astronauts who bravely voyage beyond our atmosphere in an effort to better the quality of life on Earth by means of exploration and experimentation on the International Space Station. ”
I’ve never seen Bodie quite so worked up. It takes the edge off my anger to see my friend sticking up for me, even after all the shit we like to give each other.
“Um… I’m aware,” Susan says, her past bravado faltering.
“Then I’m sure you’ll understand why we’re all surprised that you would take the word of some unnamed ‘insider.’” I’m going to have to tell him not to use air quotes again, though.
He looks ridiculous. “Rather than the many highly-educated and trained medical professionals who have no problem literally putting their name on the line when it comes to signing off on astronauts’ mental and physical health. ”
And not to use the word literally. He sounds like a pre-teen.
“Well…” Susan looks around to her peers for support, but all they do is inch away as if they don’t want to be associated with her and her slander. Frowning, she straightens her shoulders and looks at me. “Then what about this mandatory vacation NASA forced on you?”
Pushing down all the venom I can, I summon up my sweetest smile and address the crowd.
“Forced vacation? Do you get the adjective there? That’s because in all my years at NASA, I’ve never taken more than a day off at a time.
And I don’t mean to toot my own horn” —I totally do—“but I sort of saved the ISS a little while back thanks to the genius of Dr. Jackie Darling Lee and this guy right here.” I place my hand on Bodie’s shoulder, who looks amused at me giving him credit.
“So to thank me for all my hard work, NASA simply insisted I take some time off and enjoy being awesome. And I came to Ellington today to do just that.” I lean toward the reporters conspiratorially. “You know, show off all my mad skills.”
It gets the intended eyeroll from Bodie and chuckle from the reporters—well, all but Susan—and the atmosphere lightens.
I slap Bodie on the back, making sure we’re both turned advantageously toward the cameras. “Come on, flashlight, let’s get you flying.”
A few camera clicks later, we both turn and walk toward the jet. Once we’re out of hearing range, Bodie leans in. “What the hell was that?”
I shrug, playing it off, though I’m just as confused. “Damned if I know.”
Bodie may have been doling out the facts about NASA’s medical team to get that reporter off my back, but he wasn’t wrong.
NASA has lots of medical professionals at the top of their game.
One of which, my ex-neighbor and friend Dr. Rebecca Sato, told me there was absolutely nothing wrong with my chest when I saddled up on the exam table after leaving the ranch.
Doc said it could be anxiety or gas. We both laughed at the anxiety remark and she handed me a box of Gas-X.
I rub the spot on my chest. Probably should’ve popped one of those this morning.
Reaching the jet, we check over the helmets and chutes that we dropped by the wheels before talking to the reporters. Everything in order, we begin our walk-around flight check. I call off the list, and Bodie verbally checks the items off.
With the exterior inspection done, we grab our chutes and helmets. I follow Bodie up the ladder and once he’s situated, I stay on the top rung and rip open a Velcro flap on one of the flight suits’ many pockets to dig out my phone.
“Let’s capture the moment before you black out from g-force.”
“You wish.” Bodie smirks, making a duck face into the camera.
Laughing, I take the picture.
But my smile fades fast when the camera screen closes and I see the text waiting for me.
“What’s wrong?” Gone is the joking tone we usually have between us. Just like when shit gets real on the ISS, Bodie homes in on my mood and gets serious.
I don’t answer. I’m too focused on the picture of this exact plane, Bodie and me at the nose as we complete our walk-around. I look up, swiveling my head in all directions, knowing my stalker is close. All I see is runway.
The phone vibrates in my palm.
“Jules?”
My knuckles turn white around my phone. “Out.”
“What?”
“I’m not feeling well.” It’s not a lie, not after that text. I pocket my phone and jerk my thumb. “Out. Flight aborted.”
His glare shoots through me, but he nods. “Right. Flight aborted.”
When we march past the horde of reporters yelling out their questions, I make out Susan’s satisfied face.
But I can’t focus on that. All I can think of is those texts. First of Bodie and me, then one of a bunch of torn wires. And the message: Hotwire this, NASA’s Starr.