Slouched in the copilot's seat, Aaron Greenburg glanced back toward her, the gold wings on his royal-blue jumpsuit's shoulderboards winking at her with the motion. "Morning, Bets—thought I heard you come in," he greeted her.
"Morning, Aaron. Tom, Rick," she added as the pilot and flight engineer turned and nodded to her. "Any problems come up during the night?"
Tom Lewis, in the pilot's seat, raised his hands shoulder high in an expansive shrug. "What could go wrong?"
He had a point. Only the middle three wing sections ran their huge General Electric CF6-90C1 turbofan engines during normal flights, the outer two of those shutting down during the lower-speed shuttle pickups. Perched on the Skyport's starboard end, Wing Section Seven was essentially along for a free ride, with little to do but keep the passengers happy and make sure the fuel the shuttles brought up went down the internal pipeline to the sections that needed it. "You trying to tell me you get bored up here?" she asked in mock astonishment. "Here, aboard the greatest flying machine ever built by mankind?"
Before Lewis could answer, a voice spoke up from the intercom. "Wassa-matta, Seven; isn't our company good enough for you? What do you want—home movies and pretzels?"
"We could let them have some of the navigational work," a new voice suggested.
"Great idea. Seven, why don't you hop outside and take a sun-sight?"
"I've got a better idea, Five," Lewis said, turning back to the intercom grille. "Why don't we do a Chinese fire drill and send One, Two, and Three around to hook up the other side of us and let us drive for a while."
"Sounds like fun," a voice Betsy recognized as One's night-shift pilot broke in. "It'd confuse the passengers all to hell, though. Do we tell them, or see if they figure it out by themselves?"
"Oh, we could switch back before we got to L.A.," Lewis told him.
"I've got an even better idea, Seven," the rumbling voice of Skyport Captain Carl Young said from Four. "Why don't you all cut the chitchat and get ready to receive the Dallas shuttle."
Lewis grinned. "Yes, sir. Chitchat out, sir."
Betsy stepped forward. "All the way out, as a matter of fact. You can go on back, Tom, I'll take over here."
"I've still got over a half hour left on my shift, you know," he reminded her.
"That's okay—the quality of intercom banter this morning indicates everyone on this bird is suffering gobs of boredom fatigue. Go on, get some coffee and relax. And maybe work on your one-liners."
Lewis gave her an injured look. "Well-l-l... okay. If you insist." Pulling off his half-headset and draping it across the wheel, he slid out of his chair and stepped back from the instrument panel. "All yours, Cap'n," he added. "Try not to hit anything; I'll be taking a nap."
"Right," she said dryly, slipping into his vacated seat. "Aaron, Rick—you two want to flip a coin or something to see who goes on break first?"
There was a short pause. Then Greenburg glanced back over his shoulder. "Why don't you go ahead," he said to Rick Henson. "I'd like to stay for a bit."
Henson nodded and got up from his flight engineer's board. "Okay. Be back soon." Together he and Lewis left the flight deck.
Betsy looked curiously at Greenburg. "Never known anyone before who didn't jump at a mid-shift coffee break with all four feet," she said.
"Oh, don't worry—I'll take mine, all right. I just wanted to give you a word of warning about the shuttle coming in. Eric Rayburn's flying her."
Betsy felt a knot form directly over her breakfast. "Oh, hell. I sure have a great sense of timing, don't I?"
"I can call Tom back in if you'd like," Greenburg offered. "You're not technically on duty for another half-hour."
She was sorely tempted. By eight o'clock Skyport time—seven Dallas time—the shuttle would have come and gone and be back on the ground again, and Eric Rayburn with it. She wouldn't have to talk to him, something she was pretty sure both of them would appreciate; and with her blood pressure and digestion intact she could go back to just flying her plane—
And to avoiding Eric.
"I can't avoid him forever, though, can I," she said, with a resigned sigh. "Thanks, but I'll stay here."
Greenburg's dark eyes probed her face. "If you're sure," He paused. "Shuttle's calling now," he informed her.
Nodding, she took the half-headset and put it on, guiding the single earphone to a comfortable stop in her left ear. Even before it was in place she heard Rayburn's clipped Boston accent. "—to Skyport Eleven-oh-three. Beginning approach; request docking instructions."
Betsy pursed her lips and turned on her mike. "Dallas shuttle, this is Skyport Eleven-oh-three. You're cleared for docking in Seven; repeat, Seven." Her eyes ran over the instrument readouts as she spoke. "Skyport speed holding steady at two-sixty knots; guidance system radar has a positive track on you."
"Is that you, Liz? Son of a gun; I had no idea I was going to have the honor of docking with your own Skyport. This is indeed a privilege."
Betsy had been fully prepared for heavy sarcasm, but she still found her hands forming into tight knots of frustration at his words. Liz—early in their relationship he'd learned how much she despised that nickname, and his continual use of it these days was a biting echo of the pain she'd felt at their breakup. "Yes, this is Kyser," she acknowledged steadily. "Shuttle, you're coming in a bit fast. Do you want a relative-v confirmation check?"
"What for? I can fly my bird as well as you can fly yours, Liz."
"We're sure you can, Shuttle." Betsy's voice was still calm, but it was a losing battle and she knew it. "Dock whenever you're ready; we're here if you need any help." Without waiting for a response, she flipped off the mike and wrenched the half-headset off, cutting off anything else he might say.
For a moment she stared at the instruments without seeing any of them, slowly getting her temper back under control. Greenburg's quiet voice cut through the blackness, "You know, I'm always amazed—and a little bit jealous—whenever I come across someone with as much self-control as you've got."
She didn't look up at him, but could feel the internal tension ease a little. "Thanks. You're lying through your teeth, of course—I've never seen you even raise your voice at anyone—but thanks."
Her peripheral vision picked up his smile. "You give yourself too little credit, and me way too much. Inherent lack of temper isn't comparable with control of a violent one. My weaknesses are gin rummy and gin fizzes—usually together." He shook his head. "Eighteen months is a long time to carry a grudge."
"Yeah. I will never again let that old sexist clich? about a woman scorned go by unchallenged—some of you men are just as good at hell's fury as we are."
"If you'll pardon a personal question, is all this nonsense really just because you were chosen for Skyport duty and he was left back in the shuttle corps? I'd heard that was all it was, but it seems such a silly thing to base a vendetta on."
She was able to manage a faint smile now. "That shows you don't know Eric very well. He's a very opinionated man, and once he gets hold of an idea he will not let it go. He is thoroughly convinced United put me on the Skyport because of my looks, because they thought it would be good publicity, because they needed a token female—any reason except that I might have more of the qualities they were looking for than he did."