True Valor

  The plane arrived five minutes ahead of schedule to an enthusiastic chorus of cheers. Her first sight of Wolf was in a stream of guys coming off the transport; he was wearing a floppy hat that had a small American flag in the brim. She laughed at that classic Wolf gesture. He looked good, so deeply tanned it merged with his desert cammies. He was with his buddies, Cougar on one side and Bear on the other.

  Families streamed through the gate in the fence to meet the men. She edged herself to the left where she could step up on a concrete curb and see better rather than join the queue trying to get through the narrow opening. Jill saw Kelly and Bear find each other, watched as the man swept his wife up to twirl her around.

  Wolf spotted her wave and lifted his hand. He leaned over to say something to Cougar, got slapped on the shoulder. He headed her way and slipped off his sunglasses. The closer Wolf got, the better he looked. She stayed where she was rather than rush to the fence. She smiled at him instead, a small smile that grew the closer he got. “You promised to come find me.”

  “That I did.” He vaulted over the fence. “Hi, Jilly.”

  “Hi.” She was not quite eye level as she teetered on the concrete perch. He picked her up and smothered her in a hug. She buried her face in his shoulder, wrapped her arms around him, and hugged him tight.

  “It’s good to be home.”

  She leaned back and beamed at him. “I missed you.”

  He kissed her nose. “That’s for the birthday I missed.” He leaned down and kissed her until she was out of breath. “That was for the last letter.” He looked her over from head to toe. “You got a haircut. You look wonderful in red. The necklace is beautiful. The glasses are new?” She giggled. He was trying. She never wanted to lose this man. “What do you have planned?”

  “Candlelight, a special meal. An attempt to cover as many of your ‘I miss’ list as I can.”

  He twirled her around. “Laughter, smile, perfume, shoes under my couch, lipstick left in my car?” he offered.

  “Covered. What’s going on with Bruce and Grace?” She’d been dying to ask ever since his last letter.

  “Something pretty wonderful. I’ll tell you all about it over dinner.”

  JUNE 22

  USS GEORGE WASHINGTON (CVN 73)

  PERSIAN GULF

  The weight room was squeezed into a corner of the ship in a cleared out storage room just past the chapel. “Grace.”

  “One minute,” Grace told her roommate Heather. She pushed through the last five reps with the barbell. She hated working weights. She did it because it was discipline, because if she didn’t she paid a price weeks later when she wanted the benefits of having done it. She’d only had marginal luck squeezing in runs around the flight deck during scheduled downtimes while the flight deck crews conduced their daily FOD walks. She often joined those careful searches of every inch of the flight deck to pick up any foreign objects—screws, pens, paper clips—before they could get sucked into an engine and blow it up.

  Grace let the weights settle back and reached for her towel. “Okay.”

  “The flight schedule for tomorrow is out.”

  She accepted the single sheet of paper that governed everything happening in the squadron. “Thanks.” It was complete flight ops in one comprehensive glance: briefing time, launch time, recovery time, and the formation type and mission details. She was up for a 0500 launch in a four-plane formation. She’d be flying over the oil fields that had been destroyed at the end of the Gulf War. She had picked up two additional assignments, a 1400 launch in a two-plane formation and a short shuttle hop at 1600. At the moment they were two pilots short in the squadron due to medical downs and everyone was having to carry the extra load.

  Grace owed Peter a thanks. He’d put himself down for the mission planning and given her a two-hour break in a very long day. She wasn’t looking forward to the two tanker refuel stops—winds had been strong at the higher altitudes. “How’s your day look?”

  “I get to sleep until 0600.” They shared a rueful smile.

  They had passed the three-month point of the cruise. It was the hard stretch of a deployment, and everyone aboard was showing the wear of the long days and hours. Problems at home were trickling in, and it would be another two months before the anticipation of their homecoming would start to take over.

  “I’m heading to the ship store,” Heather said. “Need anything?”

  “I’ll come along,” Grace decided. “I need to get something, anything, to send Bruce.”

  “Nothing is about what you will find. I’m so ready for the port call at Bahrain.”

  “I figure it will get cancelled for security reasons. The one I’m looking forward to is Naples, Italy,” Grace said. They were scheduled to be there for six days on their way home, and it would be their best break of this deployment.

  “Going to get up to see Rome this year?”

  “I’m thinking about trying it. I saw Pompeii last time.”

  “Let’s stop by admin and get signed up for the train tour,” Heather said.

  “You’re on.”

  * * *

  Bruce ~

  We’ve started major flight ops over Kuwait. So far we haven’t been out to the live fire range but it’s coming. I can tell we are entering month four. It’s a slugfest to get up every morning and repeat yesterday’s routine. I miss the sun when it’s not trying to fry what it touches. I miss a lazy day to sleep in.

  Iraq is saber rattling again, annoyed with Kuwait’s latest OPEC position and still irritated with Saudi Arabia over some mosque decision. Needless to say, Iraq wanting to cause some grief means picking on the Americans. Iraqi Republican Guard troops have been moving recently in what they say is an exercise. I’m glad I’m not one of the Marines on the ground having to figure out what their intentions are.

  I know it sounds like I’m down, and I guess I am. Deployments are always a balancing act of emotions, energy, and rest. We’re in the heavy work stretch. I’m conserving energy. I mentally get up for the flights and the focus needed, and the rest of the time I try to let myself spin down.

  I’ve got my head crammed full of SLAM missile avionics at the moment. We’re getting an upgrade for the data-link pod installed next week, and I’m the check-out pilot for the squadron to make sure the maintenance section figures out all the particulars of the upgrade. I spend most of my downtime trying to keep up with the technical reading. There hasn’t been much time to answer your last letters. I’m sorry about that; I don’t want it to imply I haven’t relished getting them. I have.

  I hope this package arrives before I get home. It’s not much of a gift but I guarantee you don’t have one. Our onboard metals shop was stamping out the marshal star type badges with the unit logo on them as a way to calibrate the fine aligns of the press equipment. You were going to get a hat with the GW logo; that tells you how limited the ship store has become. The next major replenishment is due Friday, and what seems like half this ship’s crew has been tasked to haul boxes for that six-hour operation. Needless to say, a prior planned transfer of supplies didn’t happen as originally scheduled, and this one is much larger than normal.

  I hope this letter finds you enjoying your return stateside. Enjoy a movie from beginning to end for me. I’m an expert at the ten-minutes-and-fall-asleep way of watching one.

  God bless, Gracie

  Seventeen

  * * *

  JUNE 26

  PENSACOLA, FLORIDA

  Bruce was doing his best to enjoy his welcome home party. He wanted to crawl away somewhere and sleep for a month, but Jill had worked hard to put this together. With Wolf’s help, she’d somehow managed to arrange a party in Pensacola. She’d invited not only the other PJs and their families, but many of the Coast Guard units he had worked with. The party was great; he just didn’t have the lady he wanted around to share it.

  “Bruce?”

  He smiled at Jill as he took the glass of punch with a quiet thanks. She’d driven do
wn over the weekend to bring back his car, open his house, stock his refrigerator, and leave him several home-cooked meals. She’d transformed the community center with streamers, music, food, and even gifts for the guests. Jill perched on the arm of his chair. Petite, short blonde hair with curls, vibrant green eyes, and a love of laughter, she looked more like their mom every year. “You need another few days for your mind to catch up with your body.”

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to be so not here.”

  Her hand on his shoulder squeezed. “You’re allowed. You are home; that’s what matters the most. Sunburn and all.”

  Emily licked his hand and nudged his fingers. Bruce resumed lazily stroking her coat. “I figured she would have forgotten me by now.” He didn’t try to explain how nice it was to find the dog not only remembered him, but seemed to welcome his company. His dog had given one of the few barks he had ever heard her make and came practically prancing to meet him. Once the party had begun she’d flopped down beside him.

  “She’s loyal. She likes you. Are you glad to be back?”

  “Do you have to ask?”

  “Just checking. It sounds like you and Wolf had some fun while you were gone.”

  He leaned his head back. She didn’t know the half of it. “Most of it was pure boredom. They cut back training to essentials for the location. I haven’t combat jumped in three months or scuba dived.”

  “Oh, you.” She kissed his forehead. “Wolf, come tell my brother to behave.”

  “What’s this?” Bruce caught her hand.

  She broke into peals of laughter. “It’s taken you long enough to notice.”

  “Jill.”

  “Wolf said it was okay with you.”

  Bruce shot a look at the SEAL coming toward them who looked decidedly sheepish at the moment. “He’s stretching what I said a bit.” A tug caused Jill to tumble from the arm of the chair onto his lap. “Are you happy about it? Because otherwise I could make his life miserable for you,” he offered, at the moment finding it an interesting suggestion. He was suddenly jealous of his friend; he didn’t intend to lose a sister.

  “Be happy for me.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. He learned to write mushy letters.”

  Bruce considered her. “Is that what it took?”

  She giggled.

  “So—” he had no idea how to phrase it—“what are you thinking?”

  “I said yes to a ring, and I told him I’d think about the wedding date. I want Grace home.”

  Bruce was relieved; the idea of her getting married was no longer theoretical, and he wanted some time to figure out what a big brother was supposed to do in such a situation. Pay for the wedding? Make sure Wolf didn’t talk her into eloping? He was in over his head. “Sounds smart.”

  “Let me up.”

  “Nope. Look what you went and did while I was gone. Had a birthday. Got older. Collected a ring.” He loved her giggle. “This is a bit of an Air Force versus Navy quandary too. Just for the principle of the thing—”

  “You’ve got one of your own.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “How’s Grace doing? Have you heard from her?”

  He walked into that one. He patted his jacket pocket. “I’ve got her last letter right here,” he assured, amused.

  “Do you?”

  “She writes a nice letter.”

  “Mushy?”

  Bruce just smiled at her.

  USS GEORGE WASHINGTON (CVN 73)

  PERSIAN GULF

  She needed more gas. Grace scanned the sky for the lights of the tanker. Against the black sky and bright white stars she was searching for the faint lights of a tanker circling in an figure eight horseshoe pattern. Refueling at night was a reality of Gulf deployments. Where was that tanker?

  United Arab Emirates was her emergency divert field. She wanted fuel, she wanted a place in the landing stack, she wanted to land on the ship, and she wanted to go to bed. The sequence was full of small crises to avoid. She had launched with 12.3 thousand in fuel, but she’d been burning it at more than a pound per mile. She needed gas.

  Her wingman had refueled and taken the last of the JP5 from the flying Texaco in the sky they had first been routed to. She’d been given vectors to a KC-135 tanker on angels 12 as a backup, but there wasn’t a bright billboard to tell her where it was in its pattern.

  She was flying with Bushman on this hop. The nugget had improved over the tour, but he was still too quick to overreact for her comfort. And flying formation made him skittish. He was holding off her left wing.

  There it was. The white lights tracked left to right across the horizon a mile ahead. She’d be able to join up during one of the long lazy legs of its pattern.

  She double-checked that her weapons were safe, extended the F/A-18 retractable refueling probe, and called up the air-refueling checklist on the left display screen. She tracked the tanker, matched speed, and then climbed the last thousand feet at a snail’s pace to settle in behind the massive plane.

  “Eagle 01, astern, nose cold, all switches safe, looking for 5.0.”

  The tanker extended its drogue, a two-foot wide basket at the end of a long hose. It stabilized below the slipstream behind the tanker. Lights turned orange. “Eagle 01, you’re cleared for 5.0.”

  She nudged up her speed and closed with the tanker at a peaceful three knots. She just had to plug her refueling probe into the center of the basket, fly forward to put an S bend in the hose, and gas would flow. Simple.

  Wind sent the basket hurtling to the right.

  Grace flexed her hand on the throttle and eased back. The basket continued to whip up and down and now she felt it in her controls. Crosswinds. She looked at the fuel she had on board. Calm winds, Lord. Please. I need help.

  Problems in life had become only one. Getting gas. Bingo fuel levels to United Arab Emirates were coming up fast, and she did not want to leave Bushman to return to the ship alone. The basket stabilized.

  She eased forward again. The probe caught the edge of the basket, and in a split second decision to either try it anyway or pull back, she eased her jet back.

  The tanker began a slow turn in its figure-eight pattern to avoid running into unfriendly airspace. This was getting complicated. Getting gas while in a turn or even a change in altitude was possible, but it certainly made the flying interesting.

  She looked at her fuel on board. This was not a good night to go swimming. Another minute and she diverted to UAE.

  She nudged her approach to two knots closure and matched the tanker’s turn rate. She pushed the probe into the basket, nudging forward to bend the hose. The tanker’s amber light turned green showing flow. She watched the fuel gauge creep up.

  For nine minutes she stayed focus. Very focused. She was hugging the belly of a gas tank with fuel flowing at a thousand pounds per minute. She was determined to control the wind, not the other way around.

  Fuel reached 9.0. She slowly disengaged from the probe. The drogue relaxed.

  “Eagle 01, fuel 5.0. Thanks, tank.”

  She reduced power to three knots separation.

  She had fuel.

  One problem down.

  She slowly descended and retracted the fuel probe. That had been twenty minutes she would not care to repeat. Bruce, I miss your not being around to catch me if necessary. Doing her job halfway around the world late at night when the rest of the air wing had called it a night and it was just her and her nugget wingman preparing to break to the landing pattern was incredibly lonely.

  Bushman nearly bumped her. She tossed her plane into a forty-degree bank to avoid the wing clip.

  “Sorry, Eagle 01.” He broke radio silence to apologize.

  Eighteen

  * * *

  JULY 1

  PENSACOLA, FLORIDA

  Bruce was sitting on the beach when he opened the letter from Grace. He’d changed into ragged shorts and slipped on tennis shoes over bare feet and dealt with the sweat of ha
nging drywall by wading into the surf. It was a good tired that came from the end of a hard day of work. He hollowed out a holder in the sand for his soda.

  “Hi, handsome.”

  He raised a hand in acknowledgment but didn’t bother to look. The women running on the beach were universally cute but he had other priorities. Emily rejoined him and vigorously shook her coat to rid herself of salt water. “Really, honey, did you have to do that?” He wiped his face dry on his arm, then reached over and wiped her nose off where sand was clinging. “Admit it, you’re a fraud. You’re only as old as you want to be.”

  Emily sank down with a sigh on the towel he had brought out for her and rolled over on her side. Jill was right. The dog was a duchess, an old duchess. Bruce leaned over and retrieved a piece of salt-water taffy. He unwrapped it for Emily. “Enjoy.” It would take her twenty minutes. Bruce stretched out on his beach towel and carefully opened the letter he had intentionally saved. This one had set a record, arriving within a week of being sent.

  He started reading. And his smile faded; this wasn’t good. Lord, I didn’t need this one.

  Bruce ~

  I’m okay. My profound conclusion at the end of today—life is about handling one crisis after another and still having enough energy left to be standing to handle the next one. Tonight I nearly ran out of gas, nearly got hit by my wingman, and had to land with an uncertain lock on the left landing gear. It turned out to be a wiring short. I’m wiped. But I’m standing, sort of. I’m leaning against the wall beside the third deck post office mailbox hoping being upright keeps me awake long enough to sign this.