by Sarah Monzon
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
(Untitled)
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
All of You
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
© 2017 Sarah Monzon.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published by Radiant Publications
Moses Lake, Washington
This is a work of fiction. Characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events is strictly coincidental.
Scriptures used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased, are taken from:
The Holy Bible, English Standard Version. ESV® Permanent Text Edition® (2016). Copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers.
Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
The New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Front cover design by Sarah Monzon
Spine and back cover design by Perry Kirkpatrick at www.perryelisabethdesigns.com
Manuscript edited by Dori Harrell
Chapter One
Present Day, 100 Miles off the Coast of Virginia
Lieutenant Michael “Finch” Carrington pulled up the zipper of his green flight suit and stared at the mass on the opposite rack. He pushed against the rounded heap. “If you want to catch breakfast, you better get moving.”
The form groaned. “Why do ops have to be so early?”
Finch chuckled. “Stop pouting. You’d think you’d be used to it by now.”
Geyser rose like a zombie from the grave, tossing blankets back while scrubbing a hand over his face. He padded to his wall locker and pulled out his flight suit. “Would it hurt Uncle Sam to let a guy sleep in every now and then?” His fingers fumbled with the zipper of his uniform.
Finch laughed. “Maybe I should record this little pity party of yours to show your girl.” He twisted his mouth. “Let her see how manly your whine is.”
“I don’t have a girl, and you know it.” Geyser glared.
He tried for a surprised look. “Really? With your machismo? How could any woman resist your charm?”
Geyser’s glare turned to a grin. “Shut up, punk.”
Exiting the stateroom, followed by Geyser, he wove his way through the USS George H. W. Bush’s passageways, ducking his head and high-stepping over narrowed knee knockers. A short line rounded wardroom one. Great. At this rate, they’d have less than ten minutes to chow down before needing to report to the squadron ready room.
He grabbed a light-blue tray that reminded him of his high school days and dished runny scrambled eggs and slightly soggy country potatoes onto his plate. Navy chow was…well…pretty much like any cafeteria food. Not mama’s cooking, but everyone was grateful it was more than MREs. He pushed the tray along the metal track, then carried it to one of the round tables. Geyser rounded to the other side and plunked his plate down, food bouncing over the edge and splattering on the tablecloth. He scooped the mess up in his hands and put it back on his plate.
Bowing his head, Finch said a silent grace. When he raised his eyes, Geyser had already dug in, his cheeks filled like a chipmunk’s. “Good?”
Geyser smiled, bits of yellow clinging to his otherwise white teeth. “Better than any home-cooked meal.”
“That’s just sad.” Finch shoveled a spoonful of potatoes into his mouth. Definitely not better than a home-cooked meal. He eyed his weapons system officer’s diminishing pile of food. “You might want to slow down.”
Geyser’s thick brown brows rose. “Why?”
“No need for another Old Faithful eruption.”
“Dude.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “That happened one time. One time.”
Finch poked his fork in Geyser’s direction. “And yet you’re stuck with the moniker.” He took another bite. “I don’t think I ever told you, but you really should be thanking me for that call sign.”
“Thanking you?” Geyser leaned forward on his elbows. “I’m forever remembered for upchucking in the simulator.”
He shrugged. “It could be worse.”
Geyser screwed his lips. “How?”
“The rest of the squadron wanted to call you Helen. As in Mount Saint Helens.”
Geyser’s eyes widened. “Punks.”
Finch threw his head back and laughed. Embarrassing call signs were part of the gig. If you complained about the dub, it would only change to something worse. He’d much rather have been christened Eagle or Falcon or Hawk or some other type of bird of prey. But no. Apparently he reminded Boomer of his mom’s pet finch, which rarely made a peep. Some guys, like Boomer, couldn’t stand the quiet and had to fill every moment with loud chatter. Gave Finch a headache.
He left his tray for the food service attendant and slapped Geyser on the shoulder as they headed out. “Time for some real fun.”
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br /> Down passageways, up ladders, and through hatches to the O3 deck to receive the mission brief from the squadron commander. Pacman and Jumpy already lounged in the padded maroon chairs. The commander nodded to Finch and Geyser as they walked in and took a seat.
“Gentlemen, as you know, the art of dogfighting has been significant in the history of air warfare. Although not as vital today as Top Gun made it out to be, it is still essential for all our pilots to have the skill to maneuver and execute with deadly force and defensive measure.” He set out the mission’s specification before dismissing the pilots to suit up.
G-suit and helmet on, Finch and the three other men ascended to the catwalk and then the flight deck. Jet exhaust, with its acrid pungency, overpowered any saltiness of the sea air.
Some things never got old, and flying was one of them. The speed. The thrill. The view. Seriously, what wasn’t to love? As he did his preflight walk around, Finch ducked under the F/A-18F Super Hornet’s wing and scurried up the thin ladder into the cockpit. It didn’t matter how many hours he’d clocked on this bad boy—still his heart hammered against his ribs, adrenal glands working overtime and flushing his system with excited anticipation.
There were no joy rides in the navy, but this training stint at Naval Air Station Oceana was as close as it got. He didn’t have to worry about unfriendlies or bombing targets. No Sidewinder missiles attached to his wings. Just him, his bird, and endless miles of sky. And Geyser in the back, of course. Couldn’t leave his teammate behind.
Flight crew scrambled along topside, yellow, red, green, and purple shirts bright against the carrier’s black flight deck—even if they were grimy from the deck’s grease, it didn’t take much imagination to figure out why everyone referred to them as “Skittles.”
Finch ran through the engine checklist. All go. Next came the pre-taxi checks. The plane captain directed him through the startup procedures. Flight controls looked good. Flaps, rudder pedals, speedbrake, launch bar, hook handle. Everything was just right.
He taxied to the catapult and ran his hand down his harness straps and secured the oxygen mask around his face, sliding down the helmet visor while the crew attached the plane’s launch bar to the shuttle. Military thrust, the twin engines roared and rumbled, pushing out more vibrations than a subwoofer at a heavy-metal concert.
He looked out the cockpit’s canopy and saluted the officer below. The shooter gave the signal—long lunge forward on his left leg, arm held out straight as an arrow. Like a bullet out of a pistol, the Super Hornet shot off the carrier, reaching 150 miles per hour in three seconds.
Then they were soaring. He slipped into the ether—all good to go—and pulled up the gear. Today was about maneuvers, not speed.
Pacman and Jumpy’s aircraft came up beside them on the left.
Finch grinned as he glanced at the other aircraft and spoke into his com. “You ready to eat humble pie served on a platter of booyah, old man?”
“What was it that Dirty Harry said? Oh yes”—Pacman dropped the tenor of his voice—“make my day.”
“Yeehaw!” Geyser shouted from the seat behind Finch.
Finch eased the bird to roughly five hundred knots and pulled on the stick, turning and spinning the aircraft in a classic lag displacement roll to get behind Pacman for a lock on. The horizon spun like a toy top in front of him, and a grin spread across his face.
The other pilot cursed, and Finch smirked as he listened to the anxious chatter of Jumpy yelling at Pacman to wake up and do something. Finch stayed on their tail, banking right then left, trying to get in phase with them and not overshoot the flight path. Pacman continued his evasion tactics, maneuvering his aircraft in a series of speed changes, skids, and slips.
Too late. Pacman was already locked on Finch’s radar.
“Come on. Just a little more.” He eased up on the stick. A smidge more to the left, and Pacman and Jumpy’s aircraft would be in the death dot on the radar screen—in perfect position for bullets at target range.
“Bull’s-eye!” Geyser whooped behind him.
Pacman grumbled over the coms. “Lucky move, hotshot. I’d like to see you get the drop on me twice in a row.”
Finch grinned. “I’d love to comply, but it’s sayonara, old man.” He mocked a two-fingered salute. “See ya back on Mother.”
He turned the aircraft and pointed it toward the carrier. Entering the landing pattern astern the ship, Finch lowered the tailhook and flew up the starboard side at an altitude of eight hundred feet. At three nautical miles, he made a 180-degree turn, dropped the landing gear, and flew parallel to port side. At roughly five nautical miles, he followed the command to turn 210 degrees and enter the glide slope.
Time to call in to the landing signal officer with his aircraft’s call sign, type, and fuel status. “Speedbird 56 Tango, Super Hornet, ball, state three point five.”
“Roger, ball.” The LSO’s voice sounded in Finch’s ear.
He put in full flaps as he continued his descent and entered the final approach behind the ship.
“A little low, 56. Power up three degrees.”
“Roger.” Rolling the wings, the descent slowed, and he crossed the flight deck. The tailhook caught the arresting gear wire, and the aircraft bounced to a stop. After the recovery director’s signal, he lifted the tailhook and wings, then taxied to the patio. Aircraft parked and clear of the landing deck for Pacman and Jumpy, he killed the engine and opened the canopy. He and Geyser scrambled down the narrow ladder.
Geyser held out his knuckles. “Great flying today, man.”
Finch fist-bumped with a grin. “I’d like to say I couldn’t have done it without you, but we both know that’s a lie.”
“Whatever.” Geyser hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “You coming down or staying up here to rub Pacman’s nose in your win?”
He rolled his eyes. “I think you’re confusing me with you. But I am going to stay topside. I want to catch Pacman before he heads back to the ready room.”
“Okay. Catch you later.”
Finch walked along the flight deck, staying on the safe side of the red-and-white foul line. The deafening sound of the descending Hornet’s jet engines vibrated the air. Wheels screeched as they touched down, and Pacman’s tailhook caught the wire.
Crack! Like a viper strike, the snapped arresting gear cable whipped back. Finch’s eyes widened, and he jumped. White-hot agony sliced his leg. Flipped up, he flew through the air, then fell. Hard. Pain gouged his arm and fissured through his skull. Unconsciousness kidnapped his thoughts and blanketed him in a world of darkness.
Chapter Two
England, 1944
The gangplank bounced under the weight of passengers disembarking the large transatlantic liner—a veritable Goliath to the small David-like tugboats dotting the harbor. Alice Galloway slid her hand along the rail, the movement of bodies around her propelling her forward in their current. Her grip tightened, and she planted her feet to keep from being pushed farther down the aisle. Craning her neck, she looked around. Dark cloudy skies provided cover from the sun, so she wouldn’t have to squint.
Was nothing different?
Ten years and yet the first impression this time mirrored the previous. Salty air thick with the smell of fish. Seagulls screeching as their white bellies flew overhead. Buildings that had stood stalwart for centuries still lined the horizon, although the outline of a few newer ones accompanied them. Even the clouds pregnant with rain remained the same.
She peered down the harbor line looking for any evidence that reality wasn’t a nightmare. That the tension-charged air she’d breathed on the voyage and the hushed whisperings of U-boat threats were due to her falling down a rabbit’s hole like the Alice in Lewis Carrol’s storybook.
Against the haze wafting up off the sea, a shape now familiar from all the front-cover newspaper photos began to form. A long sleek line paralleled the ocean’s surface, a mountain of metal protruding from the belly and descending to the re
ar. A Royal Navy battleship. The whole world had fallen down the rabbit’s hole with her, but no one would call this Wonderland.
Her feet set back in motion and eventually touched solid ground. The busy harbor teemed with activity, seemingly no man under the age of sixty clad in anything but a uniform. Another indicator all was not right. Of course, if it were, she wouldn’t be there.
The low heel of her Mary Janes afforded her an inch more in height, but really, even without them she could see over the heads of most men. She scanned the docks, looking for whomever the Air Transport Auxiliary had sent to fetch her. Which could practically be anyone since the ATA, comprised of both male and female, had an age requirement that ranged from eighteen to fifty, and she had no idea if the person would be in uniform or regular clothes. Heavens, it would be easier to spot a Quarter Horse in Daddy’s pasture of prized Thoroughbreds.
Alice’s gaze darted among the faces of those waiting along the perimeter of the port. Only one person held a square piece of paper. She was too far away to read the name printed, but chances were she’d just found her ride to White Waltham Airfield.
She weaved in and out of the crowd, the corners of her lips turning up the closer she got to the petite Betty who indeed held a sign with Galloway scrawled across it. If Daddy thought the idea of his daughter flying military airplanes in a co-ed squadron was incomprehensible, he’d have a stroke at the sight of this girl. The top of her rich auburn Victory Rolls didn’t even reach Alice’s shoulders, and the girl’s angelic face would make Judy Garland seem like Mata Hari.
Her blue eyes brightened, and she flashed an excited smile at Alice. Lifting a hand from the placard, she waved enthusiastically.
Way more of an exuberant welcome than Alice expected. What happened to the stereotypical reservedness of the British?
“Well, hi-de-ho! You must be our new Attagirl, Alice Galloway. Am I right?” Rays of sunshine practically beamed from her tiny body.
Alice smiled. Definitely not British. Not that she didn’t love the citizens of her aunt’s homeland, but they just weren’t exactly famous for their warmth—in either climate or personality. Plus, the lack of an accent. Or at least a British accent. There was some sort of drawl in there though.
