Hi guys,

This is my thirteenth Black Sheep fanfic and I'll tell ya right up front, it's the first one that ventures beyond the canon of the show. I've always been lukewarm on fanfics that put characters in a setting outside the show because - hey - then it's not really the show anymore, right? And now here I am doing it. Please don't hate on me for this - it was one of those ideas that came out of nowhere and wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. It would have been a grand Halloween story (too late) and and a grand Veterans Day story (too late) but I'm launching it before Thanksgiving - and am thankful I have this venue to share stuff with fellow Black Sheep fans.

It's not my standard Greg Boyington/Kate Cameron storyline. I'm letting Jim Gutterman have the spotlight in this one because I thought he deserved it.

The story doesn't take itself too seriously and I hope you won't, either. I've never been to an air show but I've been to plenty of ag equipment shows, cattle shows, dog shows and car shows and some things are all the same, no matter what's on display. This story was written for my own entertainment and shared in hopes you'll enjoy the adventure as much as I did. All errors are entirely of my own creation and if you feel the need to correct them, please be gentle. While I had family members who flew fixed wing aircraft for Uncle Sam, they were gone before I was old enough to appreciate their stories. Enjoy – reviews welcomed!

WAR STORIES

Chapter 1

Oct. 29, 1943

Solomon Islands, South Pacific

"Jim . . . ull up . . . losing altitude!"

The voice of USMC Captain Jim Gutterman's commanding officer crackled through his headset, garbled by the raging storm. Great advice but about as worthless as tits on a boar hog.

He keyed his throat mic. "I can't hold it, Greg! Rudder's busted and God knows what else. She's falling apart." Jim gripped the stick of his wildly bucking F4U Corsair with both hands and tried to bring the plane's nose up but the normally powerful fighter refused to respond.

Outside the canopy, lightning flashed, searing the sky with silver light. Just off Jim's port wing, Greg Boyington wasn't having it any easier. Greg was the reason they were in this predicament in the first place. He was the who'd been called in to explain how the Black Sheep had not only achieved their mission goal that morning but neatly mopped up after a Navy squadron that couldn't fight their way out of wet paper bag as well. The Navy had not been not amused. Jim didn't hold any of it against his CO. He, Greg and all the rest of the 214 attracted trouble no matter where they went, either upstairs or on the ground.

The wind tossed both planes like children's toys made of balsa wood, pulling them inexorably closer to the swirling maelstrom of ink dark clouds they'd tried to outpace. What had started as a simple run to Espritos Marcos had turned into a nightmare.

"Climb to . . . angels . . . get above . . ." Greg's communication was as scrambled as the madly swirling dials on Jim's instrument panel.

His gut clenched as he wrenched the stick back in a futile effort to climb. Instead, he felt his bird falling into a death spiral. If he stalled in this mess, he'd never get a restart.

"Greg!" he shouted, unsure if the other man could even hear him. "See you on the other side - I'm bailing!" He released the stick as the plane was pulled into the black maw of the storm. It was probably suicide to jump but staying with his bird looked like a guaranteed bad ending. The swirling indigo and onyx clouds were shot through with silver threads of lighting that forked and crackled like broken glass. They had a terrifying beauty, especially since it was probably the last thing he'd ever see. This wasn't how he imagined checking out but damned if he was going to die with his eyes shut while his plane disintegrated on impact. He reached up to unlatch his canopy when the plane started to tumble end over end, slamming him back into the seat.

Jim thought about the rest of the squadron back on LaCava. He thought about his bunk mate and wingman, TJ Wiley. Good lord, who'd keep that kid alive for the rest of the war? The last thing he heard was Greg's voice echoing in his ears.

"Damn it, Gutterman, pull up!"

Then everything went black.

Oct. 29, 2018

Cedar Junction Municipal Airport, Thomas Wiley Memorial Field

Cedar Junction, Iowa

"Damn it, Remington!"

I rolled my eyes and set down my coffee. Now what? It wasn't even noon and my boss was already yelling at me. I didn't take it personally since he yells at everyone. Technically, Randall Schraeder isn't my boss. He's the manager here at Cedar Junction Municipal Airport. I'm Alex Remington, the public relations director for the local chamber of commerce, which sponsors Wings Over Autumn, the town's annual air show. I have a temporary office here at the airport because, well, I'll get to that.

It's a big deal - the air show, not my job. It's not a huge event with acres of exhibit grounds like the show in Oshkosh, Wis., but it draws a decent number of spectators to admire the restored warbirds every year. Plus there's free beer at the dance on Saturday night, which is always popular. This year's theme is a salute to aircraft that saw action in the South Pacific.

My job wasn't supposed to be a big deal but that changed three days ago when the show manager, Derek, stepped on one of his kids' Legos, fell down the stairs at his house and broke his ankle. He ended up in traction and I ended up in charge of Wings. The show's board of directors decided having the public relations liaison double as the show manager was the most expedient way to go. I have no idea what they were smoking.

I don't know the first thing about running an air show but I'm a good organizer and work well under pressure. We were less than 24 hours out from opening and I hadn't screwed anything up yet. It helped that the show staff was behind me one hundred percent.

"With your family tree, you're a natural," they said.

My family tree. Right. Like genetics qualified me to do any of this. My great-grandpa, Thomas Joseph Wiley, flew in a fighter squadron in the South Pacific during World War II. The city council named the airfield in his honor because he'd been an ace and came home from the war with all kinds of medals.

I'll be honest - the only thing I know about vintage airplanes is what I've seen in old family photo albums. My great-grandpa died before I was old enough to remember him. I'd seen lots of pictures of him and he looked like a nice guy, tall and skinny and awfully young in his khaki uniform, with kind eyes and a friendly grin. I don't look anything like him, except for being tall. We sort of have the same light brown hair although mine leans toward natural red highlights and is shoulder length. My eyes are dark blue. That's from the Remington side of the family.

Thomas Wiley had barely been twenty years old when he joined up. That was five years younger than I am now. If he could go off to fly fighters in a world war at that age, surely I could manage something as domestic as an air show. Derek had done all the groundwork before he wiped out. I just had to make sure the planes were lined up in the correct spots he had allotted them on the runway-turned-flight line and make sure Rob Emmerson, the field's chief mechanic, didn't bounce a wrench off anyone's head in a fit of temper. So far, that had been the hardest part of the job. Rob and I had gotten in the habit of going out for a beer after work when things got crazy. It seemed like we were both drinking a lot more than we used to.

Planes had been arriving for several days and all the exhibitors on Derek's meticulously annotated list were accounted for. So far, this morning had been nonstop chaos of setting up exhibits in the airfield's main hanger, putting up signage, organizing the food trucks and vendors and a million other last-minute jobs before the public arrived tomorrow. The event would start with a meet and greet for the pilots and their crews this evening, although judging from the boisterous camaraderie among the participants, everyone already knew each other. Let's face it, there aren't that many guys who own P-51 Mustangs or C-47 Skytrains.

With the last day of preparation looming large, of course I overslept this morning. We had a good old-fashioned thunderstorm last night with the most vivid lightning show I'd seen in my life. I'd lain awake, watching the sky sizzle with silver light that held millions of watts of unspeakable power. The clouds swirled and churned, lit from within by the lightning. It was beautiful and terrifying at once.

When my phone woke me at 6 a.m., the sky was still ink dark. I turned the alarm off and promptly fell back asleep. Two hours later, I woke in a panic, showered and dressed hastily in jeans tucked into tall leather boots, a pale pink oxford cloth shirt and denim jacket. I skipped the makeup beyond a little mascara and lip color and dried my hair by driving to the airport with the windows down on my pickup. Late October in central Iowa can be touch and go in the weather department, but the storm had blown itself out and the morning air was clear and fresh with a hint of autumn magic. It was two days before Halloween, after all.

"Remington!" Randall bellowed again. I'm not sure he even knows my first name. He'd served in the Army during Desert Storm and some days, he thought he was still there. I grabbed my planner and bolted out of my broom closet-sized office.

Plastering a smile on my face, I stuck my head through his door.

"Yes, sir?" He was easier to manage if I let him think he was shouting orders to a subordinate. I'd let him bluster, then go deal with whatever needed to be handled by a cooler temper.

"You said the Corsair canceled." He glared as if I was personally responsible for this.

My mind shifted into overdrive. Corsair. Which ones were those? Ah, got it. The big blue ones.

I know there isn't a pilot alive who would approve of my method of identifying the planes gathering for the show but have I mentioned I know less than nothing about vintage aircraft?

F4U Corsairs were blue. P-51Mustangs were sparkly silver. P-40 Warhawks were olive drab with cool, toothy nose art. At least the ones coming to my little part of the aviation world were. Which brought me back to the Corsairs. I fumbled through the notes in Derek's planner.

"The owner did cancel. He backed out last week due to mechanical problems. Derek contacted several other owners but they couldn't make the logistics work on such short notice." I closed the planner, relieved to have that cleared up. "No Corsair."

"Then why does the tower say there are two on approach?" Randall bellowed again. His face was red. I was getting a little concerned about his blood pressure.

"Sir?"

"They're requesting permission to land at somewhere called Espritos Marcos. No one in the tower knows what the hell they're talking about and there's no flight plan on file. According to Derek there was only supposed to be one and he's not supposed to be here at all!"

I hoped Randall wasn't going to have a coronary. I didn't have time to haul him to the emergency room.

"Some of these re-enactor pilots are real jokers," he muttered. "They get into a role and you can't break 'em out of it."

"Two Corsairs? Isn't that a good thing?" I ventured, trying to draw Randall's ire away from the pilots who were apparently having a good time at the expense of the controllers. Cedar Junction Municipal is a small airport. They could get by with it. Besides, the more planes we had for the show, the better. This show's claim to fame is its reputation as a living history exhibit and the more planes we had to promote, the more visitors it drew. Ticket sales were divided among several community charities, so the more, the merrier, as far as I was concerned.

Thanks in no small part to my promotional skills, this year's show promised to be fantastic. There would be a few carefully choreographed live air displays but what people enjoyed most was seeing the pilots dressed in period costume and adapting the personas of historical figures. They chatted with the public and posed for a lot of pictures. I know because my parents had hauled me to it every year through childhood. When the field is named after a family member, you're expected to show up. I wished I'd paid a little more attention but it was too late now.

"Maybe Derek rescheduled someone at the last minute and forgot to write it down. Let me check his notes again." I hastily ran my finger down one of a dozen neatly typed lists. Derek was nothing if not OCD, a fact for which I was eternally grateful. So far, my job had been a breeze.

"No," I repeated firmly. "No Corsair."

"What the hell am I supposed to tell the tower? The pilots won't give a reasonable ID and we can't give them permission to land if we don't know who they are."

"There's obviously been some kind of miscommunication but I'm sure I can find room for them," I said. It wasn't like we could just tell them thanks but no thanks, we don't need you. That would be rude.

"Damn these rogue pilots who think they can blow in at the last minute. If they're not on Derek's list, they haven't paid the registration fees or signed the insurance waiv – son of a bitch!"

A dark blue shape roared past the window, close enough I swore I could have reached out and touched the wing. As it flashed by, I noticed an erratic wobble to the plane's motion that indicated it was not entirely under the control of its pilot. The building vibrated with the impact of the aircraft's power and coffee slopped out of Randall's mug onto his desk.

I may not know anything about planes but I do know two unarguable facts. Take-offs are optional. Landings are mandatory. The tower's failure to grant permission had not stopped the incoming planes. They were going to land whether anyone liked it or not.

Randall snarled an epithet but I was too busy looking out the window to pay attention. I was entranced at the power and speed of the plane and the pilot's deft maneuvering to bring the craft down on Runway Two. That's the shortest of the three airstrips here and generally reserved for small private planes carrying hunters or random politicians during election years. I wasn't sure it was long enough for something coming in as fast as the fighter that just flashed past. A second plane followed on the heels of the first, flying with nonchalant ease.

"Go!" Randall waved an agitated hand at me and mopping at the spilled coffee with the other.

"Go where, sir?"

"Go meet them, Remington! Find out who they are! And get them the hell off that runway! Monsanto is flying in a load of executives for a corporate retreat at the Amana Colonies this morning. Those two flyboys can't turn it into a parking lot just because they couldn't get here on time like everybody else."

Randall was still yelling as I left his office. I tossed Derek's planner on my desk. A lot of good it did me. Now planes were showing up that weren't even booked. My specialty is public relations and my skill set includes glad-handing, organizing photo ops, updating social media feeds and making sure the bar is always stocked. The nuts and bolts of having the right planes in the right place at the right time was supposed to be left in the capable hands of someone who actually knew what they were doing. I wondered if there was a convenient Lego I could step on.

In the meantime, I braced for the inevitable confusion that was brewing on Runway Two. Since the ride to work with the windows down that morning hadn't done my hair any favors, I rummaged through my desk for an elastic band, finger combed my tangled curls into a ponytail and jammed a dark blue Cedar Junction Municipal Airport cap on my head. I pulled my hair through the back, shrugged into my denim jacket and headed out the back of the small office building.

The two planes had managed to stop before they ran out of runway and ended up in the adjoining cornfield. Damned if I was walking all the way out there. I looked around for one of the airport's utility vehicles. Neither of the John Deere Gators were in sight. Nor was the small fleet of maintenance pickups. That crew would be running wide open today.

I squared my shoulders, resigned. The only thing left was Lily, sitting there in all her olive drab glory. Lily was probably as old as the planes that had just landed. Lily was a Willys Jeep, a genuine relic from World War II. I secretly harbored the suspicion she was meant to be enshrined in a museum somewhere but had been mis-delivered to the airport where she'd been pressed into service and never released.

She was as ugly as she was rugged. When someone suggested a fresh coat of paint might make her more appealing, Randall replied, "That would be gilding the lily." It stuck. I could have run around to the front of the building and gotten my pickup but for some reason, I didn't want to let those two planes out of my sight. Randall already had his boxers in a bunch about the originally scheduled Corsair not showing up. Heaven knew what he'd do if I managed to lose the two replacements no one had been expecting.

Lily was in a cooperative mood and started without complaint. I found first gear, let out the clutch without anyone getting hurt and headed down the runway. The pilots had shoved back their canopies and dropped to the tarmac. They were engaged in an animated discussion when I pulled up next to them. They ignored the jeep's engine as if it weren't there. They also ignored me.

"Look around, Greg, we ain't in the South Pacific anymore," the taller of the two men shouted. He pulled off his helmet and ran his fingers through dark hair, leaving it standing rakishly on end. "That storm musta blown us all the way back to the States."

"Couldn't have, Jim, even with a tailwind we wouldn't have made it to Pearl without refueling," said the second man. He was shorter, with a hard, muscular build and an unmistakable air of authority.

I leaned over the steering wheel and tried not to gape. The men looked oddly familiar but that was impossible. There was no way I'd ever met them before. If I had, I certainly would have remembered it. Jim was tall and lean with strong, regular features and dark eyes. He had the kind of face that might lend itself to a good old boy's smile but his mouth was currently set in a tight line of annoyance. Greg wasn't as tall but his bearing made up for anything he might have lacked in height. His features were chiseled, his eyes steel blue. He wasn't smiling either.

Both men looked like they could have walked off a 1940s recruiting poster. They wore rumpled flight suits and carried sidearms in shoulder holsters. Yellow life preservers I recognized as Mae Wests hung around their necks. Damn. They might be unexpected but they were doing a fine job of being authentic.

So were their planes, although in my entire three-day career as an air show manager, I'd come to expect a little more spit and polish. The planes already parked on the flight line for the show gleamed with the new paint of careful restoration. The two sitting in front of me looked like they'd been through the war - that morning. Their paint was faded and etched with oil stains. I detected small pieces of metal applied haphazardly over the fuselage of the nearest one. They looked like patches. Who flew planes that had been patched?

"Then how do you explain that?" Jim threw out a hand toward the bright autumn foliage blazing on the nearby hills. "Even if we got blown backward and ended up in New Zealand, there'd still be coconut trees and girls in grass skirts. I don't see either one, do you?"

Greg studied the nose of his plane. Oil dripped steadily from the engine cowling.

"God knows where we are," he said finally. "I've never flown through a storm like that in my life. I'll tell you, I thought it was going to spit us out in pieces."

Jim nodded. "One minute we had that thunderstorm in the rearview mirror, the next minute, it was gnawing our asses and my gauges went haywire. I was ready to bail and next thing I know – poof – blue skies and a convenient little airfield." He paused. "What we gonna do now, Greg? March up to that hangar and demand an escort home? You heard the tower. They never heard of Espritos Marcos. What if we landed behind enemy lines?"

"Jim, relax," Greg said. "They spoke English and if they were going to shoot us, they would have done it by now."

"That's just great." Jim turned on his heel and started pacing. "I say we get back in our birds and get the hell out of here before someone starts asking questions. Weather's clear now. We oughta be able to dead reckon our way home."

"Your bird's busted up, remember? You barely set down in one piece, you'd never get off the strip. And mine's got more oil underneath it than it does in the engine. Just stay frosty until we figure this out."

"What are you waiting on? A welcoming committee?"

This argument seemed destined to go on forever.

I wondered if I should clap. If this was a rehearsal for a re-enactment sketch, I'd buy tickets for the show. These guys were great.

I walked around in front of the jeep and cleared my throat. "Gentlemen, welcome to Cedar Junction Municipal Airport. We're glad to have you join us for Wings Over Autumn."

The men turned slowly, as if noticing me for the first time. They didn't look pleased about it. Not a problem. I'd been working with Randall for six weeks on show promos and doubted they could top his level of crankiness. Besides, I've been working PR jobs since I graduated from college and rule number one is when in doubt, go in with a smile and an attitude. I plastered a smile on my face and stepped forward.

"I'm Alex Remington, public relations liaison." I extended my hand.

The older of the two – Greg - gave a disgusted snort. He crossed his arms and pinned me with a hot blue glare that immediately made my hackles go up. Jim mimicked his stance but instead of glaring, his eyes traveled appreciatively up and down my figure as if he'd never seen a girl wearing snug jeans and boots. I could practically smell testosterone on the morning breeze, along with aviation fuel, sweat and the acrid scent of hot engine oil.

"We land in a damned cornfield on the back side of nowhere and they send the press corps out as a greeter," Greg said.

Technically, the airfield is within Cedar Junction city limits but there are corn fields on all four sides. Still, I thought the assessment was a little harsh. And public relations staff should never, under any circumstances, be confused with the press.

"I reckon she looks friendly enough," Jim said. "At least she don't look like no riceball."

I appreciated the assessment even though I had no idea what he meant. What had Randall said about some of the pilots who flew vintage warbirds? Those jokers get into a role and you can't break 'em out of it.

All right, I'd play along but I was still confused. The other pilots who brought in planes for the weekend were professionals – the ones with sponsors to pay the bills while they ferried vintage aircraft to shows all over the country. These two didn't fit that vibe. For one thing, they looked too young. Greg was maybe ten years older than me and Jim was my age or younger. They weren't wearing the custom caps or jackets embroidered with the logos of Such And Such Air Team and they weren't trailed by the herd of mechanics and ground crew I'd come to associate with keeping these relics in the air.

Greg regarded me for a long minute, then seemed resigned to the inevitable.

"Major Greg Boyington, VMF 214, stationed on Vella La Cava. This is my executive officer, Captain Jim Gutterman. We hit a patch of rough weather on our way to Espritos Marcos and looks like we got blown off course. Where the hell are we?"

"Cedar Junction, Iowa," I said automatically. The world tilted dangerously and I put my hand on Lily's hood to steady myself. I hadn't paid a lot of attention at family dinners when the stories about my great-grandpa started but the name of the squadron he flew with had been drilled into me from an early age: VMF 214, the Black Sheep. These guys were play-acting, I reminded myself. It was just a coincidence they'd attached themselves to one of the most famous fighter squadrons in World War II history, one I was connected to if only by merit of pedigree.

"Iowa." Jim looked around. "Like, south of Minnesota, north of Missouri?"

"That's right," I said briskly, forcing my brain back to immediate matters. "I'm going to need you gentlemen to move your, um, aircraft off this runway. And then I'll have you follow me to the office because you need to get signed in and –"

Jim chucked. "You hear that, Greg. Now the press corps is telling us where to park." He turned to me. "Darlin', if it's all the same to you, we'll take our orders from whoever's in charge of this outfit. Why don't you run and get him for us."

I don't have a temper but I will not tolerate condescension from a man, no matter who he thinks he is. I took two steps forward, which put me directly in front of Jim and parked my hands on my hips. He was tall but that's all right, so am I. I tipped my head back slightly and met his eyes. They were dark brown, flecked with hazel, and under different circumstances, I might have been intrigued. Right now, I was pissed. I didn't have time for his attitude.

"You want the guy in charge of this outfit, buddy? You're talking to her."

Jim blinked and took a step back. Greg might have been laughing but I didn't turn around to look. I pressed my advantage. "I need you to move those planes off this runway because there's a charter flight due in fifteen minutes and you're sitting smack ass in the way."

When he didn't move, I snapped, "What are you waiting for!"

"I'd listen to the lady," Greg said mildly.

"She sounds like Micklin," Jim muttered. I had no idea who Micklin was but I liked him.

"Where do you want me? I'll accommodate you any way I can, Mrs. Remington." Jim's voice dripped with sarcasm.

Mrs. Remington? That was my mom. If I was going to work with these guys for the foreseeable future, I needed to get this squared away.

"Please, it's Alex. Runway Four, north end, just past the P-40. Follow me." I got in Lily and watched with fascination as both men scrambled back into their planes. The sound was deafening as the engines coughed, then caught and roared to life amidst belching smoke before settling down to a throaty rumble.

As they taxied behind me up Runway Two, around the buildings and down the impromptu flight line set up on Runway Four, I called Rob at the field's combination mechanics' shop, maintenance shed and pilots' lounge and asked if someone could bring out two sets of wheel chocks. My concern at the two pilots' lack of a support team niggled at me. They'd arrived literally out of the blue and acted like they didn't have a clue where they were. Talk about role playing. These two had it down like nobody's business.

A smattering of applause and salutes from the pilots and crew with the planes already on the line greeted me as we paraded past. I waved at the exhibitors I'd gotten to know over the last few days. When we passed the Curtiss P-40 Warhawk, I indicated that's where the Corsairs were to be staged. Jim and Greg spun the planes onto the line with practiced ease and killed the engines. I watched as the massive props stopped spinning, still awed the pilots had been gutsy enough to fly in with aircraft that looked like they'd come straight out of a dogfight.

One of the maintenance staff zipped up in a Gator and jumped out to chock the wheels of the nearest bird. I grabbed the other set of wooden chocks and ducked in to wedge them in front and behind the landing gear. Really, I can be useful as well as ornamental. I straightened as Jim dropped to the ground. He pulled off his Mae West and tossed it back up into the cockpit, then rounded the wing. I was close enough to read the leather patch on his flight suit. Capt. James T. Gutterman, VMF 214, USMC. Damn, these guys were authentic.

"Grab your gear and come with me," I said. "I'll get your paperwork settled at the office, then you can check in at your lodging and kick back until the welcome reception tonight. Where are you staying?"

The two men exchanged glances.

Oh no.

"You do have motel reservations, don't you?"

Greg gave me another one of those stares that was probably supposed to make me stop asking questions. I don't do condescension and I don't do intimidation either. I glared back and thought I saw the hint of a smile.

"Sweetheart, we didn't know we were coming until the last minute," he said.

Dandy. Not only was the airshow this weekend, it was homecoming at the University of Iowa in nearby Iowa City. Alumni flocked to that like it was the second coming of Christ. Local motels had been booked solid for months. Short of waving a wand and conjuring an empty room out of thin air, I didn't know where I'd find one.

"Grab your gear and I'm sure I can find rooms somewhere," I said airily, reminding myself to stay calm and professional. Who was I kidding? There were no rooms anywhere and I knew it.

"Gear?" Greg asked.

"Luggage?" I paused. Neither of them moved. Oh what the hell now? "You did bring extra clothes for the weekend, didn't you?" Their wrinkled flight suits were stained with sweat and wear. There was no way they'd get through tonight's social hour, tomorrow's show and the Saturday night exhibitors' dinner without finding a laundromat, preferably sooner than later. Looked like that was one more thing I'd have to take care of.

"No," Jim said slowly. "We ain't in the habit of packing for R and R when we get summoned to Espritos for a mission de-brief."

I didn't understand any of that. All it meant was more work for me. Not only was I going to have to find a place for these guys to stay, now I'd have to come up with clothes and toiletries for them. I was ready to kill which ever one of Derek's kids had left that Lego on the stairs. I'd expected to spend the weekend socializing and capturing videos and stills to promote next year's event.

"Where's your line chief?" Greg asked. His plane had resumed its dismal oil leak. The steady drip-drip-drip was loud enough I could hear drops hitting the ground.

I wasn't sure what a line chief was but I didn't think we had one. "Get in." I motioned to the jeep. "I'll take you up to the shop to talk to Rob." I crossed my fingers Rob knew something about planes built more years ago than either of us had been alive. Jim hung back, like he was going to stay there. "You, too," I said. For some reason, I was not only reluctant to let these men out of my sight, I was hesitant to separate them. I felt like a border collie, making sure my small flock was gathered at all times.

Greg got in the front of the jeep and Jim swung into the back. I held my breath as I shifted the cantankerous vehicle into gear and we rattled back to the small cluster of buildings.

The men flanked me as we walked into the mechanics' shed with its bright LED lights and spotless floor. Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing In The Dark" thumped from an Alexa unit on the workbench along one wall. Rob loves to tease me that I share a name with an artificial intelligence virtual assistant. That's why I drop the "a" off my name as a matter of principle. And I point out Rob's real name every chance I get. I figure we're even.

The sound of a wrench being applied enthusiastically to the engine of a worn-looking Beechcraft C23 Sundowner kept time with the beat of the E Street Band.

"Rob!" I yelled over the music. "Robbie! I've got a customer for you!"

There was a loud crash, a single, eloquent swear word and then silence. Just as I thought I should go see what happened, Cedar Junction's finest aviation mechanic rounded the nose of the plane and pulled up short. The mechanic glanced from Greg and Jim to me, then back to the men.

"What can I do for you gentlemen?" she asked, pulling off her gloves.

The men stared.

"Rob, this is Greg Boyington and Jim Gutterman," I said. "They brought in two Corsairs for the show but ran into some rough weather on the way. They might need a little TLC before they fly out on Sunday."

"I thought your Corsair canceled." Rob pushed an auburn curl behind her ear. She had a streak of engine smut on her cheek and her dark blue coverall was as filthy as her hangar was clean. She shook hands with both men, who looked dumbstruck. Granted, Robbie's a knockout so it was understandable. She also graduated from the Air Force Academy where she trained in aviation electronics. She'd carried on a family tradition of serving her country before being honorably discharged and putting her skills to work in the private sector. Seems like I was surrounded by people who served in the military. Randall. Robbie. My great-grandpa, who served in the Marines, my grandpa and dad, who were in the Army, and my brother, who joined the Navy. Me? I got a liberal arts degree in public relations. So color me the black sheep.

"Change of plans," I said, still smiling and clinging to the notion if I acted like I knew what was going on, I'd eventually figure it out.

"You two blasted by here fifteen minutes ago, didn't you?" she said. "I watched you land. Bet that nearly gave Randall a stroke."

"It did," I confirmed. "I was in his office when it happened. Coffee went everywhere."

Rob laughed and stuck out her hand. "Robbie Emmerson. Nice to meet you both."

I couldn't help myself. "Her name is actually -," I started, cheerfully ignoring her warning scowl.

"Don't do it, Alex," she said sternly and emphasizing the first two syllables of my name.

"Roberta," I finished.

"Alexa! Shut up!" Rob countered. The music stopped. She narrowed her eyes but grinned and gestured with her right hand. "Bring it. What have you got this time?"

We'd been playing this game since I started at the air field over the summer and she found out what my first name really is.

"Alexa! Play Garth Brooks," I called out. Rob doesn't have anything against Garth personally but she hates country music. The twang of "Friends in Low Places" belted out of the speaker.

"Alexa! Play AC/DC," she countered. The opening riff of "Back In Black" thumped through the hanger.

"Alexa! Play show tunes," I ordered and immediately the speaker blasted a number from Rogers and Hammerstein's "The Sound of Music."

Rob groaned. "You win. Make it stop."

"Alexa," I said pleasantly, "play classic rock." Molly Hatchet's "Flirtin' With Disaster" pounded my eardrums. Fitting.

The last time Rob and I played, we'd volleyed songs back and forth until she told Alexa to play the macarena, which I absolutely cannot stand. She won that round.

The men stared at us like we'd lost our minds. Jim sauntered over to the work bench and studied the device. He looked like he was about to say something, then he saw the calendar on the wall above the bench. Rob does all her scheduling on a computer but she loves her calendar. So do I. It's twelve gorgeous months of men wearing kilts and nothing else. Sometimes they're not even wearing the kilt, just holding it strategically.

"Where's the head?" Jim asked suddenly. Thanks to my brother's enlistment in the Navy, that was a term I understood. I pointed him in the right direction. Greg followed him and with a be-right-back wave to Rob, I ran down the hall to Randall's office. He had the phone clamped to his ear and looked like he was going to start yelling again at any minute.

"Your Corsair jockeys check out all right?" he asked without looking up.

"They're, uh, very authentic but I don't think they've ever done an air show before," I said. "Derek must have gotten them scheduled at the last minute and didn't get them on the list." Liar. Derek was so OCD he'd restack the coffee mugs in the break room if the handles didn't all face the same way. No way he would have forgotten to add these guys to the show roster. I had no clue where they'd come from. "They're the last planes to arrive so we're good to go for tomorrow."

Randall shoved a handful of papers across the desk. "Have them fill these out since we don't have anything on file. Make sure they sign the waivers."

Whoever he was calling finally answered, which only made him crabbier. He began yelling about a late fuel delivery. He took a break from yelling to wave me out. "Find them a motel and make sure they have transportation to get back here for the meet and greet tonight."

"Sir, it's homecoming weekend at the university. There aren't any motel rooms for a hundred miles."

"Figure it out. That's what I hired you for," he said and went back to yelling about fuel.

I ground my teeth. I'd been hired to write press releases and take pictures. Then Derek went ass over applecart down the stairs and I ended up in charge of this flying circus. I needed a drink.

I made my way back to the hanger and was relieved to find both men there, talking to Rob about Greg's oil leak.

"From the cowl flap actuators or the forward access panel?" she asked. "We had a bent-wing bird here for the show last fall and a guy on the crew said it threw oil like beads at Mardi Gras."

The look on Greg's face when he realized Rob knew what she was talking about was one of immense relief.

"The cowl flaps," he said.

"I can take a look at it for you later." She rolled her eyes toward the beleaguered-looking Beechcraft behind her. An array of parts was scattered on a tarp under the plane's nose. "I've got to get this crate back together first. Can it wait until tomorrow?"

"We're not going anywhere." Greg flashed a smile that would have turned any woman under 80 into a puddle of estrogen. Rob wasn't a pushover for just any guy with a pretty smile but it looked like she appreciated it, nonetheless.

"Come on," I said and both men followed me to the pilot's lounge. I grabbed three cans of Coke out of the refrigerator and set them on the table. "Give me a minute to see what I can come up with for a motel." Lord, I needed something stronger than Coke but it would have to do for now.

I darted into my office, grabbed my planner with Derek's uber-organized list of area motels and was back in less than a minute. Both men were staring at the flatscreen television mounted on one wall. The midday news was recapping the storm system that blasted through the night before. The anchor woman briskly reported a record number of lightning strikes that knocked out power and blew the steeple off a church in Iowa City.

"That was a heck of a storm," I commented, dialing up the first motel on the list. "No wonder you waited until today to fly in."

They exchanged a look and if I'd been paying closer attention, I might have read more into Greg's quick head shake when Jim started to say something. Then I didn't have time to think about it because Melissa at the Holiday Inn Express was busy telling me they were booked full for the weekend but maybe I should try the Budget Host down by the interstate.

Twenty-five minutes later I'd unashamedly begged and pleaded my way through Derek's list. There were no empty rooms to be had this side of Des Moines. Frustrated, I clicked off and tossed my phone on the table. What the hell was I going to do with these guys? It was October. They couldn't sleep under their planes. There was only one possible answer.

"Looks like you're staying at my place," I said.

To be continued . . .