The Night Is Mine

Chapter 22

22

Major Mark Henderson entered the mess tent. Tonight’s flight looked to be a long one and he needed to stoke up. He hadn’t slept last night and he’d already flown to the carrier and back this morning. He’d have to dig deep to stay on the ball tonight.

The chow line stood empty, but a crowd packed around one of the tables. He grabbed a glass of juice and headed over to see what was up.

“She’s on!” “Shh!” “Shut up, you mutton heads!”

A bunch of the guys had a crush on Zoe Saldana, again. They’d screened Star Trek and Avatar back-to-back the previous week. The guys had become absolute hounds for any interview, sneak peek, or paparazzi photo. Happened every time. Last month it had been Michelle Yeoh, and the one before that, Marilyn Monroe. He’d always been a Sophia Loren man himself, though he hadn’t complained about having to watch the others for a second.

“Raise it up!” “Can’t see, damn it!”

In seconds, a bench landed on the table and a laptop was perched carefully atop it.

He felt off balance when he noticed that the front line of guys closest to the computer were Beale’s flight crew: Archie Stevenson, John Wallace, and Tim Maloney. They’d given him the full-on silent treatment both directions this morning. He started shuffling crews in his mind to figure out how to get them back on the line. Maybe put Stevenson in the right seat? He was ready despite only two months in SOAR. Would have had his own ship if he flew with anyone less skilled than Beale. But then who to drop in his left seat? Not Bronson. Maybe—

“Captain Emily Beale,” Brion Carlson blared out before offering his enigmatic smile, sending Mark’s stomach through an uncomfortable flip. “The flying chef of the fighting SOAR 160th Airwing—”

“Air Regiment, you ass,” Big John hissed at the screen.

“—has landed on both feet. But where this stunning blonde has landed may startle you.”

The shot cut away to Emily in form-fitting slacks, a sleeveless tank top, and an apron. A couple of the guys made sighing noises but were shushed. A kitchen. Big stove, sparkling pots. A cooking show?

Mark could feel his jaw clenching. What i***t would take a pilot of that skill and put her on a food show?

She poured brandy into a pan. A moment later, a burst of flame roared forth. She tossed the ingredients for a few seconds and then turned to a massive cutting block. In seconds she’d made three plates of something that looked incredible. Chicken something with flames, baby asparagus, roasted new potatoes, with a drizzle of something dark in artistic swirls. Pomegranate reduction sauce, the narrator filled in. She pushed one plate toward the camera, which zoomed in for a close-up.

“Oh, man!” “Will you look at that?” “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Mark had, but only in the finest restaurants. He swallowed and knew it was unfair to the base’s chefs, but tonight’s meal was going to suck by comparison. He took a slug of juice into a mouth gone too dry to swallow.

The camera pulled back as Emily slipped the other two plates across the butcher block. And then lifted to show the two diners.

Mark spit his mouthful of apple juice onto the backs of the guys in front of him who didn’t notice only because they were as surprised as he was.

Two of the three most recognizable faces on the planet filled the screen. Vice President Zack Thomas and First Lady Katherine Matthews. They raised large glasses of a dusky red wine toward the chef as Carlson cut back in.

“Captain Emily Beale, First Chef of the East Wing.”

Mark would have to kill someone. He started a mental list. Admiral Parker might be a good place to start. Instead of pumping him for information, as he’d have done if Jim hadn’t stopped him, he could offer to pump the man full of lead. The best pilot he’d ever flown with, cooking for that…that woman?

Katherine Matthews had two reputations: the public one as the poster girl for every good charity and the quiet rumor-mill one of a coiled snake a Black Adder wouldn’t mess with.

He’d start with Admiral Parker, raise holy hell, and if that didn’t work, he’d raise unholy hell. Something wasn’t right in DC, and if he had to he’d—

Carlson continued, “And this is a chef who can fly to wherever she wants to land.”

Emily in dress blues lifting off the White House lawn in a pretty little Bell 430. The First Lady waving from a rear window.

“On a recent trip to New York—”

Then, the third of the world’s most recognizable faces. President Peter Matthews holding open the door of a long, black limousine. Emily Beale flashing him one of her sparkling smiles as she climbed in.

Mark didn’t hear the rest of the broadcast. Couldn’t face that smile. While it had never been for him, he’d seen it on rare occasion. Knew it. Only those closest to her ever received it, and Mark would bet they never forgot it. It made Jim’s dazzler look like a flashlight left on the shelf for two years too long.

He left the mess tent and slammed into some crewman or other. He mumbled an apology and kept moving.

There was no one to complain to. Emily Beale was happy at the White House. Aiming that smile at the Commander in Chief. He’d never have thought she’d do that; act a part merely to climb the ladder. But what ladder? She’d refused promotions, mouthed off enough to earn a couple of demotions over the years, according to her files, but he’d thought it was so she could keep flying. Bottom line, he’d never know. She was so far gone, there was no coming back.

There was an empty spot in his gut, so empty it cramped. He pulled an energy bar out of a thigh pocket. Not a chance it would get near that spot, but he could pretend.