Chapter One
SAM
Monday afternoon, four days ’til Christmas Eve.
“Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way . . .”
“American Airlines, Flight One-oh-one to Boston is cancelled. Passengers are directed to the information desk for further instructions.
“Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way . . .”
“U.S. Air, Flight Six-seven-three to Syracuse is cancelled. Passengers are directed to the information desk for further instructions.
“Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way . . . ”
“United Airlines, Flight Nine-eight-five to Bangor, Maine is cancelled. Passengers are directed to the information desk for further instructions.”
“Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way . . .”
On and on the staticky public address system went with cancellations of what appeared to be all northbound flights in the face of a coming blizzard. The only planes taking off today from Philadelphia International Airport were those headed south, or to the western U.S. Since the southbound storm was headed this way and would probably hit full-force tomorrow, chances were there wouldn’t be any northbound flights tomorrow, either.
As a backdrop to the distressing announcements, speakers in the airport terminal piped out, over and over and over, like a stuck record, a bouncy version of Jingle Bells. Meanwhile, holiday travelers—those not stunned over being land-locked at this all-important time of the year—laughed and called out to strangers with jolly “Merry Christmas” greetings as they hurried along toward their designated gates.
One person in particular was feeling less than jolly. “I hate snow. I hate that sorry song. In fact, I’m beginning to hate Christmas.” Navy Commander Samuel Merrick slunk lower in his Naugahyde booth and glared out the window of the airport coffee shop. He watched grimly as fat snowflakes were beginning to come down like celestial post-it notes . . . reminders that mere mortals and their technological advances, such as aircraft, could be frozen in place on a whim of the gods.
In the midst of Sam’s grumbling to himself, Lt. Andrew O’Dell slid into the opposite booth and handed him one of the two cups of coffee in his hands, the whole time smiling. “Now, now, Slick. Since when did you become the Bluebird of Christmas Happiness? Or rather, the Blue angel of Christmas un-Happiness?” he corrected, staring pointedly at the distinctive blue and yellow Blue Angel badge with the F/A Hornet Jets in a diamond formation that was positioned proudly on Sam’s uniform . . . just as it was on his.
He and Andy were current members of the renowned six-man Blue Angels Flight Demonstration Squadron. Considered the best of the best, these jet pilots performed high-precision, aerobatic maneuvers in breath-taking, razzle dazzle air shows across the world. Although their flying talents were famous, the Blue Angels’ main role was to serve as role models and goodwill ambassadors for the U.S. Navy and Marine Corps.
“Easy for you to say, Andy. You’re not gonna be stuck in the City of Brotherly Love for the next day or two. You’re almost home . . . just a short puddle jump to Harrisburg.”
Andy didn’t look a bit sympathetic . . . probably because his thoughts were consumed with his fiancée—a dairy farmer, of all things—whom he hadn’t seen in three months. He and Andy had come up from Pensacola, homebase to the Blue Angels, less than an hour ago. It should have been a short layover for them. Then, after Christmas, they’d travel to NAF, the Naval Air Facility, in El Centro, California, where the squadron wintered.
“Knowing you, Slick, you’ll find something to occupy your time,” Andy said in an awestruck voice.
Oh, swell! Another Navy nugget suffering from a bit of misplaced hero worship.
As if on cue, an American Airlines flight attendant walked by, gave Sam a quick once-over, then flashed him a not-so-subtle smile that said clearly, “Hey, sailor, I’d like to know you better,” before sitting down with companions at a nearby table.
“See, see!” Andy hooted in an undertone.
“It’s just the uniform. Women have this thing about men in a killer uniform.”
“Hah! You don’t see them going ga-ga over me, do you?”
“Ga-ga?” Sam questioned with a raised eyebrow, even as he instinctively returned the woman’s once-over. His slow, lazy perusal registered her trim figure and attractive facial features and the fact that she could pass for a red-headed version of Cameron Diaz. Even better, her legs were a shade longer than a Hornet jet stream. Still, he turned back to his coffee with an “Oh, well.” shrug. Reciprocating her smile would amount to an invitation . . . one he was not interested in. In fact, he’d become bored with the whole dating game for a long time now.
Sam wasn’t a vain person . . . well, not too vain . . . but he’d had no trouble attracting females since he was thirteen years old and discovered that his dark hair, blue eyes and tall frame were assets to be milked for all their worth. But it wasn’t just his looks. Hell, he’d gotten charm down to an art form before he’d turned ten, and earned his nickname of Slick which had stuck all these years, right down to being his call name in the Blues. Yep, charm had been a necessary survival skill when dodging the law and criminal elements in the inner city neighborhood where, during his early years, he’d been raised—or, rather, ignored—by a druggie mother, who’d been practically a kid herself.
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