Author's note: You guys write the most wonderful reviews – they pop up in my in-box like shiny little Christmas presents. Thank you! The story launches into the home stretch this week. Looking at its progression, it could have had a much longer run but that was never my intention. My Black Sheep stories have always been a side hustle, an escape from reality and a place I can write without the pressures of obsessing about story arc, character development, word count and all those other things you're supposed to keep track of when you write with the intention of getting published. I get plenty of that while working on the women's fiction manuscript I'm re-writing for what feels like the 100th draft with hopes of bringing it to fruition in 2021. My adventures with the boys from the 214 let me escape and color outside the lines for a bit. Enjoy!
Chapter 5
Rows of tables set up in the hangar were draped with white linens. Candles flickered in hurricane globes, creating a soft ambiance in spite of the industrial lighting overhead. Rob was probably having a cat about people spilling drinks on her pristine floor. Guests mingled, many of the men in military costume, the women in stylish vintage dresses, complete with hats and gloves.
"Yepper," Jim muttered, looking around. "This is the officers' mess on Sedona all over again. Only thing missing are those starched white anchor-clankers."
"Come on," Greg said. "We had the last laugh there."
"Easy for you to say, you didn't get ambushed ten to one," Jim grumbled.
As much as I wanted to hear that story, I was afraid to ask for fear of hearing about my great-grandfather's role in yet another episode of off-the-record military carnage. I'd been raised to think Thomas Wiley was a saint. I was struggling with the version of him before he'd been elevated to that status. They say perception is reality. Being around Jim and Greg for twenty-four hours had drastically altered my reality.
Before Greg could reply, Robbie joined us. Her form fitting skirt emphasized her slender build and her short jacket reflected the military influence on women's fashion in the 1940s. A beret sat atop her mahogany curls.
"You look fantastic!" I said.
"Likewise," she returned. "You don't think the hat's too much, do you? Aimee talked me into it but I don't know."
"You're a knockout," Greg said, putting an end to any doubts she might have had.
"For that, I will buy you a drink," Robbie said and they strolled off toward the bar.
"Darlin'?" Jim offered me his arm. I took it and we followed them.
"I have a first name, you know," I said mildly.
"Mmm. I have a hard time calling you by a man's name."
"Alex isn't a man's name. It's short for Alexa, which I don't like."
"What's wrong with Alexa? It's kinda pretty. Never heard it before."
"It's that damned artificial intelligence virtual assistant. People are always teasing me - Alexa, do this. Alexa, do that."
Jim laughed. "Now you sound like Casey, our company clerk. He's always complaining about being treated like an errand boy but if you need to make something happen, he's your guy."He looked me up and down with an appreciative grin. "Nah, you don't look anything like him."
"Hey, guys!" Nick waved from the bar. He was wearing wool trousers and a white button-down shirt with a tweed vest and a narrow tie. A card labeled PRESS stuck out of the band of his fedora.
"You're doing that on purpose," Greg said, eying the press pass.
"Yep, pretty much." Nick's grin was unrepentant.
"Then the first round's on you," Greg said.
I bit back a laugh, glad to see his animosity toward the press had faded, at least where Nick was concerned.
Nick rolled his eyes. "My editor's going to kill me when she sees this month's expense account but the story should be worth it." He signaled the bartender for four more bottles and the five of us mingled with the growing crowd. The men drew more than a few admiring looks from the evening's female element. Remember what I said about men in uniform? Double the impact when it's not a costume.
Robbie and Greg made an eye-catching couple and Jim and I were at least well-matched in terms of height. I still felt tension radiating from him but he was more relaxed than he had been the previous evening. The day spent talking to spectators seemed to have improved his confidence in dealing with the twenty-first century.
When Randall stepped up to the microphone and requested people take their seats, I led our small entourage to an eight-person table near the open hangar door.
"It's quieter up here," I said. "And I happen to know the caterers will release these tables first for the buffet."
Nick drew up a chair between me and Robbie. Jim and Greg held our chairs for us as we were seated. Nick looked abashed at his lack of manners although I honestly couldn't ever remember a guy helping me be seated before in my life.
Robbie waved Preston and Betty Aldrich over to join us. Preston had taken a keen interest in the repair of Jim's plane and was quite enamored with the two pilots. He'd spent the day bouncing between the Corsairs' staging area and that of his own crew, who seemed to be doing fine without him.
A balding man wearing a clerical collar called for prayer. I closed my eyes and silently invoked divine intervention in getting Jim and Greg back to the time and space where they needed to be, then chairs scraped back and we headed to the buffet line.
The meal was nothing less than spectacular. The caterers outdid themselves with roasters filled with ham, Swiss steak and chicken alfredo and heaping bowls of mashed potatoes, green beans, fruit salad and rolls. Fortunately, the food kept everyone too occupied for the conversation to become too specific. When the topics began to skirt dangerously close to what Jim and Greg did in the real world, I deflected it, asking Robbie about her time at the Air Force Academy or prodding Nick to share tales about his storm chasing adventures. Preston, Robbie and Nick would have a collective stroke if they realized the stories they'd been hearing all day long were exactly what the men did in the real world.
Preston kept us entertained with stories from his service in Vietnam. Jim and Greg peppered him with questions regarding the Bell Huey's use in jungle warfare. When Preston excused himself to get another round of drinks, I leaned into Jim and asked, "Why the sudden interest in helicopters?"
"I'd rather talk about him than me, if you know what I mean," he replied. "Besides, the Brits had them whirly-birds but we didn't see 'em in our corner of the war."
The constant evasive mental maneuvering was wearing me a little thin by the time the jazz ensemble opened their first set. Several couples made their way to the dance floor.
"Alex," Preston addressed me, "you never did tell me where Derek found these two boys. I've done a lot of shows across the U.S. and never run into them before."
"They were a last-minute addition," I said and hoped my smile wasn't too bright. "Derek contacted them right before he broke his ankle. He even forgot to tell me they were coming." Liar, liar, pants on fire. I hoped the simple answer would make him stop asking questions.
It didn't.
"You must have one hell of a mechanic at your home base to keep those old girls in the air," Preston continued. "Takes a damn fine set of hands to turn wrenches on those radial engines. You're lucky this little gal knows her stuff."
Robbie made a dismissive gesture. "One of my instructors at the Academy was a mechanic on board the USS Boxer during Korea. The fighters are all jet-powered now but he thought we needed a crash course on radials. I remember taking apart one of those R-2800s." She laughed and shook her head. "I never thought I'd be putting that to good use."
The band launched into Harry James' It's Been a Long, Long Time. I recognized the ballad honoring couples reunited after the war from the afternoon's consultation with the musicians.
Jim turned to me. "They're playing our song. Would you like to dance?"
I blinked - surprised, flattered and mildly terrified.
Without waiting for my answer, he stood and made it clear he was going to pull my chair back with or without my permission. I excused myself to the rest of the table, took his hand and let him lead me to the dance floor.
"I didn't know we had a song," I hissed.
"We do now. Would you rather sit there and watch me and Greg try to come up with answers that are just gonna just raise more questions?"
"Well, no, it's just . . ." I sputtered, embarrassed.
"It's just what?"
"I don't know how to dance."
That wasn't entirely true. Even though I go out with girl friends to hear bands in Iowa City, I didn't think the freestyle gyrations we enjoyed on girls' night out were going to cut it here.
"Doesn't surprise me," Jim muttered. "You don't know how to cook, either."
"I know how to cook! I just . . . don't," I ended lamely. We stood there for a minute, looking at each other.
"You're really not very good at this," he said. He took one of my hands and planted it firmly on his shoulder, then gripped my other hand in his. His free hand settled on my waist. "Try not to step on my feet. I can't believe you don't know how to dance."
"A gentleman doesn't point out a lady's shortcomings," I said through gritted teeth.
He chuckled, his dark eyes warm. "No one's ever accused me of being a gentleman before."
"Then I'm not about to start now," I said and we swung into the music.
We weren't Fred and Ginger but we got around the floor without anyone getting hurt. Greg and Robbie joined the growing crowd of dancers. Robbie looked more comfortable in Greg's arms than I felt in Jim's. I was surprised at the ease with which both men moved and felt an odd pang that this social grace had been lost over time. Not a single one of the men I'd dated in the last couple of years could have danced to Big Band music if their lives depended on it.
We stayed on the floor for a couple of numbers, then I grabbed two more beers and Jim and I wandered outside. The electric bulbs dangling from wires strung on temporary poles gave the line a festive atmosphere. With the sound of Tommy Dorsey thumping behind us and men and women in 1940s dress strolling past, I felt like I was the one who had slipped the bounds of time, not Jim.
"Hey you two, how about a picture?" Nick appeared out of nowhere, camera around his neck. "It'll be a great tie-in to my story." He panned an imaginary front page. "Great-granddaughter of local hero steps into lead role as town salutes warriors of the South Pacific."
He raised his camera and clicked off a few frames as I protested, laughing. We stopped in front of Jim's plane. Jim slipped his arm around my waist and Nick took several more shots. I knew they'd be good. Nick's a great photographer even if he's occasionally given to theatrics.
"Thanks," he called over his shoulder. "You guys look great together. I gotta find Greg and Robbie next."
"Good luck," Jim said, and turning to me, added, "I ain't sure Greg wants to be found."
He seemed accustomed to his CO disappearing with attractive women and I decided what they might or might not be doing right now was none of my business.
"How are the repairs going?" I deliberately changed the subject.
"Come here." Jim led me into the shadowy space between the two Corsairs. The lights on the poles barely reached this far. "Look." He pointed to the rear assembly of Greg's plane. "Now look at mine. See where that big chunk is missing? That's where the rudder belongs." He stepped sideways and by merit of my arm being linked through his, I went with him. "Up there's where the stabilizer goes. It was twisted to hell so Robbie cut it out today and repaired the frame. She'll weld the new one back in tomorrow, then add the rebuilt rudder. The girl's damn near as good as Hutch."
"Hutch?"
"Our chief mechanic. Him and his crew get a lot of practice putting us back together."
The plane looked menacing in spite of the ragged metal and raw welds from Robbie's work. I wondered how Jim would explain the repairs when he and Greg got back to their base. They would get back. There was no other option.
"How did you manage to land with so much damage?"
Jim rubbed his hand across his face. "That's anybody's guess but reckon I've landed under worse conditions."
"For example?" I enjoyed hearing him talk. It wasn't so much the stories he told but how he told them. His blend of arrogance versus the inevitable made it sound like he could do anything. If the rest of the Black Sheep were like him, no wonder Greg's squadron came through the war with such an impressive combat record. They did the impossible because no one told them they couldn't.
"When TJ shot me down, I went ass over teakettle and wholesaled the plane." He shrugged. "Not sure you could really call that a landing. Been on fire a couple of times, came in once with malfunctioning landing gear – did a belly landing on that one. Another time, set down on an enemy-held island with a five-hundred-pounder dangling from a loose clip, did a couple of dead stick landings - "
"Wait - a five-hundred-pound what?"
"Bomb."
I let go of his arm and spun to face him. "How is it you're still alive? And you're the guy taking care of TJ? Who the hell is taking care of you?" Emotion made my tone sharper than I intended.
"The other boys got my six. Didn't know you cared, darlin'."
"I care about my great-grandpa." I paused, then added quietly, "I care about you, too."
It was the truth and it hit me harder than I expected. I walked a few yards away and stared into the nearby cornfield. Jim let me have my space. The night breeze blew through my dress, rippling it around my legs and sending a chill through my body.
Damn it. That feeling of desperation started to creep back in. How in the world was I supposed to reload the supernatural slingshot that catapulted Jim and Greg into my life and send them back where they came from? If they didn't get back in time – literally - TJ would go flying blind into Operation Cherryblossom without the support of his CO or his wingman. He was young and green and according to Jim, had no business being left without a mentor. How would he get through a major military offensive in one piece? My mind cycled back to what would happen if he got killed. Would I become someone else with no recollection of who I was now? A coyote yipped in the darkness and I shivered. It sounded as lonesome as I felt.
Arms wrapped around me from behind. I started to step away but the solid warmth of Jim's body was more than just respite from the chilly night air. He reminded me I wasn't the only one with something at stake. I twined my arms through his and we stood, looking at the clear night sky and the millions of stars sparkling overhead.
"I reckon you'll figure out how to get us back there," he said, as if reading my mind.
I appreciated his confidence but was still at a loss as to how that was going to happen.
"You're crazy," I said.
Jim shifted, snuggling me closer. He was deliciously warm and I liked his arms around me more than I should have.
"I may be crazy but I ain't stupid." His words were soft against my ear. "I've watched your great-grandpa break into the nurse's quarters more than once. He's stolen at least two jeeps while we were on R and R. He put Colonel Lard's picture next to a story about a blimp in the base newspaper and you know what? He never gets caught. What I'm sayin' is, TJ always comes through, no matter what. You're his kin, I don't expect nothin' less from you."
I turned to face him and flattened my hands on his chest. "Jim Gutterman, you are the biggest liar I ever met. You're just saying that to make me feel better. It sounds like my great-grandfather is the worst pilot in your unit and keeping him in the air is a fulltime job."
"Well, he ain't the best but I reckon I wasn't either, at first."
"Why are you so dedicated to keeping him alive?"
Jim was silent. We stood in the shadowy darkness, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
Just when I thought he wasn't going to answer, he said, "Cuz I never had nobody who believed in me before Greg pulled me into the Black Sheep. I reckon somebody needs to give a damn about TJ so he don't get lost in the shuffle."
"That's really sweet."
"Yeah, well, don't tell anyone I said that." Jim scowled as if the admission had been painful.
I couldn't even tease him about it. I was too busy sliding into my own pit of worry. Jim might have faith in me, believing I had the same degree of devil-may-care problem-solving skills as my great-grandfather, but breaking into the nurses' quarters without getting caught was a little different than mending unraveled threads and re-weaving the tapestry of time. I bit back a whimper of frustration.
Jim's hands settled on my upper arms, pulling me closer. I stepped into him willingly, seeking even the illusion of security, and tipped my head back to meet his eyes. Nearby, the lights tossed in the breeze, rippling shadows adding to the sense of timelessness among the vintage planes.
"I'm sorry I called you a liar," I started. "I didn't mean-"
He didn't let me finish.
His mouth took mine without hesitation and burned any lingering thoughts of inadequacy on my part right off the map. If he was looking for affirmation of something real in this abyss of uncertainty, that made two of us. Heat pulsed through me like a lit fuse. The embrace lingered, neither of us willing to let it go, yet both unsure of its future. When we broke apart, I held his eyes in the flickering shadows, my breath coming quick. The easy grin playing across his face was not the result of conquest but of mutual pleasure.
"Ah, hell. TJ'd kill me for this," he muttered, then pressed me back against the plane and kissed me again, harder this time, his lips not taking no for an answer. His hands were light on my waist, giving me every chance to pull away but I couldn't have if I'd wanted to. And I didn't want to.
Jim cradled the back of my head, his fingers warm as they tangled in my hair. My lips parted in invitation and he took it, deepening the kiss and igniting a chain reaction that seared through every nerve in my body.
Music drifted from the main hangar, a slow, sensual beat that filled me with endless possibilities as my tongue flicked across his. Jim stroked my back, then slid his hand lower to caress my hip. The rush of sensation was unexpected but not unwelcome. I pressed against him, reckless with the rush of kissing a man I'd known for only twenty-four hours but had been connected to for generations. Common sense poked the back of my mind, telling me the night was full of possibilities but none of it was going to happen here.
"We should go back," I managed as we broke apart. "It's getting late. We can't abandon Greg."
"I reckon Robbie would take care of him." When he pulled me to him again, I didn't argue. In fact, I may have encouraged things a little more than I intended. Honestly, I tried to pull away, to rein in the mad rush of heat that was making decisions without consulting me but every time my mouth left his, it found its way back.
A few minutes later, I flattened my palms on his chest and forced myself to pull away. "Stop. Seriously. We need to go back."
Jim brushed a strand of hair off my cheek. He was smiling, not the derisive sneer that usually preceded some sarcastic comment but an honest, relaxed smile that accented the good old boy charm sparkling in his dark eyes.
Swear to God, I couldn't help myself. I leaned in and brushed my lips over his just to feel the rush start all over again.
"Don't tell me to stop, darlin', and then do that," he said.
"We're going back now," I said and linked my arm through his, steering him back toward the lights and music before I lost every shred of common sense I possessed. My heart was beating a mile a minute. Being alone with a man who belonged to another century was more dangerous than being in the public eye with him.
When we got back to the party, I excused myself to the bathroom. I finger combed my hair, which was only marginally successful at restoring my composure. I reapplied my lipstick, which gave the small illusion of being in control. The heat of Jim's kisses still pulsed through me, making my head spin and I gripped the edge of the sink. What the hell was I doing? Talk about relationships that were doomed from the start. I'd broken things off with guys because they lacked chemistry and a USMC fighter pilot from another era had just lit me up like a Fourth of July fireworks display. On the other hand, no matter what happened between us, he couldn't stay in this world and I couldn't leave to join him in his so did any of it matter?
The bathroom door swung open while I was evaluating the last 30 minutes of my life.
Robbie met my eyes in the mirror, her smile immediately knowing. "You're windblown and sparkling. Do I need to ask what you've been doing?"
"No." I studied her reflection. Her cheeks were more flushed than the heat of the hangar-turned-dancehall could justify. "I could ask you the same thing."
Robbie shrugged. "Blame me?"
"Oh hell no."
She studied me. "You know you lost an earring?"
I pulled my hair back. She was right. I had a sudden, vivid memory of Jim's fingers tangled in my hair as his body pressed against mine.
"Oh, damn. It must have fallen out when – when we were out on the line. I'll look for it tomorrow."
"Uh-huh. Cuz earrings just fall out by themselves." Her grin was wicked.
"Oh shut up," I said, matching it with one of my own, and we went back to rejoin the men.
The band was good and Jim insisted on dancing a few more numbers. As we moved around the floor as one, the music carried us both to another place. The sense of intimacy that had blossomed between us was as fragile as a soap bubble and I didn't want to be the one who burst it.
Greg and Robbie moved past us on the floor. I felt a twinge of guilt. How much had Greg told her? Was it any of my business to tell her the truth? She was a grown ass woman and a military vet, not a naive school girl. Whatever happened this weekend – for any of us – would be a temporary indulgence with no lasting expectations.
There was no other acceptable alternative.
"Unzip me. Please." I lifted my hair and turned my back to Jim. The simple request was going to start a whole new set of complications, but I couldn't get out of the dress by myself. It was probably too late to be worrying about complications, anyway. That had been perfectly clear when we were alone on the airstrip. But we weren't alone in the house and that meant things were not going any further. I was pretty sure Greg's presence wouldn't deter Jim but it deterred me, kind of like making out with a college boyfriend when your roommate could walk in at any time.
"Been waiting for you to ask." Jim's fingers lingered, tracing my spine after he drew the zipper down. I knew he wouldn't just unzip me and be done with it. He pulled my hair aside and kissed the back of my neck. I'd be lying if I said I didn't like it but this. Was. Not. Happening. He slid the dress off one shoulder.
"Stop it," I hissed.
He didn't stop it. No surprise.
"Swear to God, you don't listen," I muttered. I bit my lip and leaned into him. Damn it. I don't listen either. One arm wrapped me close and his lips continued their slow exploration of my neck and now bare shoulder. If Greg hadn't been in the kitchen, rattling around for clean glasses, I wouldn't have been complaining, but under the circumstances this line of activity had nowhere to go. With an effort, I wrenched away and bolted up the stairs to change into sweats and a T-shirt. I put the remaining earring in my jewelry box, vowing to find its mate tomorrow.
When I came back downstairs, Greg handed me a tumbler of whisky. I appreciated his assumption I needed a drink. Jim raised his own glass and winked at me. I could still feel his fingertips brushing my bare skin and the heat of his mouth behind my ear.
"Any ideas yet on how we're going to get out of here?" Greg asked.
All right, that was a buzz kill. My fingers clenched on the tumbler and I was tempted to toss it straight back like they do on television. Since whisky isn't my drink of choice, I figured that probably wouldn't end well.
"No." I sank onto the end of the couch, as far away from Jim as I could get. He noticed, moved next to me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. I gave up. I closed my eyes and leaned against him. "No, I haven't. But not for lack of trying." The subject had been at the forefront of my thoughts all day. Well, most of the day. An idea danced just out of reach, a terrifyingly simple solution but I couldn't close my mind around it.
"No pressure, sweetheart, but we've been MIA for more than twenty-four fours and that offensive launches in two days. If we don't show up soon, General Moore can't stall Lard forever."
"Just give me a little more time," I said through gritted teeth.
"That's what we don't have," Greg said.
Sunday, Oct. 31
I knew Jim was awake before I opened my eyes. His gaze lingered with a insistence that was impossible to ignore, even from the other side of the room. I sat up and stretched. The second night on the air mattress had been slightly better than the first, in spite of tangled thoughts and unfulfilled dreams that swirled annoyingly through my mind until morning.
I wouldn't have had to have slept on the floor. Those dreams wouldn't have had to go unfulfilled. I could have gone to him after I'd turned out the lights. If he'd said my name, I would been his in an instant. There'd have been no questions, no worry about the future or the past, only the here and now.
But I hadn't. I couldn't. Not with Greg asleep upstairs. Not with my mind caught in a snarl of time and consequence and worry. Jim had sensed that. He hadn't pushed and I didn't know if I was grateful or disappointed.
"You talk in your sleep," he said.
That woke me up in a hurry.
"Good morning to you, too."
"TJ talks in his sleep," he continued. "But he's a lot more interesting."
That was a relief. There were a lot of things I could have said and I didn't think any of them were fit for discussion in the hard light of day. Still, I had to know. "What was I talking about?"
"Thunderstorms." Jim sounded puzzled. "Couldn't make head or tails out of it."
I wasn't surprised. The storm that preceded the men's arrival seemed to be the key in unlocking their successful departure. I just couldn't get that key to turn in the lock, no matter how my mind finessed it.
And thunderstorms hadn't been the only thing I'd dreamed about.
Nick found me at 12:30 p.m. I was on lunch break with the guys in their staging area. Preston was entertaining us with tales about flying medevac and combat supply runs during Vietnam while we ate. I was avoiding Randall, who'd been obsessing about the departure schedule since the first of the planes launched for home at noon. Runway Four had to be open for business at 6 a.m. Monday. There weren't as many people visiting the line today as most of the spectators had staked out seats in the stands to watch the planes take off.
"Hey, guys," Nick said in a generic greeting that encompassed all of us, regardless of chromosomes. He handed me an envelope. "I printed a couple of the pictures from last night." He looked sheepish. "Not being a stalker or anything, but you guys look really good together."
I opened the envelope and pulled out several three-by-five-inch prints of me and Jim. Nick had run the images through some kind of black and white filter that gave them a vintage tone, then embellished them with an old-fashioned white border. He'd even printed them on heavy matte stock, not the thin, high-glass photo paper that screamed twenty-first century. With Jim in uniform and me in the cocktail dress, we looked like something out of Great-aunt Eleanor's photo albums.
There were a couple of other shots including one of me only, laughing at something Jim had said. I was pushing back the loose waves of hair framing my face and the black and white filter softened my image, blurring the lines and placing me in a decade I'd never known.
"These are great," I said. "Thanks." I noticed he didn't have any shots of Greg and Robbie. Maybe he hadn't been able to find them. Ha. And Robbie had called me out for my extra-curricular activities.
My walkie chirped. It was Randall.
"Remington? We've got a car fire in the north parking lot. The fire department's on their way, can you clear traffic at the main gate?"
I groaned and stood up. "Gotta run." The men waved me out. I got into Lily, dropped the envelope of photos on the seat and dove back into the demands of the day.
Five hours later – after an incinerated Honda Civic, a set of lost parents (the five-year-old girl insisted she was not the one who was lost) and an older man with chest pains who was whisked away by ambulance - I leaned against Lily and watched the last of the show's planes depart Cedar Junction Municipal Airport. As the bugler played Taps, the C-47 Skytrain lifted off the runway with elephantine grace, bringing Wings Over Autumn to an official end.
Preston and Betty Aldrich and the Warhawk's crew said their goodbyes and took off for their home in Ohio. The parking lots slowly emptied as dusk fell. Maintenance crews collected the barriers and took down signs. The Hilton Shamrocks 4-H club patrolled the grounds, picking up empty water bottles and discarded sandwich wrappers.
"What now, boss lady?" Jim hoisted himself onto Lily's hood next to me. Robbie, Charlie and Ben's combined efforts had finished the repairs on his plane. The spot welding and unpainted metal gave it a ruggedly industrial appearance but Jim and Greg assured me Robbie's attention to detail meant it was back in lethal fighting trim.
What now, indeed? Time no longer had meaning in the sixty-seconds-equals-one-minute sense. It had stretched into something malleable to be formed at my command. Only I didn't know how to command it. I was winging it in the most rudimentary sense of the word.
"I told Randall you'd be leaving in the morning, due to needing to finish repairs," I said.
Greg shot me a look. "The repairs are finished. We're ready to go."
But I don't know how to get you there.
"What Randall doesn't know won't hurt him." I had an idea but I needed more time to figure it out. The answer hung in the air around me. I could feel it. I just needed to grasp it and take possession. "He said you should get your planes off the runway tonight. You can move them up by the hangar."
He hadn't said as much, but I could tell Randall was not convinced either of the two Corsairs would be able to lift off in the morning. He wanted them out of the way of incoming flights, should they prove to be marooned here indefinitely. He had no idea how big of a problem that could be.
As the men climbed into their planes, I remembered my lost earring. Surely it was lying on the tarmac where Jim and I had lingered the night before but looking for it hadn't been a high priority today. It was nearly dark. I'd never find it now. The wheezing clatter of the planes starting up put it from my mind. The props spun jerkily, then smoothed as the RPMs ramped up and the engines' roar filled my ears like music.
I put Lily in gear and drove back along the now empty runway until I reached the hangar. The men taxied past me onto the apron and spun their birds around, facing south. My heart ached. They were ready to leave . . . for where? No traditional flight plan would get them where they needed to go. The clock was ticking. Operation Cherryblossom launched Nov. 2. Tomorrow was Nov. 1.
Which mean tonight was Halloween. Wasn't there something about the veils between the worlds thinning on Halloween so spirits could walk between the dimensions? Before my mind could explore the concept further, my phone pinged with a text from Nick.
What time are your guys leaving tomorrow? Hazardous Weather Outlook is dicey. Level 4 risk, anticipate going to 5.
Nick was the best. Most guys would be watching football on Sunday evening. He was checking the convective outlooks and reading mesoscale discussions. I knew enough about the Hazardous Weather Outlook, issued by the Storm Prediction Center in Norman, Oklahoma, to know a Level 4 risk wasn't good. I texted back.
Not sure. Why?
They need to get out of the area before it hits. Gonna be like Thurs. nite.
Will advise. Thanks for heads up.
As I stuck my phone in my pocket, the odd little thing that had been poking at my mind since Nick brought up the weather the day before started in again. Now it had a friend – the notion of the veil between the worlds thinning on Halloween. If the veil thinned for spirits, it could damned well thin for time travelers, too, especially if there was going to be a storm similar to the system that brought them here in the first place.
Adrenaline seared through me like a lightning strike.
I knew how to get them back.
It was crazy if you thought about it too hard but so was the rest of my life right now. Sometimes you didn't need to think. You just needed to do. That's probably what my great-grandfather had thought when he set off on one of his crazy war-time capers but the approach had worked for him, hadn't it?
The silence was deafening as the men killed their engines. I put Lily in gear and screeched to a halt in front of Jim's plane just as he ducked under the wing.
"I've got it!" I shouted, jumping out and running to meet him. Reckless with joy, I threw my arms around his neck and rising on my toes, kissed him hard. He responded with a degree of alacrity that said he had no idea what was going on but was willing to roll with it. I'm not the kind of girl who ordinarily throws herself into public displays of affection but this time, it was justified. The kiss was deep and deliciously rough and might have gone on for some time if Greg hadn't cleared his throat.
I reluctantly pulled away. My heart pounded, not entirely from the rush of my epiphany. I grabbed Jim's hand and Greg's elbow.
"Let's go home," I said breathlessly. "I know how to get you back to your base." I shook my head to stall the questions I knew were coming. "I can't tell you exactly how yet. We need Robbie and Nick to help us work it out." Well, we needed Nick but it didn't seem right to leave Robbie out of things.
"You're gonna have to tell them the truth," Jim said. "Won't they think you're bucking for a Section 8 if you tell them we're, uh, not from around these parts?"
"They're my friends," I said simply. "I trust them." I trusted them to believe me, as well as not to have me locked up.
I turned to Greg. "I take it you haven't told Robbie about, um, anything?"
He shrugged. "She didn't ask."
I interpreted this as "Any time we were alone, we had other things on our mind."
We all got back in the jeep and I drove around the side of the building. Robbie was silhouetted behind a push broom in the open hangar door, sweeping non-existent dust molecules off the floor. I drove Lily straight into the hangar and stopped. She glared at me and looked pointedly at the spotless floor.
"Can you come over to my place?" My voice must have sounded funny because her expression changed from glaring to concerned.
"When?"
"As soon as you can."
"Is everything all right?" She shot a glance at the men.
"We're good," I said in a rush, even though it was a big fat lie. "Just come over. Please."
Good? Good didn't even start to cover it. I had two displaced fighter pilots relying on me to get them back to their unit. My solution flew in the face of the laws of physics and aeronautics but if it didn't work, there was a good chance my great-grandfather would end up as just another name on the county veterans memorial.
This fly-by-night idea was the only thing standing between not only Jim, Greg and TJ's lives but my own as well.
To be continued . . . one more chapter . . .
(Author's note: I hope to post the final chapter on my regular Friday schedule, but next Friday is Christmas and my family plans are all over the place right now. So it might have to wait until Saturday. Either way, wishing you all a blessed and safe holiday. Thanks for reading!)