Lord, I decided no more regrets, just wise decisions. Bruce—he’s a nice guy. Watching him with Jill over the years sealed that conclusion. I made the decision to answer his note with more openness than I normally would have. Did I make a mistake in my reply?
NATO FORWARD OPERATING LOCATION
TURKEY/IRAQ BORDER
Someone had mailed him chocolates. Bruce looked with regret at the mess of melted chocolate with bumps of nuts and square-cut caramels. The sugar hadn’t crystallized; it was new chocolate. It had pooled at the left edge of the candy box and hardened there. A swirl of green from a mint-flavored chocolate ran through it.
He looked at the packing. The box was from a candy shop in Indiana. It had traveled halfway around the world to find him.
“Another one?”
Bruce moved so his partner could get past him in the small tent. “I told you there was a reason Alaska would make a better deployment.” He cracked the chocolate mass to pull free the envelope that had been inside the candy box tucked in a plastic bag. He handed the candy to Rich.
Striker opened the letter. The handwriting was shaky and had the elegance of someone from a former generation who had learned to write in beautiful script. Since it didn’t look like a letter from a twentysomething, bubbly, blue-eyed blonde who couldn’t write in paragraphs, he set the note aside to read and answer later. He’d made a rule about the bubbly blondes who lately sent the bulk of his mail—he didn’t answer them. Writing back just encouraged them.
Rich took out his pocketknife. “We can shave it into edible chunks.”
“Sanitize that thing first.”
Rich tugged open the pocket of his cammies and retrieved his lighter. He sterilized the blade.
Mail for most military men was their lifeline. For Bruce it had become something of a problem. “I wish they would start writing you.” Rich was wealthy, good-looking, a first generation American born of European immigrants. His partner should be the one getting this deluge of mail, not him.
Rich used his hot knife to melt through the chocolate and break off a chunk. “You’re the legend.”
“You were at that rescue too.” That rescue in the Gulf was beginning to haunt him. Yes, he’d rescued the boy and it had been pretty dramatic footage. But while he’d spun in the air hoisting out the boy, his partner had been on the deck securing the captain.
“I’m smart. You’re dumb. You got your picture taken,” Rich replied, reaching down to see how much mail was in the burlap sack emblazoned with the warning Property of the Air Force Postmaster. “You’d think they were writing Santa Claus.”
“I wish I could find that reporter and make him eat his dictionary for calling me an eligible bachelor.” Bruce nudged the sack with his boot. “Quit laughing at me and help.”
The picture of him dangling in the air under the massive Seahawk helicopter with the kid swallowed against his uniform had shown up not only in the newspapers but now in the popular entertainment magazines. The story of the rescue grew with every retelling the reporters did.
The least the postmaster could do was lose his forwarding location for a few weeks to stop this deluge. “You ducked the AP reporter and left me like a sitting duck. I thought you were my partner.”
“I am in things that count. Your life was boring. I helped you out.”
“Your definition of help is interesting.”
Rich waved a letter. “This one is good. You’re to come to dinner next month.” Rich moved the page closer to his face to make out the writing. “I think this is her e-mail address. It’s smudged with lipstick.”
“Trash.” He had long ago gotten over the disquiet of tossing mail without a reply.
The tent flap was pushed back. “So this is where you two disappeared. I thought you were coming to watch CNN.”
“Wolf, get in here. You’re recruited to open mail.”
“I might get a paper cut.”
“Sit.”
The Navy SEAL awkwardly folded himself into a chair not designed for a man his size. The boredom of afternoons on deployment never changed. There might be action coming tonight, but all the preparations were over and they had a few hours to kill.
Wolf picked up a letter and tore open the end. He dumped the contents out. “This one is kind of cute.” Wolf turned the picture for his consideration.
Bruce tugged out a shoebox from under his cot. “Add it to the gallery.”
“How many pictures have you been sent?”
“I stopped counting.”
“I guess you don’t need Gracie’s picture anymore.”
“Don’t you dare tell her about this mail.” Bruce saved the stamp to add to his collection. “Any word yet on tonight?”
“Bear is checking.” Wolf picked up another letter from the bag. “I was able to snag a lift to Incirlik this weekend, so I can try Jill again. You two want to come?”
“And be confined to another base? Boring,” Rich replied. The recent earthquake had damaged roads and bridges in the Incirlik area, so traffic off the base had been limited to essential travel.
“A real shower with hot water.”
“True. Is Cougar going with you?” Rich asked.
“Yes.”
Rich looked over at Bruce. “I still don’t know. Tagging along with the Bear Cubs would be bad for our image.”
Wolf flicked his wrist and sent a letter spinning into Rich’s chest.
“We’ll come along to keep you out of trouble,” Bruce agreed.
“We’ll teach you how to get into some,” Wolf offered as he picked up another letter. “Well what do we have here—” He wagged the envelope. “Gracie’s handwriting. What’s it worth to you?”
Bruce dropped the stack he was sorting. “You don’t want me to answer that.”
Wolf held it up. “I find it interesting she wrote you and not me.”
“Your letter got lost.”
“Nope. I just got knocked down in her priorities. You know on a carrier it’s letters or sleep, rarely time for both.” He relented and handed over the letter.
Rich and Wolf were both watching him. Bruce tucked Gracie’s letter in his pocket. “I think I’m going to take a walk and stretch my legs.”
Wolf laughed. “The ducking out is noted.”
“I’m a smart man.” The few letters he would answer, including the one that had come with the chocolates, Bruce put with his personal papers. He found a notebook. “Come find me if there’s news.”
“Sure. Rich, where’s that sports magazine?”
* * *
Bruce retreated to the bench set up at the end of the flight line, sat down, and propped his feet up on an empty packing crate. It had been ages since he felt this kind of anticipation. The envelope was white, creased, and it showed postmarks over postmarks from the various military stops. He took out his pocketknife and neatly opened the envelope. He was delighted to see the thick contents. He pulled out the pages.
Bruce ~
You’re hearing laughter. I know Wolf. It’s a safe assumption that he was the one who suggested the basketball game. Sorry for a less-than-coherent note. I’m trying to wedge this pad of paper on my bunk since my desk has a super-glue experiment drying on it at the moment (don’t ask). I forgot how noisy it is to sleep one level below the flight deck. The squadron is landing literally over my head. I drew a stateroom on the 03 Gallery deck near the dirty-shirt wardroom. I can have lunch in my flight suit and come back to the stateroom for a nap before evening briefings. (That hasn’t happened yet since deployment, but I dream about doing it.)
We’ve been having moderate seas and good weather. I’m loving the flying time and often getting two hops a day. Tell Wolf my landing streak is growing; the recent streak is eight of ten okays. He’s going to owe me a nice dinner next time we meet up. GW had a pitching deck during a night landing and it sent me into the second wire, and I got a fluke bolter last Friday when the hook bounced. I’d already kicked in the afterburners just in case, but the
re was a heart-stopping moment as I ran out of ship before aerodynamics kicked in. I hate the water, big time. And the ship just about slammed into the rear of my jet.
I’m tired. It is very late. I just wanted to say thanks for your note. I appreciate it. I’m sorry this reply is all about work.
I’m fine with being called Gracie, and I’m only scared of heights when I’m watching Wolf do something foolish. Someone forgot to tell him about gravity.
He likes to jump out of planes. Mr. Parachute Jumper—would you care to explain that fascination? I’ve never understood it. The dread of my life is pulling that ejection handle.
You asked for something on Wolf. That’s easy. Just ask him what he did when he was fourteen that got him grounded for a month. Think fireworks, a magnifying glass, and a microphone. You’ll get the picture. It was quite an experiment. He did shatter the crystal glass on the stoop . . . and the car windows.
I’m listening to The Fly, our very own FM radio station. Navy Seaman Jules Porter just began a trio of fifties’ hits. I do love the old music.
News of the world comes in bits and pieces. I’ve heard the drought is getting worse across Syria and that the Turkish currency is going through another upheaval. Jill sent me copies of the NASA newspapers. There was a write-up on the cancellation of the X-33 space plane. In a way I’m glad Ben isn’t around to see the failure. He always hoped to see the replacement to the shuttle during his lifetime. He wanted to someday fly that vehicle. Riding a rocket—he had more confidence in technology than I do.
It’s late. I’m rambling. Whether mail gets off this ship anytime soon is anyone’s guess. I hope this finds you having a boring deployment.
Good night, Bruce.
Grace
He read the letter twice. It was a good note; it sounded like her. The handwriting had begun to wander on the last page and he could see her fighting sleep. There wasn’t much personal but he hadn’t expected much. She’d gone well beyond what he thought she would write. She sounded focused on the job at hand.
Bruce smiled as he tugged out his pen. He’d been thinking about letter number two.
Gracie~
It was good to get your note. There’s a mission tonight and I’m wondering what you’ll be doing. I don’t question your flying skills; it’s all those people on the ground trying to shoot you out of the sky that I’m a little concerned with. My deployment has been boring—only one set of dog tags so far—and I hope tonight continues that streak.
Congratulations on the landings. I hope the bolter represents your one and only close call for this tour. I bet you could will that plane to fly if it came down to it.
I understand Wolf’s love of jumping. It’s skill versus the elements. Jumping at night from high altitude with oxygen—it’s not a civilian thing to do. It’s falling through a cloud and getting stung with water drops. (By the way, they are pointy at the top.) It’s trying to navigate when there is no sense of falling. Once you reach equilibrium you are essentially floating and it’s serenely quiet.
Jumping is all about watching your altimeter and GPS and trying to figure out how to land on exact coordinates that may be twenty miles away from where you stepped out of the plane. It’s a challenge, Gracie. And for that reason, you might as well have written Wolf’s name on it.
I’ve lived long enough to learn all of the “oh, by the ways” that come with combat jumping. I’ve only had a canopy fail twice and a guy crash into my canopy once. There was that one time I accidentally dropped through a thunderstorm—don’t ever do that, Gracie. It scares the daylights out of a sane person.
The news about Wolf and fireworks will be useful; thanks.
I’ve stood watch for some of the shuttle flights. Ben was one of the pilots who knew the nuances, and when he briefed he did it with a practical style. Ben trusted the technology, but even more he trusted the people who made up the NASA team backing him up.
NASA lost a good man when he died. I know how painful it had to have been to get news of his accident while on deployment. Jill called me the day Ben was killed; I was stateside that day. She wanted so badly not to have to call you with the news, but she also didn’t want the news coming from someone else. Thank you for the gracious way you handled that moment of grief.
Not taking relationships for granted is part of what life teaches everyone. When you’re in the military, you just learn that lesson sooner. I think of it as the life squeeze, the pressure deployments put on decisions about priorities. Most people in the civilian world can become workaholics and ignore family because they come home every night and think it’s enough. Only when you’re gone for months at a time do you learn how strong the relationships you have really are.
Civilians lose out on so much: doing something that benefits a nation, being in a job that requires excellence every day, getting reminded regularly why you should pay attention to the real priorities in life. The military teaches you not to get attached to the place or the thing but the people.
Ben carried your picture. I mentioned I knew you through Wolf, and the man lit up and tugged out your picture and talked about the trip you two were planning to the Dallas air show. Remember those good times. God can fill those holes I’m sure you feel when life gets quiet.
I’ve been thinking, Gracie—since I spend the majority of my time waiting for something to happen and you run an eighteen-hour-a-day schedule, my next letter might just be reflections on Ecuador, on dogs, and remodeling a house. I owe you a better explanation for that first letter you got out of the blue. I heard from Wolf that after you got my letter you grilled him about Ecuador because he had never mentioned how close to the edge it was.
Knowing what happened, I’m not surprised Wolf decided to remain silent. The man saved a lot of lives that day. I could patch them up and keep them alive, but Wolf was the one holding back the onslaught so I could work. My partner Rich had been hit in the initial rescue attempt and Wolf became my second. He jokes he loves adrenaline, but when you need him, Grace, Wolf is the steady man who is there to do what needs to be done.
You’ll probably be on the way from the Med to the Persian Gulf by the time you get this note. I’m sorry mail is so slow. When I’m stateside I’ll try e-mail and see if I can get a message through, although shipboard e-mail has its own problems. I know, however, how nice it is to get real letters that can wear out from being read many times. I’ll let you go. Good night, Gracie.
God bless, Bruce
John 14:27
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.
Six
* * *
USS GEORGE WASHINGTON (CVN 73)
MEDITERRANEAN SEA OFF THE COAST OF TURKEY
Grace tugged open the steel door to the squadron ready room. It was painted a deep blue with the VFA-83 RAMPAGERS emblem emblazoned at eye level. It wasn’t a large room—space on an aircraft carrier was measured out in inches—but it was a great home. It was aviator country not sailor territory.
On the nearest leather chair—designed with a swivel writing board to become a desk and to recline to become a comfortable place to sleep—she dumped her gloves and her kneeboard. The briefing was over and the final weather report was due in forty minutes by closed-circuit TV. Gracie checked the mail slots tucked along the wall. “Dragon, no mail? I saw the prop flight arrive.”
She was disappointed at the empty cubbyhole. Wolf’s letters were stacking up somewhere; she knew he was writing one every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. They would eventually arrive in a big stack. Jill was great about writing every week and sending notes in her signature Stateside Support blue envelopes, but this week’s letter had not yet come through. Grace normally didn’t let herself get up for mail call to avoid the inevitable disappointment when nothing came for her. But today was different. She was also hoping to hear from Bruce.
The junior officer assigned to housekeep for the squadron f
or the day reached in the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a white box. “Are you going to share the loot? It wouldn’t fit in your box.”
Gracie tugged open the card, delighted when she saw the scrawl. “Wolf.” She was going to have to hug that man next time she saw him. His packages were the best. She split open the tape and opened the box. “Licorice.” Red. Her favorite. She laughed at a second note inside stuck to a cartoon of a penguin trying to fly.
“You are lucky in your relatives.”
“Absolutely.”
Grace offered Dragon a piece and then took the package over to leave by the coffeepot. She loved to be able to treat the squadron.
She took a licorice whip back with her to the recliner and pulled up the writing board that swiveled and locked over the right chair arm. She sorted out the kneeboard cards and maps that would fly with her tonight.
She’d helped plan the mission over the last week, so the times, altitudes, flight lanes, and fuel numbers for the six-hour flight were already neatly written down and color coded. She was flying the Syrian border with the squadron executive officer while others in the squadron diverted to strike assignments. The last-minute change had been to the duration and altitude profiles they maintained as they lingered on that border.