Brown, Dale - Independent 02 Read Online Free Page A

           Rawlins
turned to his copilot. “You’re not checked out in night intercepts—”
                 “I’ve
had the ground school and one simulator ride.”
                 “Can’t
do it until you’ve had actual rides.”
                 “How
am I ever going to get checked out if I don’t do actual intercepts? I’ve been on the upgrade program for a month
and haven’t had one actual intercept. C’mon, Kev,” Kelly said crosscockpit. Her
voice was different, lower. He looked across at her. “We’ll do it nice and
easy,” she added. “You can take charge whenever you want.”
                 What
the hell, Rawlins decided—he was an instructor so it wouldn’t be totally
against the rules to let her do the intercept. She was, after all, a good
stick.
                 He
nodded and watched as Sandino put her hands on the control column and
throttles. “I’ve got the aircraft,” she said.
                 He
gave the column a little nudge and felt the acknowledging nudge, then let go.
“You got it,” he said. “Go get ’em.”
     
                 Brickell Plaza Federal Building , Miami , Florida
     
                 There
seemed to be more of these late-night workdays for Rear Admiral Ian Hardcastle,
commander of the Seventh Coast Guard District based in Miami . The solitude of the big empty office was a
welcome interlude—and even the paperwork was a welcome diversion from the big,
silent, empty bungalow he had to go home to.
                 The
commander of the busiest district in the Coast Guard stood up from his desk,
stretched his long stringy muscles and ran a hand through salt-and-pepper hair
swept back from his forehead in wavy lines. He caught his reflection in the
dark office windows and saw that the blue uniform blouse and navy blue pants
hung a bit looser than before—stress, lack of exercise and a few late nights at
O’Mally’s Tavern . . . His blue eyes were dark in the reflection he studied,
and the overhead fluorescent lights accentuated the gaunt face and deep- set,
narrow eyes. Ghostly, he thought to himself. He could be straight out of one of
his grandfather’s Scottish ghost stories, the ones that haunted the moors in
the dead of night.
                 The
sandwich that had passed for dinner was a cold lump in his stomach. Stretching
his aching muscles even more, he felt the occasional twinges of pain in his
wrists and knuckles. Arthritis, a reminder of how old he was getting and how
close to retirement he really was. Hardcastle pulled on his leather flyer’s
jacket, a gift from a retired Coast Guard chief petty officer, and headed up to
the roof of the eight-story office building.
                 He
might be getting old, but he wasn’t ready for a rocking chair. Case in point:
the neat little Super Scorpion commuter helicopter parked on the roof was
Hardcastle’s wheels ore all but the worst weather days. The Scorpion could
carry two persons from Miami to most of Florida ’s major cities at twice turnpike speeds and was small enough to fit
into a two-car garage. It had taken the better part of a year to get permission
from the departments of Transportation and Treasury to land the little beauty
on the roof of the Federal Building , but by “bribing” other higher-ranking
persons in the building with offers of free rides he was able to manage it.
Rush-hour commuting was now a thing of the past and quick getaways to Orlando or the Keys became possibilities . . .
                 Except
now there was no one to share these getaways with. He just didn’t have much
desire to go off on the weekends, and late nights at the office precluded any
joy rides. Besides, most of his friends were also his ex-wife’s friends, and
after their separation he saw little of them.
                 He
undid the tiedowns, removed inlet covers and pitot tube covers