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I feel so out of place. My hands are shoved in my pockets and I stare at the ground while Emily buzzes in animated conversation. In addition to the extremely uncomfortable no-uniform thing, I'm just plain introverted. It's always been this way, but now it's getting worse. And in this single evening, it's getting way worse. The more people that cluster around to join our group, the more withdrawn I become. Emily seems intent on introducing me to everyone who arrives, and I'm offered enough drinks over the next thirty minutes that had I accepted them all, I'd be lying unconscious by now.

But standing here does give me a chance to observe Emily. Sure, she's tipsy, but boy does she shine in an environment like this. Her personality flows unrestrained—loudly amusing, uncannily clever—and she draws a crowd, a big one. She seems to extract energy from a gathering like this, glowing brighter by the minute.

Me? There's no glowing here. I start chuckling as I stare at my feet, the image of a supernova and a black hole, side by side, coming to mind.

“What are you laughing at?” Em says.

“Nothing.”

“Come on. What is it?”

“You're, um … well, you're just sort of amazing, that's all.”

“Yes, I am rather amazing, aren't I,” she declares, pointing her nose up.

“I'm going to see if I can find Captain Magruder and maybe get something to eat,” I say.

“Fine,” she says, but then quickly grabs my arm. “Just come back.”

I squeeze through the crowd, wondering why she would want me to come back. I don't exactly bring much to the conversation. But she's always been like this. Even at home in San Diego. Always sticking close. The best friend thing, I guess.

I head for the buffet and spot Commander Claggett, who stands with Chad, Matt, and Zack, all with drinks in their hands. They're in deep discussion with three, no, make it four women. Doesn't look like they're going to notice much else tonight. No Captain Magruder, though, which is secretly good because it means I can't leave yet, raising the chances I might bump into Eric.

Once at the food table, I walk back and forth, checking the selection. I'm approached by a group of men wearing civilian clothes topped with navy-issue brown leather flight jackets. Out of the group of six, five busy themselves at the table while one strikes up a conversation. His name tag has only his call sign embroidered on it—Bull. He never gives me his name, nor does he ask mine. He's a bit heavyset, his jacket straining at the zippers.

He talks. I listen. All I need to do is nod my head a few times because he has a lot to say, mostly about himself. But there are moments when I have to speak up or else it would be completely awkward. So I offer questions here and there.

“So you fly what again?” I ask.

“Jets. F-14s, F-18s. You know.”

“Wow, you fly both.”

“Yeah, we switch around.”

He's lying. On several counts. First, F-14s were decommissioned years ago. Second, his squadron patch says E-2 Hawkeye, which means he's not a jet pilot at all, but flies turboprops.

“So what does your patch mean? E-2?”

“Oh, it's just another aircraft. I fly those, too.”

“Three aircraft…”

“And—not that this is a big deal—but I also fly with the Blue Angels.”

“Really? You're a Blue Angel?”

He nods.

I can't believe this. He must be awfully desperate. Even a civilian wouldn't believe this. Or would they? The more I think about it, he would probably only employ a known tactic, one he knows works. Yikes.

“So how do you do the airshows and all that when you're out here?”

“Oh, I just fly back and forth. It's no big deal. We all do it.”

“Your resume is impressive, definitely.”

“Yeah, well, when I graduated from the Naval Academy, I set some high goals for myself.”

“An Academy grad, too?”

If he is, I'll be surprised.

“You know, I had a friend who went there,” I say. “He said you all stayed in some huge dormitory, thousands of people in one building. The name began with a B but I can't remember what it was.”

“Oh, Bingham Hall, yeah. We all stayed there. But that was a long time ago.”

He didn't go to the Academy either. We lived in Bancroft Hall. No such thing as Bingham Hall, and no Academy grad anywhere, no matter how far removed or however drunk they might be, would ever forget the name Bancroft Hall.

He laughs. “I'm sorry, I feel like I've been talking this entire time.”

You have.

“Do you want—” he starts.

We're interrupted, fortunately, by a welcome voice. “Hey, Sara, is that you?”

It's Tom Jenkins.

“Tom!” I say.

Bull looks at me in surprise and then at Tom. “You know her?”

“Yeah, we were classmates at the Academy.”

Bull's drunken smile turns to a scowl. “Bitch,” he says, before marching away.

“What the hell was that?” Tom says.

“I don't know. Well, actually, I do know. He's embarrassed because he told me he was a Blue Angel, among other things.”

“Really? What an idiot.”

“Well, maybe it wasn't nice of me to play along when I knew he was lying.”

“Hey, that's on him. He was the one lying. Anyway, just forget that guy.”

Good ol' Tom Jenkins. I could always count on him to back me up. I had many classmates like Tom—forward thinking, open, and firmly seated on the tolerant end of the women-in-the-military thought continuum. Always respectful, always inclusive, a true friend in every sense of the word, and a dream for a squad mate.

But while Tom fell on one end of the continuum, there were a few who fell on the other … and it was an extreme end—the women-haters. An aberrant group who acted as if they were afraid of us, like we were contagious. Mutant humanoids to be kept at arm's length and more. They would even go so far as to ignore you.
If I don't acknowledge you, then you're really not here.

Next to them on the continuum, a slightly less extreme cadre. Those who were okay with women as a member of the species, but only if they behaved, and stayed in their rightful place—in the kitchen, the nursery, that sort of thing. They firmly believed women shouldn't serve in the military or attend the service academies. The women who did were abdicating their responsibilities to family while engaged in more selfish pursuits.

In the middle somewhere, many male midshipmen believed that yes, women
could
attend the Naval Academy, but most weren't qualified, ushered in by quota only, and not up to standards. Certainly not the standards
they
had met.

Beyond them came those who begrudgingly accepted that women were indeed up to task and could meet the standards, but who were just plain pissed, damn it, that women had infiltrated the fraternity.

And then, finally, you could exhale as you slid into Tom's space. Where women deserved to be there just like him, well qualified, equally devoted, and serving their country just like anyone else.

A roving waiter, tray in hand, passes next to us, proffering glasses of red wine. Tom takes a glass, while I politely decline.

“Hey, sorry I took so long in answering your e-mail. The op tempo has been insane,” he says.

“That's all right. It wasn't really important, anyway.”

“So do you have plans for later?” Tom asks, taking a sip from his glass. “A bunch of us are gonna grab some dinner and you're welcome to come.”

I discreetly look behind and around Tom, doing a quick scan for Eric.

“Um, yeah, maybe. Thanks for asking.”

“We're meeting in the lobby at twenty-one hundred, so if you want to join us, just show up.”

Tom's squadron mates begin to trickle over and he makes introductions. He's with a nice group. No Blue Angel stories here.

“I thought you were going to get food,” Emily says. She sidles up next to me with a fresh drink in her hand.

“I was but then I ran into Tom here—”

She leans over and whispers in my ear. “So, come on, girl. Introductions! ASAP!”

I introduce the group to Emily and then excuse myself. She smiles as I leave, mouthing, “You're the best!”

“Happy hunting,” I say.

I turn away and run smack into Commander Egan.

“Heyyy, Sara,” he says. He must be sweating alcohol, the smell is so strong. He looks me up and down, nodding approvingly. Just cue the nausea.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks.

“No thank you, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure, sir.”

And then I see him. From over Commander Egan's shoulder, a herd of stumbling partygoers moves past, revealing a small group standing just behind. Eric has just joined them—three of his detachment pilots, Stuart, Rob, and Ken; and three women who look like they've spent the entire day in a beauty salon. Talk about faces lighting up when Eric arrives. He smiles, talking easily, and I grow sicker inside as I watch.

One woman in a royal blue halter leans over to whisper in Eric's ear. He responds with a quiet laugh, at which point she slides her arm around him and one of her friends takes a photo.

I look down at my own blouse, the same bright blue, the color that Em raved about because she said it matched my eyes. It's not even close to being filled out like that woman's. And below that? Stupid faded jeans and sandals I've owned since high school.

“How 'bout a stroll?” Commander Egan says. “Why don't you and me take a stroll outside?”

“What?”

Like an annoying fly, he pesters. I swat at the air, shooing him away while my eyes remain riveted on the scene in front of me. The woman in blue squeezes Eric closer to her as the group laughs. This is so devastatingly hard to watch.

Honestly, Sara, did you really think he'd be looking for you? And why are you upset? He can talk with whomever he wants. It doesn't mean anything. And besides, there's nothing between you two, anyway, so this is just silly.

My reaction to this situation is almost more upsetting than the situation itself.

I look down again at my blouse, awkwardly tied, and my headband slides forward, reminding me I've worn my hair long.

You were trying to look nice for him. Admit it.

I chance one more torturous glance at the scene, and the woman in blue throws her head back, laughing. Her hair cascades in perfectly highlighted waves across her shoulders as she reaches for Eric's arm for balance.

Like you ever had a chance, Sara.

“Hey, this is a party,” Commander Egan says. “You need to relax.” His voice echoes somewhere in the background, but I'm not listening. I'm backing away.

In less than thirty seconds, I'm slapping the elevator button for the twenty-seventh floor. I wait until the doors close before slamming my palm into the side paneling.

“You can fly a helicopter with a failing transmission and not waver,” I say out loud. “You can stand tall while Commander Claggett throws daggers and not flinch. But you compare yourself to another woman based on what you're wearing and you slink away like a frightened puppy? You've gotta be fucking kidding me!” I give the side of the elevator one more good whack before the doors open, then shuffle to my room, defeated.

 

19

It's approaching six o'clock in the evening in the makeshift shore patrol office housed in the Harbourview Hotel's banquet hall on the ground floor. Scores of round dinner tables, stripped bare of their coverings, crowd the room. Couches and wide-cushioned chairs line the sides. Petty officers and chiefs representing each ship in the battle group, all dressed in the uniform of the day, summer whites, lounge, play cards, eat, or watch TV as they await their turn on roving patrol.

We have over one hundred men assigned to shore patrol and just one shore patrol officer—me. Our job is to aid in the security for our sailors while they're ashore, but also to act as a liaison for any matters involving the local police or other civilian authorities.

I woke up this morning at the Hyatt Regency in Kowloon, took the subway to Hong Kong Island, checked into the Harbourview Hotel, changed into my uniform, and reported for shore patrol duty at 0700. Now, back in my element, I'm regaining a bit of dignity. I'm secure here. Confident. I know how to do this.

For some na
ï
ve reason, I thought we would enjoy a light day today, being that it's Sunday. I couldn't have been more off the mark. Most of the people we've seen this morning and throughout the afternoon never went to sleep last night. We've already sent close to forty-five men back to their ships under the escort of MPs for their drunken or lewd behavior.

I've thanked the shore patrol gods several times for assigning Senior Chief Makovich to my watch. He's the oldest H-46 aircrewman in the fleet and has notoriously survived three Class A mishaps during his long, salt-and-peppered career. Class A mishaps are the biggies—total aircraft destruction, a million dollars or more of damage to the aircraft, or loss of life. Heavy stuff.

His experience shines in a situation like this. He has tamed even the most unruly sailors as we arrange for the appropriate escort back to their ships. It probably doesn't hurt that T-Bear and Diggs are here to assist him, either—easily the two largest and most intimidating-looking sailors in the battle group.

I sit at one of the back tables, catching my breath, dreaming of a hot bath and putting my feet up, when it finally dawns on me that I can sit in my room just as easily as here, and if anyone needs me, they can call.

I'm about to rise when I hear greetings in the background. “Hey, sir. What are you doing here?”

“Just visiting a friend,” Eric says.

My head snaps up, my body electric. Eric walks toward me wearing faded jeans, running shoes, and an untucked T-shirt. Damn it. Why does he affect me like this?