Hover (31 page)

“Can you ask the driver if I can look for it? Tell him I'd like to check the floorboards.”

The driver already understands what I'm asking, but pretends to listen again. He gives Senior an immediate no.

“Could you tell the driver that if he has any hope of getting paid, I'm going to need to check his taxi.”

After Senior explains, we get a begrudging yes.

I open the back door and start patting my hands along the floor mats.
Please be here.…

I breathe a thankful sigh when my hand lands on leather. I pull out a wallet, but flip it open first to make sure it is indeed Commander Claggett's. I spy his military ID, but my eyes are drawn to the photo that's partially hidden behind it, probably loosened when the wallet fell.

But this can't be what I think it is.

I gently pull out the photo to confirm what I'm seeing, blinking to focus well on the young woman who stares back at me. She is probably my age and wears a flight suit. Strands of light blond hair blow across her cheeks, partially hiding her sky-blue eyes. She's laughing as she stands in the main cabin door of an H-46 helicopter.

“Did you find the wall—?” Senior says, looking over my shoulder.

“Senior…?” I ask, motioning to the photo. “Who…?”

A cloud passes over his face. “Um…” He looks back to Commander Claggett, who is still seated behind the guard shack. After several long moments, he returns his gaze to me. “I'll tell you once we get him onboard.”

I push the photo back behind his ID, then rifle through the wallet and find a one-hundred-dirham note. “Is this okay?” I ask the driver.

At least he decides to acknowledge me now that I'm waving money in his face. Well, not really acknowledge. He just reaches out, takes the money, jumps in his taxi, and screams away.

Senior and I escort Commander Claggett back to the ship and deposit him in his rack. He's snoring before we close the door.

My mind races as I follow Senior to the maintenance office. The woman … A woman in uniform. An expression of lighthearted joy on her face. How did this photo find its way into Commander Claggett's wallet?

Entering the maintenance office, Senior closes the door behind me. He motions for me to sit, then finds his own seat opposite, at his desk. With a heavy sigh, he leans back in his chair.

“Her name was Kara Hughes. She was assigned to the Sabercats.”

I nod, encouraging him to go on.

“The commander, well, he was a lieutenant at the time, fell hard for her. They were engaged when that photo was taken.”

My mouth opens wide … and stays open. No. I can't imagine it. Not in my wildest dreams can I imagine it. It's hard for me to picture him with a woman period, but a woman in uniform? Never.

“Impossible. That's impossible.”

“She had blond hair … like you.”

I shake my head.

“They didn't tell anyone about their status as a couple because they wouldn't have been allowed to fly together.”

I'm still shaking my head. A couple? Commander Claggett? No. Not possible.

“You know I've survived three Class A mishaps,” he says soberly.

My head stops moving and I feel a slow, squeezing sensation in my stomach. A sensation that moves toward a deep-rooted ache as my brain fast-forwards to an outcome I don't want to hear.

“We were flying cargo from Home Guard in San Diego to a frigate—hoist only—and she was pitchin' up a storm that day. He was at the controls.…” Senior stops and breathes deeply. “He was one of the best sticks in the squadron at the time. But it happened so fast. The right main mount snagged in the safety netting and we were pulled into one of the ship's stanchions. It ripped a hole in the airframe before we flipped over. One second I was giving hoisting calls, and the next, we were in the drink.”

Senior stares ahead as he remembers, his voice pained and distant. “The bird only stayed on the surface for about thirty seconds before she went down. Lieutenant Hughes never got out.”

“Oh, Senior…”

He takes another heavy breath, laced with grief.

“Believe it or not, Commander Claggett used to be a good guy, easygoing even, but he hasn't been the same since.”

“Is that why—”

“Why he treats you like he does? I'd bet my life on it. You're the worst possible person he could have on this detachment.”

“The worst?”

“Well, your resemblance to her is a bit uncanny, first of all. And then the names? Sara? Kara? I'll never forget when he first saw you at the squadron back home with a detachment roster in his hands. He looked at the name, looked at you, and it was like he'd seen a ghost.”

I'm back to shaking my head. That's probably why he latched onto the nickname Lace so quickly. It had to be so much easier than spitting out the name Sara.

“And to make it worse, you're a great pilot, like he was. Although truthfully, I think he knows you're the better stick, just like we do. He's blamed himself for the accident, for killing her, and I can't help but wonder if in the back of his mind he thinks that if he'd had your skills, she'd still be alive.”

“The holes in the ramp … that day … he didn't want to talk about it.”

“That cut way too close to home.”

“I had no idea.…”

My eyes lose their focus as I try to imagine Commander Claggett with a smile on his face, laughing with the woman who laughs in the photo. My eyes glass up and I blink quickly, but not in time for Senior not to notice.

“But Senior, that still doesn't explain why he treats me so badly.”

“He can't let you in, Lieutenant. Don't you see? That grief is so raw, even three years removed, that if he did, he wouldn't be able to function. The further he can push you away by learning how to ‘hate' you,” and Senior puts his fingers in quotes here, “the further removed he can remain from his grief. He doesn't want to face it. Can't face it. And every day, you're front and center, reminding him of her, so he's doing the only thing he can to survive, I think.”

“The drinking…”

“Excessive, right? There's a reason.”

I put my elbows on Senior's desk and drop my head in my hands. Every horrible thought I've ever had about Commander Claggett disappears into the realm of fresh understanding. And the thing is, I understand the grief from which Commander Claggett is trying to hide far better than Senior realizes.

When I finally raise my head, Senior regards me, his arms folded in front of his chest. “I hope I was right in telling you that. With the squadron turnover, there's no one around who knows except me. But then, I figure, it's probably good for you to know. Like I said, I remember when he was just friendly Nick Claggett. He's in there somewhere.”

I give Senior a long look. For a salty navy chief, he possesses a far bigger heart than I ever would have imagined.

 

38

“Sara, please,” Em says. “Please come with me tonight. You need to get out. You need to get off this ship.”

Most of the officers on the
Kansas City
are headed to Pancho Villa's, a Tex-Mex restaurant and nightclub housed in the Astoria Hotel in Dubai. This restaurant is a popular hangout with British and Australian expats, and therefore, just as popular with visiting U.S. Navy ships' personnel.

I haven't been inclined to do anything since we arrived in port and I certainly haven't wanted to leave the ship. Since I saw Eric two days ago, I've run for hours on the treadmill, climbed thousands of electronic feet on the stair climber, and pedaled far too many miles on the aerodyne bike.

I can't let it go—the hurt, the humiliation, the betrayal. But worst of all, I can't let go of him.

I've approached the problem by trying to sweat it out of my system. Sweat
him
out. But it's not working and I'm miserable.

I finally realize that I'm going to go stir crazy if I stay on this ship. Nothing is going to get accomplished here. And at the very least, if I go, it will make Em feel better.

“Okay, I'll go,” I say, acquiescing. “I just need to run by Commander Claggett's room first to get the flight schedule approved for tomorrow.”

“We're starting the runs to Fujairah, aren't we?” she asks.

“Yep. You're up for the first one.”

“Sweet.”

Fujairah, a coastal city in the United Arab Emirates, sits on the Gulf of Oman, about sixty miles east of us. We've been briefed that we'll be flying logistics runs and training hops to their airport throughout the next five months.

These flights are supposedly a great deal. The aircraft commanders who have flown them in the past say they often require overnight stays at the Hilton Hotel, complete with a swimming pool and buffet breakfasts. Em has been talking my ear off about these flights, how she can't wait to go, yadda, yadda, yadda.

This will be good for her, though. With all she's had to endure with me and the SEAL flights, she deserves this. And even though she and Zack have been flying far more than me over the last couple weeks, for some reason, Em is still falling far short on the flight hours as compared to Zack. Yeah, this will be good for her.

“Okay, give me a minute. I'll be right back.”

When I enter Commander Claggett's room this time, I see a person sitting at his desk who ironically has erected more defensive layers than I have. Who used to be friendly and easygoing. Who laughed and joked. Who loved a woman.

It's bewildering for me to think of him like this after we've spent so much abrasive time together. So bewildering, I forget myself and just stand, gawking.

“So you're here for what?” he says.

“I…”

I have the flight schedule in my hand, yet I've forgotten completely it's the reason I'm here.

“Still sick?” He smirks.

“Uh, no … no, I'm not sick.”

“What do you need then?”

“The flight schedule,” I say, remembering. “I need you to sign the schedule, sir.”

I hand it to him, he looks down, but snaps his head up almost immediately.

“This is not what we discussed. Zack takes this flight.”

“But Emily's lower in flight hours.”

“I know perfectly well where every pilot in this detachment stands on flight hours.”

“But, sir—”

“Why are you arguing? I said who I want on the flight and that's it, end of story.”

Em is going to be so disappointed. She was really looking forward to this. And she should be the one flying. The discrepancy in flight hours between her and Zack is glaringly obvious.

“I'm just trying to understand your reasoning, sir.”

“What the fuck, Lieutenant!”

Why did I push it?
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

But then, a normal officer in charge like Brian Wilcox would have explained his reasoning. Maybe cross-country navigation is a deficiency for Zack so he needs this particular flight more than Emily. I would get that. It would make sense.

“This is so goddamn simple! I tell you who goes on the schedule. You say, ‘Yes, sir.' You type exactly what I tell you. You give it to me for signature. Period. Do you think you can handle that?”

Several thoughts cross my mind at once. I think of Emily's disappointment. She's put up with so much crap so far this cruise, always on the short end with flight hours and dealing with the embarrassment of being pulled from flights so I can take her place. And then Commander Claggett's treatment of me, as though I was less than everyone else, and playing that damned female card—
tentative, lacking assertiveness
. It makes me want to scream. And finally, I know as well as anyone how hard it is to lose someone. And not just that, but to feel responsible for it. God, I know. But this has to stop. The treatment of Emily. Of me. And it has to stop before he drinks himself to death.

I straighten and pull my shoulders back. “You didn't used to be like this,” I say.

“What?” he says.

I have a choice now. I can say, “Never mind,” and be on my way. But I don't.

“You weren't like this before.”

“Before what? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I know about her. I know about Kara. And I'm so sorry, sir. Truly. But you can't treat other—”

I stop mid-sentence, watching the blood drain from his face, realizing what I've just done. I've plunged a dagger in his heart, and I instantly regret it. Because for a brief moment, I have direct access to his soul. I see it in his eyes. The love is there. The agony. And I've just intruded on something so intensely private, I have to look away.

“Get out,” he says so quietly that it's worse than if he had yelled it.

“Sir, I'm sorry—”

“Get out,” he says sharply.

I start to step backward. “Sir, really, I didn't mean—”

“Get the fuck out of my room! Get out now!” he shouts.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. What have I done?

I turn and grapple with the door handle.
Come on, come on!
The door finally opens and I stumble into the passageway, the door slamming behind me.

I stand with my back against the bulkhead, my breath stuck in my throat. What the hell did I just do? I went so far out of bounds with him. So far. Nothing he's ever said or done to me comes even close to what I just did to him. What was I thinking?

And then I hear it. Soft at first, but eventually loud enough that there's no mistaking it. The sounds of a grown man crying.

Oh, god …

I flee to my room.

“What the hell?” Em asks.

I move right by her and rush into the head, locking the door behind me. Dropping to the ground, I cover my eyes and let the tears come. For many reasons they come. Commander Claggett's tragic loss is just the straw.

To cry is to admit I made a grievous error in judgment, erroneously lowering my guard. But ultimately, despite four days and nights of denial, it's an admission that my heart is, in fact, broken.