Pulling Rank: A Military Erotic Romance by A. L. Summers Page B

up.
     
    “What’s his beef?” I ask French, as Boomer pivots and storms away.
     
    “Don’t take it personally,” French says. “He’s a good guy. It just takes him a while to warm up new people.”
     
    “New people…or women?”
     
    French smiles. “I can see why you are a major. It’s not what you think. I don’t think it has anything to do with you being in the military. I don’t know what happened. He won’t tell me, but something must have happened that soured him on women. He lives like a monk. Never goes on dates…”
     
    I soften slightly toward Boomer. At least it’s nothing personal. “So long as he does his job,” I say.
     
    “Don’t worry. He’s a professional. He won’t let his personal problems get in the way.”
     
    ***
     
    All the men and women are competent and professional. They don’t need someone meddling, so I stand back and let the ground crews prep the planes. When they salute, I don my headset. That way I can talk to my pilots and listen to their conversation.
     
    “Boomer, French, Racetrack, this is AFRL,” I say. I don’t get a call sign, so I use the acronym for where I work, the Air Force Research Laboratory. “Do you copy?”
     
    “Copy that AFRL,” French says, pronouncing it AAF-ril.
     
    I quickly outline that to start I want to just do some range checks. I have “borrowed” a third bird this morning. It still has the standard software suite installed. I want to get some hard numbers on ranging.
     
    While Boomer flies straight and level, French and Racetrack will come up from behind and try to get a radar lock. As much as I would like to put them in a combat situation and see what happens, I have to get some baselines first.
     
    For the next two hours, the three jets shriek back and forth across the high desert. We do head-ons, follows, high jumps, and lows. The new software works fantastic, when it works. Although the range dramatically increases, the software keeps crashing. When it does, we are forced to reset. By the time I bring the three jets back in, Boomer and French have blistered the paint inside the cockpit with their language.
     
    ***
     
    After the jets are checked over, I plug in my laptop and download the crash logs. Boomer immediately leaves. Apparently, he’s had enough for the day. French stays to watch me work. After watching over my shoulder for about ten minutes, he leaves, too.
     
    It takes almost an hour before I find what I am looking for. “Sergeant!” I call, waving the crew chief to me. “Why is the line voltage on the number three processor card so low? It’s that way on both jets.”
     
    The Sergeant rubs his chin a moment. “I remember something about that. Hang on a moment,” he says, before he turns and walks away. I smile as he goes. This is why I prefer the looser working relationships. It’s a lot quicker and easier to get things done when everyone isn’t saluting all the time.
     
    “Here it is, Major.”
     
    “Eliza,” I remind him gently. It’s Lee, isn’t it?” I ask.
     
    “Here it is, Eliza,” Lee says. He shows me a tablet with the service bulletin on it. It seems the cards were failing at the higher voltages because of excess heat, so they lowered the voltage. In exchange, it has made the chips slightly flaky when they are being pushed.
     
    I scratch furiously at my hair. It’s a nervous habit I have had for years. I usually fall back on it when I’m working over a knotty problem. “I don’t suppose we could boost the voltage back up, could we?” I finally ask.
     
    “I wouldn’t recommend it, Eliza,” Lee says. “These boards have been in the jets for three years. Before we lowered the voltage, we were replacing them about every four months.”
     
    I think for a moment, trying to figure out how to attack the problem. “Lee. You may dismiss your men when you are ready. I think you’re done here for the day. I have some work to do.”
     
    Senior Master Sergeant Leonard