Kitabı oku: «The Ocean Between Us»

Praise for the novels of
SUSAN WIGGS

“A human and multilayered story exploring duty to both country and family.”

—Nora Roberts on The Ocean Between Us

“Susan Wiggs tackles contemporary issues in the crucible of family with gutsy poignancy and adroit touches of whimsy that make for an irresistible read.”

—BookPage on Home Before Dark

“The story’s theme—the all-encompassing power of love—is timeless, and it is this theme, along with the author’s polished prose and well-rounded characters, that makes Wiggs’s story so satisfying.”

—Publishers Weekly starred review on A Summer Affair

“A thrilling blend of adventure and romance…Wiggs provides a delicious story for us to savor.”

—Oakland Press on The Mistress

“Wiggs tackles some very difficult family issues in this tightly woven tale. Cleverly uncovering secrets at the perfect pace, she draws you into the tale with each passing page, allowing her characters’ emotions and motivations to flow out of the book and into your heart.”

—Romantic Times on Home Before Dark

“Engaging characters, nail-biting suspense, and a heartwarming secondary plot of a forbidden teenage love combine to make a delectable tale of Victorian America.”

—Booklist starred review on A Summer Affair

“It’s an inspiring story that will touch your heart.”

—Oakland Press on The Horsemaster’s Daughter

“A bold, humorous and poignant romance that fulfills every woman’s dreams.”

—New York Times bestselling author Christina Dodd on The Mistress

“With its lively prose, well-developed conflict and passionate characters, this enjoyable, poignant tale is certain to enchant.”

—Publishers Weekly starred review on Halfway to Heaven

“…captivating sense of place, one that creates an atmospheric energy from start to finish.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Lightkeeper

“A woman’s valiant struggle for life and love, by turns romantic and gritty, always compelling.”

—New York Times bestselling author Josie Litton on Enchanted Afternoon

“Home Before Dark is a beautiful novel, tender and wise. Susan Wiggs writes with bright assurance, humor and compassion about sisters, children and the sweet and heartbreaking trials of life—about how much better it is to go through them together.”

—New York Times bestselling author Luanne Rice

“People you’ll care about living real lives in one of the world’s most romantic cities. What more could a romance lover ask for?”

—Salem Statesman-Journal on A Summer Affair

“Wiggs’ strongest and most vivid writing, a novel that bites into such loaded issues as adoption, estranged sisters, difficult teens…family secrets…”

—Seattle Times on Home Before Dark

“Wiggs’s synergistic blending of historical authenticity, complex multifaceted characters, and riveting plot makes for an exquisite romance.”

—Booklist on The Firebrand

“The action-adventure edition of the romance novel.”

—Detroit Free Press on The Mistress

“Wiggs has a knack for creating engaging characters, and her energetic prose shines through the pages.”

—Publishers Weekly on Enchanted Afternoon

“Wiggs combines the complications of love and politics in an entertaining American historical.”

—Booklist on Halfway to Heaven

“With this final installment of Wiggs’s Chicago Fire trilogy, she has created a quiet page-turner that will hold readers spellbound.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Firebrand

“The Charm School draws readers in with delightful characters, engaging dialogue, humor, emotion and sizzling sensuality.”

—Costa Mesa Sunday Times

“A smart, unorthodox coupling to which Wiggs adds humor, brains and a certain cultivation that will leave readers anticipating her next romance.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Drifter

“An irresistible blend of The Ugly Duckling and My Fair Lady. Jump right in and enjoy yourself—I did.”

—New York Times bestselling author Catherine Coulter

“Wiggs’ writing shimmers…. Her flair for crafting intelligent characters and the sheer joy of the verbal sparring between them makes for a delightful story you’ll want to devour at once.”

—BookPage on Halfway to Heaven

“A classic beauty-and-the-beast love story that will stay in your heart long after you’ve turned the last page. A poignant, beautiful romance.”

—New York Times bestselling author Kristin Hannah on The Lightkeeper

“In poetic prose, Wiggs evocatively captures the Old South and creates an intense, believable relationship between the lovers.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Horsemaster’s Daughter

Also by SUSAN WIGGS

SUMMER BY THE SEA

A SUMMER AFFAIR

HOME BEFORE DARK

ENCHANTED AFTERNOON

PASSING THROUGH PARADISE

HALFWAY TO HEAVEN

THE YOU I NEVER KNEW

The Chicago Fire Trilogy

THE FIREBRAND

THE MISTRESS

THE HOSTAGE

THE HORSEMASTER’S DAUGHTER

THE CHARM SCHOOL

THE DRIFTER

THE LIGHTKEEPER

And watch for

TABLE FOR FIVE

The Ocean Between Us
Susan Wiggs

To my friend Geri Krotow and her family,

with love and deepest respect.

CONTENTS

PART 1:Mishap

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

PART 2:Point of Embarkation

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

PART 3:Communications Blackout

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

PART 4:Duty Status—Whereabouts Unknown

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

PART 5:Active Homing

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

PART 1
Mishap

Mishap: Unplanned or unexpected event causing personal injury, occupational illness, death, material loss or damage, or an explosion of any kind whether damage occurs or not.

(NAVAL AVIATION SAFETY PROGRAM)

CHAPTER 1

USS Dominion (CVN-84)

0037N 17820W

Speed 33

2215 hours (Time Zone YANKEE)

Steve Bennett glanced at the clock on his computer screen. He ought to be in his rack and sleeping soundly. Instead, he sat with his feet propped on the edge of the workstation, hands clasped behind his head while he stared at a scenic Washington State calendar and thought about Grace.

He was ten thousand miles from home, on an aircraft carrier in the middle of an unofficial communications blackout instigated by Grace herself. His wife. The mother of his children. The woman who had not spoken to him willingly since he’d been deployed.

She had maintained radio silence like a wartime spy. He received official communiqués about the children, and sometimes the occasional report that made him regret giving her power of attorney. But never more than that.

The cruise was nearly over, and for the first time in his career Steve felt apprehensive about going home. He had no idea whether or not they could put their marriage back together again.

“Captain Bennett?” An administrative officer stood in the doorway with a clipboard in one hand and a PDA in the other.

“What is it, Lieutenant Killigrew?”

“Ms. Francine Atwater is here to see you, sir.”

Bennett hid a frown. He’d nearly forgotten their appointment. In the belly of a carrier there was no day or night, just an unrelenting fluorescent sameness, stale recycled air and the constant thunder of flight ops rattling through the steel bones of the ship.

“Send her in.” He unfolded his long frame and stood, assuming the stiff and wary posture schooled into him by twenty-six years in the Navy. Killigrew left for a moment, then returned with the reporter. Steve would have preferred to use the public affairs office on the 01 deck, but apparently Ms. Atwater was adamant about exploring every facet of carrier life. It was, after all, the era of the embedded reporter.

Francine Atwater. Francine. A member of the “new media,” eager to take advantage of the military’s newly relaxed information policy. According to his briefing notes, she had arrived COD—carrier onboard delivery—and intended to spend the next two weeks in this floating city with its own airport. Both the skipper of the Dominion and Captain Mason Crowther, Commander of the Air Group, had welcomed her personally, but they’d quickly handed her off to others, and now it was Steve’s turn.

“Ms. Atwater, I’m Captain Steve Bennett, Deputy Commander of the Air Group.” He tried not to stare, but she was the first civilian woman he’d seen in months. In a skirt, no less. He silently paid tribute to the genius who had invented nylon stockings and cherry-colored lipstick.

“Thank you, Captain Bennett.” Her glossy lips parted in a smile. She was a charmer, all right, the way she tilted her head to one side and looked up at him through long eyelashes. Still, he detected shadows of fatigue under her carefully made-up eyes. Newcomers to the carrier usually suffered seasickness and insomnia from all the noise.

“Welcome aboard, ma’am.”

“I see you’ve been briefed about me,” she said, indicating his notes from the PAO.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What a surprise. Everyone on this ship has. I swear, the U.S. Navy knows more about me than my own mother. My blood type, shoe size, visual acuity, sophomore-year biology grade—”

“Standard procedure, ma’am.” Even in lipstick and nylon stockings, the media held no appeal to the military. Still, he respected the way she stood her ground, especially while wearing three-inch heels. Civilians were advised on practical shipboard attire, but apparently no one had wanted Francine to change her shoes.

A tremendous whoosh, followed by a loud thump, rocked the ship. She staggered a little, and he put out a hand to steady her.

“Tell me I’ll get used to that,” she said.

“You’d better. We’re launching and recovering planes around the clock, day and night. It’s not going to stop.” He slid open a desk drawer and took out a sealed plastic package. “Take these. I always keep plenty on hand.”

“Earplugs?” She slipped the package into her briefcase. “Thanks.”

He motioned her to a chair and she sat down, setting aside her bag. She took out a palm-size digital recorder, then swept the small space with a glance that shifted like a radar, homing in on the few personal items in evidence. “You have a beautiful family.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I think so.”

“How old are your children?”

“Brian and Emma are twins. They’re seniors this year. Katie’s in ninth grade. And that’s Grace, my wife.” A world of pain and hope underlay his words, but he prayed the reporter wouldn’t notice. Every day he looked at that picture and tried to figure out what would fix this. He’d never deceived his wife before, so he didn’t know how to undo the damage he’d caused. An ordinary husband would go home, take her out to dinner and say, “Look, honey. The truth is…” But Bennett couldn’t do that from the middle of the ocean.

And sometimes he wondered if he even wanted to, damn it. He’d done his best to keep her from being hurt, but she didn’t seem to appreciate that.

In the photo, taken at Mustang Island when they were stationed in Corpus Christi, the four of them were laughing into the camera, sunburned faces glowing.

“This is a great shot,” said Ms. Atwater. “They look like the kind of people nothing bad ever happens to.”

Interesting observation. He would have agreed with her, right up until this deployment. Grace and the kids were part of the all-American family, the kind you saw on minivan commercials or at summer baseball games.

“What’s it like, being away from them for months on end?”

What the hell did she think it was like? A damned fraternity party?

“It’s rough. I’m sure you’ll hear that from a lot of the sailors on board. It’s hard seeing your baby’s first steps on videotape or getting a picture of a winning soccer goal by e-mail.” Steve wished he had prepared himself better for her nosiness. He should have barricaded his private self. He was supposed to be good at that. According to Grace, he was the champ.

Atwater studied another photograph, this one in a slightly warped frame nearly twenty years old. “But the homecomings are sweet,” she murmured, gazing down at the fading image.

He couldn’t recall who had taken that shot, but he remembered the moment with painful clarity. It was the end of his first cruise after they’d married. The gray steel hull of an aircraft carrier reared in the background. Sailors, officers and civilians all crushed together, hugging with the desperate joy only military families understood. At the center, he and Grace held each other in an embrace he could still feel all these years later. He clasped her so close that her feet came off the ground, one of her dainty high heels dangling off a slender foot. He could still remember what she smelled like.

Since that photo was taken there had been dozens of other partings and reunions. He could picture each homecoming in succession—Grace pregnant with the twins, no high heels that time, just sneakers that wouldn’t lace up around her swollen feet. Then Grace pushing a double stroller that wouldn’t fit through doorways. By then, her perfume was more likely to be a blend of baby wipes and cough drops. In later years, the kids kept her busy as she shuffled them between music lessons, sports practices, Brownies and Boy Scouts. But she always came to meet him. She never left him standing like some loser whose wife had given him the shaft while he was at sea, who would sling his seabag over his shoulder and pretend it didn’t matter, whistling under his breath as he headed straight for the nearest bar.

Yesterday had been Grace’s fortieth birthday. He’d phoned and gotten the machine. Lately she was so prickly about her age, anyway. She probably wouldn’t thank him for the reminder.

Atwater asked about his background, his career path in the Navy, his role on the carrier. She listened well, occasionally making notes on a small yellow pad as well as recording him. At one point he glanced at his watch and was surprised to see how much time had passed. She’d talked to him about his family for nearly an hour. He wondered if he’d told her too much. Did the American people really need to know his life was coming undone like a slipknot?

He cleared his throat. “Says on my agenda that I’m your tour guide for nighttime flight ops.” He was surprised that she’d gained authorization to be on the flight deck at night, but apparently her project was important to Higher Authority.

“I’ve been looking forward to this, sir.” She came alive in that special way of people who were in love with flying, the more high-tech and dangerous, the better. And there was no form of flying more dangerous than carrier operations.

He was dog tired, but he put on a smile because, in spite of everything, he shared her enthusiasm.

“I thought about going into the service and learning to fly,” she said, her eyes shining. “Couldn’t make the commitment, though.”

“Lots of people can’t.” He said it without condemnation or pride. It was a plain fact. The U.S. Navy demanded half of your life. It was as simple as that. He’d been in the Navy since his eighteenth birthday. And of his twenty-six years of service, he’d been at sea for half of them. That kind of commitment had its rewards, but it also carried a price. He was finally figuring that out.

As he went to the door, the Inbox on his computer screen blinked, but he didn’t check to see what had come in. If it was personal, he didn’t want a reporter reading over his shoulder.

He led her single file down a narrow passageway tiled in blue, narrating their journey and cautioning her to avoid slamming her shins on the “knee knockers,” structural members at the bottom of each hatch. Lining the P-way were dozens of red cabinets containing fire-control gear and protective clothing. The least little spark could take out half the ship if it happened to ignite in the wrong place.

Steve spoke over his shoulder, but he wasn’t sure how much she was taking in. The constant din of flight ops intruded—roaring engines, the hiss and grind of the power plant and arresting gear, the whistle and screech of aircraft slamming on deck—drowning out normal conversation. In the enlisted men’s mess, they created a small stir. Sailors enjoying MIDRATS—rations for personnel on night duty—stopped what they were doing the minute they saw Francine Atwater. Their jaws dropped as though unhinged. Even the female sailors stared, not with the raw yearning of the males but with wistfulness, and perhaps a flicker of disdain. In the service of their country, they had learned to do without makeup, without hair spray, without vanity.

As they climbed an open steel ladder, Atwater took it in stride, but she was probably wishing she’d worn pants and thick-soled boots. They crossed the hangar bay, where aircraft waited with wings folded like origami cranes.

In the passageway under flight-deck control, the roar of aircraft pounding the steel deck was louder still. “We need to gear up,” Steve said, handing her a flight suit and boots.

“I’ve been briefed on safety procedures.” She sat down and slipped off her civilian shoes, flashing a slim foot encased in a nylon stocking. “Hours and hours of briefing.”

“The Navy loves to brief people,” he admitted, hearing echoes of the endless droning of Navy gouge he’d endured over the years, litanies of instruction and advisories. “In this case, I hope you listened,” he added. Then, assuming she hadn’t, he reiterated the list of hazards on the flight deck. A sailor could be sucked into an engine intake. Exhaust from a jet engine had the power to blast a person across the deck, or even overboard. He’d seen large men bouncing like basketballs all the way to the deck edge. Or an arresting wire might snap as a tail hook grabbed it, whipping with enough force to sever a person’s legs. Taxiing planes, scurrying yellow tractors, breaking launch bars—all were hazards waiting to happen.

His hand wandered to his throat in a habitual gesture, seeking his St. Christopher medal. Then he remembered that he’d lost it, the good-luck charm he’d had since his first deployment. He never went to sea without it. Ah, hell. At least he wasn’t flying.

He distracted himself by perusing the bulletin board of one of the squadrons. The postings included items for sale or trade, a movie schedule and an invitation to the upcoming Steel Beach picnic, during which a dozen or so garage bands would perform. Personnel on board were desperate to create a normal existence in a highly abnormal situation.

It didn’t always work, Steve thought.

After she finished gearing up for flight ops, Francine Atwater looked totally different. Steel-toed boots, a shiny gray-green jumpsuit and a white visitor’s jersey hid all of her charms except those big brown eyes.

Feeling a bit like an airline flight attendant, he showed her how to operate her float coat. The vest was equipped with a beacon light, a packet of chemical dye to mark the water if she found herself in the drink, a flare, a whistle. “This is your MOBI,” he said. It was a transmitter the size of a cell phone, with a whip antenna connected to a small box.

“Let me guess. Man Overboard…Indicator.”

“You did your homework.”

“I told you, I was briefed. But you’re forgetting something,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t intend to go for a midnight swim.”

“Then we’re on the same page.” He slipped the device into the dye pouch of her float coat and closed the Velcro fastening. “But just in case, the transmitter has its own unique identification. That way, the bridge will know identity and location immediately.”

“So this one has my name on it?”

“Just the number of the float coat. You want me to show you how to fasten everything?”

“I’ve got it,” she said.

He showed her a status board outlining the night’s exercises. The list indicated who was taking off, who was landing, who the crew members were, the purpose of their particular operation.

“Two of the names are in red,” Atwater pointed out. “Is that significant?”

“They’re nugget pilots. New guys. This is their first cruise.”

“Lieutenant junior grade Joshua Lamont,” she read from the chart. “Call sign Lamb.”

Steve didn’t move a muscle, even though the sound of Lamont’s name was a punch in the gut. He wondered if he would ever get used to having Lamont under his command. A C-2 Greyhound transport plane had flown the young pilot aboard as a replacement pilot. Lamont was a member of the Sparhawks, the carrier’s squadron of EA-6B Prowlers. The reporter probably thought his call sign was sweet, but Steve knew it came from an incident during training in Nevada—Little Angry Man Boy.

“He’s flying Prowler six-two-three,” she observed. “My cameramen videotaped the aircrew while they were preparing that plane for tonight’s flight.”

“You’re making a video?” The public affairs office hadn’t bothered to tell him exactly what was up.

“You bet.”

He shouldn’t be surprised. A magazine was no longer just a magazine. These days every publication needed a multimedia presence on the Web, with all the attendant bells and whistles. Higher Authority had given their blessing to the article. These were patriotic times and frankly—unexpectedly—the media had been good to the military in recent times. Strange bedfellows, but sometimes you never knew.

“Lamont’s been in the air one hour and forty-eight minutes now,” he said. “Looks like they’ll be landing soon.”

“What about the other name in red—Sean Corn?”

“Lieutenant Corn is due to land directly behind the Prowler. He’s driving one of the Tomcats.”

“And they’re new to night carrier landings?”

“Yes, ma’am, but they’ve had extensive training.” Steve quickly switched to the public-affairs spiel. “A carrier landing is basically a crash landing on an area about four hundred feet long. The margin of error on approach is less than eighteen inches,” he told her. “The tail hook has to grab an arresting wire, or you have a bolter and the pilot has to come around for another pass. Success depends on every member of the team doing his job right, doing it on time and following orders. So the question isn’t why so many accidents happen but why so few.”

“But accidents do happen.”

He wondered if she had a secret wish to witness one. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you fly often, Captain Bennett?”

“Enough to stay qualified.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Flying used to be my life, but after almost a thousand carrier traps, I can live without it.” He tried not to smile at her thunderstruck expression. “Look, ma’am, if you’re looking for drama, you’re talking to the wrong guy.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t make good copy. Not anymore. I used to be a cowboy, turning everything into a competition. I used to look another pilot in the eye, call him my best friend and then wax his ass in training.”

“But you don’t do that anymore?”

He hesitated. “I’ll introduce you to some guys who do.”

They put on headsets, goggles and cranials with ear protectors marked across the top with reflective tape. Then Steve stood aside, motioning her ahead.

They climbed several more steel ladders. Steve opened another hatch and they passed a sign: Beware Jet Blast-Props-Rotor Blades. They crossed the platform, mounted a few more steps and finally reached the four-and-a-half-acre flight deck.

A strong, cold wind slapped at them, carrying with it the reek of jet fuel and hydraulic fluid. Cinders flung up from the nonskid surface of the deck needled their faces. Behind the protective goggles, Francine’s eyes reflected amazement. This was a strange new world, with the deck humming underfoot, busy personnel in color-coded jerseys and cranials communicating by gesture, planes and tractors scurrying to and fro. Despite the late hour, bright lights and thundering sound burst across the deck in a chaotic but precisely choreographed ballet of landing aircraft. The deafening noise made speech superfluous, so he gave her an expansive gesture: Welcome to the bird farm. She staggered a little as a blast of wind hit her, but then responded with a thumbs-up.

They crossed the roof to the island tower and climbed a series of ladders, passing various control centers. In Flight Deck Control, a chief petty officer kept track of the different aircraft and their positions on the “Ouija board,” little game-piece planes on a scale map of the deck. After asking permission to enter the bridge, he led her up another level to the top of the island, where the Air Boss presided over a domain of darkened cubicles encased in shatterproof safety glass. In Primary Flight Control, touch-sensitive glass, glowing control panels and monitors reflected off the intent faces of busy crew members. Another screen showed the positions of the entire battle group and other vessels in the area. Steve pointed out destroyers, cruisers, a supply ship, the oiler.

“And what’s that?” she asked, pointing to the screen.

“Probably a Japanese fishing boat,” Steve said.

In the tinted glass aerie, Commander Shep Hardin, the Air Boss on duty, barked commands at the flight deck. He paused briefly to greet them. “Aren’t you lucky,” he said to Atwater. “A guided tour by the gray wolf himself.”

“Thanks a lot, pal,” Steve said, then turned to the reporter. “Hardin’s no fun, anyway. Want to watch from Vultures Row?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

As they headed for the observation balcony overlooking the flight deck, she asked, “Why did he call you the gray wolf?”

He was sort of wishing she hadn’t heard that. “A carrier crew is made up of young men and women, most of them under twenty-five. At forty-four, I’m old.” He didn’t want to go into all the politics and posturing of his climb to the upper ranks. He pointed to a row of three aircraft chained to the deck. “Those are Prowlers, parked down there. They’re used for electronic reconnaissance and jamming.”

Francine cupped her hands around her eyes, pressed her face to the glass and studied the lighted deck. “The planes look sort of…lived in.”

She was right. These deck-weary aircraft hardly resembled the gleaming birds in Navy publicity photos. They looked as though they’d been patched together with duct tape, baling wire and Bondo.

“Ma’am, flight ops are the whole reason a carrier exists, so keeping the planes operational is crucial. Air crews work 24/7 to keep them ready to go,” he assured her, but he hoped she didn’t notice the drip of hydraulic fluid spattering the black steel deck. “The Prowler squadron has only four aircraft, so they get used a lot. It’s late in the cruise, and the concern isn’t making them look pretty. It’s making them work right.”

“And Lamont, the…nugget, is flying the other one.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Using her deck-ops manual for a flat surface, she made a note on her yellow pad.

“You ready to see some landings?” he asked.

“In a sec.” She scribbled furiously.

Then he instructed her to lower her goggles, slid open the door and they stepped outside. High off the bow, two shooting stars streaked briefly, drawing twin parallel lines down the black sky before disappearing. Steve tried to alert the reporter, but it was over so quickly that she missed it. No big deal. Shooting stars weren’t the main attraction tonight. Planes rained from the sky, one after another, slamming down on deck with screams of rubber and metal. Tail hooks searching for an arresting wire threw up rooster tails of sparks.

He handed the reporter a pair of binoculars and pointed out Landing Signal Officer Whitey Love, who stood with the other LSOs on the port side atop a wind-harried platform. From his vantage point under the edge of the flight deck, near the first set of arresting wires, the LSO studied the night sky through a pair of infrared lenses. Over the headset, he talked to his pilots. It was his job to coax each fifty-thousand-pound aircraft, hurtling at a hundred thirty miles per hour, to a three-hundred-foot landing strip.

A luminous amber signal on the port-deck edge aligned with a row of green lights, signaling that the incoming pilot was on the proper glide path for a safe landing. The dainty-looking tail hook had a shot at just five wires. Each cable could be used for a set number of traps before it was retired, compromised by the strain of stopping the speeding jets. If something went wrong, it could mean the loss of a sixty-million-dollar aircraft off the deck, and perhaps the lives of the pilot and crew.

Steve noticed a whiteshirt and three other VIPs loaded with equipment. Atwater saw his look and motioned him inside.

“My photographer and videographer and their assistant,” she explained.

He hoped the camera guys had been briefed on safety, too. The videographer appeared clueless as he filmed a turning jet that was on its way to the elevator. He clearly had no idea that the blast might toss him twenty feet in the air. Just in time, the host yanked him out of harm’s way and the group headed to the island.

They met up at deck level, where the floor hummed and a water cooler by the base of the elevator vibrated dangerously. As Francine made the introductions, an ordie in a soiled red shirt stepped inside, slapping a smoking glove against his thigh.

Steve recognized Aviation Ordnanceman Airman Michael Rivera behind the smudged goggles. The sailor quickly came to attention. The photographers immediately aimed their cameras at him.

“Everything all right?” Steve asked.

“Yes, sir. Slight problem with the flares, is all,” Rivera said, removing his goggles and scuffed red cranial. “It’s okay now.”

“Go down to the battle-dressing station and get that hand looked at.”

“No need, sir. Just wanted to get out of the wind for a minute.”

Rivera was Steve’s favorite kind of sailor—professional, dedicated, sure of himself. Not likely to let a smart-ass hotshot fighter pilot intimidate him on the flight deck. Besides that, Rivera’s winning smile and genuine warmth made him a regular recruiting poster boy. His face was covered in grime from a long shift on the flight deck, but that only made his teeth look whiter.

Atwater loved him instantly. Steve could tell from the soft-eyed expression on her face. Hell, he might as well indulge her. He made the introductions, and Rivera warmed right up, probably grateful for a break from the chaos of the open deck.

“And what do you do?” Atwater asked him, pen poised over her notebook.

“I deal with ordnance, ma’am. The bomb farm’s the area between the island and the rail where bombs and missiles are stored during flight operations. From there they’re brought to the aircraft.”

“And there was trouble with a flare?”

Rivera nodded. “Flares are used with F-14 Tomcats as a decoy for heat-seeking missiles. Each flare contains eighty internal units, and each of those burn at sixteen hundred degrees, so we’re real careful with them.” He grinned, and an irrepressible happiness shone from him. “I have even more reason to be careful these days. Had an e-mail from my wife this morning. The doctor found out the baby’s sex. We’re having a boy.” He looked ready to burst with pride. “Our first.”

“Will you be home for the birth?” Ms. Atwater asked.

“No, ma’am. But she’s got a lot of support at home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Whidbey Island Naval Air Station in Washington State. Captain Bennett’s wife has been a real good friend to Patricia,” he added with a grateful look at Steve.

Don’t look at me, Steve thought. He had no idea what Grace was up to, but it didn’t surprise him to hear she was helping out a young airman’s wife. Discomfited, he looked through a viewing pane while the PAO who had been escorting the photographers joined in the conversation with Rivera.

Outside, Steve noticed…something. He’d spent too many hours on a carrier deck to not clue in when something was going on. A subtle change came over the crew charged with recovering the next aircraft. It was like a slight shift in the wind or an invisible spurt of adrenaline, something the reporter or even most of the flight-deck ops would never notice.

Steve excused himself. The CAG LSO, Bud Forster, who didn’t usually participate in a recovery unless things got ugly, was speaking quickly into his headset. “Prowler six-two-three…” he said, and his face was made of stone. Steve knew that look.

And he knew whose plane Forster was talking about. Lamont was driving the Prowler, and whatever was going on had not been in the plans for tonight’s exercises. Forster was handling it, though, and Steve wasn’t about to interrupt his work. He would have stuck around, but when he looked at the deck again, he noticed Francine Atwater and the others following Rivera to the bomb farm. The PAO was nowhere in sight.

None of the civilians would sense the mounting tension, he realized, hurrying down to the deck. But Steve felt it buzzing like an electrical current through his whole body. Shit. He’d have to go round them up like a herd of cats. Your ass is grass, Rivera, Steve thought. And I’m John Deere.

But then he reminded himself that he was the one who was supposed to be in charge of Francine Atwater, and he’d walked away. As he headed toward the ordnance, he thought he saw sparks and a stream of smoke from an aircraft flare dispenser on the deck behind Rivera and the civilians.

He blinked and rubbed his glove across his goggles, and saw it again. They were too far away to hear a shouted warning. But he shouted, anyway, at the same time signaling flight-deck control to sound a fire alarm. During flight ops there was always a fire truck and a team of firefighters standing by with nozzles leading to water tanks and aqueous film-forming foam.

Rivera, who was closest to the dispenser, spun around. He cast about, looking for the source of the fire, and for a second Steve thought he might miss the smoke. Then Rivera grabbed the burning cylinder and headed for the edge of the flight deck. There was a crack like a rifle shot. Sparks and rockets ripped apart the night. Rivera rolled on the ground. His entire arm was a glowing torch.

Steve ran. When he reached the burning man, he plunged to his knees and ripped off his float coat. He used the vest to smother the flames on Rivera’s arm and back, screaming for a medic even though he knew he wouldn’t be heard. It didn’t matter. By now, everyone on the bow of the flight deck would have seen, and help would be on its way. He wanted to stay with Rivera, hold and reassure him, but the dispenser was still smoking. In the cylinder, the internal units were burning with an intensity Steve felt even from three feet away.

If it smokes, get rid of it. The most basic rule of fire control.

He grabbed the handle of the dispenser. His glove ignited and he roared in agony but refused to let go. The damned thing felt like it weighed a ton, yet somehow he managed to rush to the deck edge with it.

A blast of heat and light engulfed him. There was nothing under his feet, and he felt as though he’d been sucked into a tornado. Where the hell was the safety net? That was the only coherent thought he had as he was hurled through empty air. Yet curiously, he could distinguish only one sound through the rush of wind—a throaty and frantic baying sound from the navigation bridge.

It was the special alarm reserved for one of the most dreaded incidents of carrier operations—man overboard.

CHAPTER 2

Prowler 623/BuNo 163530

0015 hours

Landing in the pitch-dark on the moving deck of a carrier was a freaking nightmare. And Josh Lamont loved the fear with a feverish intensity that sometimes worried his flight crew. When he saw his name on the flight schedule, he felt that familiar sizzle of anticipation. Night exercises, multiple aircraft, every second a hairbreadth from death—heaven didn’t get any better than this.

The preflight brief and man-up had been as routine as brushing your teeth. The night was clear and a million; you could see forever. Outside the Prowler’s bubble canopy, he could see the stars and planets swirling past. Straight on and high, twin shooting stars slid down and disappeared.

Josh grinned inside his mask, knowing he’d seen something rare. The euphoria of flying allowed him to ignore the fact that he’d been strapped to an ejection seat for two hours and was about to come home to the bird farm for a night-arrested landing. He switched his radio frequency and picked up the off-key singing of Ron Hatch, one of the electronic countermeasures officers, who sat on his right and was belting out his third chorus of “Mary Ann Barnes.”

“She can shoot green peas from her fundamental orifice,” sang Hatch, “do a double somersault and catch ’em on her tits….”

Newman and Turnbull, the other two ECMOs seated behind them, sang along. They were older and more experienced than Josh. Newman, who sat behind Hatch, looked to be as old as Bennett himself, a veteran of the problematic cruise of the Kennedy in 1983.

As the junior officer of the crew, Josh added his voice to the noise. The song about the “Queen of All the Acrobats” was known to every Navy pilot, passed like a secret handshake through flight schools and training programs. Their voices were tinny strains through the headsets, crackling with good humor. Being on the carrier was like being trapped at Alcatraz—no escape, no place to hide. Going up on a mission to touch the stars was a two-hour recess.

Josh studied the view outside the Prowler’s bubble. The sky wasn’t black, but a rich and layered purple, misty with stars. He had dreamed about this all his life. Flying had been his driving passion since he was a boy. And not just any flying. Navy jets. He had done battle with his parents over his obsession and aimed himself like a missile at his goal. Growing up in urban upper-class Atlanta, he wasn’t supposed to be pilot material. His childhood had consisted of excruciatingly quiet dinners in a house you tiptoed through. He used to envy big families filled with kids and noise, a chaotic contrast to his own tense and lonely existence. Attending the Naval Academy had actually felt liberating compared to the stiff, invisible confines of his boyhood.

And now here he was, living the future he’d envisioned for himself. And yet, ironically, this cruise brought him face-to-face with the hidden past. With Steve Bennett, a man he never thought he’d meet.

And then there was Lauren, a woman he never thought he’d deserve. She was more than a passing fancy. She’d taken up residence inside him. She was part of the air he breathed, the dreams he dreamed. The one thing he loved more than flying.

He imagined her waking up, thinking of him, checking her e-mail to read the short, funny messages he sent from the ship. Just before the man-up, he’d checked his e-mail to find a hurried-sounding note from her: Please call right away. I need to talk to you. He didn’t have time to contact her before the mission. But as soon as he finished up here, he’d call. He couldn’t wait. He wanted to hear her voice saying the only thing he wanted to hear from her: Yes.

His thumb began to tremble and search the top of the control stick, manipulating the button to ensure that the jet would sail down the glide slope when the time came. Despite his intense concentration, he caught his mind wandering to Lauren again—the way she liked to be touched, the sound of her voice, the taste of her lips.

He should have pressed her for an answer before shipping out. But then he wondered, did he really want an answer from her? Flying Navy jets was a simple matter compared to loving a woman. All the same, he’d picked out a ring in Pattaya, Thailand.

As they neared their final approach, Hatch and company became all business.

“Don’t get fancy on us,” Hatch said. “Just do what you need to do. Better to be good than lucky.”

“Yeah,” said Josh. “But if you’re lucky, you don’t need to be good.”

“Be lucky on someone else’s watch.”

The ship was down there in the dark somewhere, too distant to see yet. He checked the horizon and the climb indicator to make sure he was level. Altitude eight thousand feet. Speed four-hundred-thirty knots. He made a series of other checks around the cockpit. He touched the Velcro fastening of a pocket on his G-suit—that was where he kept Lauren’s ring, for luck. Anything loose in the cockpit turned into a runaway missile during landing.

The approach controller gave him his new final bearing. The Prowler thundered down through three thousand feet. Josh’s gaze swept the instrument panel. According to the TACAN, the ship was steaming west-northwest at thirty knots. He came to idle, and the aircraft hung for a moment in an eerie, vaguely magical silence. Then he broke hard left to level the Prowler downwind of the ship. It was too dark to see the wake, but his instruments did the work, showing him lined up with the angled deck.

A couple of minutes passed. “Dirty up,” said the approach controller.

Josh pulled back on the throttle, lowered the handle, moved a lever down, hanging out his flaps, slats, gear and droops. Air screamed over the ailerons. Then he released the tail hook and scanned the panel again before calling in his landing checklist.

He was on full alert now, breathing hard, aware of everything with a strange clarity of sensation. He could feel the nylon webbing of the straps binding him to the ejection seat, the spongy pads of his earpieces, the jockstrap rim of the mask over his nose and mouth. He darted his gaze in a set pattern, his own way of checking the instrument readings.

“Prowler six-two-three, at five miles, lock on, call your needles.”

Josh compared his readings to the controller’s. His hands twitched over the stick and throttles. The tiny toy aircraft on the gyro listed to the right. He made a correction. “Boards out,” he said. “Landing check complete.” Adrenaline roared through him. He ought to be flying better. It was a bad time for doubts to poke at him, but he couldn’t help it.

He looked past the instrument panel. All he saw of the carrier was a misty yellow light. Not a damned thing more. He was three-quarters of a mile out and had to shift from scanning blessedly precise, crystal-clear instruments in the cockpit to focusing on the glowing meatball far below, the centerline of the deck and the angle of attack. It was like putting on the glasses of someone who was nearly blind.

“You’re okay. Easy as passing a camel through the eye of a needle. Make your ball call.”

“Six-two-three Prowler, roger ball, state five point five Lamont,” he said, telling the landing signal officer he’d seen the vertical light indicating the descent path, and that his aircraft had 5,500 pounds of fuel.

In order to land on the moving deck, he had to strictly control his glideslope, speed and centerline. The floating city of five thousand inhabitants, lit like a child’s Lite-Brite in the black sea, looked impossibly small. The fact that it was steaming away from him at thirty knots only made the ride more interesting.

Sweat tracked down between his shoulder blades, and he wondered if experienced pilots ever got used to this. Too high and he’d miss the wire and bolt off into the night again with barely enough fuel to make another pass. The slightest tip to one side risked a collision with a jet parked on the deck. A drift to the other side meant an unscheduled swim and the loss of a fifty-two-million-dollar aircraft. The LSO might wave him off two seconds before landing. If he came in too low, he’d hit the ramp and turn the plane and its crew into a fireball.

This is so cool, he thought.

His legs twitched and trembled uncontrollably on the rudder pedals. His lineup was good, or so he thought until the expressionless voice of the LSO came in through his headset. “You’re low, six-two-three. Power.”

Josh shoved his hand forward, overcompensating. The uncooperative nose of the aircraft reminded him that he was a rookie with fewer than fifty traps under his belt, not even a dozen at night.

“Take it easy,” said the soothing voice in his ear.

Then the emergency signal sounded. The LSO’s next order was not so soothing: “Red deck! Red deck! Power!” The vertical wave-off lights lit like a Christmas tree.

Josh rammed the throttles hard to the stops to firewall the engine. A red deck was closed to incoming aircraft, even those that were seconds from landing. He cut away and climbed back into the night. The plane shuddered like a live beast.

“Watch the PIO, nugget.”

Pilot-induced oscillation. “Got it. Not everybody wants to be a Blue Angel.” Josh concentrated on the climb, breaking the landing pattern. The plane shifted from side to side. “She’s yawing,” he said, flicking a glance at the instrument panel.

“The computer will correct it,” said Hatch.

“What the hell happened down there?”

“Fouled deck. Wait for instructions.”

A fouled deck could mean any number of things—an aircraft mishap, equipment left on deck, maybe personnel in the landing zone. For now, Josh could only worry about resuming the landing pattern and monitoring the fuel.

“Check your lineup.”

Even as he followed orders, Josh could see the lights of the “angel,” the carrier’s rescue helicopter, hovering like a benevolent guardian over the ship. Then the helo dipped and swept into a pattern he’d never seen before. Rescuing someone?

“Quit with the PIO, already,” Hatch repeated. Then, to the tower, he said, “Got a bit of a problem, Mother. How about you send a rescue helo out our way, just in case this nugget can’t get us down?”

“It’s not me,” Josh said. “Jesus, this plane is bent.” He wasn’t being defensive. The computer wasn’t making the proper corrections. The Prowler yawed hard to the right as though bent over a giant knee. Josh had never felt anything quite like it. The aircraft was in an uncommanded, uncontrolled, oscillating, full-rudder deflection.

He raised the gear handle and the plane pitched back to the left. That’s it, then, he thought as he took himself out of the landing pattern again and ordered the lead jet in the new pattern to get away.

“Vertical speed indicator just took a dip,” Hatch reported. Josh already knew this. The VSI was part of the ECMO’s instrument scan, but Josh was the pilot. It was all his business.

A negative dip. That was ejection criteria. The broadcast of “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday” sounded surreal.

With the radio squawking Emergency, he tried three more cycles, one after another. “I can’t control the rudders,” he reported in a voice that was icily calm. They were still climbing, and every man in the cockpit understood why, though none would speak of it aloud. If they had to eject, they would need the altitude.

Fresh adrenaline burst through him. The drop in vertical speed was only part of the emergency. Any second the nose could pitch up or the aircraft could roll, and the decision would be taken away from him. They were a heartbeat away from an unscheduled carnival ride of ejection and parachute. They’d have a bird’s-eye view of a very expensive fireball.

Shit. The damned thing was still flying. He’d managed to climb to ten thousand feet. He wasn’t out of control. He had no control. He accelerated, hoping to get some more airspeed and altitude.

He could hear Hatch briefing the controller on the situation. Captain Bud Forster, the CAG LSO, came online again. In a few minutes, the whole battle group would know about the trouble.

The plane broke ten thousand feet, and the nose pitched up. Josh wrestled with it, but it kept bucking. He dampened the yaw by working the rudders opposite the cycles, but the aircraft kept canting on its own.

Nobody said what everyone was thinking: the jet couldn’t make a safe landing.

The ECMOs worked feverishly through checklists—rudder failure, control malfunctions, alternate approaches—hoping to find the magic bullet. “Nothing. There’s nothing applicable,” Newman concluded. “Wait here. We need to pull circuit breakers until we isolate the problem. Jeez, I do this in my basement when the dishwasher quits.”

When the first two were pulled, the yaw abated. “Keep going,” Josh ordered. The third one created no noticeable difference. When the fourth was pulled, the controls turned to mush. “Put it back!” Josh yelled. “Put it back!”

Too late. The nose pitched up wildly. I did this, thought Josh, fighting back with the controls. I’m the pilot, and I did this. The air-navigation computer was haywire. He tried feverishly to remember if he’d shut it off when he’d aborted the landing. Maybe the computer had engaged automatically and was overriding him. It didn’t matter now. The Prowler was completely out of control.

In the cockpit, they all knew it. Four pairs of gloved hands wrapped around four ejection handles. These were Advanced Concept Ejection Seats, 128 pounds apiece, each equipped with a twenty-one-pound rocket catapult. Success rate was better than ninety percent, but for some reason, Josh felt no reassurance.

He looked out at the ice-bright stars and wished he’d worn warmer clothes under his G-suit. At the same time, he was thinking and moving as fast as he could—faster than he’d ever imagined he could—but everything seemed to slow down. Time dilation. It was a concept he’d studied in advanced physics. Time in the moving system will be perceived by a stationary observer to be running slower….

He was a stationary observer; the Prowler was a moving system. The traveler measures his own proper time, since he is at the beginning and end of his trip interval.

In the shadowy cockpit, the glow from the instrument panel cast its eerie illumination over the faces of the crew as each man braced for disaster. They were all alone up here, yet they were not alone. Four lives, four families whose fate would be decided by a broken piece of metal hanging in midair.

Josh thought, Lauren. Only a minute ago he’d been confused about her. Now, with the same crystal clarity with which he could see the tumbling night sky, he knew exactly what he wanted. Lauren. The beginning and the end of his trip interval.

He took a deep, bracing breath. Then he gave the order he knew he had to give.

“Eject! Eject! Eject!”