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“At ease,” Admiral Carlson says. “Please take your seats.”

As we sit, Em is drooling. “He looks like he just stepped out of fuckin'
GQ
magazine! Why can't they grow 'em like that on our ship?”

I motion with my head that she should pay attention to the admiral now that he has started speaking. But I'm not listening either. Eric stands to the side with his hands behind his back. He's wearing a khaki uniform, no ribbons or awards on his chest, just gold pilot wings above the left breast pocket. I wonder why he remains standing while the others in the arrival party have seated themselves.

I tune in to Admiral Carlson. Silver-haired, tall, and trim, he possesses a commanding voice that surprises. “We've completed almost three weeks of this cruise with the prime objective of making good transit time,” he says. “Because we've made good progress, and because circumstances in the Middle Eastern theater currently allow it, our port call in Hong Kong is still a go on the schedule.”

The news is met with smiles and audible sighs of relief. Ever since we cruised out of San Francisco Bay—what seems like years ago, not weeks—the rumor mill has been rife with speculation that all port calls were going to be canceled en route to the Gulf. Tidings from the Middle East have not been good. The aircraft carrier we're relieving, USS
Kitty Hawk,
has sent numerous messages saying we would be needed on station sooner rather than later. Everyone in the room knows we have to be ready at a moment's notice to drop everything, port calls included, to get there ahead of schedule, if necessary.

“This also means we have time for larger-scale exercises during our transit—critical training, in my opinion, if we're to carry out our mission once on station.” He pauses briefly to survey the room, conveying the seriousness of the statement. In other words, time to leave thoughts of liberty behind and get on with the real business of training. “Operation Low Level is one such exercise that demands your undivided attention and focus. So without further ado, I'll give the floor to Lieutenant Eric Marxen, who will be acting as lead for the exercise. Lieutenant Marxen,” he says, motioning to Eric.

As he steps forward, Emily nudges me. “Why is he giving the brief?” she whispers. “He's just a lieutenant.”

“I have no idea.”

“Not that I'm complaining,” Em says. “I'd rather watch him than a wrinkled old admiral any day.”

“Shhh,” I say with a discreet shove on her arm.

“Thank you, sir,” Eric says.

He begins to speak, and he owns the room. Some people are natural leaders and Eric's one of them. As I listen, I tick down a laundry list of character traits—smart, quick on his feet, engaging, articulate … and strong. Not just strong physically—it's clear he's lean and fit—but a confident strength brews on the inside, too. He's no different now than he was on the
Lake Champlain.
If anything, just more impressive.

Shut it down, Sara. Just shut it down. You know you can't go there.

But still. An exercise of this scope isn't normally run by someone of my pay grade.

“… following the fifth high-speed, low-level run, the Sabercats will have the fast rope,” Eric says. “That'll be a squad from SEAL Team One. Target is to be determined.”

I glance at Em. She has her elbows on the table, chin propped in her hands, and is wearing a dreamy expression that's not exactly the most appropriate for a counterterrorism exercise brief. But how can I judge her? It's not like I'm walking the walk at the moment, either.

Well, you'd better start! How about now, shall we?

There. I've scolded myself. I listen as Eric fields questions from the admiral and several commanding officers with finesse. They seem particularly interested in the fast roping portion of the exercise.

When SEALs need to board a vessel quickly for hostile takeover, fast roping is one method to deliver them. The rope can be positioned in several places—over the aft ramp, out the main cabin door, or over a square cutout section in the underbelly of the aircraft we call the “hell hole.” SEALs slide down the rope, or ropes, one after another, until the entire squad is dispatched in a matter of seconds.

“How long would I need my flight deck open for that if we're the target?” asks Commander Eichorn, commanding officer of the destroyer USS
Leftwich
.

“No more than five minutes, sir.”

“And what about pickup?”

“That won't be necessary,” Eric says. Light chuckles spread through the wardroom.

If SEALs don't require a helicopter pickup, they can depart via other means—by an inflatable, motorized raft called a Zodiac, or they can swim out. Zodiacs haven't received a mention in the brief today.

“… and the commencement of the exercise is scheduled for zero four hundred tomorrow morning, weather permitting.”

Eric answers a few more questions before wrapping up the brief, but then we're not given the standard dismissal. Normally, we'd be called to attention again and the group that arrived together would leave together. But the executive officer stands and announces the meeting has been concluded.

I know I shouldn't be watching this, but it's interesting to observe Eric interact with our skipper. They're shaking hands now and laughing like old friends. Interesting … It's the first time I've ever seen Captain Magruder smile.

I look down at Em, who hasn't moved. “Everyone's leaving,” I say. “You're starting to look a little obvious.”

“Oh, all right. Spoil my fun.”

Emily rises and we're almost to the door when we're corralled by Commander Claggett and the rest of our pilots in the lounge area.

We have three aircraft commanders in our detachment. Commander Claggett is one, of course. His prot
é
g
é
, Lieutenant Chad Henkel, is another, and acts as the assistant officer in charge. Unfortunately, he follows Commander Claggett's lead on most everything, including his attitude toward Emily and me.

Matt Zemekis completes the aircraft commander trio. He has trouble keeping his hair cut to regulation and is currently experimenting with extra-long sideburns for some reason I can't fathom. He does treat me decently most of the time and isn't too bad to fly with.

Zack Taylor is the final member of our pilot group. He's a helicopter second pilot like Em and me. All three of us are hoping to earn our aircraft commander designations by the end of cruise. Even though he's a second pilot, he leads the aircraft commander group socially, attracting women in droves. Like Matt, fortunately, he tolerates Em and me pretty well.

“Captain Magruder wants to see those of us who are flying tomorrow,” Commander Claggett says. “We're meeting in his office in five minutes. That'll be me, Chad, Matt, and Lace.”

“But I thought Zack had the flight,” I say.

“That's what I thought, too,” Commander Claggett says. It's hard not to notice the disappointment in his voice.

“So what gives?” Zack asks.

“Fuck if I know,” Commander Claggett says. “Captain Magruder's orders.”

As the group breaks up, Emily starts hitting me on the arm. “Oh my god, he's walking over here. He's walking over here!”

Eric approaches with a guarded smile.

“Hi, Sara.”

“Hi, Eric.”

Emily loses all decorum. “You
know
him?” She gives me a look like I've been keeping a big secret from her.

“Well, actually, we just met,” I say. “When I was stuck on the
Lake Champlain
.”

“Eric Marxen,” he says, putting out his hand to Emily. “Nice to meet you.”

She shakes it, but carries the oddest look on her face. I don't think I would have believed it unless I'd witnessed it myself, but Emily is speechless.

“Captain Magruder invited us to stay for dinner,” Eric says, turning to me. “But I need to stop by the maintenance office first. I was hoping you could direct me there.”

“Oh, I'll show you!” Emily pipes up, suddenly finding her voice.

“Thanks,” he says. “And Sara, I trust you've been told you're flying tomorrow.”

“I just found out, yeah.”

“Captain Magruder will go over the details with you when you meet.”

“You know we're meeting?”

“I
am
in charge of the exercise.”

“But—”

“I don't want to keep you,” he says. “Emily?”

“Here, come on,” she says. “The office is this way.”

As I watch him walk away, I realize I'm bothered by our interaction. While polite, he was all business. Although, should I really expect his behavior to be any different after the way I dismissed him on the
Lake Champlain
?

But this is good. This is what I want.

Right?

*   *   *

Entering the commanding officer's quarters, I find Captain Magruder in a huddle with our three aircraft commanders. He motions for me to join them.

“For the exercise tomorrow,” Captain Magruder says, “Nick, I want you flying with Lieutenant Denning. Lieutenant Henkel, you'll fly with Lieutenant Zemekis.”

This is highly irregular. The captain of the ship doesn't assign flight crews.

“I want to reiterate the importance of executing clean flights with exacting scrutiny on the gauges,” Captain Magruder says. He hands Commander Claggett and Chad briefing cards that detail the headings, altitudes, and speeds required. “Five runs each. No deviation from the altitudes or speeds listed.”

We all nod, but I wonder why he's so keen on the details for this flight. Normally, we'd just execute our mission and be done with it.

“As you heard in the brief, this training exercise has Admiral Carlson's full attention, mostly due to the fact that every ship in the group has some role in the tracking and simulated destruction of the low-level threats,” Captain Magruder says. “Keep to the timeline and the established holding patterns since we'll have the Shadow Hunters and Nighthawks in the air, too.”

The Nighthawks are a squadron of H-60 Seahawk helicopters deployed aboard the
Nimitz
.

“The Shadow Hunters will take the lead, acting as airborne command. Their word is final,” he says. “Following the low-level runs, you have a zero seven hundred overhead at
Nimitz
to pick up a squad from SEAL Team One for a fast rope to simulate hostile boarding. You'll be given the target name then. The overhead to target is scheduled for zero seven fifteen. You need to be in, out, and gone over the target deck.”

Captain Magruder looks directly at Commander Claggett. “Nick, that's going to be your bird, and Lieutenant Denning will be at the controls for that.”

What…?

I do a quick scan of the faces of Commander Claggett, Matt, and Chad, and see that I'm not the only one surprised.

“Yes, sir,” Commander Claggett says.

“That's all I have,” Captain Magruder says.

Very odd. Exceedingly odd. No, make that unheard of. The captain of the ship dictating who will be at the controls on a flight? Never.

What the hell is going on?

 

12

As we enter the wardroom for dinner, it's far louder than normal because of our visitors from the Operation Low Level brief. Admiral Carlson is already seated with Captain Magruder and the other commanding officers. I notice that Eric sits with them.

Captain Magruder motions Em and me over, and he and Admiral Carlson rise.

“Sir, this is Lieutenant Sara Denning and Lieutenant Emily Wyatt,” Captain Magruder says.

“Nice to meet you both,” Admiral Carlson says, extending his hand. “I want you to know we're happy to have you with us in the strike group.”

“Thank you, sir,” Emily says.

That was weird. I wonder why we were singled out like that. Well, no matter. I turn to find a seat, surreptitiously glancing in Eric's direction as I do so. Shoot. He catches me peeking because he's looking right at me.

But that's not what gives me pause.

“Is she the one?” Admiral Carlson whispers.

“Yeah, that's her,” Captain Magruder says.

I bring my eyes to theirs, but they don't look away. I wonder if they know that I heard them. Scanning to the left, I see that Eric's eyes haven't left my position.

Emily heads to the open seat next to Eric, while I turn, finding two free chairs at the far end of our U-shaped table arrangement. Petty Officer Sampson, our lead mess crank, hurriedly approaches with lemon water and a larger-than-normal menu. I glance up to see that Eric is giving his full attention to Emily.

Switching my gaze to Admiral Carlson, I think about the comment I just overheard. “Is she the one?”
What on earth?

I don't have a chance to consider the question, though, because Commander Egan shatters my concentration with his arrival. He sits next to me, adjusting his chair until it touches mine, and I recoil. When he gets close, my skin gets prickly. I swear, I'm going to break out in a rash as this cruise progresses, with him around.

“Sara, Sara, Sara,” he says. “Talkin' it up with the admiral, I see.”

Maybe he's trying to be funny? I don't even look at him. “Yes, sir.”

I had planned to order something off the menu because Petty Officer Sampson has pulled out all the stops for Admiral Carlson. But I don't want to sit here waiting for my food, drawn into a conversation I don't want to have with Commander Egan. I can give myself space by selecting from the salad bar instead. I push my chair back, and as I walk away from him, every inch I put between us allows me to breathe easier.

I pick up a plate from the storage well and begin piling it with lettuce. The salad on the ship isn't great by most people's standards, but for me, I'm eating better now than I normally do. I inherited little—actually, make that none—of my mother's legendary culinary skills, so having a mess hall has always been one of the perks of military life for me.