Nereids Ch. 05

One of those pieces of shrapnel had actually gouged a furrow across David's calf. The wound wasn't deep, but it was painful, and he'd nearly tumbled to the deck when he tried to climb down the side of his plane.

When David limped back from the sickbay, Young told him about the extent of the damage to his aircraft. David turned ashen-faced and promptly bent over a nearby trash can to throw up. No one said a word. The other pilots simply looked at each other, their faces hard, eyes tight with understanding.

**

Jack lay awake for a long time that night, with streams of green tracers playing behind his unseeing eyes. David had dived into that maelstrom three times. And then he'd braved the still-heavy fire to make two more attack runs.

Jack laced his fingers behind his head and asked himself—for the umpteenth time—if he would've done the same thing. The gung-ho part of him said yes, but visions of Susan and the boys loomed in his mind's eye. Had David thought about Beth? Had he thought about Paul and Erin? Had he even thought about himself?

Jack knew fear. He felt it every time he attacked into ground fire. He felt it when the radio erupted with SAM warnings. And he felt it during night landings, when the carrier was a mere ghost of half-imagined lights in the distance. But he always conquered his fear and did his duty. Still, he wondered what kind of courage it took to make repeated attacks into overwhelming fire.

Did he have it?

He thought he did, but in the silent darkness of his cabin, he wasn't so sure. The thought gnawed at him until he fell into a dreamless, troubled sleep.

He woke the next morning and put thoughts of fear out of his mind. The squadron had to fly a strike, and he wasn't about to let the other pilots shoulder the burden alone.

Unfortunately, the flight surgeon had grounded David because of his leg wound, and the doctors in Da Nang still had Commander Scarlatti. So the XO led the squadron on a strike against a "suspected ammo dump." They didn't take any ground fire, and didn't observe any secondary explosions. Jack cynically wondered who'd planned the mission, but he kept his mouth shut.

The skipper returned to the ship that evening. He was scraped and bruised, but no worse for his ejection and near-brush with the North Vietnamese Army. He was half-full of medicinal brandy, though, and retired to his stateroom after a brief word with David and then Commander Waulk.

The mood in the squadron ready room was mixed: happy to have the Old Man back, but upset over the day's pointless mission. Jack played a half-hearted game of backgammon with David, losing three dollars in the process. When he retired to his cabin, he re-read Susan's latest letter and then added to the serial letter he planned to send the next day. He looked up at a knock on his door.

"Come in."

The door opened and Jack rose at the sight of Commanders Waulk and Featherston.

"As you were," Waulk said.

The cabin wasn't large, and the three men filled it completely. Waulk shut the door and glanced at Featherston, who was as taciturn as ever.

"I'll get right to the point," Waulk said at last. "Commander Scarlatti wants to recommend Ensign Hughes for the Silver Star. But the commander doesn't consider himself an impartial witness, so he asked me to take the lead."

Jack blinked in surprise.

"Since I wasn't there in person, I'm talking to the section leaders who were," Waulk continued. "And my question is this: do Mr. Hughes's actions constitute 'gallantry in action,' or simple recklessness?"

Jack snorted softly. "What gallantry isn't reckless? They don't exactly hand out Silver Stars for tending to your knitting, sir."

"A good point," Waulk said. "But was Mr. Hughes acting out of disregard for his own safety, or was he simply ignorant of the danger?"

Jack felt his expression harden as he bit back a sarcastic answer. "You've flown with him," he said at last. "He may not be Einstein when he's on deck, but put him in a plane and he's sharp. Real sharp. Hell, he's better at getting ordnance on target than most of the guys in the air wing, much less the squadron. You know that, Frank."

Waulk looked up sharply at the use of his first name, but nodded at the truth of Jack's words.

"So, do I think David's actions constitute 'gallantry in action'?" Jack asked, repeating the semi-official question. He tossed his head dismissively. "No question, sir... they do." He turned to Featherston. "You saw that ground fire, Terry. Would you have flown into it? Five times?"

Featherston's heavy silence was answer enough.

Waulk rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Then he turned to Featherston. "Write up your account, Terry," he said softly. He turned back to Jack. "Write up your account of the events, Lieutenant, and have it on my desk by oh nine thirty tomorrow. I've asked Lieutenant Commander Young to—"

"What did he have to say?" Jack interrupted.

Waulk didn't answer.

For once, Terry Featherston grinned. It was lopsided and a bit doleful, but a grin nonetheless. "Alvin wanted to recommend him for the Navy Cross," he said at last.

Jack blinked in amazement. The Navy Cross was the second highest award in the Navy, second only to the Medal of Honor.

"Mr. Young might have been... unduly impressed... by the amount of damage Mr. Hughes sustained during his attacks," Waulk said. He snorted and said in an undertone, "It's a miracle the kid wasn't killed."

Jack nodded.

"In any event," Waulk continued with the voice of authority, "I agree that Mr. Hughes's actions are worthy of commendation."

Jack nodded. "I'll have my report on your desk first thing in the morning, sir."

"Good," Waulk said curtly, nodding.

With that, the two men left, leaving Jack to stare at the closed door.

**

A week later, a strike near the Thanh Hoa bridge turned into a disaster: Keith Olin was hit by anti-aircraft fire during his attack run. His damaged electrical system sparked a fuel leak and his plane caught fire. He ejected, but the other pilots watched in growing alarm as his parachute drifted toward a hill in the midst of a concentration of enemy troops.

For half an hour, the pilots did everything they could to hold off the better part of an NVA regiment. But when Search and Rescue arrived, the ground fire only intensified. Sandy Lead assumed command of the rescue operation and quickly determined that the Vietnamese were using the downed pilot as bait.

Undaunted, Sandy pressed the attack, calling upon every aircraft in the area. He threw them into the fight, raining fire and death on the North Vietnamese. The battle raged for more than three hours. The remaining Warhorse pilots even flew back to the carrier to rearm and refuel, in order to return to the fight.

But if the Vietnamese never got close to Keith, the Search and Rescue helos didn't either. They encountered withering ground fire every time one of them approached. The battle ended abruptly when the enemy walked mortar fire across Keith's hilltop position, killing him.

Jack seethed with fury as he flew back to the carrier. He felt an overwhelming urge to do something—anything—to kill the enemy. He wanted to rearm and refuel to fly a third sortie of the day, to drop his bombs on the first village he saw. He wanted them all dead. D-E-A-D, dead.

Anger and resentment were thicker than the cigarette smoke as the pilots gathered in the ready room for debriefing. Terry Featherston tried to lead them in prayer, but they answered with desultory grumbles. David furiously glared into space, his knuckles swollen from where he'd punched a steel bulkhead. Alvin Young, Keith's section leader, looked worst of all. His eyes were red and his face was creased with lines of self-recrimination.

"All right," Commander Waulk said, upon seeing them when he entered the room, "we lost a man today. I'm upset too, but we're naval officers, and we have a job to do."

"Yeah," someone muttered, "kill the fucking gooks."

"Fuckin' ay right," Jack echoed darkly.

"Who said that?" Waulk demanded.

"It doesn't matter," Commander Scarlatti said as he entered. Softly: "At ease, Frank." To the room in general, he said, "Listen up! I talked to CAG a few minutes ago, and I'm taking the squadron off the line. We've had a tough couple of weeks, and we need some time to recover."

"What we need is more bombs," someone groused. "McNamara and his fucking bean-counter Whiz Kids can kiss my ass if they think we don't have a shortage."

"Secure that, mister," Waulk barked.

Scarlatti glanced at Waulk and a look passed between them.

Waulk glared for a moment longer, but then backed down.

Scarlatti turned back to the room. "Yeah, you're probably right about the bombs," he said, "but that's above our pay grade."

The pilots looked sullen, but reluctantly agreed.

"But it isn't above my pay grade to order you to take some R-and-R," Scarlatti continued. "We're to stand down for a week. Half of you will take planes to Da Nang for three days of Rest and Relaxation. When you return, the other half will take three days. But Commander Waulk is right: we are naval officers, and we do have a job to do. When we resume combat operations, we will be sharp and well-rested.

"Now, I know you're all upset about Keith," Scarlatti said into the silence. "I am too. Hell, the whole air wing is. But that doesn't mean we stop doing what we came here to do. Is that clear?"

The men reluctantly nodded.

"Now, I've drawn up a list of names for the first group to Da Nang. I want you to forget about North Vietnam. Forget about flight ops. Just relax. Go to the beach. Get drunk. Get laid. Hell, I'll even give Mr. Cousins permission to get laid for me," Scarlatti added.

Half-sullen chuckles greeted his crack.

"Keith was a good man," Scarlatti said at last, and the men sobered. "He was one of us, our brother. But he's in a better place now."

"Or a hotter place," Jerry muttered.

"It can't be much hotter than here," someone else said.

"You didn't know Keith."

"Keith's in a better place now," Scarlatti pressed on, "and if I know him, he's watching over us. He'd want us to keep going, to keep fighting. And he'd want us to remember him the way he was... full of life."

"And full of beer," Schmidt said feebly.

"And full of beer," Scarlatti agreed with a strained laugh, his eyes sad. He handed a slip of paper to Waulk and then waited for the murmuring to die down. "Gentlemen, Mr. Waulk has the R-and-R list. The first group departs at oh six hundred tomorrow." He paused to look around the room, meeting eyes and holding them before moving on. "We lost a good man today. You have a right to be upset. But don't dishonor Keith's memory by forgetting what we came here to do."

After a last look around the room, Scarlatti nodded solemnly. "Carry on."

**

Beth heard Susan shut Paul's bedroom door and walk quietly toward the dining room. Erin was already asleep in her room, but Paul had wanted Susan to give him a backrub before he took his nap.

"He was telling me what he wants for his birthday," Susan said, smiling as she took a seat opposite Beth.

Beth arched an eyebrow, a silent, "Oh?"

"Mmm hmm," Susan continued, grinning. "He wants his daddy to come home. And he's decided that Erin can stay, as long as she doesn't play with his cars."

Beth grinned.

"Oh, and I almost forgot," Susan added, "he said he needs more blocks. He doesn't have enough. He said he's going to build a house where his daddy can stay, instead of going on cruise. He said 'Uncle Jack' can stay in the house, too."

"Sounds like you two had quite a conversation."

With a grin, Susan nodded. Then she took a sip of lemonade in an attempt to cover her expression as it turned serious. "Did David tell you about Keith Olin?"

Beth nodded and blinked back a sudden rush of tears.

"Jack said they recovered his body. The Search and Rescue planes guarded him till they could land a helicopter."

Beth nodded. David had told her much the same thing.

"They had a memorial service for him in Da Nang."

"Is there anything we should do?" Beth asked.

Susan shrugged. "Mary said his car is parked in a neighbor's garage, and he had several trunks full of his personal items. They'll go to his next of kin."

Beth nodded. She wondered how he could live like that, packing up everything he owned before every deployment.

"He was talking about getting a house," Susan said, as if reading her mind.

The two women sat in silence for several long moments.

"Congratulations on Jack's promotion to Lieutenant Commander," Beth said, breaking the silence by changing the subject.

"Thank you," Susan said. "And congratulations on David making Lieutenant JG. Jack said they had a ceremony in the admiral's briefing room. He also said that Don Scarlatti used the bars from when he was a Lieutenant JG."

Beth felt a rush of pride at the compliment the commander had paid David. But then she thought about Keith, and her pride felt empty and hollow.

"What did David say about his medals?" Susan asked.

Beth looked up and shrugged. "He doesn't think he deserves them. Not the Silver Star, at least."

"Jack told me what he did," Susan said softly.

Beth nodded. David had told her a sanitized version of the story, but she could read between the lines. He was hiding something, and she knew him well enough to suspect what.

"I don't know the particulars," Susan continued, "but Jack said he saved Don's life."

David hadn't said the same thing—not in those terms, at least—but Beth knew how loyal he was. "I should probably be proud," she said at last, tears stinging her eyes. She swallowed hard. "I am, but..." Her vision turned watery.

Susan was there, holding her, whispering quiet words.

Beth let out a great sob.

"Shhhh," Susan said, rubbing her back, "it's all right."

"What if it had been David?" Beth asked, ashamed at her relief that another man had been killed, another man instead of her husband.

Susan shushed her again. "Nothing's going to happen to David," she said.

Beth let herself go and cried, tears running down her face, sobs wracking her shoulders. Susan merely held her, a quiet, comforting presence.

When Beth finally regained enough composure to choke back her tears, she simply buried her face against Susan's shoulder and sniffled. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

"David's going to be just fine," Susan said at last, her voice soothing. "Trust me."

"I know," Beth said, "but sometimes I just can't help thinking..."

"Don't," Susan said, an edge to her voice.

Beth nodded and swallowed hard.

"Don't," Susan repeated, softer. Then she crouched in front of Beth and looked into her teary eyes. "Listen, there's nothing we can do about it. The guys take care of each other. What happened to Keith was a random thing. A fluke! It can't happen to David and Jack, because they watch out for each other."

Beth knew she was right, but she still felt the weight of dread in her chest.

Susan smiled, tender and affectionate.

All of a sudden Beth felt a rush of very unladylike emotion. She closed her eyes, burying her face in her hands and trying to drown out the image of Susan's eyes.

"It's all right," Susan said, misreading her reaction. "David will be fine."

"I know," Beth said at last, wiping tears from her cheeks. She tried to smile, but her lip trembled and spoiled the effect. She blinked several times, until she could see clearly. Her eyelashes were sodden, and her eyes were already starting to sting.

"C'mon," Susan said softly. "Let's get you cleaned up." She looked down at her own blouse, and the dark stain of tears and mascara. With a deliberately lighthearted laugh, she said, "Let's get both of us cleaned up."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Beth said.

"Nonsense," Susan said, standing and pulling Beth to her feet. "All in a day's work."

Beth tried not to balk as Susan turned her and propelled her down the hallway. Once they reached the master bathroom, Susan began matter-of-factly unbuttoning Beth's blouse. Beth recoiled in shock, but quickly mastered her emotions.

"Here," Susan said, undoing the last of Beth's buttons and indicating her own blouse. "We'll soak these after you wash your face."

Beth had to fight down a momentary urge to flee. What if she takes off her bra? she thought frantically. Conflicting emotions assaulted her. She wanted to see Susan's breasts. She wanted to see the rest of Susan, for that matter. But it's wrong! Nice women do not want to see other women's breasts. Nice women do not think of other women in "that way."

"Come on, be a good girl, wash your face," Susan said disarmingly. "I'll get the Woolite."

Beth robotically bent over the sink and washed her face. When she finished, Susan handed her a towel. Beth dried her face and then turned to look at the full-length mirror. Her eyes were drawn to Susan, who stood with her blouse open, her bra exposed.

Beth quickly covered her face with the towel and listened as Susan began filling the sink, adding a capful of Woolite to the basin. She felt a rush of heat and desire, and tried to suppress it.

"Here, give me your blouse," Susan said.

Beth shrugged and let the shirt slip down her shoulders. She tried to fight down her desire, but it was no use. Unfortunately, it only grew more intense when she heard the soft rustle of fabric as Susan took off her blouse.

Beth swallowed hard and tried to master her emotions. She tried to think about David: his face, his shoulders, his chest, the trail of hair leading from his navel to his...

Stop it! she cried silently.

Thinking of David only made things worse. The rush of heat between her legs turned to heat and moisture, and she fought the urge to squeeze her thighs together.

"Are you okay?" Susan asked.

"What? Oh? I'm fine," Beth said quickly, lowering the towel. Her face felt hot, and she knew her cheeks must have been cherry red. Her chest felt hot too, and her nipples...

"Do you mind if I borrow one of David's T-shirts?" Susan asked.

Beth shook her head, recoiling from her own thoughts.

When Susan returned a moment later, she casually took off her bra.

Beth tried not to stare at her breasts, but she couldn't help herself. They were so round and full, dark pink areolas surrounding stiff nipples. Beth's face burned with a mixture of shame and desire. She swallowed hard and looked away.

"Are you okay?" Susan asked again.

"Oh, yes, I'm fine," Beth lied.

With that, she mustered her courage and dropped the towel. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then, her eyes still clamped shut, she reached back and felt for the catch of her bra.

It took her three tries to open it, and when the heavy elastic finally popped free, she almost gasped in relief. With her eyes still closed, she shrugged, and the shoulder straps slid down her arms. She discarded the bra and swallowed hard. Again.

Her heart raced and her breath came in ragged gasps as she opened her eyes. She desperately hoped Susan hadn't seen her nervousness, but when she caught sight of the other woman's reflection, her hopes died.

Susan was grinning wryly. Worse, she still hadn't donned her borrowed T-shirt.

Beth fought an internal battle in the span of a heartbeat. She desperately tried to keep her eyes on Susan's face. She fought not to let them wander to what she wanted to look at. She did everything she could, every fiber of her being straining to...

They're so beautiful, she thought, losing her battle in an instant of weakness. She tried to pull her eyes away from Susan's chest, but she couldn't. She felt mesmerized, transfixed.