“You need to go,” I said and pulled my hand away.
I couldn’t do this with him. He was my instructor. If he knew how messed up I truly was, he could end me.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“You’re my instructor. I think that says it all,” I whispered as I stared into his eyes.
The muscles around his jaw tensed and I watched in silence as he walked down the stairs. He sat on his Harley, revved the engine, and held his helmet by its strap. He made me feel like my old self last night. It was something I thought would never be possible.
Locke pulled out of my driveway and turned into the drive next door. He shut off his bike and got off. What was he doing?
With a glance in my direction, he strode to the front of the house. He unlocked the door and went inside.
Oh. Hell. No.
Locke Sinclair was my neighbor?
Freaking Karma.
Chapter 7
I wouldn’t be borrowing a cup of sugar anytime soon.
The only thing worse than my new neighbor was the gauntlet of work the training squadron forced on us. At least it kept my mind off Locke. There was no room in my head for him. My brain overflowed with so many systems, instruments and advanced handling characteristics that it would malfunction if I tried to add any personal drama into it.
I shoved my air-to-air binder into my backpack and grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. I twisted open the cap and chugged it. This course was more intense than I ever imagined. Several guys had already washed out of the program, setting all of us on edge. But I held my own. I wouldn’t accept failure.
I tightened my bootstraps and grabbed a banana from the counter before jogging down the front stairs to my jeep. I was tired from the hours training in the simulators, exams, and being drilled by our instructor pilots.
There was one more simulator ride before it was go-time. No more practice; it would be the real deal.
Just thinking about it freaked me out. It was easier to face your demons in a simulator than in the actual jet. In the simulator your heart flies into your throat and you drip in sweat, but it wasn’t giving me the answers that I needed. Neither were the endless hours of studying. I needed to climb into the cockpit to discover the truth about Colin’s accident.
I pulled out my tablet and tapped the videos. I wondered how many times I could watch this footage before it or I self-destructed. I scribbled down more notes about the times, sounds, even movements of objects in the distance.
Everything was normal about the flight. The sound of his voice created tightening in my stomach. Air-to-air fighting. He was engaged—winning. I stared at the screen and watched him break free from the other jets and listened to the sound of his breathing.
Soft, shallow breaths. Then the airwaves were filled with the warning system. I could mouth the words along at the same time.
“Altitude! Altitude!”
“Pull up! Pull up!”
“Pull up! Pull up!”
“Altitude! Altitude!”
“Pull up! Pull up!”
“Pull up! Pull up!”
Giant green arrow. Full explosion, then darkness.
I pushed out a long breath. Don’t doubt the jet. It wasn’t just on the syllabus; it was practically tattooed onto your skin. But the jets were dangerous. The JSF’s malfunction killed my brother. The thought of climbing into its cockpit made me ill.
* * * *
Cold, sterile, and impersonal. The simulator’s building matched my mood. The large concrete building smelled of electrical wiring and was shockingly chilly, a stark contrast to the muggy dampness that persisted this time of year. The machine itself was tucked away in a secluded room. Not that it mattered. The simulator did a damn good job at making you feel alone. Just you, the machine…and Mr. Gumpbert, the retired F-16 instructor pilot who ran the program.
“So it’s just you and me today,” he said in his thick southern drawl. He was so lanky that he reminded me of a daddy longlegs when he moved.
His call sign was Forrest, for obvious reasons. He patted me on the back, then pulled out a comb and smoothed what was left of his thinning gray hair. He was a good ol’ boy and loved hanging out with the squadron, reliving his glory days in the cockpit.
“I think there’s more coming. Our first flight is Monday,” I said as I twisted my ponytail into a bun.
“Nope, just you. Hop on in that saddle, young lady. Put that on.” He flipped a few switches then pointed at something before he sat in the old worn out chair in the control box.
My helmet. What the hell? Where did that come from? Usually we wore a pair of headsets for the SIM. I picked it up and did as he asked without argument. The mocked up cockpit stared back at me with its myriad of blinking lights and screens. I strapped on my helmet and performed the required checks.
My hands shook, but he didn’t seem to notice. What the hell was bothering me? I had done this a hundred times over the last few weeks. Sure it sucked, but when the guys were around I just did what I had to do. I didn’t know why this was any different, but I felt like a cow being led into a slaughterhouse.
I took a deep breath and gave the thumbs-up. The simulator closed, surrounding me in darkness. The walls came to life, lighting up to display the Florida greenery to the north and the blue open water of the gulf to the south.
“All right, you’ve finished the ground emergency procedures so you’re going to start off right away in the air. Ready?” Forrest spoke as if his mouth were full of rocks.
“Affirm,” I stared ahead and bit my bottom lip.
“I have you set up at twenty-four thousand feet, straight and level. You’re cruising at 450 knots. You have the jet.”
The earth dropped away and my view from the cockpit skyrocketed into the air. In the matter of a second, I sat four miles above the earth’s surface motionless.
“I have the jet.” My voice held steady.
The jet suddenly sprung to life in my hands. The smallest input to the control stick began to roll and sway the aircraft. It rocked with the turbulence and the wind’s rush and static crackled in my headset from radio calls in the background. The systems chirped and buzzed with alerts and messages. The room around me transformed from cold and sterile to a flurry of movements and inputs.
Sweat began to trickle down my neck as my eyes automatically transitioned to quick and rapid scans around the instrument panel.
Attitude, altitude, airspeed. Fuel is good. Engine in the green. Systems are in the green. I repeated the mantra to myself as my crosscheck quickened.
“All right go ahead and set yourself up for an advanced handling profile. Take it through the normal progression, High-G turn, Loop, Split-S, Immelmann, Max-sustained turn, and so on. Make sure you have the right parameters before you start and be disciplined executing the maneuvers.” Forrest ordered. “You fly the jet. Don’t let it fly you.”
“Roger that.” I swiped my hands on my legs and gripped the stick, ready to show him what I could do.
The jet accelerated to five hundred and fifty knots in mere seconds. The airframe buffeted as the airspeed climbed.
“Five hundred and fifty knots, twenty-four thousand feet. Starting the High-G turn,” Forrest instructed.
I dropped