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I repeat the facts, but say them aloud this time. “Transmission oil hot caution light. Location—master caution panel. Power—battery bus. Oil temperature thermal switches—two forward transmission, one aft transmission. Light illumination—one hundred ten degrees.”

Wearing an expression that's as neutral as the facts that churn in my head, I pull my shoulders back and walk to the far side of the flight deck. I find my corner perch and there I sit, unmoving, until 2000 when the maintenance chief declares that 55 is ready for ground turns.

My helmet is on and I'm on top of the bird preflighting by the time Commander Claggett arrives. I don't care that the ship is rocking so badly my helmet visor is spotted from the salt spray. Or that I'm doing a balancing act with a flashlight because I preflight on a near moonless night. I hang on tight as I traverse the narrow sliver of non-skid across the top of the helicopter, over eleven feet above the deck, but there's no worry or fear. I'm just getting it done.

Without emotion, I climb into the cockpit, complete the necessary checklists, respond when spoken to, and endure over three hours of on-deck turning sitting next to a disrespectful, foul-mouthed powder keg.

Thankfully, we're not allowed to do airborne functional checks at night, so we shut down just prior to midnight. Official sunrise is 0700 and therefore, so is our takeoff time. We can complete the first checks in the air en route to the
Kansas City,
so there will be no need to land on the
Lake Champlain
again once we lift.

I wait until Commander Claggett steps out before I remove my helmet. Lego and Messy go about securing the aircraft for the night, folding the rotors, tying them down, and covering the engine intakes.

I remain in the aircraft, looking up through the cockpit window. Breaks in the clouds showcase hundreds of thousands of stars. The night sky in the open sea is a treasure to behold. I suppose it's one of the few good memories I'll take away from this deployment.

“Ma'am,” Lego says.

“Hmm,” I say, turning.

“We're gonna button up the doors now. You wanna get out?”

I leave my seat, climb into the cabin, and trudge down the steps of the main cabin door.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Sort of. I'll see you in the morning.”

I pass by the maintenance office to ensure I'm not needed for anything else. The maintenance officer assures me I'm not, even though Commander Claggett isn't here anymore to verify.

I drag myself back to Officer Country and Brian's room, taking a seat on the rack. I have less than six hours before I see Commander Claggett again. Better make the most of it.

I remove my flight suit and boots and proceed with a sponge bath. Brian has a sink and mirror in his room, so I use a hand towel and do it that way. And what the heck? Eric brought me a razor, so I'll use that, too. I shave my legs standing up and use the lotion he provided, as well. It actually doesn't smell too bad, even having been purchased from the ship's store.

I wash my face and brush my teeth before donning my “pajamas,” which are Eric's maroon shirt and gray shorts. Removing the rubber band that secures my hair, I scratch my head so it falls free. The brush Eric bought for me is lying on Brian's desk, so I stand in front of the small mirror to brush it out.

See what happens when you let your guard down? You just open yourself up. Normally, you would have shrugged this off, like water sliding over a raincoat. But it hurt this time, didn't it? Stupid. You can't be stupid, Sara. You'll never make it.

*   *   *

It's almost thirty minutes after midnight when I hear the knock.

“Sara? It's Eric. Are you up?”

I open the door, but can't manage a smile. I notice that Eric's gym shorts and T-shirt ensemble is the same as mine, which shouldn't be a surprise since I'm wearing his clothes. His shirt is just a different color—olive green, like his eyes.

“We match,” I say.

“That we do.”

Our eyes hold … for a long time, they hold.

Sara, stop it. Enough!

“I know it's late,” he says, “but I just came by to see if you needed anything.”

“I'm fine, thanks. You thought of everything earlier,” I say, motioning to the towels and toiletries on Brian's desk.

“All right. I'll just, uh … well, I'll see you tomorrow.”

He starts to turn away, but stops.

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

“It's fine,” I say too quickly. “I'm fine.”

“Claggett?” he says.

“It's nothing, okay? Just…”

“It's
not
nothing. What happened?”

I look down at my hands that have been wadding up my shirt—his shirt—as I've been talking. I spread it out with my fingers before looking up.

“He sort of exploded earlier. Right after training.”

“Oh, no.”

“He got on me for not watching the tranny change this morning.”

“But you did. You were there until we began training.”

“I guess he forgot about the training.”

Eric shakes his head. “I'll go talk to him—”

“No. He doesn't want to hear it. And besides, I can speak for myself.”

“But—”

“Please. I said I'm fine, okay? I'll handle it.”

He searches my eyes for a moment longer. “Okay. I guess I'll see you around, then.” He turns and walks away without looking back.

I close the door and lean against it, nursing a queer, awful ache in the pit of my stomach.

 

10

“So then what?” Em says.

I'm giving her the play-by-play of my stay on the
Lake Champlain
following a torturously long day. The check flight for Sabercat 55 took a full thirteen hours to complete, all sitting next to a live wire in Commander Claggett.

“Hold that thought,” I say. “I have
got
to get something in my stomach or I'm going to pass out.”

Entering the empty wardroom, I make a beeline to the counter that supplies bread, peanut butter, and jelly. I put together a sandwich, fill a glass with lemonade, and drop into a wide, stainless steel chair—one of thirty or so positioned on either side of seven long, rectangular tables.

Having just departed the
Lake Champlain,
I gain a new appreciation for the ample size of our wardroom. Our tables are arranged end-to-end to form a U shape, filling the middle of the space. A lounge area with couches and a TV occupies the far corner. There's even room for a sizeable salad bar.

Steel blue-gray dominates—the color of the heavy-duty plastic table coverings. The chairs are a lighter shade of gray and this all contrasts not so nicely with bulkheads painted a stale yellow-cream, just like our stateroom.

I stare ahead at nothing as I eat, my mind crowded with images from my stay on the
Lake Champlain.
I'm so wholly engrossed in my thoughts that I don't notice the arrival of the ship's operations officer.

“Hey, Sara,” he says in his slimy way. “Imagine finding you here.”

“Yeah, imagine that, sir.”

Oh, no. I don't want to be here—not alone with him. One of the most uncomfortable things about living and working on this ship is doing so with this man, Lieutenant Commander Doug Egan. During the six weeks I was onboard the
Kansas City
for work-ups, it was a nightmare because he wouldn't leave me alone, always “finding” me wherever I happened to be on the ship.

I'm in a delicate situation with him because he outranks me.

“What's this? You know you don't have to call me sir. It's Doug for you.”

Oh, boy …

I keep him at arm's length and beyond, and I'm professional all the way with him. I've given him every subtle hint I can think of without actually saying, “Stay the hell away from me,” but he just doesn't understand subtle.

“Let me grab some coffee and I'll join you,” he says.

“Actually, I was just leaving.”

“Leaving? But you've still got half a sandwich left.”

“I'm really not that hungry.”

I grab a napkin and begin wrapping my sandwich.

“So I was already thinking ahead to Hong Kong,” he says. “I know this great place to eat that has an incredible view of Victoria Peak.”

“I have duty in Hong Kong, sir.”

“Well, lucky for you I sign off on the duty schedule. I can change that, no problem,” he says with a wink.

“No, sir. You don't need to do that,” I say, rising from the table. “I want to pull my weight with the duty schedule.”

I make a hasty getaway to our stateroom, kicking the door closed once inside.

“What's going on with you?” Em says.

“Commander Egan.”

“Oh, no.”

“He found me in the wardroom.”

“God, he is the creepiest creep. Seriously, you should say something to someone.”

“But that's exactly what everyone wants to see happen—you know, another reason women shouldn't be here at sea. They just cause trouble.”

“But you're not the one causing trouble. He is.”

“I know. But it won't be perceived that way. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know,” Em says. “If women weren't here, this wouldn't happen in the first place. Blah, blah, blah.”

“But you know what sucks about that? There are plenty of guys on this ship who don't treat me like this, who are decent. But I'd bet you ten to one that no matter where Commander Egan is stationed, like if he's on shore duty somewhere, he's going to be harassing the civilian secretary or a coworker or someone else. He's going to behave the same way whether out here or at home.”

“Hey, you're preachin' to the choir, honey,” Em says. “Well, it's up to you, but I would say something, because this is one fucking long cruise to be dealing with shit like that.”

I drop my sandwich on my desk and change into my new pajamas—Eric's maroon shirt. I can't explain why I brought this with me. I brought his shorts, as well. Items I should have left on the
Lake Champlain.
I didn't see Eric before we took off this morning, so not only did I take his clothes, I didn't ask his permission. And now I'm going beyond that and wearing them.

My senses have officially taken their leave.

“What, no Vikings jersey?” Em says.

I stare, a deer-in-the-headlights stare. “I, uh … no … I mean, not tonight … that is, well, no.”

“Have I seen that shirt before?”

“No … I, uh, I got it on the
Lake Champlain.
I didn't have any clean clothes, so…”

“And you're wearing that instead of your Vikings jersey? Wow, I never thought I'd see the day.”

“This shirt's just … softer.”

“Suit yourself,” she says, raising her arms so her nightgown slides over them.

I wipe the faint bit of perspiration that has just surfaced at my hairline.

“By the way, they moved the Operation Low Level brief to tomorrow afternoon,” she says.

“Wait, they didn't go ahead with the brief the day I left?”

“Nah. I guess the folks on the
Lake Champlain
are big players in the exercise, so it was postponed until they could be here.”

“Oh, I see.”

“And you've been assigned a training lecture,” she says. “Automatic flight control system. It's due tomorrow.”

“Great. Just what I need.”

I watch as she searches through her stacks of books to select a new one. “Care for some reading material before bedtime?” she says, waving a dog-eared, tattered Harlequin in the air.

“No, absolutely not.”

“Whatever, sappy pants,” she says, crawling under her covers. “Looks like the sweet dreams will be mine tonight.”

I climb into my rack, curl up sideways, and pull Eric's shirt over my knees, conflicted.

I switched shirts. My brother Ian's favorite Minnesota Vikings jersey for Eric's.

Ian's Vikings jersey has held up surprisingly well over the last nine years that I've worn it, and I've never imagined not wearing it. So it worries me how quickly I was able to fold it away to wear something else. To wear
someone
else.

I stretch out my legs, smoothing Eric's shirt so it lies flat across my torso, worrying also about the depth of feeling I would have to carry for someone, conscious or not, to allow this to happen. The thought is mind-blowing. No, that can't be. It just can't be.

 

11

Em and I arrive early for the Operation Low Level brief, which we've learned is a counterterrorism training exercise, and take our seats in the wardroom. We're awaiting the arrival of Rear Admiral Robert Carlson, the carrier strike group commander, and his party. This exercise involves multiple players—the entire battle group will be participating—so we're joined by representatives from each ship, most of whom crowd the wardroom now.

Every pilot in our detachment is required to attend because the exercise will employ several helicopters, including both of ours. We're going to act as high-speed, low-level threats to the battle group. Each ship will then coordinate the tracking and simulated destruction of each threat.

I'm happy for the diversion. It will help me get my mind off my latest run-in with Commander Egan and distance myself from the emotion-twisting experiences of the
Lake Champlain.

“Attention on deck!”

We rise and stand at attention as Admiral Carlson enters the wardroom, followed by the
Kansas City
's commanding officer, Captain Scott Magruder. Behind him, a parade of commanding officers from every ship in the strike group.

At the end of the line? My heart stops. One Lieutenant Eric Marxen.

“Holy mother of god,” Em whispers in my ear. “Look what just walked into our wardroom!”