Problems in life had become only one. Getting gas. Bingo fuel levels to United Arab Emirates were coming up fast, and she did not want to leave Bushman to return to the ship alone. The basket stabilized.
She eased forward again. The probe caught the edge of the basket, and in a split second decision to either try it anyway or pull back, she eased her jet back.
The tanker began a slow turn in its figure-eight pattern to avoid running into unfriendly airspace. This was getting complicated. Getting gas while in a turn or even a change in altitude was possible, but it certainly made the flying interesting.
She looked at her fuel on board. This was not a good night to go swimming. Another minute and she diverted to UAE.
She nudged her approach to two knots closure and matched the tanker’s turn rate. She pushed the probe into the basket, nudging forward to bend the hose. The tanker’s amber light turned green showing flow. She watched the fuel gauge creep up.
For nine minutes she stayed focus. Very focused. She was hugging the belly of a gas tank with fuel flowing at a thousand pounds per minute. She was determined to control the wind, not the other way around.
Fuel reached 9.0. She slowly disengaged from the probe. The drogue relaxed.
“Eagle 01, fuel 5.0. Thanks, tank.”
She reduced power to three knots separation.
She had fuel.
One problem down.
She slowly descended and retracted the fuel probe. That had been twenty minutes she would not care to repeat.
Bruce, I miss your not being around to catch me if necessary.
Doing her job halfway around the world late at night when the rest of the air wing had called it a night and it was just her and her nugget wingman preparing to break to the landing pattern was incredibly lonely.
Bushman nearly bumped her. She tossed her plane into a forty-degree bank to avoid the wing clip.
“Sorry, Eagle 01.” He broke radio silence to apologize.
Eighteen
* * *
JULY 1
P
ENSACOLA
, F
LORIDA
Bruce was sitting on the beach when he opened the letter from Grace. He’d changed into ragged shorts and slipped on tennis shoes over bare feet and dealt with the sweat of hanging drywall by wading into the surf. It was a good tired that came from the end of a hard day of work. He hollowed out a holder in the sand for his soda.
“Hi, handsome.”
He raised a hand in acknowledgment but didn’t bother to look. The women running on the beach were universally cute but he had other priorities. Emily rejoined him and vigorously shook her coat to rid herself of salt water. “Really, honey, did you have to do that?” He wiped his face dry on his arm, then reached over and wiped her nose off where sand was clinging. “Admit it, you’re a fraud. You’re only as old as you want to be.”
Emily sank down with a sigh on the towel he had brought out for her and rolled over on her side. Jill was right. The dog was a duchess, an old duchess. Bruce leaned over and retrieved a piece of salt-water taffy. He unwrapped it for Emily. “Enjoy.” It would take her twenty minutes. Bruce stretched out on his beach towel and carefully opened the letter he had intentionally saved. This one had set a record, arriving within a week of being sent.
He started reading. And his smile faded; this wasn’t good.
Lord, I didn’t need this one.
Bruce ~
I’m okay. My profound conclusion at the end of today—life is about handling one crisis after another and still having enough energy left to be standing to handle the next one. Tonight I nearly ran out of gas, nearly got hit by my wingman, and had to land with an uncertain lock on the left landing gear. It turned out to be a wiring short. I’m wiped. But I’m standing, sort of. I’m leaning against the wall beside the third deck post office mailbox hoping being upright keeps me awake long enough to sign this.
Give Jill a hug for me. She sent me fuzzy slippers. I owe her a big one. I won’t mention what happened to my socks last week. (Actually it was pretty funny, but it will need to be told in person to convey its true dimensions. Those who think we Navy brats have boring lives have never seen us play.)
Night, Bruce.
Gracie
Bruce reached for the pad of paper and pen he’d tossed beside his towel.
Grace ~
Thanks for starting that last letter with “I’m okay.” I can read between the lines. I hear near swim. It’s a sunny day here, 1500 Saturday afternoon. The sand is warm, the surf is calm, the water a clear rich blue. It would still kill you if it could. The Persian Gulf isn’t so nice; it would eat a jet or a pilot in a gulp.
When Gulf Air Flight 072 went down with 143 people aboard while trying to land at Bahrain International Airport, I was stationed about ten miles away. The search and rescue went on through the night, and when daylight came, it became clear why no survivors had been found. The water was shallow, five feet in most places. It was strewn for miles with wreckage, life vests, clothing, and victims.
It’s not the way to die, honey. If it comes down to a choice, take your chances on the broken bones and get out of the plane while you have a chance. You may dread yanking the ejection handle, but I’m confident that if it’s the best option, you’ll take it. Wolf would be miserable without you, not to mention Jill and me. Tell your nugget wingman to pay better attention next time; there’s a SEAL and a PJ watching.
The thing is—I know an accident is as likely to happen on any day while you are deployed; the last trap is just as dangerous as the first. And I know what can happen during training stateside. You’re talking to a man who is very much a realist about such things. The military pays me to worry about pilots. I know the risks firsthand. You have a career built on no margin of error. So you handle it like most pilots by simply not thinking about it or that it could be you. That invincible confidence is a wonderful thing that keeps you calm, working problems to the very last item in a checklist. You’re in my prayers daily, Grace. I’m grateful you have such a focused intensity to be the best; it keeps you alive when those surprises happen.
How about a mushy letter?
I want to write you one without you misunderstanding why. I think you’re a special lady, Grace. And you’re coming home to the place you once said felt incomplete.
Why don’t you try to close the circle and find that completeness? There are a lot of us around who see you for who you are and who would gladly make room for you in our lives. Me, Cougar—who bugs Wolf for news about you—Rich, who somehow managed to acquire your picture too. (Not that I wouldn’t have a few words with those guys if they dared to do more than flirt, but that’s another point.)
With Ben you saw the separations as a problem that couldn’t be overcome. Grace, being apart is not good or bad, it’s just part of the relationship. We’ve done pretty well at a friendship for six months. Take a risk. Find out what you can have stateside in the next months. On the next sea tour you can find out if it can comfortably coexist with your job. That’s the secret of peace; it’s not complicated. It’s putting together the parts of who you are and letting yourself be complete.
Do you have plans for your Fourth of July? I’ll be watching the fireworks here and thinking about you. Next year if we’re both stateside you’ve got a standing invitation to join me. See, I just planned part of your life. Life is about planning events that you would enjoy and keeping all those plans that life lets you hold on to.
I’ve been trying out that list of things you were homesick for; it had some wonderful items. I’m sending you a big batch of Sunday comics. Enjoy. I’ve taught Emily to love popcorn. The TV with lots of channels has even less on it than you’ll remember.
I’ve been lazing around the beach the last four days, feeling about as energetic as a baked clam. I’m glad to be home, Grace, but only to you will I admit I already miss the deployment. I was on the front lines. Now, I’m back training to get the privilege to go back to the front lines. Please don’t ever let the long days and the distance leave you thinking you made the wrong career decision. You made a valuable one, and I, for one, deeply appreciate what you do. I wish you were sitting on the beach with me today, able to see the civilians walking by. They have no idea what is being done around the world to keep them safe.
The ring Wolf gave Jill is very special. I’ve never seen her so happy and so nervous at the same time. She’s looking forward to seeing you.
I’m looking forward to your return home too. I miss you, Grace. August 26 is less than eight weeks away. Think of me occasionally between now and then.
Bruce
Psalm 34:7–10
The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and delivers them. O taste and see that the Lord is good! Happy is the man who takes refuge in him! O fear the Lord, you his saints, for those who fear him have no want! The young lions suffer want and hunger; but those who seek the Lord lack no good thing.
JULY 4
USS
GEORGE WASHINGTON
(CVN 73)
A
RABIAN
S
EA
OFF THE
C
OAST OF
O
MAN
From the vantage point of vulture row, the planes on the flight deck were being moved around like cars on a big parking lot. Grace loved to watch the activity. She’d come to the best viewing spot on the ship. Vulture row was a narrow balcony just aft of primary flight control, six stories above the flight deck, one of the few places where a spectator wasn’t in the way. Elevator one lowered two planes to the main hangar deck in the heart of the ship. It was a down flight day and a welcome day off.
There were worse places to spend the Fourth of July.
She watched Bushman land and catch the third wire. He was learning.
Lord, all the sacrifices to reach here have been worth it.
She was content.
Bruce ~
I have enjoyed your letters. Your last one has put me at a bit of a loss for words. Touched is probably the closest to capturing the emotions.
The deployment is wrapping down, and tomorrow we will officially hand off offensive flight ops to the USS
Truman
. I’m at peace. It’s been a good deployment. I told Wolf before I left that when I returned, I’d be ready to move on. The low-grade grief that lingered after Ben’s death has begun to fade. Frankly, hard work is a wonderful remedy for what ails.
I’ve made some fabulous friends on this tour. Living on top of six others does that. I’m going to feel lost those first few weeks home with all the space. Would you do me a favor and bring a handkerchief with you? I have a feeling I’m going to need it when I see Jill. I’m presuming that you will be there, and I don’t mean to do so. Already the awkwardness of translating a friendship on letters to one conducted in person has begun—forgive the stumbles as I sort this out. Please know I’m approaching it with no expectations. I’d much rather simply enjoy whatever comes.
I’m sure I’ll be riding the ship to the pier rather than getting the privilege of being one of the seventy-five pilots who get to make that final ship to shore flight. I don’t have enough seniority yet. It’s probably just as well as it’s going to take me those last couple days aboard to figure out how to pack my duffel bags to bring everything ashore. I am always astounded by how much I’ve acquired.
Rome should be excellent. Thanks for the restaurant tips. Heather and I are planning to have a wonderful time. I always have a problem setting aside the work to truly play, but I think I’ll manage it for the three days ashore. I know, I know. I’m in the Navy; I should have world tourist in my blood, but in reality I find it overwhelming. The language mix is confusing, the traffic incredible, the prices unexpected, and the history around every corner astounding. I’ll go to Rome and accumulate my one shore visit memory for this deployment.
I’m going to do the smart thing and turn in now. Good night, Bruce.
God bless, Gracie
Nineteen
* * *
AUGUST 19
N
ORFOLK
, V
IRGINIA