Title: Storm Cell
Author: Pixie
Rating: PG13 (or teen, take your pick)
Word Count: Roughly 20k words total, 52 pages in MSWord
Category: Drama, Romance
Acknowledgements: Thanks go to Jan for her helpful technical advice, to Doc_3 for both technical advice and editing assistance, and to TK, who's one of the best beta readers I've ever had the pleasure of working with.
Author's Note: In Naval aviator parlance, a fur ball is "a confused aerial engagement with many combatants" (think messy dogfight) from an online glossary of aviator slang. Also, SATO stands for Scheduled Airline Ticket Office, and refers to the Naval department responsible for arranging things like commercial flights and rental cars.
A/N 2: Though technically not a sequel to Flight Plans, this is set in that universe, so you may find it beneficial to know that story. You can find it here or at the Archive of Our Own.
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Chapter 1
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The storm breaks with a flash-bang that far outclasses anything the Navy has in its arsenal. In seconds it's all Harm's wipers can do to keep up with the deluge. He glances at the clock. Shakes his head. If this keeps up traffic will slow to a crawl and they'll miss their flight.
Ahead of him Mac's brake lights flare as she compensates for the decreased visibility. She's probably thinking the same thing he is-a missed flight could mean a twenty-four hour delay. He searches his memory, trying to remember if there are any five-star hotels near the airport. If he can't get her home he can at least make sure she gets a good night's rest in a comfortable bed.
A quick glance in the rear-view mirror elicits a mild curse. There's a car coming up fast behind him, too fast for these conditions. It darts across two lanes of traffic, skims the left shoulder as it zips around an eighteen wheeler, then bolts all the way back to the right, zigzagging between the other cars like a fighter pilot dodging an air wing of MIGs.
"Idiot."
Harm taps the brake, opening extra space between him and Mac. And he isn't surprised when the other car, a sleek black jaguar, dashes up beside him, hesitates, and then rabbits through the opening and back over to the left lane.
"He's gonna get us all killed." He checks the clock again as Mac prepares to move right, her blinkers flashing on and then off again. The sign for their exit looms ahead.
Thunder nearly drowns out the blare of horns, but he can't miss the explosion of brake lights or the chilling sight of a tanker truck swerving hard, shuddering, and surrendering to the laws of physics.
Before Harm can do more than tighten his grip on the wheel all hell breaks loose.
An F-150 three lengths ahead overcompensates, hits standing water, and hydroplanes, dumping its load of tires onto the highway. Harm takes a hard right around the tires, snaps left to dodge a skidding minivan, then swerves right again, tires fighting for purchase on the wet pavement. He aims for the right shoulder and hits the brake. But before he can stop something slams into him from behind and sends him fishtailing back across three lanes of traffic while somewhere ahead red-orange light flares, brilliant and sinister.
Fire.
He wrestles the sedan to a bone-jarring stop against the Jersey barrier and flings open the door. Ignoring the water that splashes up to his knees he takes off through the pouring rain. Where is she? Where the hell is she?
There. Harm stumbles, his stomach clenching with fear.
"No! Oh, God. Please no."
He blinks the rain out of his eyes. Looks again. It's her car, all right-belly up, wheels spinning … and crushed into the underside of the overturned tanker some eighty yards down the highway. Flames dance on the tanker's engine.
Harm races down the highway, ignoring the other cars and their passengers, ignoring the rain, ignoring everything but the urgent need to get to Mac before the tanker explodes.
There's a narrow gap between Mac's hood and the pavement. Harm drops. Rolls to his back. Knees bent, he slams his heels into the asphalt and jettisons himself into the opening. Icy fear crashes over him when he gets his first glimpse of her. The seatbelt that saved her life during the crash could kill her now, the tightly woven fabric cutting deep into the side of her neck and holding her suspended in her seat. There's a cut across her temple, another behind her left ear. And she doesn't respond when he calls her name.
"Mac!" His voice is strained. Desperate. "Damn it, Mac! Talk to me!"
He finds a crack in the safety glass and forces his fingers into it.
"Mac!" He's a fighter pilot, trained to keep his cool in crisis situations. But this …He feels his control slipping. "Mac!"
People are moving around him. He hears voices. Sirens. There's a smell of oily smoke, a vague sense of searing heat.
Fingers hooked into the leading edge of the crack, he pulls. Nothing happens. He shifts, angling his body for better leverage, and pulls again. Feels it give a little. Forcing his other hand into the opening he pulls one more time.
Someone grabs at his feet. There's a loud, urgent voice that should make sense, but doesn't.
He kicks out hard and the hands let go. Freed, Harm pounds on the window again. Harsh, ragged breaths rip from his lungs.
"Mac!"
"Sir!"
It's two of them this time. They drag him out and up. He sees badges. Uniforms. Clenched, determined jaws. They pull him away from the wreck and force him to a standstill while the rescue team moves in. Ten feet away, another squad floods the engine of the overturned tanker with fire suppressant foam.
It takes fifteen minutes, fifteen agonizing minutes, for the crew to cut away enough of the car's twisted frame to reach Mac. The time ticks over slowly, every second a lifetime, every minute an eternity. Rain pounds against Harm's head and shoulders. Smoke and steam fill the air. People shout. Scream. Cry. Somewhere a dog barks. But all Harm hears is the roar of heavy equipment and the screech of tearing metal. All he sees is the mangled remains of Mac's car and then the terrifying pallor of her skin when they finally pull her from the wreckage and ease her onto a backboard.
Her hair is matted with blood and dripping with rain water. Her left arm rests at an unnatural angle he's seen before. Dislocated shoulder. It's a painful injury, but a straightforward one.
It's what he can't see that worries him.
Moments later they're lifting her into a MedSTAR chopper. They're taking her away, and all he can think is that she could die without him holding her hand, without him telling her how much he loves her ... She could die in the company of strangers. Fresh adrenaline surges through him at the thought, and he struggles against his captors' hold.
"You can't go with her." It's the officer on Harm's left. His fierce grip will probably leave bruises, but there's compassion in his voice. "There's no room, and those cuts don't look life threatening."
It's the first time Harm thinks about his own injuries-the cuts on his hands, the sting of deep scrapes across his back and shoulders, the ache of strained muscles in his neck. He looks down. Reddened and soggy gauze peeks out between his fisted fingers. He doesn't know who gave it to him.
With a jerk of his chin, the officer indicates a waiting ambulance. When did it get here? And how long have the doors been open in this rain? "You'll go with them."
They walk him over. Inside, an EMT glances at his hands and reaches for a fresh roll of gauze. It isn't until the doors close and the siren comes to life that Harm comes out of his shock enough to remember.
The MedSTAR crew is missing a crucial piece of information.
"Wait!" He struggles to his feet. He's reaching for the door when the paramedic, a wiry kid not much more than twenty, wrestles him back down. "Wait! I have to tell them something!"
"We're underway, sir! You can't get out now."
"Radio ahead." Fresh fear washes over him. "Tell them …" He pauses. Swallows. "Tell them my wife is pregnant."