Monica’s first reaction was irritation.
She had just stepped into hangar bay 3 when the passageway speakers erupted in five piercing whistle tones and the voice started blatting.
She didn’t buy it. Nineteen times out of twenty, “man overboard” meant that someone had dropped a chem light or a vest off the flight deck, or, even more likely, that someone hadn’t shown up to muster because they were still snoring in their rack. Or had snuck off with someone else to attempt a quick copulation in some deserted spot or other. She’d heard of people doing it in supply closets, maintenance spaces, ventilation junctions, even the anchor room, for God’s sake. Her mathematical mind couldn’t even fathom the odds of getting caught. But people apparently did it all the time.
Whatever. Schofield had been that one case in twenty of an actual man overboard, and they were due for at least nineteen more false alarms.
And now the day’s whole schedule was going to get upended. Six thousand people on hold while the truant was found, dragged out of the rack, and appropriately humiliated.
Shit fire and save the matches.
“The following personnel report to deckhouse 3 with their ID cards…”
Leaving her office behind, she began tromping up to her squadron’s ready room on the gallery deck for muster. She was halfway there when the droned list of names made her stop in her tracks.
“OS Courtney Jamieson, Operations. MM Michael Lubschitz, Aircraft Intermediate Maintenance. Lieutenant Kristine Shiflin, Air…”
Oh, no.
Kris had been gone when Monica woke up that morning. She hadn’t seen her at breakfast.
By the time she reached her ready room, Monica had started to panic.
“Time plus three…”
On the next call, the list had shrunk to a single name.
“Lieutenant Kristine Shiflin, Air.”
“Alert five!” called out Papa Doc from the front.
The words stung her like a scorpion.
There were three levels of alert readiness status. “Alert thirty” meant stay in the area, on standby in case a possible mission materialized. “Alert fifteen” meant mission imminent: get jocked up and on hand in the ready room, prepared to head up to the flight deck on a moment’s notice. “Alert five” meant you need to be sitting up there in the bird, auxiliary power unit going, strapped in and ready to rocket.
“Alert five” meant Papa Doc was ordering an SAR team to haul ass up top and board a chopper now.
“Alert five” meant they thought Kris was in trouble.
“No way,” she murmured, then louder: “No way.” Someone had screwed up here. She started pushing forward through the rows of chairs. “Did they check the magazines?”
Papa Doc turned toward her and held out a palm. “Hold up, Halsey.”
She reached the front of the room and stopped. “Sir, this is crazy, they need to rerun their site checks, there’s no way Kris would be—”
“Halsey!”
She stopped short before blundering any deeper into the shit she’d just stepped in. Who did she think she was talking to? Jesus, Mon, get a grip.
Papa Doc stared at her, his expression oddly unreadable.
“Halsey,” he said, quietly now. “They found a note.”
“Bullshit!” she blurted. A note? No. Not Kris. Yes, she’d been stressed out, and yes she’d skipped a few breakfasts, but if she were feeling that desperate she would have said something—
And all at once the confrontation with Papa Doc from the night before came rushing back. His taunts, Kris’s stricken face. He’d pushed her too hard, just like he pushed everyone too hard. God damn him. Kris was already fragile. Had his bullying gotten to her that bad? Had Kris gone and done something crazy?
All the breath went out of her. She gripped a nearby seat, swaying on her feet.
Shit. Shit! SHIT!
One SAR team was already out the door—they’d be readying another ASAP. She needed to be on that second crew.
“Halsey!”
Monica snapped to attention. “Sir! I’ll go, sir!”
“Stand down, Halsey!”
“Sir?”
“You’re grounded, Lieutenant.”
She stood rooted in place. “What! But sir, I have to—we have to—”
Papa Doc leaned in, his face a slab of stone, and said the last thing in the world Monica wanted to hear.
“Quarters.”