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“You guys are lucky,” Eric says, silently appearing at my side.

The current is a jolt this time.

“We're lucky?”

“To have a salad bar,” he says, picking up a plate. “This would never fit in our wardroom.”

“Oh, yeah. This is really a great thing.”

I add spinach and cucumbers to my lettuce bed, and out of the corner of my eye, I see that he's filling his plate, too. Maybe he's extra hungry. When I watched Emily take her seat next to him earlier, he had already been served a full plate of food, which included a salad.

The ship takes a heavy roll and the cherry tomato I'm trying to harness with the salad tongs slips and accelerates across the grooved railings in front of the vegetable bins. I quickly grab the side of the bar to keep my balance as the tomato goes airborne at the end of the rails. Eric's hand shoots out, snatching it in midair.

I raise my eyebrows. “Nice save.”

He turns to me, latches onto my gaze, and holds it. Uncanny, how he does that. And his all-business demeanor from earlier evaporates.

“I wanted to ask how you were doing,” he says in a low voice. “I didn't have a chance to talk with you before you left yesterday morning.”

“The flight went fine. We did the maintenance checks and—”

“I wasn't asking about the aircraft,” he says. “I was asking about you.”

“Oh.” The effort required to pull my eyes away is a monumental one. I focus on the construction of my salad, stalling, adding items that under normal circumstances would never find their way onto my plate. Olives, anchovies …

“I'm doing all right,” I say, looking resolutely at the salad bins. “Thanks for asking.”

Emily's half-baked Harlequins flash through my mind, expounding on the heated magnetic pull between two people. Nonsensical nonsense, I call it. And that is
not
what's happening here. Not onboard a navy ship. Not in a wardroom. And most definitely not in uniform.

I continue mindlessly adding ingredients, my head spinning.

I will not succumb to this. I won't. Besides, there's nothing to succumb to. It's the rolling of the ship. That's it. My stomach hasn't been feeling right today anyway.

“You know, I wouldn't have taken you for the jalape
ñ
o type,” he says.

“Jalape
ñ
o … what?”

He points to my plate and I cringe. The jalape
ñ
o slices awkwardly outnumber the tomatoes and cucumbers combined, creating a dull green boundary layer of way-too-hot-for-me peppers that nearly covers the entire salad.

Holy hell, Sara. Where is your dignity?

I straighten and look at him directly, preparing to say my good-byes, but notice for the first time a scar that traces across his upper lip. It only makes him more handsome—in a rugged, no-nonsense sort of way.

Okay, that's it. I'm done. This is getting out of control.

I need to get away from here. Now.

I move to turn back to my seat, but a hand on my arm stops me; that and a shot of something that just rocketed through my body the moment he touched me.

“Can I ask you something?” His eyes shift to look behind me for a moment before he speaks again. The tone is not at all playful as it just was. “Commander Egan … Is everything all right there?”

I hesitate, deciding he doesn't need to know. “Yes, why wouldn't it be?”

“You flinched when he sat next to you,” he says, removing his hand from my arm.

How did he notice that? I was sitting at the far end of the table.

“It's fine,” I say.

“It's
not
fine.” His eyes hold mine, daring me to say otherwise.

This is altogether new to me—someone needling into my feelings like this. And he's right on the mark, too, which is even more disconcerting.

“I need to go,” I say, and turn back to my seat.

“Soooo, do you know Lieutenant Marxen or something?” Commander Egan says. “You took forever getting your salad.”

“No … no, not really,” I say.

I pretend to scoot my chair in closer to the table while actually moving it farther away from him. The supply officer who sits next to me has got to be wondering why my chair is now rammed up next to his.

Eric watches all of this, his jaw set. He then crosses the room to Admiral Carlson and leans into his ear before returning to his seat.

“Commander Egan!” Admiral Carlson calls from across the table.

“Yes, sir.”

“I need to speak with you.”

“Yes, sir.” Commander Egan pushes back his chair and walks to the admiral's side.

It's difficult to make out what they're discussing. Something related to Operation Low Level, I think.

“You know, sir,” Eric says, addressing Commander Egan loudly. “You can just have my seat. It would probably be easier than having to stand there.”

“That's a great idea,” Admiral Carlson says.

Eric pushes his dinner plate aside and rises. He has a quick word with Petty Officer Sampson, who comes to my side, collects Commander Egan's plate, and takes it to his new seat.

Commander Egan doesn't look happy with the new seating arrangement, and neither does Em, for that matter.

I share a quick look with Eric as he exits the wardroom.
So there,
his expression reads.

*   *   *

I swore to myself I'd go back to Ian's Vikings jersey, but here I am, second night in a row, slipping into Eric's maroon shirt. He never asked about it today in the wardroom and I wonder if he realizes I have it. I rub the spot on my arm where he placed his hand, trying to get my head around the still-tingling sensation.

Em roars into the room like a tornado. “Okay, so tell me this!” she says, the door slamming behind her. “How is it that you can describe a full two days spent on the
Lake Champlain
and fail to mention a certain Lieutenant Marxen?”

I turn and busy myself in my closet, hanging my khakis with extra care. “Easy. He's just another guy,” I say, speaking to my clothing.

“Just another guy? Just another guy? He's a fucking Greek god! You don't omit details like that!”

“There were almost four hundred men on that ship,” I say, turning to face her. “Sorry I didn't mention every one.”

“But you did,” she says, plopping into her desk chair. She holds up her fingers to count. “Let's see, Brian Wilcox, Stuart Grady, Ben Holcomb, Rob LeGrand, Ken Watkins. Hell, you even mentioned Seaman Ogilvy, who served you coffee. So it's highly improbable that you would have missed—”

She straightens, her eyes widening. “Wait a minute. Wait one fucking minute!” Her eyes bore into mine, like she's a coldblooded dective on the hunt. “There's something going on between you two, isn't there?”

“No, of course not,” I say.

“Yes…,” she says, drawing it out for effect. “Now it makes sense. I wondered why he went up to the salad bar when he'd already been served a salad.”

“That doesn't mean anything,” I say.

“And you talked. For a
long
time.”

I shake my head.

“And he stared at you. I remember that. And you were looking back … with like, weird dreamy eyes.”

“I was not!”

She nods, the facts stringing together in her head forming a neatly packaged conclusion—one that suits her romance-infected mind perfectly.

“You
like
him, don't you!”

“No, absolutely not.”

She continues as if I haven't said a thing. “You purposely avoided telling me about him because you're
smitten
and you didn't want me to know!”

“Em, that's ridiculous! Stop it.”

“Unfreakingbelievable!”

“You are
so
off base.”

She crosses her arms. “Your heated denials only serve to clarify the truth of the matter.”

“Besides,” I say, “it's not allowed anyway … not that there's anything there … I mean, to be allowed…” What a stuttering mess.

“Ha! There
is
something there. And yes, it
is
allowed! You're of equal rank. You're in different squadrons. No conflict of interest. Boom! You're good! You are
so
good!”

“Enough, Em. Enough! I'm going to bed.”

“Hold on…,” she says, rising, her mouth agape. “Hold on!”

“What now?”

I've never seen Em move so fast in my life. In less than a second, she has the back of my shirt collar in her fist, giving it a firm yank.

“I knew it!” she says.

“What the hell are you doing?” I say, spinning on her.

“Size large!”

Her hand goes to her heart and she staggers backward, her eyes furtively roving across my torso. “That's his shirt, isn't it?” she whispers.

I shrug.

“Oh my god, you're wearing his shirt!” She collapses on the bed, flopping backward, her hands gesturing to the overhead. “That's so fuckin' romantic, I can't stand it!”

“Em, wait, hang on! After we landed, I was a sweaty mess and I didn't have anything clean to wear. He just let me borrow it. That's all.”

“That's all?” she says, shooting upright. “That's all? Do you have any idea what this means?”

“Em, it was just a clean shirt.”

“AGHHH!” she shrieks, clutching her hair. “You suck at this, you know that? You don't even grasp the implications. His shirt. His shirt! On you! Part of him on you! He's claiming his territory, Sara!”

“Claiming his territory? Em, that's ridiculous.” I point to her stack of Harlequins. “Too many of those in your head.”

“No, no, no!” she says. “I
know
how this works and you don't!”

“Em, I can't handle this conversation.”

I jump over her, launching from her mattress up to my bunk. But she stands and grips the railing, peering over the side.

“You can't hide,” she says.

“Go away, Em.”

“You are
so
busted.”

I pull the covers over my head and turn away from her, but I can hear her breathing. And even though I can't see her, I know she's smiling. An I-got-you smile. I hate those kinds.

“This shirt is softer, my ass,” she says. “Case closed.”

 

13

I've remained at the controls since Operation Low Level commenced at 0400. We've had our hands full with the challenge of flying on a moonless night, an inky black moonless night. We're doing it the old-fashioned way, too—without night vision goggles. In typical military fashion, they were recalled by the manufacturer, but without replacements being offered. I have a throbbing headache because the concentration required during a flight like this is all-consuming.

On a night like tonight, without goggles, it's hard to know where the ocean ends and the sky begins. With no horizon reference, flight decks resemble little more than lighted postage stamps, floating in the middle of space. Everything seems to float—the stars, radio antennas, buoys, ships—in one vast, black, spherical void.

When you can't discern the water from the horizon, if you aren't sharply focused on your instruments, you can get disoriented in a heartbeat. Many pilots have flown their aircraft into the water at night, never realizing they were descending, until it was too late.

I breathe a relieved sigh when the sun finally makes its friendly appearance. We land on the deck of
Nimitz,
and I have to pull the dark visor of my helmet down to shield my eyes from the glare. But the security I felt upon landing quickly fades. You know the seas are bad when a mighty ship like this heaves with the waves, as it is now. The bow drops below the horizon and the pale new-morning sky that just filled my view is devoured by the leaden sea. Counting the seconds, I wait anxiously until the bow rises upward again, restoring my view of the heavens.

The cycle repeats. I inhale and exhale in time with the troughs and crests. A living ocean. It breathes. It waits.

I take a sip from my water bottle, pulling my gaze into my lap, forcing myself to think of something else. Anything else.

So far, Operation Low Level has proceeded without a hitch, and just as Captain Magruder said, the Shadow Hunters have run the whole thing. Actually, Eric has run the whole thing. His voice has been a constant on the radios, calm as you please, directing one of the most complicated exercises I can remember. In fact, this has been one of the most well-run large-scale operations I've ever been involved in.

While the H-46 platform offers unmatched maneuverability for its lifting capacity, the H-60 helicopter is unrivaled for its command and control capabilities. The Shadow Hunter aircraft contains sophisticated, powerful radar equipment, which, when linked to the Aegis weapons system aboard the
Lake Champlain,
further extends its already considerable operational range, allowing Eric to direct us just as an air traffic controller would.

I've had plenty on my plate tonight, but it didn't stop my brain from internalizing the charge I felt the moment I heard his voice. But that electric feeling has paved the way for a nice helping of guilt for the way I've treated him. He was absolutely right. The situation wasn't fine with Commander Egan on the
Kansas City,
nor was it fine with Commander Claggett on the
Lake Champlain.
He was only trying to help and I pushed him away.…

When I look up, Messy leads an eight-man SEAL squad to our aircraft. Because their faces aren't camouflaged, I recognize most of them from my last cruise. We worked with the same group.

The man who boards last hooks his helmet to our internal radio system. “This is Lieutenant Mike Shallow,” he says. “I'm the squad leader for the exercise today.”