His eyes light up. “So you don’t mind if I hang out a little longer, then?”
I point to the chair. “Sit.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He leans his crutches against the bed and gingerly lowers himself into the chair. “I was able to corner Commander Bennett earlier, by the way. He said we’re looking at another three days here, at least.”
“Then what? Back to our ships?”
“I don’t know, but I’d guess so. I suspect we’ll be flying desks for a while, which is actually good. It’ll give me time to arrange the details on a plan I’ve got brewing for us.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“You’ll see,” he says coyly.
“Lieutenant Marxen … what are you up to?”
“Just the usual. Bending people to my will and all that.”
“Please tell me that whatever you’ve got in the works involves just you and me and some alone time.”
“You’d like that?”
“I’d love that.”
“Perfect. I’ve got it covered.”
EPILOGUE
I stare at my reflection in a Waikiki shop window, not recognizing the person that stares back. This is not the same face I wore three months ago. My hair, worn loose, is flowing over my shoulders—my bare shoulders, that is. Eric just bought me a gift—a halter dress with tiny white hibiscus flowers patterned on the bodice.
I hold his hand as I look up and down at the vision in front of me—a vision, because it certainly doesn’t seem real.
“What is it?” he asks.
“I’m just looking … at us,” I say, motioning to the glass. “I could never have imagined this.”
“But what’s bothering you?”
I pull my eyes from the window and look up at him. “How do you do that?”
His eyes twinkle. “I’m gonna take a wild stab here.” He points to the rubber band on my wrist. “May I have that?”
Taking it, he moves behind me and gathers my hair, securing it in a rough version of a ponytail. I smile broadly when he’s finished.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yes. Thanks.”
“And even though you look freakin’ amazing in that dress, remember that wasn’t my idea, either,” he says. “I just don’t want to face Emily’s wrath when we get back.”
Em made Eric promise that the first thing he would do when we arrived was purchase appropriate beach attire for me. I was good and didn’t complain and now Em will be happy. I even had the clerk at the counter take a picture of Eric and me together so I could send it to Em as proof.
“I think I can live with the dress,” I say.
He wraps his arm around me and pulls me close, kissing me on the forehead in the process. “Come on.”
We turn and stroll with the other tourists along a lengthy promenade of shops, leading past the International Marketplace on Kalakaua Avenue in Honolulu.
That little plan of Eric’s? The one he had brewing on Nimitz? It was this. A bit of leave in Hawaii. This is one of those things that never should have been approved, and he had to have done a lot of flexing to get this request to fly. But hey, I’ll take it.
We boarded a C-9 aircraft in Fujairah, United Arab Emirates, and eighteen long hours later, touched down at Hickam Air Force Base in Pearl Harbor. When the taxi dropped us at our beachfront hotel, the room wasn’t ready yet, so we deposited our bags with the concierge and walked directly here.
Before leaving our suitcases, we changed into our swimsuits. Yeah … swimsuits. I’ve decided there’s no reason I should feel uncomfortable in a suit, even with scores of military men roaming the beaches of Waikiki. But more importantly, I want to learn to enjoy the water. Eric said he’d help, so that’s where we’re headed now.
Our wounds have had four weeks to heal, so we’re walking more normally now. And even though the hand that holds mine sports a two-inch scar running across the palm, it functions normally, having retained almost all of its strength and dexterity. This hand squeezes mine now as we make our way to the beach. I’m happy for the long walk and the time it affords to mentally prepare for what I’m about to do.
I imagine the feel of wet sand in my toes, small wavelets rushing around my shins. I envision walking farther out, the feel of the water lapping against my thighs. But as I near that point of dropping my head underneath, the scene goes fuzzy, like static on an old TV.
“Here, we can turn down this street to get to the beach,” Eric says.
“Hold on a second.” I walk closer to the newsstand we just passed, bending to read the headline: US LAUNCHES MISSILES AT IRAQ.
“Do you have fifty cents?” I ask.
Eric hands me the coins, I slot them in the machine, and pull out a copy of the Honolulu Star-Advertiser.
My finger moves down the page as I read.
By Emerson Dryer
Special to the Star-Advertiser
Yesterday, the U.S. military launched twenty-one Tomahawk missiles at targets in Iraq. White House officials said this was a firm and commensurate response to Iraq’s plan to assassinate former president James MacIntyre in mid-March.…
I lower the paper, not wanting to read any more. I don’t want to remember this. I don’t. Especially not now. Not strolling hand in hand with the love of my life in Waikiki Beach.
I find the nearest trashcan and toss it in.
“Hey, I don’t blame you,” he says. “Besides, our attention needs to be focused on that.” He points across the street to the beach and the crystal blue beyond.
Gulp. My hand tightens around his.
“It’ll be okay. I’ll be with you.”
Arriving on the sand, we drop our backpacks. The dress comes off, revealing the suit underneath—one piece, mind you.
Eric takes my hand and we walk to the water’s edge. “You lead,” he says.
Normally, walking in the water or even wading in a pool isn’t a problem for me, as long as there’s no danger of submersion. But it’s different this time. The memories flood back. Struggling to free myself from the harness … the helicopter pulling me under … gunfire … blood in the water …
“Sara?” Eric says.
I look up.
“You’re cutting off my circulation.”
I look down and his hand is white. Yikes. I take a deep breath and slowly release some pressure.
“Honestly, I don’t know how you did what you did,” he says.
“I don’t have the faintest idea.”
“You found a way, though, didn’t you?”
Normally, I would have chalked it up to that same cosmic deity that comes through for me every two years when I step into the helo dunker. But maybe, just maybe, I’ve had the power within me all along.
And this is an encouraging thought. The power within … I have this.
I have the power to make peace with the water. With what happened nine years ago. With Ian. I even have the power to forgive myself. And with this power, comes freedom. Freedom to live, love, work, and be feminine, be me. I don’t have to hide, or shut part of myself off, or become someone else. I have the power within to chart my course, to live my truth, and move forward.
And so, I step forward, gingerly at first, pulling Eric behind me. The warm water rushes around my feet, just as I imagined it would. I scrunch my toes, wet grains filling the gaps. A few more steps and my knees now wiggle in that funny way that objects do when viewed underwater. Eric moves alongside me.
“Not bad,” he says. “I can feel my fingers even.”
I still have the wherewithal to elbow him in the ribs. A good sign.
“How about a few more steps?” he suggests.
I continue forward, the water rising along my thighs, touching the bottom of my suit, encroaching my waist. My grip tightens and I look up, met with an encouraging smile.
A few more steps and the water covers my chest. I stop, my breathing getting shallow. “I think we’re good.”
He turns to me, pulling me to him, and wraps
me securely in his arms. “I love you,” he says, before kissing me so passionately, sparks are surely flying from my head.
I finally break away, coming up for air. “If this is your strategy for helping me deal with where I’m standing right now, it’s working.”
“Glad to be of service.” He says, drawing me to him once more. His lips find mine, and his hands, slippery in the salt water, slide down my back and move around my waist. He pulls our hips together.…
Oh, my goodness …
I push away, breathing hard. “I think … hotel…”
“I agree,” he says, swallowing.
We share anticipatory smiles before turning to wade to shore. He reaches for my hand and we move slowly against the resistance of the water, attempting to get our breathing under control.
Once ashore, I pull my towel from my backpack and shake it out, but something flips from it, landing lightly in the sand. I start laughing as I pick up a box of condoms.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
I show him what I have in my hand.
“You’re prepared!”
I reach into the bottom of the inside flap of my backpack and pull out two more boxes. “I have eighteen.”
His eyes grow wide. “I can see that,” he says, looking like he’s won the lottery.
“Hong Kong. Well, you remember. You couldn’t leave the ship without taking them, right? I’d forgotten I had them. But eighteen? Isn’t that ridiculous? I mean, seriously.”
“Well, let’s see, we’re going to be here for what, four days? Eighteen … yeah, that sounds about right.” His grin is a wide one.
“Honestly, you and Emily…”
After dressing, we begin the half-mile walk along the beach to our hotel. Hand in hand we stroll, blending into our surroundings perfectly—the couple that ambles along idly on romantic holiday.
I breathe in deeply, relishing the moment.
But the muffled ringing jars me from my reverie.
Eric slides his backpack off his shoulder, unzipping the side compartment. “Just a second.”
Phone in hand, he carries on a mostly one-sided conversation. “Okay,” Eric says. “Yeah. Yeah. Fuck. Okay, yeah. All right. Okay, got it. Yep, next flight.”
He sighs, putting away the phone and taking my hand. We start to walk again.
“What was that?” I ask.
“That was our orders to return to the Gulf … immediately.”
I stop and turn to face him. “What?”
“New intel. New threat. New mission.”
“For you?”
“Yes, but for you, too. Apparently we’re a package deal now.”
“What?”
“They want us both back ASAP. Stupid, too. The mission’s not even time critical. They’re still in the planning stages.”
I look at him, crestfallen.
“I told them we’d be on the next flight out.”
“But that’s in a couple of hours,” I say. “The C-9 that dropped us off was returning late this afternoon.”
He takes both my hands in his. “Yeah, too bad we missed that flight.”
“But, we still have time—”
“I mean, what could we do?” he says. “I got the call, we were several hours out on a sailboat with no way to return in time for the departure, so we had to take the next flight … which is tomorrow evening.”
“You…” A smile creeps across my face.
“Hey, your badass boyfriend isn’t stupid.”
But my smile quickly fades, replaced with a sigh. “Is it always going to be like this?” I ask, the resignation in my voice clear.
He moves his hand to my cheek, his thumb brushing softly against my skin. “You mean like this?” He pulls my head closer, his lips forming around mine. His arms encircle me, drawing me to him until my body is molded to his.
The sand is getting hot.
I pull back just slightly, nodding, in answer to his query.
“Then absolutely, yes,” he says. “It will always be like this.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anne A. Wilson graduated from the United States Naval Academy and served nine years active duty as a navy helicopter pilot, which included deployment to the Persian Gulf. The Naval Helicopter Association named Anne and her crew Helicopter Aircrew of the Year, an award given for search and rescue. Hover is her debut novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
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
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Epilogue
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
HOVER
Copyright © 2015 by Anne A. Wilson
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Jamie S. Warren
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
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eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-7849-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-6193-0 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466861930
First Edition: June 2015
Hover Page 32
