Hover

by Anne A. Wilson

  I turn my head slightly as I glance around the table, meeting the eyes of each man present. What the hell is going on here?

  I watch as Captain Plank produces the Beretta M9 he wears at his side from underneath the table and hands it to Animal.

  Animal rises, walks to where I’m sitting, engages the manual safety, removes the empty magazine, pulls back the slide to show me the chamber is empty, and lays it on the table before me.

  I turn to Eric, trying to hide the shock I feel. I just wish I was getting something back. What’s wrong with him? But I obviously can’t think about that now. I look briefly at the other nine expectant faces. I can’t believe this.

  I pick up the weapon with the custom wood grip, noting for the first time the carved initials, RP, on the side. Everything about the sidearm is intimately familiar. My mind drifts back to a broad wooden worktable in the weapons hold seven decks below the weather decks, the one you had to ride a special elevator to reach. Guns in piles on the floor, on workbenches, stacked in the corner. Lightbulbs dangling in midair, hung from ten-foot-long cords to light the space. A dented old CD player supplying Petty Officer Franklin’s favorite eighties pop music. Bore brushes and toothbrushes scattered across the table. The smell of gunpowder, the black on my hands, and Petty Officer Franklin joking that I looked like a chimney sweep because of the soot on my face.

  I’m remembering and my hands are moving, automatic movements so ingrained, it’s like watching someone else performing the actions—depressing the disassembly latch button, rotating the latch lever, pulling the slide forward and off the frame, setting the frame aside, removing the recoil spring and guide rod, sliding them apart and setting them aside, and finally, pressing down on the locking block button and removing the barrel. The reassembly happens just as quickly, just as automatically. When finished, I release the slide and it cracks back into place. I lay the gun on the table, just as I did at the end of my timing games with Petty Officer Franklin.

  When I look up, there has been a change. The expressions shown are different now.

  “Sara, I’m curious,” Animal says. “Is that something you practice? That took you twenty-two seconds.”

  “No, sir, I don’t practice. The time is slow, I realize. When I did it with Petty Officer Franklin, I could do it blindfolded at that speed. I could normally hit fifteen seconds with my eyes open. But I didn’t know I was going to have to do this today. I would have practiced, had I known.”

  I’m not sure, but it almost seems like the men at the table are amused. All of them, including the SEALs and the members of the SAS, shake their heads slightly. I suppose compared to them, my performance isn’t that impressive.

  “That wasn’t a criticism,” Animal says. “Not even close.”

  “But sir, why…?” I ask, motioning to the gun with my hand.

  “If you’re given the go-ahead to fly these missions, you’ll need to wear one on your person,” he says. “It’s good that you’re familiar with it and know how to use it.”

  I’m thinking I really don’t know how to use it. I can hit a target in practice, but that’s not going to be the case in any real-life scenario. And how would I end up in a position to use it anyway? I mean, it’s hard to shoot when your hands are on the controls.

  I shift my attention to Commander Kennan, who speaks for the first time. “Lieutenant Denning, I observed your flying firsthand two weeks ago. Quite frankly, I was shocked at your speed of delivery over Birmingham.”

  “But I’ve never flown with—Wait. Was that you? That night? There were eleven.”

  “I needed to see it for myself and so did Lieutenant Colonel Tyson,” he says, nodding to the Australian commander.

  I’m sort of glad I didn’t know I was undergoing an in-flight evaluation. But he thought I was fast, so I guess that goes in the good column. I bite the inside of my cheek, though, as Commander Kennan scans the paperwork in front of him, wondering what he’s going to hit me with next.

  “You’re obviously a talented aviator,” he says. “But while your exceptional piloting skills are a great strength, I’d be curious to know what you consider your greatest weakness.”

  Interesting. It’s just like Animal said—a “job” interview. I just wish I’d had some heads up so I could have prepared to field a question like this. But who am I kidding? I already know the answer. I’ve worked on that weakness every day since that horrible day nine years ago.

  In my hesitation to answer, he adds, “We understand you nearly drowned once.”

  A shiver runs through me.

  “You were with your brother,” Commander Kennan prompts.

  Wait. How could they know this? My gaze shifts to Eric, whose remains expressionless.

  No … He wouldn’t …

  I look again at the sheets on the table. Maybe this information is in my background file. I rub my palms on my flight suit, the shiver long forgotten, replaced by a prickling sweat. They would probably know Ian had died. They might even know it was by drowning. But how could they possibly know I was there? Or that I’d nearly drowned? Maybe they assumed …

  But Commander Kennan just asked about my greatest weakness, which they’ve obviously tied to the incident with my brother.

  “Lieutenant?” he says.

  I snap my head back to Commander Kennan. “I’m sorry, sir. Yes, sir. It was nine years ago. And yes, my brother was there.”

  “Your brother, Ian, he died that day. Is that right?” Commander Kennan asks.

  There can be only one reason they’re so interested in this. I turn to Eric, who only holds my gaze for a short second before averting his eyes.

  He has never averted his eyes. Ever.

  “Is that right?” Commander Kennan repeats.

  I stare, uncomprehendingly, as Eric looks steadfastly at his lap. What did you tell them?

  “Lieutenant?”

  I turn to Commander Kennan, staring blankly.

  “Sara, I’m sure this is difficult to talk about,” Animal says. “But we’d just like to hear it from you.”

  He nods encouragingly and I return my attention to Commander Kennan. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  I brace myself with a deep, steadying breath. “Nine years ago, Ian and I ran our kayaks on a day that we shouldn’t have. The water was too high, too fast. I flipped and became pinned underwater.”

  I could lie now. I could tell them the skirt release was inoperative or that I was jammed in such a way that I couldn’t reach it. Only one person knows the truth.…

  “Sir, I knew the procedures. I knew what to do. How to get out. But I panicked, and Ian had to come for me.”

  Pressing my lips together, I take a long blink.

  “He dove down, pulled my skirt release—something I knew how to do, should have done—and lifted me to the surface. He pulled me to safety before the water swept him away.”

  I glance to the other faces in the room, their expressions neutral, before returning to Commander Kennan. “Ever since that day, I’ve worked on it. I’ve learned how to focus better. To shut out what’s happening around me and wall off what I’m feeling inside so I can keep my head about me when it matters.”

  He doesn’t respond right away, looking studiously at me. Certainly, if there was a showstopper, this would be it. How could they possibly allow me to fly a mission if they thought I might freeze or crack under the pressure?

  But they would never have known in the first place unless …

  “And have you been successful?” Colonel Tyson asks pointedly.

  Oh god. Did he tell them about that, too? About what happened during the search for Knight Rider?

  “Lieutenant Denning,” Captain Plank interjects. “I watched you with my own eyes as you landed an aircraft on my deck in sea state seven in a cockpit completely consumed in smoke as your transmission was failing. You couldn’t have done that had you not kept your head.”

  What’s this? Did Captain Plank just stick up for me?

  “Sir?”r />
  “In response to Colonel Tyson’s question,” Captain Plank says, “I would answer yes, you have been successful.”

  Colonel Tyson turns a scrutinizing gaze on me and it’s some time before he speaks. “I would agree,” he says finally.

  I search the faces at the table, recognizing another subtle shift in posture and countenance by each. Animal looks as well, ensuring no one else wishes to “get to know” me.

  I sense they have just silently given him the go-ahead.

  34

  “Sara,” Animal says. “I initially said I was evaluating you for flying our missions, and I said that in the plural. We expect to use you many times in the future. But you’re also meeting with us today because of intelligence pointing to an assassination plot by the Iraqi government, targeting former president James MacIntyre.”

  Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.

  “He’s traveling to Kuwait with his wife and two of his sons to commemorate the allied victory in the first Gulf War.”

  A former president? A former president of the United States?

  Animal continues speaking, but I’m stuck here. This is so big. I suppose the SEALs and SAS members are used to this kind of thing, but me …

  “We’ve learned through ASIS—”

  “Forgive me, sir. ASIS?”

  “Australian Secret Intelligence Service. The Aussie equivalent of the CIA.”

  I shift my gaze to Colonel Tyson.

  “Yes,” Animal says. “Their intelligence service discovered the plot, so the Australian government has offered their assistance. That’s why we’re conducting a joint mission.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “We’ve learned from ASIS that weapons and personnel to carry out this plan will arrive by sea via two surface units, which I will refer to as Surface Unit One and Surface Unit Two, and one submarine. The planners have been extremely thorough, because they’ve devised two separate transfers, each as backup for the other.”

  Two surface units and a submarine. Our last flight … This is exactly what we practiced on our last flight.

  “It’s an educated guess at this point, but we think Surface Unit One will off-load at the Port of Shuwaikh in southern Kuwait. The intel folks believe she’s a civilian ship, a luxury yacht. They don’t have a positive ID yet, so depending on when this whole thing goes down, we may or may not have surveillance photos ahead of time. Bottom line, you may be flying toward your target without knowing what it looks like. The Shadow Hunters will direct you in, but you may have to assess the drop zone almost instantaneously. The plan is to drop a team on their deck before they enter port.”

  This is why Eric is here. Now it makes sense why he’s had the call for every SEAL training flight.

  “The second transfer involves a submarine and Surface Unit Two,” he says. “The submarine is from the Iraqi fleet. We believe it will transfer the personnel and weapons it carries to Surface Unit Two—once again, a ship from the civilian sector. The plan is to stop the submarine before it makes the transfer to Surface Unit Two.”

  And that must be why Commander Eichorn is here. Anti-submarine warfare for the strike group falls under his purview.

  “The sub is a Russian-built Kilo class,” Commander Eichorn says. His deep bass voice resonates in the low-ceilinged conference room. “What can you tell me about the Kilo class?”

  I recall the facts, ones learned by rote at the Naval Academy, but rendered fresh by Stuart Grady, who stood in front of the Lake Champlain wardroom and launched into a Russian-submarine-fleet rap that ended with the profile for the Kilo class.

  “Sir, the Kilo class is approximately two hundred and thirty feet in length, uses diesel-electric propulsion, has a max depth of three hundred meters, a surface speed from ten to twelve knots—”

  “Okay,” he says, holding up his hand. “Just checking.” I notice Captain Magruder and Captain Plank nodding their heads.

  Just checking what? That question had an awfully patronizing feel. I imagine the thoughts moving through Commander Eichorn’s head. She might be able to fly, but surely she doesn’t know anything else.… That’s what it sounded like.

  But I can’t dwell here because Animal is speaking again. “… the Shadow Hunters will call you into the sub’s position.”

  I turn my head to Eric and hold there. He raises his eyes, finally, to meet mine.

  “Yeah, Lightning will coordinate and oversee the whole operation from his platform,” Animal says, following the movement of my head.

  Lightning?

  “Although it would be nice to have him back on the ground with us where he belongs,” Mike says, looking knowingly at Eric.

  “Hey, our asses have been saved on more than one occasion because he’s been in the air,” Animal says.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mike says. “But I’ve lost count of the number of times he’s saved us on the ground. We need him back, that’s all I’m saying.” He glances once at Commander Kennan before returning to Animal. “And yes, I know I sound like a broken record on this, but it’s true.”

  I look to Eric again, who meets my eyes, and my focus stays here. He doesn’t waver as he watches the realization dawn on my face.

  I finally drag my gaze back to Animal. “Sir, is Eric like … like you?”

  “He wishes!” Animal laughs, and I notice the first hint of a smile from Commander Kennan.

  Eric fidgets in his seat, not sharing Animal’s enthusiasm.

  “Sir, you wore your wings when I flew with you, but you were really…”

  “A SEAL. Like him.”

  I turn my head slowly back to Eric. Why didn’t you tell me?

  “There are only a few who carry dual insignia like this,” Animal says. “Remember, this whole program is still in the experimental stage. But yeah, he evaluates just like I do in addition to all the in-air coordination he does via the H-60.”

  Coordinating and evaluating. Evaluating … “How’s the evaluation coming?” Jonas asked. “I don’t recall date nights being included in the metrics.”

  This whole time … was he…?

  “You’re not what I expected.” That’s what he said on the Lake Champlain. He knew I was his assignment.

  Oh my god.

  “Sir, speaking of evaluation,” Jonas says, directing his comment to Animal. “I think it’s clear to all of us here, especially after meeting with her today, that Lieutenant Denning has exceeded our expectations in terms of qualifications and gained our confidence to carry out this mission. So I’m having trouble with the fact that Lieutenant Marxen has argued so vehemently against her selection for this role.”

  What?

  I turn to Eric. This can’t be true.

  “Lieutenant Marxen, I know this meeting has convinced several of us who have been on the fence,” Admiral Carlson says. “Has your decision changed based on what you’ve learned today?”

  Our eyes lock and I wait for him to come forward with his support as he has always come forward.

  But did he really argue against my selection?

  Admiral Carlson just verified what Jonas stated, though.

  He knew about Ian. He knew I panicked. He knew about my trouble during the search for Knight Rider. And he obviously shared his reservations with everyone at the table.

  Which means I really was being evaluated by him. The entire time. And he never told me.

  And he never told me he was a SEAL.

  What else hasn’t he told me?

  And what about us? What was that? Was it real? My throat burns as my eyes search his in vain, searching for the man I thought I knew. The one I thought I could trust.

  And Jonas? He’s been painted as the bad guy. “He’s not to be trusted,” Eric had said.

  “Eric?” Admiral Carlson asks again. “Has your decision changed?”

  Eric looks at me directly when he answers. “No.”

  I recoil as if he’s slapped me in the face.

  “She’s not the one for this mission,” he says.
/>   My insides turn to glue, my head moving side to side in disbelief at his betrayal.

  She’s not the one for this mission.… How could he stoop to this? Like tentative flying. Is that what this is? It’s so wrong. And it’s so not him. But how do I know it’s not him? Do I really know him at all?

  I swallow hard. Keep it together, Sara. Not a soul at the table realizes I’m breaking apart inside.

  “Eric, I’m afraid I’m going to have to pull rank on this one,” Admiral Carlson says. “She’s our man … I mean, person.”

  I turn my head to Admiral Carlson, who looks slightly embarrassed.

  And then my eyes move to the person who really did champion my selection. Jonas gives me a small, apologetic smile. But then something occurs to me.

  “Excuse me, sir?” I say, turning to Animal. My voice is shaky and I have to pause, taking a full breath to steady myself. “What about the second pilot dilemma? I’m not allowed to sign for the aircraft.”

  “That was never an issue,” he says, confirming my earlier suspicions. “I’ll fly with you when it’s time. These missions are need-to-know only, so until you’re an aircraft commander, I’ll sign for the aircraft. But it should only be a couple of months until you have that designation, so I don’t expect we’ll have to do this but once.”

  “Sir, what’s the time frame for this mission?” I ask, my voice still not as stable as I would like.

  “Still trying to nail that down. It could be weeks.”

  “How will I know?”

  “You’ll need to keep this for starters, just as all of us here at the table will,” he says, passing a cell phone down the table for me. Sleek and silver, it looks more like a credit card holder than a phone. “And this is a twenty-four/seven thing. We have to be able to reach you no matter where you are. The text will read all ones when it’s time. Obviously, if we’re at sea, it won’t be an issue. But if not, wherever you are when you get the message, you need to hightail it to the KC.”

  “And you’ll be there?”

  “I’ll probably be delivered by yours truly here,” he says, motioning to Eric. “We’ll brief and fly from the Kansas City.”

  Yours truly. Yours truly. Nothing true about him. My eyes squeeze shut for just a moment, my hands gripping the sides of my seat.