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turned away. “I’ve got work to do,” he informed her gruffly. “And to answer your question, the library is open to everyone. It’s not considered off-limits to students at any time.” Molly Rutledge was, indeed, a cream puff. And—God help him—he felt protective of her. What would happen when Martin or another of the test-pilot students blamed her for his poor grades? How could she possibly stand up to the withering cross fire that took place in a flight debriefing?
    Feeling as if she’d proved to Sinclair that she was a loser, Molly turned and went back to her desk. As quietly as possible, she packed her books into her huge black leather briefcase and prepared to leave. Sinclair seemed to want to be alone, she thought. She felt like an intruder in his space, his territory. Dejectedly, Molly walked to the door.
    “Good night, Captain Sinclair,” she said softly.
    Cam looked up, her contralto voice moving through him like a warm memory of happier times, of times he knew would never again come into his life. “Good night, Ensign Rutledge.”
    With a small sigh, Molly left. Outside in the hall, she stopped and took a deep breath. She’d felt eviscerated by his opaque gaze. She
was
a klutz, incapable of being calm and in control during a critical situation. Would Sinclair talk about her to the other instructors? Would they get a good laugh out of her clownlike antics in the classroom and library? Turning, she walked down the empty hall, no longer hungry, just sorely disappointed with herself.

Chapter Three
    M olly was in the computer room, working on her very first flight test at one of the many terminals. Lieutenant Norton wasted no time getting his students busy programming. The large room had a tile floor, blue walls and overhead fluorescent lights that bothered Molly’s eyes. Every chance she got, she took the ream of papers spewed out by the printer into the library and worked on her budding flight test there, instead.
    Without fail, TPS closed at 2100 every night. Only the instructors had keys to the massive facility. Once students left, they couldn’t reenter the building until 0600 the next morning when the instructor on duty reopened it. A number of other flight-engineering students shared the computer room with Molly, working laboriously at their terminals until 1700, chow time.
    Left alone, Molly worked through dinner, time slipping away from her. It was Thursday, and she knew that test-pilot students would be assigned to them. Molly only hoped Chuck Martin wouldn’t be assigned to her. Obviously he hated her with a passion. Every time he saw her in the hall or in an adjacent classroom, he’d glare ominously. Not wanting to feed the flames of animosity, Molly refused to react at all.
    The glass door to the computer room opened and closed. Molly sat at the terminal desk, calculator in hand, rerunning her mathematical figures to compute with the variable of the F-14 Tomcat fighter, which would be utilized in her particular test. It was a simple test in her estimation, getting her used to folding in knowledge of aerodynamics with edge-of-the-envelope testing on this particular aircraft. All Norton wanted from her was a series of high-altitude climbs, leveling off the plane and utilizing degrees of climb.
    “Rutledge?”
    Molly cringed inwardly. She’d recognize Martin’s grating voice anywhere. Lifting her head, she saw his angry features shadowed under the harsh lighting. He stood imperiously, hands on his hips, while he glared down at her.
    “Yes, Lieutenant Martin?”
    “You see the pair-up list?”
    Molly hesitated. “You mean who we fly with?”
    “Hell, yes.
That
list, Rutledge!”
    “Lieutenant, there’s no need to shout. Obviously, you’re upset about something.”
    His nostrils flaring, Martin jabbed his finger in her direction. “Damn straight, I am. You’re assigned to
me
for the first test flight on Wednesday.”
    Molly saw the door open, and Cam Sinclair silently enter the