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“But it was—”

“Tell me,” he says. “Would you have done the same for Ian? Would you have rescued him?”

“Well, of course, but—”

“Would you have blamed him for being trapped, regardless of the circumstances?”

“Of course not. Never.”

Eric reaches a hand to my face, sliding his fingers through my hair. His thumb softly brushes my temple, his olive-green eyes softening. “Then don't blame yourself,” he says gently.

Like floodwaters from a broken dam, his words flow through my consciousness, chipping away at firmly held beliefs—my very notions of self—and previously impermeable walls of guilt. His gaze remains fixed firmly on mine, communicating the force of his conviction with alarming strength and sincerity.

I lean back slightly and Eric gathers my hands in his. I stare into his eyes, alight with scattered specks of gold, and for one very small moment, for the first time in nine long years, I wonder if I might be able to forgive myself.

He rises, pulling me up with him and into a tight embrace. “Are you going to be all right?” he asks.

“I think so. And thanks. For listening. For understanding.”

“Anytime,” he says.

He pulls back, and takes my face in his hands, brushing my hair back as he searches my eyes. “You're so strong,” he whispers. “So strong … and yet…” His voice trails, his eyes drifting away from mine.

“What?” I ask, not sure I heard those last, almost imperceptible words correctly. “What did you just say?”

He returns his focus to me, but his eyes are distracted, strange. “Did I … what?” he says. “I'm sorry. It's just been a long day. So are you sure? You'll be okay?”

“Um, yeah … yes, I'll be fine.”

With a soft kiss on the lips, he leaves me.

I drop into my desk chair, realizing only then that he never answered my question.

*   *   *

After a fitful night of sleep, I spend what should have been my first liberty day in Singapore assisting in the emergency recall of all ship's personnel. Why? Just this morning, the battle group was ordered to get under way immediately. As we've feared all along, our rendezvous with the Persian Gulf needs to happen sooner than planned.

We were supposed to have had six full days in Singapore. Even if Eric and I both stood duty, I was fully counting on four whole days together. There's so much more we need to talk about. While I feel far better about coming clean with what happened during the search for Knight Rider and disclosing what really happened with Ian, we still haven't discussed Jonas. Why the animosity? What evaluation was Jonas talking about? And why would that provoke such a harsh reaction?

But by 1800, we are under way and Singapore is but a blur in my memory. Check that. I don't have a memory of Singapore because I never left the ship.

 

32

Improvement areas for Lt. Denning include being more assertive on the radios …

I stop right there. I can't read any more. My progress report is in full view on the computer screen in Chad's room. The aircraft commanders have written my evaluation, along with Emily's and Zack's, and were having trouble saving them, so they asked me to help.

How can you have trouble saving a document, number one? And number two, why am I helping them save something that won't be worth the paper it's going to be printed on?

To make it worse, I'm privy to bits of Zack's progress report as I bring it up.
Leading the second pilots on the way to aircraft commander … has a thirst for knowledge … confident and aggressive …

I'm still bitching about it when Em and I walk into the wardroom for breakfast.

“How much more assertive can I be, for god's sake? I mean, there are only so many ways to ask for a green deck for landing.”

Thinking back to flight school, I now realize how lucky I was. The instructors stationed there during the time I went through didn't have any hang-ups about women in the cockpit, so I was given a fair shot. I made the standard radio calls, just like every other student, and was graded accordingly. And the curriculum, in general, was more objectively measured. If you took a systems test, you either knew the material or you didn't. As a result, I excelled there.

But leaving school and entering the fleet was an altogether different experience. Biases thrive onboard ships and in seagoing aircraft squadrons, and earning respect in environments like these is often managed one teeth-grinding day at a time. But I've never endured a more difficult experience than the one I'm living through now in my current assignment under Commander Claggett.

“At least you're not tentative anymore,” Em says.

“Yeah, thanks a lot.”

Things have been good with Em lately. We're only three days from crossing the Strait of Hormuz to enter the Persian Gulf, and since we pulled out of Singapore a week ago, I haven't flown a single SEAL mission. Every day without a SEAL flight is a day our relations improve, and I have to say, it's nice to have my commiserator back in my corner.

“You know, I'm not even hungry,” I say as we seat ourselves.

“I realize your
thirst for knowledge
is overwhelming your need to eat, but if you
aggressively and confidently
order an omelet this morning, you should be able to get something in your stomach. And you need food, missy. Seriously, you're wasting away here.”

It's true. I haven't been eating well. Since we left Singapore, I haven't flown much, Zack and Em taking most of the flight hours. And while this has helped things between me and Em, it's what's happening in the cockpit when I
have
been scheduled that's not so good. I've flown seven times, thirty-five hours, and can probably count thirty minutes total as the pilot at the controls—usually holding them on deck while the aircraft commanders left for bathroom breaks.

They've staged a silent protest to my SEAL mission flying and it includes not just time on the controls, but everything. I don't talk on the radios, I don't brief, and they answer for me if an aircrewman asks me a question. The winds and weather have been such that they've been able to get away with it, but I wonder how much longer this will go on.

In the meantime, I thought I could take comfort in listening to Eric's voice on the radios. We usually hear our helicopter counterparts at some point during the day since we share the airspace around the battle group. Even without the SEAL missions, I thought I'd hear his voice, but it has proved strangely absent. I've looked for him on the deck of the
Lake Champlain
and seen the other Shadow Hunters there, but not him. Not once.

No e-mail either, since the servers onboard that allow for personal e-mails have been down due to a massive security software upgrade. And no cell phones—they usually don't work while under way. Bottom line, no communication of any kind with Eric in seven days.

I pick through the omelet that Em forces me to order, thinking about my flight later today that's scheduled with Chad. I recall the comment that Commander Claggett made about
briefing to sit on my hands
. Now I know what it feels like … and it sucks. It really does. But I'd like to think they've made their point and we can move on now.

*   *   *

Although, apparently, today is not the day for moving on. Chad has been at the controls for over six hours by the time we touch down on
Nimitz.

“Sabercat five five,
Nimitz
Tower, we need you to shut down present position, over.”

“
Nimitz
Tower, Sabercat five five, say again, over?” Chad says.

“Sabercat five five,
Nimitz
Tower, shut down present position.”

Chad and I look at each other. “What the hell?” he says.

“Okay, sir, we're exiting the aircraft for shutdown,” Lego says.

“Any idea what's goin' on, sir?” Messy asks.

“Fuck if I know,” Chad says.

As the rotors slow to a stop, a lieutenant dressed in summer whites with gold epaulets attached to his shoulders approaches the aircraft. He leans in to say something to Lego.

“Sir, he said we need to come with him.”

“All right. Cutting power.”

We follow the lieutenant into the superstructure and, once inside, he introduces himself. “I'm Greg Baskin, Admiral Carlson's aide.”

I remember Greg. He accompanied the admiral to the
Kansas City
for the Operation Low Level brief so many weeks ago.

Chad puts out his hand. “Chad Henkel.”

“Sara Denning,” I say, shaking his hand. “And this is Petty Officer Legossi and Petty Officer Messina.”

While Greg is shaking their hands, Chad and I are shaking our heads.

“So, Greg, what's going on here?” Chad says.

Greg begins walking and talking at the same time.

“Chad, you and Petty Officers Messina and Legossi need to wait here,” he says, directing us into a ready room of sorts—a passenger ready room. Several rows of chairs occupy the small, gray space and a closed-circuit TV hanging in the corner runs the movie of the day. It looks like
The Hunt for Red October
.

“Sara, you'll be coming with me,” he says.

I look at Chad. “Chad, what's going on?”

“Ask Greg. I have no idea.”

“Make yourselves comfortable,” he says to Chad, Lego, and Messy. “We have boxed lunches on order for you.”

“So, this goes in the highly fucking unusual category,” Chad says. He's obviously not in the mood for this, especially having spent the last six hours sitting next to me. “Does our ship know about this? What about our flight? We have overheads.”

“Everything's been taken care of,” he says. “You just need to wait here until we get back.”

“How long are we talking?” Chad asks.

“Just get comfortable.”

That answer certainly isn't making
me
comfortable.

“Well, I'm gonna follow orders and set myself right heah,” Messy says. He plops in a seat, grabs the chair located in front of him, turns it around, and puts up his feet.

“And I'm joinin' ya,” Lego says.

Chad, not bothering to disguise his irriation, turns to take a seat.

“This way, Sara,” Greg says.

We begin a long carrier trek, winding through an endless labyrinth of narrow gray corridors toward an unknown destination. I have no idea what to think. Wait. Actually, I do. This must be about Commander Egan. It has to be. But to have us shut down in the middle of a logistics run, interrupting a flight? It doesn't make sense.

“Greg, excuse me, but should I be worried here? Am I in trouble or something?”

“No, you're not in trouble. I'm taking you to a meeting.”

“A meeting?”

“I'm sorry, that's all I know.”

We finally arrive in Officer Country and Greg directs me to a broad stateroom door with Admiral Carlson's name on the identification plate. He opens the door without knocking and we enter what looks like the foyer to someone's home. It's a shock to see carpeting and normal furniture. A coffee table is surrounded by leather couches, all of it decorated in a nautical theme.

Three separate doors are accessed from this room—his sleeping quarters, a conference room, and the admiral's mess, where he eats.

“Wait here just one second,” Greg says.

He knocks on the far right door, opening it a crack. “Sir, Lieutenant Denning is here.”

“Send her in,” comes the response.

I look to Greg, but he doesn't say anything. He opens the door wider and ushers me through. Rather than follow, he closes the door behind me.

I stop, doing a hyper-fast survey of the room. I recognize the majority of the ten men assembled here, and based on who's in attendance, this is not going to be a meeting about Commander Egan. Quickly scanning the faces, I realize that most would call this an intimidating group, but I've been around high-ranking officers since I was small, and their bearing was always a comfortable reminder of my father. I know how to act, how to speak, how to be taken seriously, but even so, my heart beats faster.

At least Eric is here. My heart flies when I see him. In the last seven days, I've dreamed of our reunion—a warm embrace, happy conversation.…

But then I really look at him.

He holds a neutral expression, removed, distant. I search his eyes, and they're not right. Something's not right. But I can't let my gaze linger. I've already stayed here too long.

Next to him, Commander Amicus—Animal. My survey of the room stops cold right here. My eyes zero in on the polished gold SEAL insignia that shines from his khaki uniform. SEAL insignia? Animal isn't a SEAL.

The man to his right, another commander whom I don't recognize, also wears a SEAL pin. Chiseled from top to bottom, he has dark brown eyes that narrow as he observes me. His name tag reads
STEVE KENNAN
.

Captain Plank, the
Lake Champlain
skipper, sits erect between Commander Kennan and Admiral Carlson, who presides at the head of the long, rectangular conference table. Captain Magruder sits to Admiral Carlson's right and opposite Captain Plank.

Commander Eichorn, commanding officer of the
Leftwich,
is next, followed by an Australian lieutenant colonel, one of the SAS members on the
Kansas City
that day … that bizarre day when I met Jonas. He sits next to the lieutenant colonel now, with a cocksure expression.

Mike Shallow is the final member of this gathering, sitting to Jonas's right and to my immediate left.

“Lieutenant Denning, have a seat, please,” Admiral Carlson says, gesturing to the empty seat at the end of the table, directly opposite him.

I lower myself and glance quickly at Eric, who is now seated to my immediate right. I was hoping for an encouraging nod … something. His expression remains impassive.