The Gauntlet. Lindsay McKennaЧитать онлайн книгу.
When she turned around, the door to the office was closed, the officer gone. Disgruntled, feeling the pressure tripled within her, Molly continued down the hall toward the women’s locker room. Who was the mystery man in the office doorway?
She couldn’t shake the memory of his eyes: light blue with huge black pupils that seemed able to pierce her heart and look directly into her soul. Dark brown brows lay slightly arched across his assessing, critical eyes. His square-jawed face was spare looking, and had been emotionless. Martin’s attack hadn’t rattled her half as much as that officer’s sudden and unexpected appearance had.
In the locker room, Molly stowed her helmet and oxygen mask above the gray metal cabinet. She hung one of her olive-green flight uniforms and her flight boots in the locker itself—soon she would be flying at least once a week. Her equipment stored, she knew she had until 0900, when the candidates would meet to be briefed on what would be expected from them. Her hands damp, her heart beating in fear, Molly forced herself to leave the safety of the small locker room and head directly to the classroom on the second floor where the meeting was scheduled to take place.
Molly knew from long practice to walk in on an all-male class as if she owned the place. She was grateful for the four years of experience Annapolis had provided, because as she opened the door, fourteen male stares met her. A blond-haired lieutenant nearest her smiled and thrust out his hand.
“You’ve gotta be Molly Rutledge. I’m Leland Bard, hoping to become a flight engineer, too.”
Bard’s infectious smile was just what she needed, and Molly shifted her load of books to her left arm to shake his hand. “Hi, Leland.”
“My friends call me Lee.”
“Great. Call me Molly.”
He gestured toward two desks. “Have a seat. I guess the festivities will be getting underway shortly.”
Relief was sweet for Molly. She had a friend already, and it helped break the ice. Before, Dana and Maggie had been like bookends, protecting her. There was something to be said for the Sisterhood, if only for providing companionship in very exclusive all-male surroundings.
Lee sat down, stretching out his short legs in front of him. “You weren’t what I expected.”
Molly slid into the desk next to him and neatly stacked her books under it. “Oh?” She opened her notebook, her pen ready. Soon the commandant and instructors would file in and be introduced. Then the students would be assigned to them.
“I was expecting some hard-charging, gung-ho ring knocker to make an entrance.”
She grinned, noticing the volume of conversation in the room was getting back to what it had been before she entered. She saw Martin on the other side of the room with a small, tightly knit group of what she was sure were pilots. His scowl had deepened upon her arrival. Devoting her attention to Bard, who appeared to be in his late twenties, Molly said, “I’m hard on myself, not others.”
“In this place, that’ll count. I understand there are eight flight-engineer students and eight test-pilot candidates. You realize only four from each group will make the grade?”
“Makes me nervous.”
With a sigh, Lee nodded. “I got here a couple of days ago. My wife found an apartment in Lexington Park for me and our two kids. Housing’s at a premium around here.”
Molly agreed. Without her considerable monthly allowance from her father, she couldn’t have afforded the apartment she’d rented. “It’s rough.”
“Gonna get rougher.” Lee leaned toward her, his head cocked but his gaze roving around the bantering student groups. “I think we’re lucky.”
“Why?”
“There’s a Marine Corps captain here by the name of Cam Sinclair—a TPS instructor. They call him ‘the Glacier.’ I guess he’s been here two years and is a hard-nosed bastard, failing sixty-five percent of the pilots he instructs.”
“Sounds like Lieutenant Griff Turcotte,” Molly said, thinking of Dana’s flight instructor at Whiting Field. She explained her comment to Lee.
“Well—” Lee chuckled after hearing about Turcotte “—we can thank our lucky stars we don’t have Sinclair. They say his face is made of granite. He never smiles, cracks a joke or does much of anything except stare you down. Ice in his veins in the cockpit and ice on the ground. Guess that’s why he’s a Marine—they drain the blood out of them during their swearing-in ceremony. Then they inject them with Marine Corps juice or something. At least, that’s what I’ve heard,” he said with a smile.
Molly smiled in return, and the image of the officer leaning against his doorjamb came to mind. His face had been utterly devoid of expression. Even Griff Turcotte, as much of a bastard as he’d been to Dana, was human, his feelings readable on his face. “I’m finding in this business that jet jocks hide a lot under that mask they wear.”
“Yeah, but Sinclair’s reputation is awesome. I mean, what happened to the guy to make him like that? Frankly, I’m glad we don’t have to interface with him much.” Lee grinned. “We just have to contend with these jet jocks who think they’re the greatest.”
“From what I hear,” Molly said, “we’re the power behind the scenes. The tests we design are the ones that make or break the whole thing. All those jocks do is drive the bus.”
Tittering, Lee replied, “Don’t let those boys overhear that comment, Molly…. Heads up—here come the instructors. Time to get this dog-and-pony show on the road.”
The small groups of students quickly took seats, and silence fell over the room as six officers dressed in flight suits filed in, somber expressions on their faces. In the second row, Molly was close enough to read the black leather patches sewn above the left breast pocket of each flight suit. Each instructor’s name was stenciled there in gold lettering.
The last man to enter was the one she recognized from earlier. There was a tight, coiled explosiveness to the way the officer walked; an internal tension was reflected in each of his brisk movements. Curiosity ate at Molly, and she quickly scanned the instructors’ name tags.
Her heart thudded once, underscoring her intuition. The last pilot was Cameron Sinclair, “the Glacier.” Those ruthless, roving, light blue eyes looked over the crop of students almost with disdain, she thought. Lee was right: the instructor’s face was absolutely expressionless.
But she would rely on her own internal radar, a special intuitive ability she’d had since birth, to make her final decision about Sinclair. She thought of Maggie’s contention that all women had this ability—something special passed on to them in their genes. If Molly ignored the obvious and allowed herself to experience the energy that surrounded Sinclair, she felt no fear of him, only compassion. Why? Her left brain, that portion of her that used only logic, was stymied.
The instructors sat down in chairs facing the students. As the commandant got up to speak at the podium and introduce each instructor, Molly zeroed in on Sinclair. Once he’d perused the group, his eyes became unfocused, looking above the group at the wall behind them, as if he had mentally checked out, wasn’t really here at all, Molly noted. She sensed sadness around him. It wasn’t anything more specific than that. His eyes were opaque, hiding any feelings he might be experiencing. His generous mouth was flexed into a tight line, the corners drawn in, as if he were in pain.
Pain? Confused, Molly knew Sinclair had to be in top physical shape or he’d never be here at TPS. It couldn’t be physical pain. Her heartbeat suspended itself when Sinclair slowly turned his head and pinned his gaze directly on her. Heat swept up Molly’s face, and she quickly averted her eyes, nervous as she’d never been before. Had he sensed her perusal of him? He must have! Sinclair might be stone-faced, but his own intuition was very much up and functioning to feel her inspection of him so immediately.
Cam scowled, his focus remaining fixed on Molly Rutledge. Somehow he’d felt her gaze on him. When he’d shifted his