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I walk down the deserted passageway to the wardroom, proceeding to the counter that reliably supplies the makings for peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. I prepare two of them before spying the apple pie that Petty Officer Sampson has left out from lunch—two slices remain.

When I return to the room, I remove the comforter from my bunk and lay it on the floor.

“Picnic?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” he says, seating himself.

I lay out our food, two plastic forks, and grab the water bottle from my desk. We begin eating, but Eric doesn't miss a beat. “So what's not better?” he asks.

I put down my sandwich. “I don't want to complain. I mean, I normally don't, and yet it seems every time I'm with you, you're hearing about something.”

“What's not better?” he asks again.

“Persistent, aren't you?” I say.

“When it concerns you, yes,” he says with a look to melt the heart.

I realize that what I'm about to say has been rendered trivial by the incident with Knight Rider. But I'm sure we'll speak about that soon enough.

“Okay,” I say. “It's the SEAL flights.”

A shadow crosses his face, just briefly.

“You know I've been flying these, but what you probably don't know is that for some reason, I always have to be the pilot at the controls. It's being dictated by Captain Magruder and Admiral Carlson.”

His expression doesn't change.

“Don't you find that unusual?” I say, finding his reaction unusual. “How can someone who is not the aircraft commander demand something like this? It's unheard of.”

“They must have their reasons,” he says matter-of-factly.

I think back to the smiles and light conversation he shared with Captain Magruder and Admiral Carlson that day in our wardroom for the Operation Low Level brief, so unusual given the differences in rank. And how Admiral Carlson responded so quickly to Eric's suggestion to speak with Commander Egan.

“You talk like you know them,” I say.

“I do. They were the O-reps for the crew team at Navy. We go back a long way.”

Officer representatives are assigned to each sports team at the Naval Academy, acting as liaisons for their athletes. The relationship between midshipmen and O-reps is often a close one.

“Ah, now it makes sense. I'd never seen Captain Magruder smile before I saw him talking with you that day in our wardroom.”

“Yeah, he's not too outwardly friendly, but a great man. He and the admiral both. I'm confident they have valid reasons for wanting you to fly.”

“Well, it sucks,” I say.

He raises his eyebrows.

“Not the flying,” I say, reaching for my water bottle. “It's the other pilots.”

I sigh, taking a long drink, feeling silly for making such a big deal out of this. But now that I've brought it up, I might as well finish.

“There's a flight hours imbalance, me taking most of them lately. That and the fact I have to be the one at the controls. They resent what's happening. They talk behind my back. They don't include me anymore. I even had a fight about it with Em. And I can't rationalize that it's worth it or necessary or anything because no one will give me any answers. I don't know why I'm doing what I'm doing and no one else does either.”

I stare at the water bottle in my hand, turning it around and around, each SEAL flight playing in super-fast-forward in my head, trying to remember, attempting to string something together to give me an answer. “I even asked Mike once why I had to be at the controls and he wrote me a note saying,
We requested it
.”

“He did?”

“Yeah, but that's all he'd say. You know, maybe you could ask him sometime. You guys seem like friends.”

Eric motions to the water bottle I hold. “May I?” I hand it to him and he takes a long sip before answering. “I suppose I could.”

“How do you know each other, anyway? You're in completely different specialties.”

“We went to school together. And he's a good one to have around. Always has my back. Just like the other night—”

He stops. I'm not sure I want to bring up Jonas now, either.

But at the same time, what did he just say? They went to school together? Mike went to Auburn, not Navy.

“So anyway, you're not liking the pilot-at-the-controls attention,” he says, moving on.

“Well, ever since I entered the Navy, I've subscribed to the small dot theory. I just want to be one of the small dots, not standing out. I certainly don't want to be the big dot, but that's what this is turning into.”

I reach with my fork, trying a bit of apple pie.

“I don't know that you've ever been a small dot, despite what you might think. The cream sort of rises,” he says.

I shake him off, picking up my water bottle, which is almost empty. I rise to refill it, but when I return, Eric is resting his back against the metal cabinetry, the majority of his sandwich left on the napkin, uneaten. I sit next to him and he takes my hand.

“So how about you?” I say. “Is everything okay?”

“It's all right,” he says, but his tone has changed. I know what he's thinking because I'm thinking it, too. He looks down at our interlaced hands, having pulled them into his lap. My hand is now surrounded by both of his.

“Knight Rider?” I say.

He looks up to meet my eyes. “We flew to
Leftwich
yesterday to return their helmets.”

 

31

Eric squeezes my hand and it's a long time before he speaks. His eyes shift focus to something just beyond me, his mind most likely lost in the events of the last two days. Like me and like most, we try, yet fail, to make sense of it all.

Of course, I could take the easy route, using that insufferably horrendous, yet neatly packaged quip,
Everything happens for a reason.
One of the mourners at Ian's funeral actually had the nerve to say this to me. But I can't do it. I can't subscribe to this sophomoric explanation for events that clearly fall outside of reason.

No. There is no reason. Not for Ian's death. And not for something like this.

Finally, Eric returns his eyes to me. “I'll never forget the looks on the faces of the men in their detachment,” he says, his voice dull with ache. “They were like ghosts. Thirty guys stood there with absolutely nothing to do. Their bird was gone, they'd lost four guys, and they just stood there. And the wreckage … just pieces of soundproofing floating in the water, that's all, and four helmets. Empty helmets…”

“I wondered what you were seeing down there,” I say. “I followed the path of your searchlight, trying to imagine what was happening.”

“Wait, you were there?”

“Well, yeah. I was in five five. We were orbiting above you.”

“You were there.… I didn't know.”

“I don't think I was ever up on radios.”

He searches my eyes, swallowing.

“When the call first went out that a bird was down, I thought—” He lowers his eyes.

“I know. I thought it, too.”

I take time to study him in the ensuing silence. His angular face that's set in the jaw at the moment is at once handsome and intimidating. When he smiles, when he's at ease, I don't see the intimidating part. But I've seen glimpses of this other side of him—when he coldly glared at Commander Claggett, or wrapped up a drunk Commander Egan, or when he faced off against a threatening Jonas.

But no matter the situation, no matter the personality facet shown, he models competency—always. Even after the incident with Jonas on
Nimitz,
he pulled himself together, delivered a perfect brief, and executed the stellar coordination of the exercises that followed. He was calm, in control, and he got it done.

During the search for Knight Rider, I failed on every count. The fact that I faltered is a bitter pill to swallow. I doubt I would ever admit to a failing like this to anyone, but if that loss of situational awareness ever happens again, it's my crew that would pay. I need to find a solution and I need help. Normally, Em would be my go-to person, but it would be awkward now. Since our squabble at the marksmanship quals, we haven't had a chance to talk anything through. And then the flight hours thing flared up again after Wog Day at the steel beach picnic. But even so, this is something so personal, I know there's only one person I want to confide in.

“May I talk to you about something?” I ask.

He looks up. “Of course.”

“Remember what you said about me, right after the emergency landing on your ship? You said I was a pressure player.”

“I remember.”

“Well, I was anything but during the search.”

He turns his body toward mine and I lower my head. “I don't even know where to start,” I say.

I stare at my lap, already second-guessing my decision to disclose this.
The cream rises. A pressure player.
Do I squander that? Do I let him know I almost checked out in the middle of a flight?

“What happened?” he asks.

Just tell him.

I look up, hesitating. And then I force it out. “I don't know exactly. I mean, I do know. I just … well, nine years ago I almost drowned.”

His eyes, steady as ever, encourage me to continue.

“I was pinned underwater in a kayak and I couldn't get out.” I stop, shaking my head. “No, that's not right. I
could
have gotten out. I knew the procedures for a wet exit. I'd practiced it. I knew how to release myself from the skirt and I could have. I just needed to execute the steps. So simple…”

I look away, ashamed. So simple. How many times had I performed this maneuver in practice?

Eric squeezes my hand. “Go on.”

I bring my eyes back to meet his. “Eric, I panicked. I jerked and flailed and thrashed, about as useful as a wicker canoe. My brother had to come for me. He had to get me out. He pulled me to safety before the river took him.”

“Oh, no.”

“It was my fault—all of it. Insisting we run our kayaks on a day we shouldn't have. Ian paying with his life for my inaction. I'll never forgive myself. Not ever.”

His steady gaze holds mine. I want to look away, but his calm green eyes communicate only concern and understanding.

“Since then, the thought of being underwater terrifies me. I can't seem to make peace with it. So day to day, like when we're out here, it's a struggle, to put it mildly. But I've learned how to shut out my fear and focus. I've managed. Not great, but I've managed. But while searching for Knight Rider, I don't know, something triggered the panic. I was this close to losing it. My brain froze, everything blurred. I still don't know how I pulled back from that. But then I think, what about next time? That was an easy flight. What if—”

“Sara,” he says. “You pulled it together. You handled it. Don't
what if
yourself.”

“But—”

“You handled it,” he says. “And I'm confident you'll handle it again.” His eyes … strong, convincing. “And I'm so sorry about your brother.”

I look at him—for a long time I look—realizing what I've just said.

It's the first time I've ever told anyone the truth about what happened that day. Emily doesn't know. I couldn't even bring myself to tell my parents. That it was my fault that Ian drowned? How could I possibly tell them?

This was Ian Denning. The all-American, blond-haired, blue-eyed star football player and student council president, who was slightly wild but adorably sweet and always humble. And most importantly, the boy who would carry the mantle. Who would continue the Denning family legacy, something so profoundly important to my father. He glowed when he spoke of Ian entering the service. He knew the legacy would continue and flourish in Ian's hands.

Sweet, sweet Ian … My fault. My father had lost his only son and so much more. For days after Ian's death, he trod a path between Ian's bedroom and the living room, pacing like a caged tiger. He would stop in front of the eleven-by-twenty framed photo of Ian and him and his father, retired Rear Admiral Stuart Denning, standing proudly in Tecumseh Court on the grounds of the Naval Academy, and shake his head before returning to Ian's room. I'd never heard my father cry before, but he did then. He'd lock himself in Ian's room and sob.

My mother almost ceased to function, refusing to leave her bedroom. So I took over, shopping for food my parents never touched, cooking dinners they didn't eat, restocking the tissue boxes and ensuring my uncle delivered the whiskey they drank like water. And all the while, I wondered how I could remain standing when my other half had been taken.

What could I do when this tragedy couldn't be undone? I did the only thing I could do. I tried to live Ian's life for him, the one I had taken. I knew I would never compare to him nor achieve what he would have achieved. And taking Ian's place would never satisfy my father or grandfather. But I had to do something.

In addition to honoring Ian, this would serve as my penance. At the Naval Academy, this was certainly the case. But then I rode a new wave of guilt when I started doing well in flight school. When I realized I liked flying—no, loved flying. I shouldn't be allowed a gift like this, so the walls I had erected to protect myself also became the means for me to hide my shame.

I blink, suddenly realizing how long I've been staring at Eric, the man who started breaking down those walls. But then the guilt comes again. Why should I be allowed something so special when I took everything from Ian?

My hands nervously roll over his. “Eric, I've never told anyone that before. My parents, Emily, they know that Ian drowned, but I never told them he had to rescue me first. That it was my—”

“Don't say it was your fault.” He holds my eyes, not blinking, until I can't stand it anymore.