She pivoted and followed him into the wires. The Prowler hit the deck hard, the tailhook missing the third wire and sending sparks flying as it rubbed metal on metal until it caught the fourth wire.
The fourth wire spooled out with a vicious slap and jerked the plane to a stop. As soon as the engines were throttled back to idle, Patrick raised the tailhook and a yellow shirt plane director waved him to taxi from the landing lane. Life on the carrier deck returned to normal.
“Fair pass. High in the middle. Long on lineup. Taxi into the wires.” Grace set down the pickle switch and handset. “That’s the last plane for this cycle. Secure stations and let’s go deliver grades.” Every pilot would hear directly from her their landing grade and a detailed description of what they did wrong. It was learning at the most intense level.
There was a camera on that centerline broadcasting live every landing aboard the carrier to the ready rooms and staterooms. Peer reviews were intense. Add the formal LSO’s review and posted landing grades in each squadron ready room and pilots worked on improving their landings with an intensity that had no comparison. Every pilot wanted to walk away with the Best Hook Award for the deployment.
Grace reapplied her ChapStick. JP-5 jet fuel, oil, hydraulic fluid, and salty sea air mixed with the strong wind across the flight deck assaulted everyone exposed. Small pieces of the nonskid deck surface tossed up by the landing Prowler peppered her flight suit. The surface was being pounded into dust by the constant landing assaults. Before long the ship would have to suspend flight ops for several days to allow a new surface to be applied. The daily patches weren’t keeping up with the damage.
Grace was ready for a break. Being responsible for other pilots was more exhausting than being at the controls of the landing jet.
“Lieutenant Yates.”
She turned to find the squadron executive officer had joined her on the platform. “Yes, sir.”
“We’re adding Zulu-7 to tonight’s flight. Brief at 1700.”
The message was simple, the implications complex. “Yes, sir.” One of the many options they had practiced and put on the shelf for tonight’s Operation Northern Watch flight was being activated. The last-minute nature of the change suggested a target of opportunity. And for her, a very long night.
Four
* * *
NATO FORWARD OPERATING LOCATION
TURKEY/IRAQ BORDER
Bruce zipped the duffel bag of medical supplies closed as he studied the latest maps of northern Iraq spread out under the Plexiglas cover on the worktable. Several EA-6B Prowlers had been up during the day gathering the latest signals. The threat areas looked like rings of Swiss cheese. Already he saw the subtle shifts of Iraqi military during the day. They knew something was coming.
Over the last several months, the Iraqi military had been doing their best to shoot down a plane taking part in Operation Northern Watch. The Iraqis had come close to succeeding yesterday. The F-15E Strike Eagle hit by antiaircraft artillery had barely made it back to Incirlik Air Base, Turkey. Tonight the gloves were coming off.
The air tasking orders put thirty-eight pilots in the air to knock out ground control radar facilities, AAA sites, and radio relay sites around the town of Mosul and south of Saddam Lake. Those were the distributed orders; he’d been briefed on other classified missions.
They weren’t going to launch this mission from Turkey air bases and risk the fallout should something go wrong. Turkey had to live with not only Iraq but Syria as a neighbor. Eighty percent of the planes in the tasking order were launching from the USS George Washington.
He thought of Grace many times in the last weeks, wondering how her deployment was going, but he’d never had this kind of tension in his gut. What assignment had she drawn? She’d be flying. She was too good a pilot not to draw one of the tougher strike assignments. Lord, please, keep her safe during tonight’s flight. He hated the sense of worry, hated worse the lack of information.
Bruce hoisted the heavy medical bag off the improvised table built from plywood resting across two sawhorses. The odds were good he would be flying tonight.
He exited the tent carrying the gear and walked across the field to the flight line. Eight weeks ago sheep had been grazing in this plateau. The Twenty-third Special Tactics Squadron out of Hurlbert Field, Florida, had made it home.
Bruce hadn’t seen much of Turkey proper. The PJs had flown over on a commercial flight to Istanbul, then shuttled down to the Incirlik Air Base and been flown out to this forward operating location within days of coming in-country.
The coalition pilots in the area—British and American—were counting on him. They could be aggressive in the air because the PJs guaranteed if a pilot got in trouble, they would get him out.
Inside his uniform, dog tags clicked. Bruce wore his own plus three others. He’d pulled a helicopter crew out of danger two weeks ago when a training mission through the tight passes of northern Turkey had ended in near tragedy. The rescue had cost the crew the price of their dog tags, a tradition that went back more PJ generations than he had been alive.
Before this deployment was over he’d likely be wearing more.
Bruce stored his gear in the first of the Pave Low III helicopters on the flight line, the black menacing machine one of the reasons he could deliver on that rescue promise. Life in the PJs was all about preparation. If they went out tonight, they would be ready to hit hard.
It was 1410 local time. It would be 0200 before he got clearance to stand down. Bruce thought about it and decided he had time for a late lunch and a nap before the evening watch began.
“Striker.”
He turned to see Wolf coming toward him from the mess tent. The Bear Cubs had shown up three weeks ago. Navy SEAL Joe “Bear” Baker and his team were operating throughout this region, and Bear had assigned the Cubs to handle the briefings.
“Got a minute?”
“Sure.”
Wolf offered one of the sandwiches he held and Bruce took it with a quiet thanks. It was another of Tom’s infamous peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Striker had long ago figured out it was his premission ritual. “Any word on tonight?” Bruce asked.
“They’ve moved us up to standby.”
What the SEALs would be doing tonight if they got a go-ahead Bruce wasn’t fully briefed on yet; that would happen after there was a green light. But he knew one fact: On the map the Iraqi-Syrian border was a bright red line. The SEALs would be crossing it.
“Did you get through to Jill?” Bruce asked. Wolf had been down at Incirlik early this morning where there were phones available. Communication from here was restricted to mail.
“I got her answering machine. I wanted to strangle the cord.”
“I thought she said four o’clock her time.”
“She did. I don’t know if that means she got my last letter and doesn’t want to speak with me or if something happened.”
“And it’s going to be a couple days before you get a chance to call again.”
“Exactly.”
“I pity you.”
“You’re supposed to sympathize and offer to help.”
Bruce laughed. “I’m letting my sister date a Navy guy. Don’t push your luck.” He knew all about the dilemmas of missed phone calls and the uncertainty about mail. He’d worked to get just the right tone for his first letter to Grace written since he had deployed, and he still hadn’t heard back from her. Had she received the letter? It was tough, the silence, tougher than just about anything he might hear back as a reaction.
“Ready for tonight?”
Wolf, worried? Bruce narrowed his eyes as he searched his friend’s face, then smiled as he caught the dig. “Being brave is hard work. But I’ll live up to my reputation. Going to live up to yours?”
“What’s life without a little danger?”
“Peaceful,” Bruce replied, amused. “And peanut butter and banana sandwiches do not make you bulletproof.”
Wolf shrugged. “So
mebody’s got to cover Bear’s back.”
And Bruce knew that simple statement said it all. For the SEALs—as well as for PJs—friendship was more than just a personal loyalty, it was a tactical advantage. The enemy wasn’t fighting one man; it was fighting a team. And when dying for a friend was the price every man was willing to pay without a second thought, the teams could do what individuals could not—bring everyone home. Bruce knew that truth from personal experience. He had his partner Rich to thank for surviving more close calls than he cared to put into words. “Got enough ammo?”
“Quit nagging. We learned the lesson of Ecuador. We’re ready.”
STATESIDE SUPPORT, INC.
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
“What do you think, Scott?” Jill Stanton tried to sound calm as she stood in the mess that was Seaman Tyler Jones’s living room. The stereo speakers he had considered his pride and joy were gone. Half the CDs. A video camera. The burglar had been thorough, taking things he could carry and easily resell. The shock she’d gotten hit with on walking into this crime scene was wearing off. She was still feeling shaky, but it was being replaced with a growing sense of anger.
Detective Scott Reece walked down the hall to look at the bedroom. Her brother’s friend from childhood was a police officer for the Hampton Roads communities, and he’d been prompt in answering her page. “Five burglaries in the last two months, three of them your clients. Not so unusual when you consider your clients are primarily single, collect expensive stereo equipment, and the news of their deployment is advertised in the local newspaper. When was the last time you were here?”
She followed him into the bedroom where the dresser drawers remained half open, pulled off their tracks and shoved back at odd angles. “Two days ago, midafternoon. I watered the plants and fed his turtle.” The burglar hadn’t bothered to take the turtle.
“Do you have the list of belongings and photographs of the apartment?”
“Terri is bringing the file from the office.” Jill prepared for this kind of crisis with every client—burglary, fire, and storm damage. Making sure possessions were inventoried and that there was adequate insurance coverage was part of the process of taking on a new client.
Tyler had elected not to be told about something like this, but rather have her simply deal with it for him. She couldn’t blame him. He was working on the GW flight deck, and he didn’t need to be distracted from his job by something stateside that he could do nothing about. Tyler’s insurance was up-to-date. As soon as the settlement amount was known, she’d get started replacing and repairing the damage to give him the best possible news on return. Where was she going to find replacement speakers?
“It will be the same routine as last time. We’ll dust for prints, talk to neighbors, inventory what’s missing.” Outside the apartment, two officers had already begun the canvass of the building residents to see if anyone had observed something unusual. “We’ll get him, Jill,” Scott said. “Something stolen will turn up and give us a lead. It doesn’t make sense that he’s keeping everything he’s taken. He’s selling it somewhere.”
Jill wished she believed him. He’d said the same thing after the last two break-ins at clients’ homes. She knew he was working the cases hard, but she had clients to protect and she needed the man stopped today, not tomorrow.
Scott led the way back to the living room. The burglar had run something sharp along the hallway wall, scraping the paint. Car keys probably; the same senseless damage someone would do in a parking lot out of boredom. “Same man?” she asked.
“It looks like it.” He walked over to check the timer being used to control the room lights. “Six p.m. on, 10 p.m. off?”
“A few minutes off the hour, and the radio in the bedroom comes on about ten thirty.”
“All your clients have something similar?”
“Yes. I’ve double-checked locks, set lights on timers, made sure drapes were drawn.” She paced over to the window. When she had first arrived, she had pushed open the doorway, juggling her briefcase and the mail she picked up for Tyler. She had glanced in the living room and felt like someone had punched her. “Are you sure it’s not related to my clients?”
“I’ve run all your clients’ addresses and didn’t find a pattern. This looks like another target of opportunity. Have you called the insurance agent yet?”
“He’s coming.”
“Then go get yourself a cup of coffee at the corner deli, take a walk, and blow off the stress while you let me do my job. There was nothing you could have done to prevent this.”
She turned from the window. “I suppose.”
“Why don’t you tell Bruce?”
She’d tell Wolf before she’d tell Bruce; her brother would just overreact. “No.”
“He has a right to know this is going on.”
“He’s overseas. He can’t do anything about it from there, and I don’t want to add this kind of worry.”
“Brothers are supposed to worry.” Scott pulled out his notebook and a pen. “It would be good for you to start taking a few precautions. Bring Bruce’s Labrador to work with you when you visit clients’ homes.”
“Is that necessary?”
“Dogs sense trouble. Do it for a few weeks while we figure out who this guy is.”
She nodded, accepting she needed to do something. Three burglaries were three too many when she was the one discovering them. She missed Bruce; she missed Grace. And Wolf—she’d never realized how big a hole his absence would make in her life until he wasn’t around.
Five
* * *
USS GEORGE WASHINGTON (CVN 73)
MEDITERRANEAN SEA OFF THE COAST OF TURKEY
The stateroom was hot. Grace shed her flight suit and pulled on a T-shirt and shorts. It was a small room for six women to share, three bunk beds on one wall, lockers and small desks on the other. Her roommates were two pilots and three electronic countermeasure specialists who flew in the Prowler’s backseats to handle the intricacies of navigation and electronic jamming. By combining personal effects, the six of them had been able to squeeze in a semblance of a bookshelf and a music collection.
Grace stretched out on the lower, middle bunk, her one spot of personal space for this six-month deployment. She had two feet of clearance to the bunk above, enough to turn over without hitting her head if she was careful and a width that meant she would tumble onto the floor if she woke and turned without realizing where she was. The mattress could hardly be called comfortable, but exhaustion changed her definition of acceptable. Whenever possible she tried to catch a few minutes of quiet time before a mission in order to separate everything that had gone before during the day from the reality of what was coming.
Out of long habit she set her watch alarm for twenty minutes before she settled her head back. At this point in a sea tour, making the assumption she wouldn’t fall asleep the moment her body relaxed was a mistake. The pillow had a new pillowcase and it still smelled faintly of Downy. She had brought six pillowcases, folded and sealed in plastic bags, so that she would have a new one not washed in shipboard laundry available for each month.
There was an inch-wide red ribbon stretched taut under the frame of the bunk above her. A letter she was writing to Jill was tucked under the ribbon on the left side. A white envelope addressed to her with a scripted B in the return address corner was tucked on the right. It was from Bruce. It had taken three weeks for the letter to get from wherever he was stationed back to the U.S. and then through channels to catch up with the carrier group to her. She had read the letter so many times it was close to falling apart. She fingered the envelope and tugged it down to read again.
Gracie ~
Wolf tells me you prefer Gracie and that you’re afraid of heights. Instinct tells me he’s probably exaggerating a bit over the heights and stating his preference for your name. Feel free to correct both.
This note is to tell you that Wolf is fine. I don’t want you to worry when you hear what happened. I�
��ve noticed the way you bite your lip when watching Wolf do his I’m-invincible imitation.
He’s not invincible.
Some idiot (me) made the mistake of assuming Wolf would weave left like a smart man instead of right. We were playing some basketball and—long story. He’s got an interesting looking eye. The swelling isn’t bad and his sight is fine; it’s just colorful. Two SEALs against two PJs—okay, it wasn’t the smartest decision we’ve ever made to kill some time, but at least it was basketball and not something more interesting.
Did you know Wolf carries your picture? He used to pull it out when he needed cover to say he already had a lady in his life. I personally think it’s just because he likes to let it be known he’s got good taste. He loves you, Grace. A lot. (Lately he’s been pulling out Jill’s picture to make his point. That’s not as easy to take as yours, but I’m working on it.)
The SEALs won the game. Wolf is gloating and crowing and making me miserable. What do you have on him that I could use to level the accounts a bit? I’d owe you one.
Yours, Bruce
Bruce wrote a nice letter; it made her smile. In prior tours she had been so busy just figuring out carrier life that homesickness never had a chance to settle in. Now she was older, tired, and sea life had a sense of routine to it. When she stopped and caught her breath, there was a new sense of loneliness. She wondered about what was going on in Jill’s life, and she worried about Wolf. Lately she’d been thinking about Bruce too. The letter was a blessing.
Had he received her reply? She hadn’t been sure how to answer it and in the end had just picked up a pen and written her first impressions.
Her watch alarm sounded. Grace checked the time. She had a mission briefing in fifteen minutes. It was just as well. She’d lie here in her bunk and puzzle about Bruce. He had the same dilemma she did of juggling a stateside life while being gone for long periods of time, and yet it appeared he’d figured out how to be comfortable with his life. He’d come to the deployment party, sat by the pool, content and in no hurry. She envied him that.
True Valor Page 4
