Wind whipped up as a Pave Hawk circled lower. Seen from below, it looked like a big black deadly bird. A steel cable was lowering. The gunfire was getting closer. Hurry, guys. Please hurry.
“This is going to hurt like crazy, but there’s no other way to get you out. The vest will protect your shoulder from the worst of the shocks. You’ll feel the pressure as it inflates,” Bruce said, slipping something gray around her.
She closed her eyes as his shirt brushed across her face.
“I don’t want you to try to help me. Just stay relaxed and limp. I’m going to be lifting you out from behind.”
The fear at that idea was intense.
He leaned around to see her face, and his eyes burned with intensity as he studied her. “I won’t hurt your shoulder. Trust me.”
She believed he would try but everything hurt.
The vest inflated, the pressure tightened to the point of pain. His hands slid behind her back. “On three.” She cried out at the movement, unable to prevent it, every bone and muscle in her body coiling away from the pain.
For a moment she swung in the air with only the strength of his arms keeping her from tumbling. Then his partner grasped her legs and she was lowered down. The relief to be lying down was enormous.
Bruce knelt beside her, rapidly securing straps. He looked dangerous kneeling there, very much the soldier he was. Blood from his hand dripped on her face; he grimaced and wiped it away. “Sorry.”
“’s okay.”
He locked the cable onto the stretcher. “Take her up, Rich. I’m going to destroy what’s left of this plane.”
Rich leaned over and attached Bruce’s cable instead. “I’ve already got the charges planted. Get out of here.”
Bruce shared a look with his partner, then looked down at her. “Close your eyes. We’re going up.”
He looked up and touched his radio. “Raise us, Dasher.” Before she could get ready for it, the stretcher was lifting from the ground. The sky circled above her as the stretcher spun.
Bruce covered her face as they approached the helicopter, protecting her from the intense wind. He was dangling from a cable beside the stretcher being hoisted to a chopper with gunfire going on below them. He did this for a living. The assumptions she’d had about PJs had changed. It took something more than bravery to do this job.
“Grab her.”
She felt hands grasp the stretcher at her feet and it stopped spinning. Metal scraped against metal as she was pulled inside.
The relief was overwhelming. Thank You, Lord. Thank You.
Her stretcher was lifted a foot and clamps locked it down. Striker swung in beside her and rapidly unlocked the cable. “Get Rich out of there.” The cable was swung out and lowered again. “What do we have?”
“A reinforced squad of rebels trying to work down the pass. They won’t get past.”
“I never thought they would.”
Watching a guy smile in face paint was interesting, as was watching him while lying flat on her back.
The soldier beside her winked at her then looked at Striker. “What took you so long?”
“She was sitting on a live sidewinder.”
Her eyes flew to Bruce’s at that comment.
“I figured you didn’t need to know.”
She swallowed hard just thinking about what could have happened. No wonder he had been so insistent she not try to move.
He ripped open a package from his bag. He drenched a sterile bandage in water and carefully wiped away the worst of the blood on her face. “How’s the headache?”
“Horrible.”
“Any double vision?”
“Hard to tell. You did a good job with the face paint.”
“Feeling better I see.”
She winced when he touched her nose. It felt broken. “Is Thunder okay?”
“Peter?”
“Down in Iraq,” she whispered.
“The Twenty-seventh went after him.” Striker looked forward to Dasher. “Did you hear anything?”
“A broken arm. He’s fine.”
She supposed it was relative. In their business, being alive was the yardstick by which success or failure was judged.
Rich was pulled aboard.
“Dasher, get us out of here,” Rich yelled forward. “I rigged them for four minutes.”
The chopper tipped nose down and headed east. It was nothing like flying a plane; she was glad the stretcher was latched down.
“Wiggle your toes, Gracie.”
She did, despite the hurt.
“Good. Any numbness?”
“No.”
“How about your ribs?”
“Sore. It’s just my shoulder.”
“Twenty minutes and we’ll have a doctor looking at it.”
She had to know if she would fly again. It was her whole life. “How bad?”
“You’re alive,” Bruce replied softly.
She closed her eyes. He was right. She was alive. “I owe you two dinner.”
For the first time his hand shook as he brushed her cheek. “And your dog tags.” He tucked a survival blanket around her, designed to trap in the warmth. “Close your eyes and rest.”
She accepted his advice and sank back into the darkness, letting herself relax.
Thirty-Three
* * *
NAPLES, ITALY
The hospital corridor was too narrow and too short, making it hard to pace, and the overhead lights had an annoying flicker in them. Bruce found his boots echoing in the corridor matched his headache. The other PJs had stepped downstairs to try and find out what they could about the strikes now going on within Iraq. The retaliation for a shot-down pilot had been swift.
Jesus, please. There weren’t words for the prayer, only emotions. He wiped at the blood on his hands, finding them shaking as he tried to focus. He’d held it together for the last hour, but it was hitting him now. Someone had shot down her plane. The reality kept bumping into the disbelief that it happened. He was grateful he had the moment to himself because he was ready to admit he never again wanted to deal with such a night. The image of her in the cockpit, the unseeing gaze— Ecuador had been nothing compared to this.
One of the swinging doors at the end of the corridor burst open. Bruce turned, braced for another reporter having gotten past the security. “Wolf! Wolf, she’s going to be okay.” He stepped in front of the SEAL and nearly got trampled. “Easy.”
“Where—”
Bruce stopped the man and squeezed his shoulder tight. “Surgery.”
Wolf went pale. Bruce pushed him up against the wall, knowing exactly how he felt.
“I was working on a collapsed bridge outside Incirlik, trying to shore it up so relief convoys could use it, when Bear found me. You brought her to Naples. What, why—?”
“She made a mess of her shoulder. They want to stabilize the pain and send her stateside as soon as they can, possibly tonight. It’s a bit like operating on a pianist’s fingers; they don’t want to do the detailed work here.”
“The press—”
Bruce nodded. “I saw them outside. They’re swarming. Another reason to get her stateside.”
“She’s going to hate the attention.”
Bruce would have smiled; he knew a bit of what it was like after getting the deluge of mail from his own recent encounter with the press, but his heart was too heavy. “Not as much as she’s going to hate being grounded.”
“She’ll fly again?”
Bruce looked at his friend, just looked. And felt like his heart was breaking.
“Bruce—”
He shook his head.
“No. It will kill her not to fly,” Wolf whispered.
“I know.”
Bruce could only hope she remembered God still loved her and he still loved her, when she heard the news. Grief was going to hit Grace hard, and his own personal nightmare was beginning. She was going stateside tonight . . . and he was returning to Turkey.
Wolf punched the wall.
* * *
Grace gagged at the taste in her mouth and felt heat like she was baking in the desert sand. She fought through the incredible thirst and the pressure in her chest, the sensation she was fighting g-pressures that would crush her.
“Easy. It’s just a dream.”
“Wolf?”
“Right here, Gidget.”
“Where were you when I needed you?” she whispered.
“Gracie—” The pain in Wolf’s voice was incredible.
From the other side of the bed a hand reached for hers and tightened. “Honey, he’s been here,” Bruce said, coming to the defense of his friend.
She kept looking at Wolf. “Fourth grade. Carrie.”
Her cousin blinked, then laughed. “Still aggravated with me over that one, are you?”
“Same blasted shoulder.” She fought to lick her lips. “Hurts worse this time.”
“I know it does,” Wolf said gently.
Bruce rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand. Grace interlaced her fingers with his. “Surgery . . . over.”
“You came through it just fine,” Bruce said.
She wiggled her toes. “All my fingers, all my toes . . .” She smiled against the old rhyme and closed her eyes. “Where am I?”
Bruce slipped her an ice chip. “Naples.”
“That’s not good.”
“Turkey didn’t have a standing hospital that had room for you.”
“Okay.”
“Or the press,” Wolf added.
“Famous, huh?”
“Your picture has already made CNN. Your friends are doing a good job talking about you—so far saying only nice things. I got to see Jill on TV tonight.”
“Really?” She attempted a smile at that news. She was fighting to stay with them. “I’m tired, guys.”
“We’ll let you sleep.” Bruce leaned over and kissed her cheek, then moved to release her hand. She held on.
“Pray for me before you go,” she whispered. She saw tears come into his eyes. “Pray Ephesians 1:17.”
His hand tightened around hers. “Jesus, I pray that Grace will know You better and better and better . . . .” He leaned over and kissed her. “I love you, Grace.”
“Ditto.” She looked over at her cousin. “No penguins.”
He laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes. “Gracie, you’re priceless.”
* * *
Bruce sat down on the bench near Wolf. Dawn was breaking. They would be transporting Grace soon, returning her to the States. Wolf was turning an envelope in his hands, letting it slip to one end and tap against his finger, turn, and slide to the other corner. “What do you have?” Bruce asked.
“Grace wrote me a ‘just in case’ letter before she deployed last year. I put it in my Bible. I wanted to be reminded that something could be worse than what happened tonight, so I opened it.” He turned the letter and offered it. “Read it.”
Because of the pain in his friend’s eyes, Bruce accepted the letter. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Bruce slipped out the page of paper and read.
Wolf ~
Grace. This is a letter that I know you are going to hate reading. It’s okay to be mad at me. I promised not to die on you and if you’re reading this, I broke my word. I’m sorry. Whatever I did or didn’t do, I messed up. I should have been more careful.
Okay, apologies over. Now tough it out while I embarrass you. You know how I like to have the last word. (-:
Tom, you’ve been my best friend since childhood. No one could wish for a better cousin. I know all about the broken dates with Shelly when you came to spend Friday nights with me after I busted my arm. You refused to let me whimper at a disaster that nearly ended my career before it began. It’s nice being special.
Over the years I’ve tried not to embarrass you too often with my mushy words, but I can’t resist this last opportunity. I love you. I’ve been blessed to have you as family. No one taught me more about seizing life and living my dreams than you.
I forgive you for scaring the daylights out of me more times than I can count. I think the Lord must have assigned a special guardian angel to watch out for you. You have defied gravity, dodged bullets, and accomplished impossible missions, most of which I know exist only because you frequently disappeared for a few months. I am so PROUD of you.
There has been no better career than flying a Hornet. For helping me reach that dream—thank you doesn’t cut it. And I still owe you for the lessons. (I know for a fact you helped pay for those initial lessons. Dad told me you were the source of that special savings account that magically appeared when I was seventeen. Nice, Wolf. Very nice.)
Would you do me a favor and get married, have kids, and be a special dad in their lives? You keep putting it off. The one regret I have is that Ben and I always said there was plenty of time. He died and I lost an opportunity to seize part of my dream. I chose to let the obstacles of combining military and civilian life push back a decision to get married. Be smarter than I was about that decision.
Life has been good. Very good. I’m sorry for the years when I gave you cause to worry about me. You know me, buddy. I grieve slowly and have to think everything through many times before I move on. Your prodding was comforting because I knew you cared. Thanks for that.
If I can’t have life, heaven’s an even better option.
All my love, Grace
PS If my car is still running, it’s now yours. Think about me every time you argue with the carburetor.
Bruce read the letter twice, then slowly folded and handed it back. “She loves you.”
Wolf was fighting to keep his composure. He got up to pace.
Bruce watched him and didn’t say anything else. Those three words said it all.
Thirty-Four
* * *
APRIL 6
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
“Can I get you anything?”
The intense pain had changed to a dull ache. Grace tried to fight off the anesthetic to be able to coherently answer Jill. “You’re the best friend in the whole wide world.”
“And you’re still a little foggy with painkillers.”
Grace tried to smile, well aware she felt like she was floating. “Probably.” She was aware in a detached way that the surgery she had been dreading ever since the doctors had begun taking pictures was over. “Day or night?”
“Day. Bruce called.”
She forced open her eyes. Her friend swam into focus. “Bruce called . . .”
Jill tucked the blanket across her chest. “You talked to him.”
Her brow furrowed. “I did?”
“I translated for him at the end of it.”
Bruce had called and she hadn’t been coherent. “Wonderful.”
“It’s okay.” Jill smiled. “He just needed to hear your voice.”
“Did I sing old nursery rhymes?”
“You tried. You don’t sing very well.”
“Suppose he still likes me?”
“Oh yeah.”
Quiet stretched in the recovery room. Bruce had been a tower of strength even long-distance; his calm words the one source of confidence as her life spiraled out of control. Some of his notes even came by telegram as he tried to be what she needed. “When the cares of my heart are many, Thy steadfast love, O Lord, help me up.” She’d memorized the last telegram from him.
“It’s hard when they are far away,” Jill whispered.
Grace nudged a finger against her friend’s hand. “I’ve got you here to stand in for them.”
“You’re going to be okay.”
“I’m going to be okay,” Gracie agreed. She was alive. She could work on it from there. “Are Mom and Dad here?”
“Out in the hall.”
“Wipe my tears before they come in.”
“Sure.” Jill carefully did so.
“Do I look awful?”
“You look like you’re a little olde
r, a little wiser,” Jill reassured. “What do you want to tell the press?”
“Go away?”
Jill chuckled. “You’re a little more famous than that.”
“Be my spokesman for a few more days. Give Dad an exclusive.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Jill offered the water glass. “I’m glad you’re home.”
“So am I. Wish Bruce were here.”
“I wish Wolf were here.”
“We’ve got good taste in guys.” Grace groaned as she tried to move. “It’s bad.”
“It will get better.”
Grace sighed. “Get Mom and Dad. I’ll smile awhile.”
* * *
Bruce ~
I am printing this with my own left hand. I’m alive. Surgery over. I love you. GET ME OUT OF HERE.
Gracie
Grace ~
Oh, honey . . . left- or right-handed—it is so nice to get your notes. Wolf volunteered to help me with the hospital break. . . . I love you too.
Bruce
Thirty-Five
* * *
APRIL 14
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
“May I come in?” Peter paused in the doorway to her hospital room.
Grace folded the International Herald one handed. The sun was shining, her headache had finally disappeared for good, and the newspaper just frustrated her with news about the situation overseas. Her friends were getting shot at and there was nothing she could do. There had been another game of chicken in Iraq yesterday. “I’d enjoy the company.”
“I don’t remember the pink fuzzy feet.”
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