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of sleep, but he was clean-shaven and dressed in open-necked khaki. In front of him was a green-covered table filled with coffee cups and ashtrays. Blue-gray cigarette smoke wafted upward to the metal rafters overhead.
"This is it, gendemen, so listen up. You're here because you're the best of the best. Because you're the best, you're going to stop the Japs from taking Henderson Field. I don't have to tell you what an important link in the U.S.-Australian lifeline it is. As I speak, the Japs have four carriers, two light cruisers, eight heavy cruisers, and twenty-eight destroyers out there in the Pacific just waiting for you. It's the strongest navy force since Midway. Everyone of you flight jockeys knows how to drop a bomb and hit a target. I expect you to hit your targets dead-on. No bullshit excuses, no misses. I want each one of you to take a minute and pretend your brother is one of those marines at Guadalcanal. Because that marine is your brother, come morning, you are going up there and do the job you were trained to do, blow those sons of bitches right off the map. That's it, gendemen. Grab some shut-eye and lay off the coffee."
The wardroom was blue with cigarette smoke when Simon scraped back his chair. Maybe he should take the time to write a letter home. Maybe he should sleep and dream about dying. Jesus. Just yesterday he'd had an hour-long talk with the ship's chaplain. He'd really done all the talking, expressing his fear of dying, of killing other people, and then he'd asked for something to carry with him, something to give him comfort. The chaplain, perhaps ten years older than himself, had spoken quiedy, told him if he wasn't afraid, he didn't belong aboard the Big E. He'd handed over a St. Christopher medal, explaining that it was a medal Catholics carried with them for safety. Simon dropped the medal into his breast pocket and immediately felt better. He held it in his hand now, and he felt as comforted as he had yesterday. Maybe if he kept it in his hand, he would finally be able to get some restful sleep.
"You look a litde white around the gills, Jessup. You okay?" Moss Coleman asked. "Look, you're my wingman, I have a right to be concerned about how you're feeling."
"And I have a right to be concerned about you hot-dogging it up there. You're too fucking confident for my liking. Scutdebutt has it command is worried that you take unnecessary risks v^dth the guys and the planes. If you expect me to cover your ass up there, then you better fly right, Mr. Coleman."
"Up yours, Jessup."
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Simon grinned. "Is that anyway for you to talk to the guy who's probably going to save your ass? What if I look the other way, you cocky son of a bitch?"
"Don't even think about it. You do your job, and I'll do mine. Look, all our nerves are a htde raw. I'm sorry if I got off on the v^ong foot. Let's call a truce. We're here to do a job, so I say let's do it the best way we can. We're the best of the best. Crommelin said so, and I believe him. You're a hell of a pilot, Jessup. Live up to it, and you'll be almost as good as I am."
In spite of himself, Simon griimed. He was the first to stretch out his hand. Moss Coleman's handshake was bone-crushing. Simon neither flinched nor grimaced as he exerted just as much pressure as Coleman. Both men eased up at the same moment.
"WTiere are you from, Coleman? My mother's maiden name was Coleman."
"Texas-bom-and-bred. How about you?*'
"Nevada, home of gold and silver. You have a faint resemblance to my bro . . . never mind."
"Finish what you were going to say, Jessup. I'm curious. Maybe we're related."
"You look sort of like my brother Ash. Same high cheekbones, same stance, same body build. I'm sure it's my imagination."
"No, no, the next time I write home I'll ask Pap. What's your mother's name?"
"Sallie. Her middle name is Pauline. She has five sisters, four that she hasn't seen in years and years, and two brothers. She doesn't talk much about her early life."
"Pap doesn't either. He's self-made, pulled himself up by his bootstraps and made a go of it. We have a 250,000-acre ranch back in Texas. I'm real proud of him. How about you?"
"They call my mother Mrs. Nevada. She owns the city of Las Vegas. She had some good luck and things went on from there. I think she owns the whole desert."
"What do you do with a desert?"
"I have no idea, but if there's something to do with it, my mother will figure it out. They say she's the richest woman in the country."
"Are you trying to impress me, Jessup?"
"Were you trying to impress me with your 250,000-acre ranch?"
"Yep."
'*WeU I wasn't. If I ever try to impress you, it will be with my own accomplishments, not my mother's."
"Touche, Jessup. What about your father?"
"My father is a schoolteacher."
"My mother was a schoolteacher. I'll check it out, Jessup. You got a picture of your brother?"
"Yeah, I do, want to see it?"
"You bet. I have a sister."
The two pilots exchanged snapshots. Moss Coleman was the first to speak. "You're right, I see a resemblance between your brother and me. I also see a striking similarity between your mother and my father. What do you think, Jessup?"
"I think you're right."
"Where's your brother now?"
"I have no idea. He joined up a few days after I did. We aren't exactly the best of friends. I wish it was otherwise, but it isn't going to happen."
"Yeah, I know what you mean. I have a sister ... I like her, but Pap, he . . . frowns on me having a ... it isn't worth discussing. Like I said, I'll check this out. I think I need a little more to go on, like where did your mother live exactly."
"In a tenant shack outside of Abilene. She told me her two oldest brothers took off at an early age, and that's all she knows of them."
"Pap came from some pretty humble beginnings himself. I'm glad we had this little talk, Jessup. I'll make sure I look after you up there, you do the same."
"Okay, Coleman." This time there was no bone-crushing handshake. They clapped each other on the back before they went their separate ways, each to write a letter home.
The predawn message was from the headquarters of the commander, South Pacific Force, and signed by Admiral Bill Halsey. Brief and to the point it read:
ATTACK. REPEAT. ATTACK.
Simon stood on the flight deck and watched as aircraft were raised from the hangar bay and rolled to the catapult mechanisms on the runway. Sailors in yellow jackets wearing radio headsets listened for the order to signal takeoff'. He could feel his heart thundering in his chest, louder than the thrum of the engines. He looked around trying to gauge the expressions on the other pilots' faces. He
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thought he saw excitement as well as fear. He knew his own face registered only fear.
His helmet and goggles in hand, his leather jacket unzipped, Simon walked over to Moss Coleman, who was shaking hands with his best buddy, Thad Kingsley. "Gk)od luck, Coleman."
"Same to you, Jessup. I'll see you back in the wardroom."
'*You bet. Here comes my plane." For one brief moment, Simon thought he was going to lose his breakfast. The moment he climbed into the Silver Dollar, the name he'd christened his plane, he felt as one with the machine. He took smother moment to savor the feel of the St. Christopher medal inside his glove. He used up more seconds going over his checklist. Satisfied, he squirmed in his seat, his parachute grinding into his back.
The target was the thousand square miles just north of the Santa Cruz Islands.
Standing amidships. Moss saw the Silver Dollar catapult into the air, her wheels barely skimming the deck before she reached the edge. He wondered how it was possible for Adam Jessup to be a better pilot than he was. Better even than Thad Kingsley. He just knew if he peeled offjessup's shirt, he'd see a pair of wings. The guy was bom to fly, just the way he was bom to fly. They must be related somehow.
"Here comes the Texas Ranger, " Thad said quiedy. "Make damn sure you get back here in one piece, you hear
me, you Texas bastard."
"I hear you, you Yankee cracker. I'll be back and you damn weU better set your wheels down right behind me."
Navy Fighter Squadron Four took to the air, eight pairs of glinting wings in the early sun. Simon flew starboard wingman for his squadron leader. Moss Coleman, holding slighdy in the V-formadon. The hunt-and-search pattern was on.
The attack came from the rear with only fifteen minutes of flying time remaining. "Zeros, up-sun, twelve o'clock!" Simon looked up, squinting, and had his first sight of the enemy. His eyes locked on the fuel gauge. He bit down on his lower lip, tasting his own blood as his hand massaged the medal inside his glove.
Curses, some he'd never heard before, were mumbled into headsets as grim and determined faces peered through the cockpit windshields. Explosive firepower flew all about the Americsin fighters. Coleman radioed their position back to headquarters. The return
radio message was curt and to the point. Pursue and attack! Where there were Japanese carriers, there would be Zeros.
"Break formation," Coleman's voice ordered. "Wind around and jump from the rear."
The squadron spiraled portside and dropped to 12,000 feet. The Zeros were still on their tails. Kingsley, second port wingmaA, broke radio silence. "Squad four, Zeros hanging back. Repeat, two Zeros hanging back. Total seven enemy."
"Jessup, Kingsley, drop back and get them," Coleman commanded.
Simon and Kingsley held back on the throttles, losing air speed, allowing the rest of the squad to shoot ahead. Turning to port, they climbed to seek their Zeros. The Japanese craft flew toward them at a thirty-degree angle, coming from above. Simon saw Kingsley veer to the east. The Zeros trailed him, increasing air speed and losing altitude. Kingsley was a duck out of water. Simon, in that one split second, knew he had to cast aside everything he'd learned in flight school. There was no rule book up here; this was Kingsley's life.
Moss Coleman v/atchedJessup, his mouth hanging open as he spiraled down, then up and around. He saw the double bursts of fire, swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving Jessup's and Kingsley's planes. "I goddamn well didn't see what I just saw," he muttered. "And the son of a bitch talks about me breaking the fucking rules." His fist shot upward when he saw Jessup's Wildcat circle and head back, Kingsley behind him, but direcdy overhead of the two burning pyres.
Simon eyed his fuel gauge again as Kingsley's voice rasped, "Zero on your tail, Jessup, head on home, litde buddy, one good turn deserves another, I got the bastard covered."
"Like hell you do, you Yankee. Zero four o'clock. I got him. You take care of Jessup's tail, and I'll cover yours. I'm on fumes," Moss said.
The simultaneous bursts of gunfire rocked Simon. He looked down, saw the two Zeros burning like paper lanterns. He looked to his left and then to his right, Coleman and Kingsley giving him the thumbs-up salute. He returned it, the medal warm and moist inside his glove.
"All in a day's work, gendemen," Moss said flippantiy. "Time to go home."
On a course for the Enterprise, the three pilots headed home to refuel. It was the beginning of a very long day.
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The last sortie of the day found Simon watching Moss Coleman's Texas Ranger soar into the gray sky, away from the squadron, and back to the Big E. Something was wrong. He felt his stomach chum when he looked upward to see the fighter pilots fi-om the Hornet flying in formation. With four of their own aircraft incapacitated and now Coleman heading back to the Big E, that left only Kingsley, Conrad, and himself to fight off seven Zeros. He felt less than jubilant with the sight of the fighter planes overhead. The St. Christopher medal felt hot in his hand—hot and safe.
They came from all directions, out of the setting sun, their firepower shattering Simon's eardrums. It was worse than all of his wicked dreams put together. He used every ounce of his flying skill to maneuver the Silver Dollar up, dov^m, around and then he did a vicious roll, came out of it and fired point-blank at the Zero coming straight for him. He watched the black smoke spiral upward.
"Now that's what I call fancy flying," a lazy voice drawled overhead. "Head back. Silver Dollar, the Wildcat to your right looks like she's going down. We'll take over here. If we ever meet up, I'd like to shake your hand."
Simon craned his neck to see the plane on his left. He had time for only one brief look that almost sent him into a tailspin of his own. "Ash, is that you?"
"It's me in the flesh, htUe brother. Head home, your buddy isn't going to make it."
"Help me. Ash," Simon pleaded. "The waters are full of Japanese, he won't have a prayer."
"I told you to head home. Silver Dollar. I can't break formation. Goddamn it, Simon, get the hell out of here. There's a Zero on your wing. I got him. You owe me, littie brother."
Simon banked hard left and soared downward, his eyes on Conrad's plane.
"Eject, Conrad, eject!" he screamed into his mouthpiece. "I'll fly in low and drop you a line."
"Get out of here, Simon. Head home. That's a goddamn fucking order, Simon!"
Tears burning in his eyes, Simon's hand straddled the throttle as he soared upward into the sun. Blinded for the moment, he almost missed the sight of Conrad's parachute jerking him upward. He headed home, he had his orders. With only minutes of fuel remaining, he hit the deck of the Big E with expert precision, the St. Christopher medal soaking wet inside his glove.
On wobbly legs, tired to the bone, Simon headed for the debriefing room. All he could think about was Ash and the four meatballs painted on the side of his plane to denote kills of enemy planes. Ash. Ash had called him little brother, had said he wanted to shake his hand. Jesus.
Later, after long hours of batde between ships and aircraft, the Japanese navy retreated, leaving Guadalcanal and the marine bases intact. Simon acknowledged two enemy Zeros destroyed, Coleman two, Kingsley two.
Back in Nevada, SaUie Thornton continued her daily prayers. They were always the same: please, God, bring my sons and every other mother's son home safely. Bless all those I hold dear.
Part Two
fes=9
Fanny Logan
1943-1961
The 1943 graduating class of Shamrock High School tossed their caps in the air as the band struck up the John Phihp Sousa march that would take them outdoors to the football field. A festive party was under way, thanks to the parents and faculty members.
Forty-five graduates clustered in little groups, some tearful, some boisterous. There were manly handshakes, hugs, promises, and more tears.
Fanny Logan circulated among her peers because she didn't have a best friend. She allowed herself to be embraced, clapped on the back, and kissed on the cheek. All she had to do was turn in her cap and govm, providing she could find her cap, eat her hot dog, drink her soda pop, say one more round of good-byes and thank her two favorite teachers for their help during the past four years. Then she could go home to finish packing for her cross-country trip.
'*You did it, honey, you graduated in the top three percent of your class. I'm proud of you, cherry button," Damian Logan said as he swept his daughter off her feet and high in the air.
As one, her two brothers said, '*Who would have thought a squirt like you could come out on top."
Fanny laughed. "Only because you guys helped me with my homework. Truth is truth. You know me and numbers." They grinned, as did Fanny. "We're gonna miss you."
"And I'm going to miss all of you. I'll write and call, at least once a week. Swear to me you'll take good care of Daddy. Daniel, swear to me."
"I swear, but don't you think it's going to be a little difficult for us to take care of a 220-pound, six-foot-three man?"
"Not at all. Brad, promise me."
"You shouldn't even ask such a thing. We're family, Fanny. Make sure you keep your promise to write and call. We need to know where you are at all times. You've never been outside of Shamrock, so we're going to worry about you. Families always worry when
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&n
bsp; someone leaves the nest. Just because we don't have a mother doesn't mean we aren't like other families. You give us one minute of worry, and I'll come out there and drag you back. Dad's going to be like a wet cat until he knows you're safe and sound. Just remember, Pennsylvania is a lot different from California."
They were wonderful, this small family of hers. She smiled and knew they would all relax immediately when she said, "I love all of you, so very much. I know you and Daniel went to bat for me with Dad. I'm responsible, so you can stop worrying. Daniel, who got you out of that mess with that girl from Pittsburgh who was hell-bent on marrying you? And, Brad, who convinced Dad to let you get that motorcycle? Me, that's who. Although I think that was a mistake. You better not make me sorry I stood up for you."
"Yeah, well, you better not get mixed up with any jerks, Fanny."
Fanny loved it when her brothers blustered the way they were doing now. God, how she loved these three men who had raised her. "Let's not be talking about jerks, Brad. It's time for you to start thinking seriously about Susan and maybe getting engaged. She's going to find someone else if you don't start whispering sweet things in her ear."
Daniel cackled with laughter.
"I wouldn't laugh if I were you, Daniel. You should be married with at least two children. At the rate you two are going I'll have my own children before you do. I want to be an aunt, and Daniel, when I was in the hardware store last week I heard Ellen say she was thinking about joining the WACs. You guys are free now, you don't have to look after me anymore. Listen to me, both of you, I truly, truly appreciate the way you've looked after me all these years. I love it that you are best pals with Daddy. Please, don't be afraid to leave him. I'm doing it, I'm going to make my way. Maybe if the two of you did . . . you know, get married. Daddy would maybe start being interested in Mrs. Kelly. She's certainly interested in him. Give him some breathing room, okay?"
"Eighteen and she knows everything already," Brad said.
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