True Valor

  She had made four day traps aboard the Harry Truman and knew what she should expect in those last seconds of landing. The LSO working tonight was excellent at his job. She was glad the man was there to help get her safely onto the ship.

  She scanned outside the cockpit, across the heads-up displays, feeling out the plane. She started the break for the deck and hit the entrance point to the landing pattern high and increased her rate of descent. Her timing was off. At 250 knots she lowered the landing gear and the tailhook.

  “624, three quarters of a mile, call the ball,” the air controller said.

  “624, Hornet ball, 4.5,” she replied. The massive meatball yellow light glowed in the night, the bulbs actually dimmed so they didn’t shimmer in the night air. The meatball was above the line of green datum lights. She was still high.

  She edged down.

  So many people were pulling for her to make this—Bruce. Wolf. Jill. Her squadron. The press had been all over her since news she was going to fly again. She just wanted to land safely and get the entire incident behind her. She’d overcorrected and the yellow light notched below the green lights. She increased power.

  She was overflying, trying too hard to fly the plane. She could do this, but it felt like she’d never done it before.

  The LSO had yet to give her a single correction, either he was comfortable she was on top of the needed corrections or the radio was dead. She preferred to think positively.

  Do not be low. She was not going to fly a ramp strike.

  She got the light centered, had the centerline, was on the glide slope. Eight seconds to go. She had this landing. She could feel it. If not a perfect approach, it was still going to put her into the third wire.

  The bank of lights went flashing red. “Wave off. Foul deck!”

  She shoved open full power on afterburners and pulled back hard, putting the Hornet in a rapid climb, knowing she would be shaking the tower windows with the close abort. Adrenaline surged.

  “624, Paddles. Digbat problem here. Good approach. We’ll give you a clear deck on the next round.”

  “Paddles, 624. Roger.” She breathed deep to relax. She knew all about digbats, a polite word that covered everything from birds on the deck to a caution light on an arresting wire. There was no margin in a landing, and the LSO waving her off had just saved her life. Maybe she shouldn’t be doing this. She wanted to marry Bruce, not have him attending her funeral.

  She reached angels 10 and turned, flying the downward leg to come back around for another landing approach.

  What am I doing wrong?

  The mental zone of perfection she normally had when flying was far, far away. God, I need clarity. Help me. She had walked nuggets through this mental moment of crisis. She’d been here before.

  She wasn’t trusting her shoulder and hand to be there; she wasn’t comfortable that weakness wouldn’t catch her by surprise. The realization came in the moment before she broke again for the landing approach. The crash had been a fluke. She accepted it. She was going to prove it.

  She hit the entrance point to the pattern, was lined up and on a good approach.

  “624, three quarters of a mile, call the ball,” the air controller said.

  “624, Hornet ball, 4.1,” she replied.

  “624, Paddles. Wind at twenty-nine knots, slightly pitching keel.”

  “Paddles, 624. Roger.”

  The finesse started coming back. The meatball hung like a heavy weight right in the center of the green lights, never clicking up or down. The ship grew larger and larger. She crossed the fantail.

  She hit hard and slammed open afterburners just in case she had to bolter. The tailhook caught and the Hornet was jerked to a full stop in two seconds. Grace sucked in her breath at the pain that rippled as the restraint harness tightened, stopping what otherwise would have been her forward crash through the windshield.

  She’d give herself an okay pass for that landing. Just a touch right in the lineup, maybe a fraction high in the middle, right into the third wire.

  Yellow wands were waving at her. She blinked clear her vision and powered back her jet to idle, raised the landing hook. She followed the waving wands not to a parking place but across to catapult 2. She was going to launch and do it all again. Welcome to carrier quals, she thought to herself with a smile, and wondered if she’d have the energy to climb out of the cockpit when the night was over. It had just begun.

  FORWARD OPERATING LOCATION

  TURKEY/SYRIAN BORDER

  “Have you heard anything?”

  Bruce stretched out on his bunk, glanced to the door of the tent, and shook his head. “She should be in the middle of quals about now.”

  “Grace will be able to make it.”

  “And if she fails?” Bruce couldn’t imagine what that would do to her. Failure wasn’t a word in Grace’s vocabulary. He didn’t want her feeling again the sadness that had swamped her after Ben’s death. And he knew not being able to fly would cut that deep. She didn’t like to fly slow and level; she needed to be flying for the Navy. As much as he wanted her safely being a civilian, he wanted her doing what she loved even more.

  “If something happens, she’ll brush herself off and try again.”

  Bruce smiled at Wolf’s confidence. “Any word on the mission?”

  “We’re on standby.”

  It was just the two of them. Bruce could afford to be honest. “I hope they don’t execute this one. It’s stupid.”

  Wolf took a seat on Rich’s bunk. “It would be . . . interesting.” That was one way of putting it. There were rumors that Syria was converting a deep oil well complex at Aleppo to go after water, were attempting to drill under Turkey’s border and literally into the reservoir complex. Stealing water—it was a fairly creative solution to Syria’s problem. One that would toss a match back on a tinderbox they had just got calmed down.

  Bruce shook his head at the idea. “They’ve got to find a diplomatic solution. I wonder how the military brass learned about the Aleppo project?”

  “Our defector?” Wolf speculated.

  “Then he’s doing a lousy job at stopping a war.”

  “The diplomats talk; the military waits.”

  “We need rain.”

  Wolf nodded. “This mission isn’t going to get the go-ahead. Calmer minds will step in. Any mail come today?”

  “No.”

  “I got a letter from Jill.”

  “Did you?”

  “A mushy one.”

  Bruce smiled. “My sister likes being engaged.”

  “She’s going to like being married more.”

  He laughed. “Probably. She’ll change your life.”

  “She’ll try.” Wolf opened a can of peanuts. “When are you going to get around to asking Grace?”

  Bruce turned his head to look at his friend. “She’s got rather a lot on her mind at the moment.”

  “True. We could have a double wedding.”

  Bruce sat up. “Interesting idea.”

  Wolf shrugged. “Otherwise we end up having two weddings a few months apart. You know they’ll want to be each other’s maid of honor. You’re my best man, and assuming no ugly stuff happens, I’ll probably stand up at yours.”

  “It has to be their idea.”

  Wolf smiled. “Since when has that been a problem to make happen?”

  Bruce punched his pillow and lay back down, trying to get comfortable on the cot. “We’ve got too much time on our hands if we’re planning wedding details.” He thought about it for a minute. “When?”

  Wolf laughed.

  USS HARRY TRUMAN

  ATLANTIC OCEAN OFF THE COAST OF VIRGINIA

  She had been assigned a temporary bunk aboard ship. Grace would have gone to the dirty-shirt wardroom to unwind with the other pilots renewing their carrier qualifications tonight, but she didn’t want to talk about her crash, and among pilots it was a natural question. They’d want to congratulate her for coming back to flight statu
s.

  She set down her gloves and her kneepad, the neat cards and the maps showing her hours of preparation for tonight’s flights. Takeoffs and landings that she had prepared for with the intensity of a live missile strike. She’d been prepared, overprepared maybe.

  Two fairs and an okay. She’d flown better but she’d survived the grade cut. That was the most important fact. Exhausted, she nevertheless stepped out of the flight suit and pulled on a sweat suit. The physical therapist had given her a set of exercises to help stretch out her shoulder muscles after a flight and make sure they didn’t stiffen up.

  She started stretching her arm and her shoulder, lifting and slowly rotating it to recover from three hours flying where mobility was limited. Lord, was all this worth it? She had her wings back, and she was so tired she wondered if it had been the right goal to go after. She’d flown, she’d been shot down, now she was back preparing to fly again. She could have a calm life with Bruce, be there whenever he was able to be home. Instead she was going after the right to continue a job where she would be gone for long stretches of time.

  She could tell she was tired. She was doubting decisions she had made. The exercises complete, she changed again and got ready to turn in. She slid back the curtain on the lower bunk to slip in. A letter and a big bouquet of roses were on her bunk. Tears came to her eyes as she carefully lifted the bouquet. The roses were gorgeous.

  Grace ~

  Consider this the first of what will hopefully be many long love letters. I am so proud of you. Congratulations. I knew you could do it! Nothing gives me more pleasure than to know you are flying and staying true to a dream that goes all the way back to your youth. Wolf figured out the channels to get this letter to you tonight and got the flowers smuggled aboard. I’m glad it was this letter left for you with the flowers, and not the other I also wrote. It’s much easier to be happy for you long-distance than sad. I would have been as miserable as you, had tonight run into problems.

  I’m sitting watching the stars, pleased to know that wherever you are you can share the same view. My life has become so much richer since you entered it. Never doubt that this is worth it, Grace. As much as I want to be there in person to tell you how proud I am of you, know this letter carries my full heart with it. You have pretty eyes, a laugh that makes me smile, and you write wonderful letters. Your picture is wearing out, it gets pulled from my pocket so often. Thinking of you tonight.

  Yours, with an ocean of love, Bruce

  PS You still owe me your dog tags.

  Bruce ~

  I’m so wiped I don’t know if I can write a letter that is readable. I FLEW GREAT! The clouds were so white, and the ocean was so huge, and the ship was soooo small. It was everything I remembered from those first flights as a nugget. Pure terror and overflying, and I got a wave off seconds before landing from a digbat problem— I wish I could bottle tonight and share some of this emotion. Adrenaline returns just thinking about it.

  I did not think about the crash tonight; something I feared might happen. Frankly, I was too busy remembering everything that used to be second nature. On the whole, I’m very pleased with tonight. I think the roses are incredible. And your letter stupendous. I want to hug you with ink and paper. I’m now crashing, big time, and will probably sleep through my alarm.

  I can’t put into words why it is so nice to be back aboard a ship floating in the middle of the ocean with planes landing overhead, what makes this place more special than my apartment stateside. Here there is a sense of . . . it’s a corny word . . . but of destiny, of dreams and hopes and efforts combining to meet at one place.

  That said, Bruce, I am reaching the point where I could see walking away from this and being okay with that. I’ve got the memories and the experience, and while the second time around is stupendous and I’m so thankful to have the opportunity, I can now feel the difference in perspective. If asked to walk away from this, I could probably handle it with that grace you say I have to reflect my name. Just in case we ever need to talk about that option, don’t feel like it’s taboo to bring up. I’m going to bed and I’m planning to dream about you.

  All my love, Gracie

  PS About the dog tags, come home and you can collect. (-:

  Forty

  * * *

  JUNE 23

  NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

  CNN was showing the weather forecast for the U.S. Grace listened to it as she worked in her closet, trying to rearrange clothes even as she set aside a few items to pack. She would be out at Nellis for three days at the end of next week. Emily settled across her sweater. “Honey, I’m not going to be gone that long. You don’t need to look so sad.”

  The dog just looked at her, her head resting on her front paws. Bruce was right; Emily knew how to say a lot with her eyes. Grace offered a pair of tube socks. “Want to play?” The dog didn’t move. Grace ruffled her ears. “Jill is going to be disappointed that you don’t want to stay with her.”

  The top of the hour news came on. The trucker strike in the European Union led the news. The UN water rights debate had slipped to the fourth story. Grace listened but heard nothing new in the report. Turkey and Syria were still talking about a compromise that would increase the water in the Euphrates by suspending agricultural irrigation currently being done north of the Ataturk Dam. It would be a major concession if Turkey made it. At least as long as they were talking, they weren’t fighting.

  The GW had been conducting aggressive flight operations over Iraq, over the Turkey/Syrian borders. She wanted to be back flying with her squadron, but it didn’t look like the assignment would come through before the USS Harry Truman replaced the GW. Grace felt guilty about being stateside, knowing her squadron buddies were flying two or three hops a day and by this point in the tour would be deep in the exhausting phase of the deployment. With her missing, they would all have to cover extra duties.

  Grace carried the clothes to the duffel bag on her bed, reached for the phone and dialed. “Jill, I found your shoes. Two-tone blue with a half-inch heel?”

  “That’s them. Where?”

  “Inside a box with snow boots.”

  “The skiing trip.”

  “I think so. Are you going to be home? I’ll bring them by.”

  “Sure. I’m rearranging the furniture in the living room.”

  “I wondered how long it would be before you did your deployment redecoration.”

  “I’m going stir crazy waiting.”

  “So am I,” Grace admitted. “You want to watch planes at the airport instead?”

  “Let’s go to the beach. I can work on my tan.”

  “I’ll come pick you up,” Grace offered.

  “Bring Emily.”

  “Sure. Maybe it will perk her up.”

  Bruce ~

  I’m stretched out on the beach soaking in the sun, well covered in sunscreen and wishing I had brought my sunglasses. Jill and Emily are building a sand house, or rather Jill is building and Emily is digging. You’re right, she’s a duchess. I’d share this sunny day with you, but I know you’ve already had plenty of sun.

  I had too-ripe bananas and a mix of Cheerios and Wheaties for breakfast and so far two cookies and popcorn for lunch. I’m sure you were eager to know that. Boredom is setting in as I forgot a book to read. I’m not much for lying in the sun for the pleasure of it. How’s Wolf treating you? Keeping you nice and healthy? Of course, I know you most often get into trouble because you have to get him out of trouble.

  I know from Wolf how hard it is to deploy and just be told to sit on your hands and kill time. Wolf wants to be able to do something, not just sit between two tense parties and basically be there to get in the way if someone wants to start trouble.

  It is my hope that you are so bored you are making your version of sand castles to kill time and that you will eventually get the orders to pack and come home without ever having to act. There is a growing chorus here among civilians about intervening in the Middle East, intervening in the
Sudan, and intervening in the dispute Turkey is having with Syria. They don’t have people on the front lines. I hope you come home without ever being asked to do anything but be a presence and watch.

  At the end of next week I’m heading to Nellis for a few days to get some real flight time in on the bombing range, see if I can get back my timing and shake out any lingering trouble with handling g’s. They call it a refresher course; I’m looking at it more from the perspective—been there, done that, now how do I do it better the next time? I never want to lose my flight buddy again, or see the earth spinning toward me. One crash in my lifetime was enough.

  Seagulls are diving the beach at the moment, creating an enormous racket. I’m afraid Emily is going to have a coronary she’s so excited. Wish I had a camera to catch this moment for you. Love you. Thinking about you.

  Missing you.

  Grace

  Forty-One

  * * *

  JUNE 27

  TURKEY/SYRIAN BORDER

  Wolf spat dirt and sand out of his mouth. “I hate sand.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Bruce whispered as he hauled his friend up.

  “Where’s Bear? Cougar? They’re late. I don’t like it.”

  “I’m sure they’re having as much fun as we are. Our guide is waiting.”

  Wolf cleared his weapon and stepped back up onto the path. “I still hate the sand. And trip wires. Even fake ones.”

  “I was admiring your reflexes,” Bruce replied, trying not to smile.

  “This is a place for snakes, not people. Now since I’m here to protect your backside, get moving.”

  Bruce grinned and resumed the hike. They’d been walking up the faint mountainside trails for an hour, the path grade increasing the entire time. Bruce had been in this area before, only from the air last time. Gracie’s plane had gone down a kilometer to the south. Their guide was a Turkish army officer, and along for the hike were two men from the embassy, both former Army officers, a lingering reality of the Gulf War when diplomacy and war had been intertwined.