The Sky Between Us (Petticoats and Patriots #7)

Prologue

Hamilton Air Force Base, California

The waiting room outside the Air Materiel Command office smelled faintly of waxed linoleum, over-brewed coffee, and cigarette smoke.

Recruitment posters featuring square-jawed men in crisp uniforms lined the walls.

Outside, the distinct rumble of aircraft taking off from the runway left Jackie Sinclair with no illusions of where she was. And why.

Despite her outward calm, anticipation hummed through her veins.

She was accustomed to working for the Air Force as a civilian.

Her time as a Women’s Airforce Service Pilot qualified her for the position she’d applied for.

She had the skill, the nerve, hundreds of flight hours of experience to prove it.

But she’d never flown overseas before. The opportunity to fly to Japan and Korea was an exciting one. The privilege of serving her country during wartime even more so.

The door opened, and a man—also civilian—appeared. His tie in brightly-colored swirls jumped in bold contrast against his plain gray suit. He glanced down at his clipboard, then resettled his gaze over her.

“Miss Jacqueline Sinclair?”

She unfolded her hands from atop her logbook and stood.

She allowed his scrutiny to take her in—her navy blue slacks, pale blue button-down shirt, and her brown leather flight jacket.

She’d pinned her hair in a twist at her nape, and around her neck was her white WASP scarf that she never flew without.

She was used to it, that scrutiny. There were still plenty of men who didn’t believe a woman should fly aircraft for the military. Ever.

“Please. Call me Jackie.”

She strode toward him, her low-heeled boots making a faint but steady staccato across the floor. She extended her hand, and he accepted with a firm clasp of his own. He released her and stepped aside, giving her room to enter his office.

“Have a seat,” he said.

He shut the door, and she settled into a vinyl-covered chair positioned in front of his desk, cluttered with maps, folders, and stacks of paper. On the wall, a Far East Air Forces emblem made a vibrant contrast to the otherwise drabness of the room.

He sat in a swivel chair that creaked from his weight. “I’m Harold Benton. Contracting officer for Air Materiel Command. You applied for a civilian pilot contract, I see.”

“Yes, sir.”

He flipped open her file. “WASP training. Ferrying experience. Postwar aerial mapping. Fire spotting for the Forest Service.” His glance lifted with a small smile. “You’ve logged more hours than half the lieutenants on this base.”

She inclined her head, hiding her pride. “Flying is what I love to do.”

He leaned back, making his chair creak again. “We’re short on pilots in the Far East. Korea’s terrain is rough on aircraft—and on the men flying them. We need civilians who can handle low-altitude work. Courier flights. Mapping. Liaison runs. Nothing glamorous.”

“I’m not looking for glamorous.”

“Think you can handle it, then?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Good.” He sat forward, clasping his hands.

His expression turned stern. “Let me remind you this isn’t military service.

You won’t wear a uniform. You won’t have rank.

You won’t have protections, either. If something goes wrong out there…

.” His mouth thinned, as if he disliked what he was required to tell her.

“You’re a civilian contractor. The paperwork gets murky. ”

She met his gaze without flinching. What he was telling her was no different than what she’d learned as a WASP. That women had never achieved equal status as men, despite being just as skilled—or more so—than they were. “I understand the risks.”

He nodded once, and his features relaxed. “You’ll be based in Japan. FEAF headquarters will assign your routes. Some will take you into contested areas. Not enemy territory, but close enough that you’ll want to keep your head down.”

“Yes, sir.”

He slid a packet across the desk. “This is your contract. Standard pay. Hazard bonus. Medical coverage through the civilian side of the Air Force. You’ll fly L-5 Sentinels and L-19 Bird Dogs. Light aircraft. Responsive. Temperamental in crosswinds.”

She flipped through the pages, black-and-white worded confirmation that she’d gotten the job. Again, the anticipation of serving her country pulsated within her. “Who will I report to?”

“Stateside? Me. Once you’re in Japan, you’ll answer to the operations officers at Johnson Air Base. They’ll send you to Camp LaGuardia in Korea when needed.”

Japan… Korea... the reality of her future took root. She could hardly wait to deploy. “Will I be asked to do reconnaissance?”

“Officially? No.” He hesitated. “Unofficially… pilots who fly low see things. And when they see things, they report them.”

She closed the packet. “I understand.”

“It’s good that you do.” He offered her a pen. “Then sign, Miss Sinclair. We need you in the air.”

She wrote her name with a steady hand. When she slid the contract back to him, he looked at her with something like respect—or maybe relief.

“You’ll ship out in three days,” he said. “Pack light. Pack warm. And Jackie….”

She caught the gentleness in his tone. The familiarity of using her name. With her logbook and packet clutched in her fist, she stood.

“Don’t try to be a hero,” he said, standing, too. “Just fly the plane.”

She made no promises, not when she intended to serve her country to the best of her ability.

Any way she could.

Forward Post Seven-Four, Korea

Two Weeks Later

The landing strip loomed in front of Jackie through the cockpit’s window, a narrow strip of flattened down rice paddy covered with gravel and carved out in the snow.

Like a balloon on a string, her little L-5 Sentinel liaison plane landed on the rough ground with a bump once, twice, before rolling to a stop near a line of sandbags stacked against the wind.

She cut the engine. Only the ticking of the cooling cylinders broke the silence and rewarded her with the accomplishment of another safe flight. On time and on location, just the way she liked it.

The door to the post’s Quonset hut opened. She unbuckled, grasped the olive-green dispatch pouch from the seat next to her, and swung out to the icy ground.

A young sergeant strode toward her, a tin mug in one hand. “Glad you arrived, Jackie. Got time for a quick cup of coffee before you head out again?”

“I’ll make time.” Appreciating his thoughtfulness, she handed him the pouch.

Enclosed within its canvas compartments would be maps, coded messages, rolls of aerial reconnaissance films, even medical supplies.

But she wasn’t authorized to know for sure.

Her job was to transport, nothing more. “Return packet from Johnson Air Base.”

She accepted the hot brew; he accepted the pouch, keeping it securely tucked under his arm. Reverently, almost. He would know the value of the contents, of how many lives depended on them.

Satisfaction from her part as courier, the importance of it, warmed her, much like the coffee sliding down her throat.

“Tastes good,” she said, thinking of the hours-old coffee still in her Thermos.

“Just made it. Knew you’d be on time for us.”

She smiled at the compliment. Since she’d met him, he’d become more like her kid brother, if she had one. Barely into his twenties, his good nature was a nice change from hours of solitude in the cockpit.

But today, he seemed different. Not quite as friendly. Troubled, maybe.

His gaze had shifted from her toward the eastern ridgeline. It wasn’t like him to be so subdued.

“Is everything okay, Sergeant?” she asked.

His mouth tightened. “FO team from Charlie Company passed through earlier. They were supposed to check in an hour ago.”

FO meant Forward Observer, she knew. One of the most elite, dangerous, and important roles in the Army. Their job was to spot the enemy and direct artillery fire. The teams went where no other soldiers would go, in unfamiliar terrain, hunting for an elusive enemy.

Jackie frowned. “They’re late?”

“Late, quiet, and in the wrong sector for radio silence.” He shifted, clutching the dispatch pouch tighter. “That valley’s been… touchy lately.”

Her own concern began to build. “Touchy how?”

He hesitated, the kind of hesitation that revealed he wasn’t sure how much to say to a civilian who hadn’t been in Korea long.

“Patrols moving at night,” he said finally. “Tracks where there shouldn’t be tracks. Locals clearing out. And yesterday one of our jeeps took a potshot from the tree line.” He exhaled. “Command says it’s nothing. But the men can feel it.”

Jackie turned her gaze toward the eastern valley, too. The area looked quiet and felt like someone holding their breath just before something bad happened.

The sergeant lowered his voice. “If you’re flying that way, keep your head on a swivel. That place has been giving us the creeps.”

She was flying that way, and tension formed in her gut. But she managed one last swallow of coffee before giving him her best smile.

“I’ll keep an eye out, sure.” She handed him the cup.

“You’ve got an Army radio in the cockpit, right? Use it if you have to.”

She wouldn’t tell him reconnaissance wasn’t on her list of duties. Or accomplishments. Or that she had a real fear she might fail from something she hadn’t done enough of to be good at.

“I’ll do what I can,” she said and meant it.

“The FO three-man team is blind in that sector. Artillery’s guessing. If you see anything, you got to let them know.”

His persistence chilled her more than the Korean cold. “I will.”

She climbed back into the cockpit, pulled the door shut, and started the engine. The sergeant stepped backward, closer toward the Quonset. The propeller spun back to life, circling snow around the nose.

She turned the L-5 and taxied down the airstrip. Back to Camp LaGuardia to refuel and call it a day before flying back to Japan in the morning.

But she’d have to fly toward the eastern valley first.