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As Commander Claggett scrawls his signature four times and hands the paperwork to Commander Hicks, who adds his, I realize that Eric has done it again. Had I given these to Commander Claggett, who knows what would have happened to them? Delayed perhaps, for oh, two days? Now we're off the
Lake Champlain,
out of sight, out of mind, award problem solved.

But Eric has put Commander Claggett exactly where he wants him once again—and there's nothing he can do or say to get out of it.

Ben and Stuart are right. I'm not sure how he does it. And I'm not sure if I'm happy or irritated all the more.

“Thank you, sirs,” Eric says. “Have a good evening.”

We leave and now it's my turn to give Eric the look.

He grins, a little too proud of himself. “Here, let me show you to Brian's room and then I'll get these delivered.”

Stepping into Brian's room is like stepping into a broom closet. Yes, it's a single-man room, but geez. No couch and extra furniture in here like Commander Claggett enjoys on the
Kansas City.

“I'll be back,” he says. “If you need anything in the meantime, you know where the guys are.”

“I'll be fine.”

I squeeze into the small chair that's wedged between the micro desk and bunk, put my elbows on the table and my head in my hands. I think I've had more stimuli today than my twenty-six-year-old brain can handle. Commander Claggett. Eric. The in-flight emergency. The restless water …

I decide to close it out for a moment. I fold my arms on the desk, rest my head there, and close my eyes.

 

7

Ian is whooping with delight and I'm hovering in that magical realm between sheer terror and unchecked exhilaration, running Big Smokey Falls with a scary fast flow.

The thunderous roar of water and Ian's laughing fill my ears. He's thrilled with his new electric-red kayak.

Too late, I realize we've drifted too far left. A torrent of white water crashes around me.

The world flips.

Pummeled by the river, my upside-down kayak crashes into boulders, twisting and jerking, pinning me underwater. The current rips the paddle from my hand.

And then, the violent thrashing abruptly halts.

I've stopped and I don't know why.

I can't move. My brain is blank. I flail wildly. The kayak isn't budging.

I'm out of air! Oh god! Involuntarily, I start to breathe in. My chest tightens like a vise around my lungs.

A far-distant voice tells me I know what to do, that I know the procedures to extricate myself from the kayak skirt that holds me in place. But I'm deaf with panic. My mouth opens and my body convulses.

My head snaps up, my heart thrumming against my chest. I wipe my face, wet with perspiration, trying to register where I am. I look blankly at the door.

“Sara?” Eric calls. I hear the knock on the door again. “Sara?”

It's okay. It's okay
.
You're all right.

I take a deep breath. Okay.

“Come in.”

Eric moves through the door, but stops when he takes in my expression. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah … yes. I just nodded off for a moment.”

“Oh, okay,” he says, placing a neatly stacked pile on the desk. “I got you some things.”

I lift a gray zippered pouch from the top and open it to find an entire stash of toiletries—shampoo, conditioner, soap, razor, toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, lotion, and a brush.

“How did you…?”

“Ship's store.”

“But it's almost twenty-one hundred. Surely it's not open now.”

He grins.

Next on the pile, a T-shirt, a pair of gym shorts, and some flip-flops. And towels underneath those.

I lift up the T-shirt on top, plain maroon in color, size large. I raise my eyebrows.

“The store doesn't carry clothing, so I hope you don't mind. That's mine. So are the shorts. I figure you can roll them up at the waist or something. They do sell the flip-flops and I bought the smallest size they had.”

“You bought all this? Eric, I don't have any money with me, but I'll pay you back. I feel terrible. I didn't think you were going to buy stuff.”

“Sara, it's nothing.”

“And you're lending me your clothes. Are you sure?”

“Of course. I'm just worried you'll be freaked out about wearing my gym stuff. They're clean. I mean they're washed and everything.”

“No, no, it's not that. I just hate that I'm putting you out. You're giving me your clothes. Spending your money. You gave up your evening to write stupid award nominations.”

“They weren't stupid and I haven't given up anything tonight.”

His gaze doesn't waver and I'm held there, stunned by the current that just shot through my body.

“I … well, thanks … for all this.”

“You're welcome,” he says.

I pry my eyes away. “So, where are the showers?”

“I'll show you. I'll have to stand guard, though. There's only one place to take showers in Officer Country.”

“Oh. Well, I'll be quick about it.”

I take my pile and follow him down the passageway. When he checks the shower room, it's being used, so we stand outside and wait. Two guys walk out, towels around their waists, but I don't dwell on it. Eric then gives the okay.

I'm in, shampooed, conditioned, soaped, and washed in about three minutes. And I am
so
glad he brought me some flip-flops. The shower floor was just … well, I'm not going to dwell on that either.

I look at my rumpled, sweaty flight suit on the floor. Along with it lie sweaty shorts, a sweaty T-shirt, sweaty underwear, a sweaty bra, and sweaty socks. I wonder if they have the ability to do their laundry individually on this ship like we do on the
Kansas City.

Well, there's no way I'm putting on my gross underwear. I know Eric probably won't appreciate it, but then again, he'll never know. I put on his shorts without underwear. But the bra, shoot. I'm going to have to endure that one. Yuck. It's still damp. His maroon shirt goes on after that. I do a super-quick brush of the hair and I'm done. If I were timing, I'd bet six minutes, tops.

I thought I was pretty fast. I mean, I
was
really fast. But when I emerge from the shower room, there's a line of three guys waiting to go in. I hate that I've made them wait.

“I feel a thousand times better,” I say as we duck back into Brian's room. “Thank you.”

I busy myself putting things away, but then, I realize he hasn't responded. I turn and find him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, just watching.

I grab my hair and self-consciously twist it up, securing it into a ponytail with the rubber band he gave me earlier.

“It's longer than I thought,” he says, inclining his head slightly, indicating my hair.

“Oh, I, um … yeah,” I say.

When it's wet, I guess my hair is pretty long, falling mid-back.

“So, uh … how about your dirty stuff?” he says. “Did you want to throw that in the laundry?”

“You have one?”

“Yeah. It's down two decks.”

“Oh.” I'm imagining myself running belowdecks in flip-flops.

“I'll take it for you. That's not a problem. I have detergent, too.”

I so desperately want to wash my bra and underwear, but oh man. This guy is entirely too good-looking to wash my underwear.

“Really, I'm okay with it.”

“Okay, just a second.” Before I've really thought it through, I'm taking off my bra the clandestine way. It's easy in a big, draped shirt like I'm wearing now. Hands behind back to unhook clasp, pull arm toward body and out of sleeve, pull strap off shoulder and slide down arm while under shirt, reinsert arm in sleeve, repeat on other side, pull out from below. All with the shirt on and nothing showing. It's off in about ten seconds.

“Is that something all girls know?” he says. “My sisters used to do that.”

“I cannot believe I just did that in front of you. What the hell was I thinking?”

“Hey, you've had a long day.”

I try unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn as I hand him my disgusting pile. “I'm not quite sure how I'm going to repay you for this, but I owe you big time.”

“You should get some sleep,” he says. “Will you be okay? Do you need anything else?”

“No, I'm good, thanks.”

When he leaves, I sit back in the desk chair and pull my knees to my chest. His shirt slides easily over my legs, so I'm covered completely in a blanket of maroon.

I cannot believe I just did that. Did I really just take off my bra in front of him? Oh my god. I can never tell Emily. I'd never hear the end of it.

I stretch my arms above my head, allowing the yawn in force, this time. But as my arms settle back to the chair, my lungs expelling a rush of air, I'm left with a distinct heaviness as the emergency landing materializes into conscious thought.

I stand, flicking off the overhead light, and crawl into the rack. I pull the covers over my head, close my eyes, and wait for the smoke, the ocean, and the nightmares to take me.

 

8

I stand in a tiny structure, sunken into the flight deck itself, designed for the pilots who remain on the ship to communicate with their counterparts in the air. The space is topped with slanted windows that protrude just above the steel surface of the deck. It's crowded with four people—Commander Claggett, Brian, Eric, and me. I rise on my tiptoes, watching Sabercat 54 hovering over the flight deck and lowering parts by hoist.

The ship continues to toss and dip in the heavy seas, the water muted to a predictable ashen gray under a stormy sunrise. The flight deck remains unsteady, as it was yesterday, and Zack is having a rough go of it. I can see him clearly, wrestling with the controls to keep it steady. But then, it does take some time for a pilot to settle into a groove in a situation like this.

I'm glad I have two other pilots—neutral observers—watching, so I don't have to question my sanity when Commander Claggett begins to speak.

“Now
that's
some aggressive flying,” he says, leaning over to Brian. “Zack's an animal in the cockpit. Goes after it! Love it!”

To his credit, Brian turns and gives me a quizzical raise of the eyebrows.

I shift my attention back to an aircraft that's bobbing and weaving in what looks like a helicopter prize fight. Now I understand the holes in the ramp, which from this vantage point appear to have been mended.

“I'm going to maintenance to get this show on the road,” Commander Claggett announces, brushing past me. “Come on, I want you involved with this.”

Once the work begins, I think about Commander Claggett's presence here. In my opinion, it's a hindrance. The guys know what they have to do. They know there's a time crunch. Having someone standing over them who is not contributing to the maintenance effort, a person only interested in hurrying the process along, is detrimental to the evolution as a whole.

But I'm just here to observe and learn. I sit on a work stand near the hangar door for the next four hours, watching the Sabercat and Shadow Hunter maintenance teams shine as they join forces to bring our aircraft back to a working status.

As always, Lego and Messy lead the maintenance effort. They know the aircraft inside and out, one specializing in aircraft engines, the other in avionics and electronics. Between the two of them, they've saved us on numerous occasions when we've broken down without the resources we'd normally need to get ourselves flying again.

Their southern ingenuity is legend. Just like they can open the hood of any car, take the engine apart, and put it back together, so can they dissect the innards of an H-46 helicopter. Sometimes, I don't want to know how they fix things. They've pulled out the duct tape or its equivalent too many times to count, and yet somehow, always find a way to get us home.

Add their skills as aircrewmen to their maintenance prowess, and they are, simply put, the all-around best aircrew team I've ever flown with.

They look to me now, expressions of relief on their faces, as Commander Claggett finally takes his leave to update Captain Plank.

“How are you guys holding up?” I ask, jumping down from my seat.

“Decent, ma'am,” Messy answers. “Although Kyle's not too happy.”

“Why's that, Lego?” I ask.

“Because my wife sent a care package and it's sittin' on my rack on the
Kansas City
. Never got a chance to open it since we had to leave so fast.”

“Oh, man,” I say.

“Yeah, Michelle said in her last e-mail that the kids were sending along some art projects.”

“More art projects?” Messy asks. “Dude, there's no more wall space.” Messy looks to me. “He's got more damn art projects plastered over the walls in our berthing. I don't know how he passes inspection.”

“Remind me not to share any of my homemade cookies with you,” Lego says.

“Ah, dude, them's fightin' words. You know I'm only jokin'.”

“Besides, you'll understand soon enough,” Lego says.

“What's this?” I ask.

“You haven't told her?” Lego says.

“Haven't had a chance,” Messy says, turning to me. “When we were in Pearl Harbor, I found out that Leah's pregnant.”

“Congratulations!” I say. “Messy, that's great news. I'm so happy for you.”

“Thanks, ma'am,” Messy says. “She's due the week we're scheduled to get back.”

“Sounds like a perfect homecoming to me,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says, sweetly.

“All right,” I say. “I've bothered you two enough. I'll get out of your way.”