Praise for Dee Henderson and True Valor
“With its behind-the-scenes look at military deployments and a setting taken straight from the headlines, True Valor will have special appeal for military families and anyone searching for heroes in these uncertain times.”
BookPage
“The high-tension action scenes make a jarring counterpoint to the ‘easy’ pace of the romance. Ms. Henderson pulls off the seeming dichotomy with dispatch. . . . I honestly believe Ms. Henderson could make a grocery list interesting to read.”
Scribes World Reviews
“Dee Henderson writes with the skill of an F/A-18 Hornet pilot!”
Romantic Times
“Although True Valor is a very intense and beautiful relationship drama, it is also an action-packed military thriller with some stunning aerial scenes. Dee Henderson has written a novel that will appeal to both genders—especially those readers who relish a clever interweaving of action, adventure, and romance.”
BookBrowser
“An awesome story about guts, silent glory, and determination. . . . The strong characters and tumultuous plot make this an outstanding story.”
Romance Communications
“Henderson’s military themes and her strong, career-minded female characters are fairly original for the CBA market, and this latest installment should help build steam for the series.”
Publishers Weekly
Readers’ Praise
“I served in the U.S. Navy during Desert Storm, and your book is one of the best books I have read in a long time! Can’t wait for the next Uncommon Heroes book!” —M. M.
“You have an amazing ability to weave a tale about Christians struggling to make sense out of their lives and the curveballs they’re thrown. The Scripture verses used throughout the story are well placed and fit the story masterfully.” —K. R.
“Thank you for sharing your gift and love of God.” —S. H.
* * *
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True Valor
Copyright © 2002 by Dee Henderson. All rights reserved.
Previously published in 2002 by Multnomah Publishers, Inc., under ISBN 1-57673-887-6.
Cover images of man and woman © by Aleta Rafton. All rights reserved.
Illustration of seal © 2001 by Dawson 3D, Inc. All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright © 1952 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4143-1063-3
ISBN-10: 1-4143-1063-3
Table of Contents
Glossary
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Author’s Note
Glossary
AAA: AntiAircraft Artillery.
Afterburner: Extra fuel injected into the hot exhaust gas of an aircraft for added thrust.
Angels: Altitude in thousands of feet. “Angels 10” indicates 10,000 feet of altitude.
AWACS: Airborne Warning And Control System. Aircraft fitted with long-range radar that provides tactical and target information to air and ground control units.
Bingo fuel: Not enough fuel to return to a location.
C-130: Air Force transporter for a long haul.
Chaff: A small cloud of thin pieces of metal, such as tinsel, used to confuse enemy radar and divert a radar-guided missile away from the plane.
CO: Commanding Officer.
F/A-18 Hornet: Navy fighter aircraft used for air and ground offensive strikes.
FOD: Foreign Objects on the Deck of an aircraft carrier that can damage planes.
G: Gravitational force through acceleration.
GPS: Global Positioning System. Satellite guidance around earth used to precisely pinpoint aircraft, ships, vehicles, and ground troops.
HARM: High-speed, Anti-Radiation Missile. Missile whose seeker head homes in on radar-emitting sources.
IFF: Identification Friend or Foe. A coded message sent to a target’s IFF transponder.
Jink: Erratic flight maneuver(s), dodge, slip, etc.
LSO: Landing Signal Officer.
MiGs: Russian-built fighter jet, used in many nations around the world.
Nugget: A new pilot in the air wing on his first sea cruise.
PJ: Pararescue Jumper.
PT: Physical Training.
EA-6B Prowler: Navy aircraft used to map enemy radar and suppress them.
Roger: A yes, an affirmative, a go answer to a command or statement.
SAM: Surface-to-Air Missile.
SEAL: One of the elite branches of the U.S. Special Forces operating from the sea, air, or land.
Sidewinder: Heat-seeking (infrared) missile.
TDY: Temporary DutY assigned outside of normal job designation.
XO: eXecutive Officer.
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you;
not as the world gives do I give to you.
Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.
John 14:27
Prologue
* * *
“It won’t fly.”
Grace rescued the airplane for her younger cousin from where it had crashed into the tile around the backyard pool, smoothing out the smashed nose of the plane. “It didn’t have enough lift under its wings,” she encouraged, seeing the problem. She carefully folded stabilizers on the wingtips. “Try again.”
Tom took the plane. She bit her lip as he swung himself up into the old oak tree. Spring leaves hid him from sight. He reappeared straddling the big limb that held the rope swing. He was determined to get his plane to fly farther than hers. He tossed the plane with so much force it hurtled toward the ground until the aerodynamics took over and the plane lifted and suddenly soared. “Yes!”
Grace smiled as she turned on her heels to watch it fly. He’d been smart to launch it from high up. Hers had skimmed the swimming pool, just about landing in the shallows, and finally settled under the potted planter beside the patio table. Tom’s plane rolled to the right as it neared the backyard fence. She frowned. She must have made one stabilizer longer than the other.
“Did your mom say yes to the lesson?”
Gr
ace turned to look up at her cousin and tilted her head, as he was now hanging upside down like a monkey. “She said maybe.”
He stopped his swinging and looked at her for a moment. “Better than a no.”
It was better than a no. But it was still frustrating. She’d been trying to talk her mom into letting her have pilot lessons this summer. She was almost fourteen; she was eligible for the lessons. Her dad had said yes. But her mom was holding out.
Dad. Her favorite man. She had buried her nose in his burly chest in thanks when he said yes and she embarrassed him. He talked so often about flying, telling his war stories about his days in Vietnam flying off a carrier. He talked about the dogfights and nursing his plane back to the base with bullet holes in the wings, and he laughed at the risks and the belief he had been invincible.
She wanted to be like her dad. The Navy wouldn’t let her fly the jets like she dreamed of doing, but they would let her fly the big cargo planes, the fortresses in the sky that would mean landing at interesting airfields—short, rough surfaces in Third World countries—giving her a chance to fly to where the action was happening in the world. She really wanted to learn to fly. And while she couldn’t solo until she was sixteen, she had several friends who had already started lessons. She just had to convince her mom.
“You can have my allowance to pay for the lessons.”
“You give away your allowance too easily.”
Tom climbed down from the tree. “You’d enjoy them. Want to go watch the planes at the airport?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll get us sandwiches. You tell your mom where we’re going.”
Tom would probably make them peanut butter and banana sandwiches, but she liked him enough she’d eat hers without comment. Her cousin was the brother she didn’t have.
She went to find her mom. On Friday afternoon the current class of pilots in training often practiced their landings. If she watched closely, she could figure out what the pilots did right and wrong as they landed. If she couldn’t take lessons, she was still determined to learn what she could through careful observation.
Tom was lucky he had been born a boy. He constantly got himself in and out of scrapes as he tried anything that sounded fun. She longed to have that same freedom. He’d probably grow up to be a baseball player or a coach or a skydiver, something outdoors and fun. Even though he was two years younger, she was trying to be more like him. Tom had figured out how to enjoy life. She wanted a big bite of life too, even if she was a girl.
“Are you coming?” Tom shouted at her.
“Coming!”
* * *
“I dare you to try.”
Bruce looked at his friend and then back at the water around the end of the pier. It was murky. The storm in the gulf last night had churned up the silt. To find the tackle box washed off the pier during the storm would mean holding his breath and searching by feel while the waves tried to knock him into the posts. “Why don’t you try?”
Scott dropped a pebble into the water and watched it disappear. “The PJs do it all the time.”
“Not all the time,” Bruce muttered, wishing Scott would leave his heroes out of it. Living next to a military base had given him a chance to meet over eighteen of the men he admired. They trained to rescue shot-down pilots. He wanted to be a Pararescueman someday, but he didn’t have to love water. He just had to figure out how not to be afraid of it.
The tackle box had probably popped open as it hit the bottom and spilled all their favorite lures across the seabed. The tides would have swept them around and the hooks would catch at his hands if he just felt around. Several years’ worth of handmade lures had been in that tackle box. Recovering them mattered.
“I need a waterproof light,” he decided. PJs went in prepared. He wasn’t going into that swirling water without being prepared. His friend looked disappointed. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t get it; I said I need a light.” Their bikes were balanced at the end of the pier. “Come on. My dad will have one.”
Scott turned back toward their bikes. Bruce paused to look one more time at the churning water. Scott was always pushing him to do hard things. He wanted to be able to do anything that had to be done, just like the PJs did. It just wasn’t easy to be brave.
One
* * *
MARCH 4
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
He stood out in his flannel shirt and jeans, but so far none of the sailors had made the mistake of assuming he was a civilian. Air Force Major Bruce “Striker” Stanton warily watched them continue to arrive and crowd into his sister’s backyard, and he wondered how many sailors Jill had invited from the aircraft carrier USS George Washington to come to the predeployment party. It would be like her to invite them all so as not to leave anyone out. All five thousand plus of them.
He felt like he had invaded enemy country. The sailors, the average age of which was twenty-one, looked like children. They got younger every year. And those for whom this was their first six-month sea tour tended to travel together in clusters like penguins. A few of his friends cut from Air Force cloth were here but had long ago been swallowed up in the sea of white.
Striker maneuvered through guests to the chair he had staked out on the patio, doing his best to ignore the stab of pain from his right knee at every step. His dog was curled up asleep under the chair. Bruce used his left foot to push the dog’s tail farther under the chair to protect it from being stepped on. A party, food, and many willing hands to offer treats, and what did his dog do? Sleep. He had yet to figure out this yellow Labrador he had acquired two months ago from the pound.
Bruce nodded a greeting to one of the Navy SEALs he knew as he settled into the chair and prepared to stay put for a while. Sprinkled in the mix among the young sailors there were a few grown-ups. The ship’s officers, SEALs, and naval aviators stood out by the self-assured way they staked out their space.
As far as parties went this one was living up to past history. The soda was cold to the point ice crystals formed when he opened the can, while the hot dogs were burnt because his sister had insisted on working the grill. People came for the tradition of it, not for the food.
He’d driven up from Pensacola, Florida, where he was based, to Norfolk, center of gravity for military operations in the state with nine military bases for Air Force, Navy, and Marines clustered within the Hampton Roads area. He’d come for the weekend because his sister had invited him. He had news to share that was best done in person. And he’d come to see Grace.
He didn’t have to search to find her; he’d kept track of her in his peripheral vision throughout the afternoon, anchoring her as part of his frame of reference. Grace stood out in red. The sweater over jeans was a simple bold splash of color in a sea of white. His sister’s best friend, the cohost of this party, had been in his sights for years. Jill had introduced them. Lieutenant Grace Yates was one of the self-assured naval aviators. She was going to spend the next six months hurtling off the deck of the USS George Washington in an F/A-18 Hornet.
He watched her mingle and chat with the other squadron pilots; she’d long ago been accepted into their exclusive ranks. Ever since the combat exclusion rules had eased in 1993 to allow women to fill combat flight roles, she’d been showing she had the right stuff. Not flashy, not pushy, just one of the best pilots he’d ever met. She exemplified grace under pressure.
He admired what she’d done and how she’d accomplished it. She loved to fly and she turned that passion into a single-minded focus to be the best. She’d picked up Gracie as her call sign. She rarely commented on the ground she broke in her profession but she’d done so about the handle. Grace thought it was too soft a call sign. Bruce thought it summed her up in one word. It suited her.
Grace was the deep waters while Jill was the clear shallows. Grace rarely talked about herself. How many layers were there to the mystery that made her who she was? He was determined to find out. He was on a mission. Grace was the objective. And his professio
n had taught him well the value of good reconnaissance. He had known her for years, but only in the last few months had he decided to do that digging.
He liked what he had found. She was loyal to her friends, was close to her family. She sang with her church choir, rather badly, he thought. She liked vanilla ice cream, scary movies, skiing, and anything related to flying. Competitive in sports, tall, slender, fast on her feet, she had the arm and wrist strength to play a tennis game that decimated opponents. She’d broken her arm skydiving, had crashed her car at age seventeen and had to be talked into driving again, and never had more than a goldfish as a pet. There was a tightness to her mouth when she was mad and a smile that came easy around friends. He’d enjoyed the reconnaissance.
She’d dated Ben Grossel for many years. Bruce had met Ben a couple times and he’d found the former Navy pilot turned astronaut an exceptionally nice guy. Ben had been killed in a car accident two years ago while Grace was on her second sea tour. Bruce suspected that had rocked her life pretty hard although she had never said much.
A young boy in a blue sweatshirt slammed into the back of Grace’s knees, enveloping her in hug. She turned with a laugh to rescue him and haul him up to perch on her hip. She was often being tailed by her own fan club at parties such as this one. She’d started a kids’ flying club last year with some help from his sister and had become a bit of a hero to the kids. She had the rare touch of not only being a good pilot but also a good teacher.
His dog moved and Bruce reached under the chair to ruffle the dog’s ears. Today was going to be his last chance to see Grace for six months. He was a patient man. This gathering was scheduled to go until seven. His plan was simple, and he needed to accomplish only one thing with her today. He had the luxury to choose the right moment.