Point Of Departure

IT TAKES A VERY SPECIAL MAN TO WIN THAT SPECIAL WOMAN!

A woman in uniform had to be tough. But to face down a naval commander intent on harassing her out of the ranks, Lt. Callie Donovan needed more than moxie, she need a miracle…

Top Gun Ty Ballard, assigned to represent Callie in a military board of inquiry, was no miracle worker. But having seen the stark vulnerability shadowint Callie’s azure eyes-and knowing it had been put there by a predatory jet jocks just like him-he prayed he’d prove man enough to stand by this brave, beautiful woman in blue.

Point of Departure

Lindsay McKenna

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Author Note

I felt very proud to be asked to take part in the That Special Woman! program. My editors know my fondness for writing novels that emphasize women and their wonderful strengths, intelligence, creativity and courage. And I think my readers know where I stand on the issues of women and their rights. I’ve always supported women in every way.

Navy Lieutenant Callie Donovan faces a challenge while in a very male-dominated career position. She gets put up against a wall, and when she’s forced to, she fights back. I don’t think women like to fight; we’d rather work things out peaceably, but more and more we must stand up for our own integrity. I believe Lieutenant Callie Donovan has the “right stuff”—just as all women do. None of us should be treated disrespectfully or without integrity.

Lindsay McKenna

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter One

Lieutenant Callie Donovan wondered if it was a good idea to grab a quick dinner at the Officer’s Club. Lately, with all the hubbub over the newspaper article about Callie and her sister Maggie coming to Miramar Naval Air Station—home of the cream of the naval aviation crop known as Top Guns—things had been going from bad to worse.

Callie frowned and pushed a lock of black hair off her forehead as she pulled into the Officer’s Club parking lot. She’d already changed out of her summer uniform in the women’s locker facility, and into a simple white, short-sleeved blouse, denim skirt and sandals. As she opened her car door, Callie laughed to herself, but the sound had a grim edge to it as she realized her carefully nondescript outfit was really more an attempt at camouflage than comfort.

Last Sunday’s newspaper had featured a full-page profile on the Donovan sisters, under the auspices of “women challenging the male military bastion.” Callie hadn’t wanted to be interviewed, but effervescent Maggie, always happy to be in the forefront of leading women into male-dominated areas, had somehow talked her into it. Shutting the car door, Callie realized that it was Friday night, and the O Club parking lot was nearly full—mostly with vehicles of the young, eager pilots who attended Top Gun school. Again, she hesitated. The last place she wanted to be was on the firing line with a bunch of chauvinistic pilots angry about the newspaper article.

Callie’s stomach rumbled. This was silly, she thought, impatiently smoothing her skirt. She needed to eat before driving to the local college to attend a still-life photography class, and the O Club was close and convenient. Shrugging off the intuitive warning, she slung her white purse across her shoulder and headed toward the club.

Day had turned to evening, but the dry desert heat lingered, and her blouse clung slightly to her damp skin. The light blue sky held a golden cast at the horizon. Although the Pacific Ocean was ten miles away, Callie caught a hint of saltiness on the air. In another hour, twilight would settle on the famous Southern California naval base and neighboring San Diego. Miramar was the aviation arm of the navy—and the most prestigious assignment Callie had ever been given. In her position as a satellite and photo interpreter, she’d always been hidden behind doors marked Top Secret, pouring over photos for hours, then issuing reports, never interfacing much with anyone but photographic intelligence staff. But Miramar was a different stripe of cat: there was always excitement at this station because the Top Guns trained here year round.

As she hurried across the asphalt, Callie saw many other young women heading for the club, mostly in groups of two and three. Her heart fell. These civilian women, dressed to the nines in snug skirts and high heels, were known as “groupies.” On Friday and Saturday nights, the women swarmed to the O Club, openly courting the cocky young pilots by flirting, dancing and drinking with them.

Callie wanted none of the scene that generated so much excitement among the carrier pilots, who eagerly looked forward to the weekends. She never had. Naval aviators tended to be aggressive toward women, and usually had enough lines to sink a battleship—as she knew from hard-won experience. In four years, she’d fallen three times for navy pilots. And, as Maggie had informed her one day, she’d crashed and burned each time—sucked in with a line, her own damning naivetñae paving the way to the end of the relationship.

Shaking her head, Callie slowed down and allowed the groups of civilian women to enter the O Club first. They would go to the bar, she knew, a huge area designed for heavy drinking, rowdy behavior, loud rock music and packed bodies. Callie, however, opened the door and entered the much-quieter dining room, adjacent to the bar. Here there was a lot less chance of being hit on by some drunk aviator.

Not that she’d be much of a target, anyway, she thought as the hostess led her toward a table at the rear of the spacious room. With her short hair, bland clothes and lack of makeup, Callie was hardly the type to attract the roving “wolf packs.”

As Callie reached the small table, she recognized Lieutenant Andy Clark, who was assigned to Miramar as an Aggressor pilot—one of the men who trained the Top Gun candidates how to shoot to kill up in the sky. Seated two tables to her left, Andy looked up and nodded deferentially in her direction. Callie smiled and raised her hand in silent greeting before she sat down. Andy was married and the proud father of two little girls, she knew. His wife was a teacher, with the local school district, and they had a home in Bonsall, not far from the station.

Loud, irritating music drifted into the dining area, and with a sinking feeling, Callie realized that her table was easily viewed from the bar, which was packed, as usual, with aviators—in uniform to impress the multitude of circulating civilian women.

Games, she thought tiredly, as she sipped a glass of ice water. Callie hadn’t known what games really were until she’d joined the navy, following in her sisters’ footsteps. She’d learned fast, though, at Annapolis, where men had called her names, played dirty tricks on her, groped her and made her the object of their anger.

And the games hadn’t stopped with her recent promotion to Miramar, Callie thought glumly after the waitress had taken her order for a hamburger and fries. Her new boss in the Intelligence section, Lieutenant Commander Hal Remington, had, since her arrival here a month ago, been more than a pest. Tall, darkly tanned and arrogant—and carrying the nickname “Honcho”—Remington embodied the stereotypical pilot image, making him a favorite of the groupies.

No, the games Remington played were barely disguised displays of hostility toward women. At first, coming to Miramar had looked like a wonderful feather in her career cap and the achievement of Callie’s primary goal—job security. Transferring from the dark photographic rooms of the Pentagon to here, she’d felt like Persephone coming from the bowels of Hades to the topside of the world where there was sunshine, life and beauty.

Callie had earned her promotion. She’d paid her dues at the Pentagon, and her personnel jacket reflected her much-heralded abilities. But with Remington assigned as her immediate superior, Callie’s joy at coming to Miramar had been quickly eclipsed. He was like a wolf on the prowl, harassing and intimidating the women in his section. Worse, he seemed to zero in on Callie with his insinuating remarks and barely veiled come-ons. But fear of losing her job, or at least getting bad marks in her personnel jacket, had kept her tight-lipped about the problem—even to Maggie.

Within twenty minutes her meal had arrived and Callie was glad. Although she tried not to show it, she was nervous. From time to time, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed some of the pilots at the bar pointing disparagingly in her direction. The entire station knew about the newspaper article, which, thanks largely to Maggie’s outspokenness, had stirred up a lot of heated debate.

Why had she allowed Maggie to drag her into that interview? Callie thought for about the thousandth time since last Sunday. Not that she’d said much anyway. Maggie was so fiery and confident in comparison to Callie that the female reporter naturally had honed in on her. And for that, Callie was grateful. She concentrated on quickly eating her meal, mentally preparing for her upcoming class. Tonight she would be showing some photo techniques in the darkroom, and she wanted to get there a little early to look at her notes and doublecheck the equipment.

“Hey, sweet thing…”

Callie’s heart took one gigantic bound, and a french fry halted halfway to her mouth. She’d recognize that grating voice anywhere. It was Lieutenant Commander Remington. Lifting her head, Callie firmly ordered herself not to react although fear sizzled through her gut, tightening it into a knot.

Remington smiled and lifted his hand in a sloppy salute. “You know, you could dress in a burlap bag and it wouldn’t matter, Donovan,” he said, his words slurring slightly. He weaved unsteadily and took a step back to peer down at her crossed legs. “Your legs have been driving me nuts all day. I’m glad you stopped by the O Club. It gives me another chance to look at them.”

Callie gulped and saw that Remington’s narrow blue eyes were hazed from alcohol. He was her superior. What should she do? Her heart was bounding like a rabbit’s—a rabbit caught between the paws of a slavering wolf.

Maybe if she played along, tried teasing him back, it would make him go away, Callie thought. Attempting to smile, she set her food aside.

“Commander, I’m sure your wife has a very nice set of legs, too.” Remington had just recently married for a third time, from what she understood.

He lurched forward and placed his hands flat on the white linen cloth of the table. Patches adorned each arm of his olive green one-piece flight suit, and his name was printed in gold on a black leather square above the left breast pocket. His mouth drew into a little-boy smile as he pinned her with his gaze. “Sweet cheeks, I still think you’ve got the best legs on the station, despite that asinine article I read last Sunday.”

Inwardly, Callie winced. The article. The light in Remington’s assessing gaze was neither kind nor friendly. No, she saw savagery linked with a hatred that made her blood chill. He was smiling, but the expression never reached his eyes. Callie felt trapped—there was no place to run.

“Look, Commander, I’m in a hurry. I’ve got a class to teach tonight—”

Reaching out, Remington grazed her cheek with his fingers. “Damn, you’re a nice piece of flesh. Why did you have to side with your red-haired witch of a sister? Are you an ice queen like her?”

Paralyzed with fear, Callie allowed Remington to stroke her cheek for several seconds before she slowly pulled away. She felt heat flare up from her neck into her face. Blushing had always gotten her into trouble at Annapolis, she thought distractedly. Remington was her boss. She couldn’t make a scene or he’d put low ratings in her personnel record, and the promised rank would be pulled from her. She couldn’t overreact. Belatedly, Callie thought about what Maggie would have done: she’d have called him on his drunken behavior and insisted he leave. But Remington wasn’t Maggie’s boss….

Her mind whirling with options that might defuse Remington, Callie stammered, “My—my sister has her opinions. If you read the article, you probably noticed that I had very little to say about it. I’m not the pilot, she is.”

Remington slowly straightened, looked back to the bar and raised his hand. Two other aviators, obviously young Top Gun students, waved back, big grins on their faces. He smiled lopsidedly and placed his hands arrogantly on his hips.

“Honey, you got the same fighting blood in your veins. I don’t care whether you’re a pilot or not. You Donovans are nothing but man-hating Amazons. You think you’re better than us, don’t you?”

The pulse at Callie’s throat was throbbing. She’d completely lost her appetite. She felt like a cornered animal beneath Remington’s attack. In vain, she tried to smile again.

“Maggie is happily married, Commander. I don’t think that classifies her as a man-hater, do you?”

With a snort, Remington leered at her. “You know what, Donovan? You need a real man. You’re skittish. You’re distrustful. I can see it in your eyes. I see it at work. You don’t like to be touched. You don’t like men’s attention at all, do you?” His smile was deadly as he asked, “What’s the problem? Do you prefer the company of women over men?”

Callie gasped. Remington’s voice was deep and carried a long way. Inwardly, she felt as if she were dying. She was sure that Lieutenant Clark could hear every word. This wasn’t the way Callie wanted to start out three years of duty at Miramar. She knew what happened to women in the service when they got labeled; fair or not, the rumors followed them like a disease and could destroy their career.

With a brittle laugh, Callie sat back and held Remington’s gloating look. “Commander, I think you’ve had a few too many drinks.”

“That may be, honey,” he said as he lurched toward her. “Are you a lesbian?” He held out his hand and touched her cheek again. “Maybe what you need is someone like me. You split tails are all alike. You need a little taming.”

Callie froze again at Remington’s touch. There was no end to this torture, to this horrible, escalating humiliation. The few other patrons in the dining room were far away and mostly couples. She didn’t dare look in Andy’s direction, too mortified to ask for help.

Moving away from his touch again, Callie whispered, “Commander, I have a class coming up in less than an hour. If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my meal.”

Backing away, Remington grinned and flipped off a salute. “Sure, honey. You feed that beautiful brain of yours.” He winked at her. “I’ll take care of that hot property you call a body. Be seeing you around….”

Shattered, Callie shivered in terror and relief as Remington staggered back to the bar, toward his two young charges. Callie could see them slap him heartily on the back when he returned. Remington leaned over and said something, and all three broke out into raucous gales of laughter.

Thoroughly humiliated, Callie wanted nothing more than to get up and run out of the O Club as fast as her legs would carry her. But she thought of Maggie, who always accused her of running from showdowns. She’d run from them at Annapolis, too. There was no safe place. Callie knew from firsthand experience that knights on white horses no longer existed. There was such polarization between men and women in the military that the old ways were dead. Instead, Callie, like everyone else, was left floundering to find and establish new rules for dealing with the opposite gender.

After ten more minutes that felt like an eternity of forcing herself to nibble at her now-cold hamburger and fries, Callie decided she could leave. Her ears seemed keyed to Remington’s harsh, loud laughter, which rose above the din of voices. Gripping her white shoulder bag, she made herself get up slowly, as if nothing was wrong—even though everything was wrong. Now Remington was harassing her off duty as well as at work. What was she going to do? What could she do?

As Callie walked out of the dining room and toward the main entrance, she knew that any complaint over Remington’s head would be stonewalled. Remington was a “ring-knocker,” an Annapolis graduate, just as she was. And so was Commander Ferris, their boss. “The brotherhood” was alive and well in the navy, and Callie was familiar with their code: they would never squeal on one another. If she complained that Remington was bothering her, Commander Ferris would conveniently hush up the whole thing—and her job ratings would go down.

No, no one who valued her job would dare take on the male-dominated navy, especially over this kind of unprovable harassment. Compressing her lips, Callie blindly headed out the door. The huge parking lot was packed with all models of cars, and twilight hovered across the Southern California landscape. The soft plop of her sandals mingled with the sounds of jets taking off at a nearby concrete airstrip. Sea gulls were always present here, and a few still winged across the parking lot, silent and graceful. The lights above the lot had already come on in response to the rapidly fading light, and Callie glanced at her watch: she had forty minutes to get to her class.

“Hey! Sweet thing!”

Callie gasped and whirled around at the sound of Remington’s grating voice. She saw him hurrying toward her, the two other pilots in tow. No! If she didn’t escape, Remington would make her life miserable. She hurried to her car. Her hand shaking badly, Callie dug in her purse for the keys.

“Hey!” Remington boomed out, closing the distance.

Unable to locate her keys, Callie stopped digging and turned coolly toward Remington and his buddies. They couldn’t even walk a straight line, she noticed. They had to grip each other by the arm or shoulder. She saw a look of pure, unadulterated glee in Remington’s shadowed features, and his predatory smile was chilling.

“What is it, Commander?” Callie demanded in her firmest, most unruffled tone. Maybe if she came across as being in charge, they’d back down and leave her alone. She gripped her purse, tense and wary as the three pilots came to a halt less than a foot away from her, effectively trapping her against the side of her car.

“I wanna know—” Remington’s voice slurred as he reached out to slide his hand down her cheek, to her neck “—if you’ve got any fire in those icy veins of yours.” He laughed harshly and glanced at his friends. “Now, Neil, here, says you’re the original ice queen. My other buddy, Dale, says you’re just like all the other split tails in the navy.” He caressed her neck and then allowed his hand to trail provocatively down her shoulder and arm. “So which is it, honey? We gotta know.”

Callie’s eyes widened enormously as Remington’s touch became shockingly intimate. As he draped his fingers down her arm, he deliberately brushed the side of her breast. With a small cry, Callie shrank against her car, its still-hot metal burning through her clothes.

“Leave me alone!” she begged hoarsely.

The second pilot, the blond called Dale, reached out and gripped her by the shoulder to stop her escape. “Hey, doll face, don’t be hasty. I’m God’s gift to women. Why would you want to run from me?” His mouth twisted into a snarl. “According to that article, you think you’re just as good as me in every way.”

Trapped, Callie tried to jerk out of Dale’s grip. In doing so, she collided with Neil. She found herself pressed against his chest, and his long, strong arms wrapped around her waist. His hair was dark and his equally dark brown eyes narrowed with intensity.

“Hey, look at this, guys—the ice queen has fallen into my arms!” he crowed triumphantly. Leaning forward, he tried to kiss Callie. Dodging his attempt, she threw her hands upward.

“That’s not nice,” Neil muttered. “I’m wearing all the right clothes, I got a Corvette and Armani suits, honey. I’m just what you need….”

With another cry, much louder this time, Callie shoved him away. Wanting only to escape now, she realized she was in serious trouble. These pilots were drunk, and they were angry at her because of the article. Remington stepped on one of her sandals as she struggled, tearing the leather strap. The shoe fell aside, leaving Callie’s nylon-clad foot defenseless against the blisteringly hot asphalt.

“Ow!” she cried, and tried to dodge Remington’s outstretched hand.

“Bitch,” he breathed savagely. Grabbing her by the arm, he jerked her toward him. “She’s mine,” he snarled to the other two pilots, who gripped her shoulders, holding her captive so that Remington could touch her.

Tears flooded into Callie’s eyes as she saw his hand rise. Was he going to strike her? Wincing, one hand held up to her face, she tried to scream, but all that came out was a feeble, short-circuited shriek. In the next instant, Remington had jammed his hand inside her blouse, fumbling for and finding her breasts. She heard the other pilots laughing as they held her in a tight grip.

No! Callie focused on screaming as loud as she could. The pilots had her pinned against the car, and with their combined strength, it was impossible to escape. The groping of drunken hands across her breasts, hips and thighs sent a sheet of fear through her. Concentrating on her scream, she jerked out of one pilot’s reach. As she made the quick movement, Callie lifted her leg, her knee connecting solidly with Remington’s thigh.

Remington leaped back with a roar, and this time Callie’s scream shattered the twilight. Thrown off balance as the other two pilots tried to reestablish their grips on her, she slammed backward onto the asphalt, roughly shredding the skin on her legs and knees as she rolled over to try and escape. Remington leaped forward and Callie screamed again as she lunged upward toward freedom. If she didn’t, she knew he was going to rape her. The power of that fear pushed her to her feet, but the pilot’s hand shoved full force into her chest, knocking her backward again.

Sharp pain shot up Callie’s ankle as her foot twisted beneath her. Wouldn’t this nightmare ever end? As she fell to the ground once more, she screamed a third time, but now her cry sounded like that of a frightened, beaten animal.

All three pilots crowded around her, reaching and groping, their laughter making her plight all the worse. Kicking out with her feet and hands, Callie sobbed, tears blurring her vision as she cried out for help again. The nightmare of Annapolis came crashing back. Once again she was being brutally attacked—and no help had come for her then, either.

Chapter Two

A woman screamed, her voice carrying through the stifling California-desert heat. Lieutenant Commander Ty Ballard stood by the open door of his sports car. He’d just had a beer at the O Club and was ready to leave. Another shriek drifted across the huge parking lot. Squinting in the twilight, Ty could barely make out the handful of pilots clustered around a compact car at the rear of the lot. To his left, he saw a group of young civilian women walking toward the O Club. Had one of them screamed? But Ty knew it couldn’t have been. This had been a scream of terror. Gripping the frame of the door, he frowned as he scanned the lot again.

Still, how many times had he heard shrieks and squeals out here? On Friday and Saturday nights the pilots and groupies partied to all hours—inside the club and outside in the parking lot—and to say they were boisterous was putting it mildly. Ty lifted his chin and tried to evaluate the direction from which the scream had come. His frown deepening, he slowly closed the door, his gaze locked again on the spot, almost a quarter mile away, where the group of pilots huddled near the small car.