No Surrender

by Lindsay McKenna

  At 0600 Clay regained consciousness and got sick. Aly awakened from her restless slumber, head resting in her arms on the desk. Turning on the light to the bunk room, she found him in the bathroom. All her fears, her apprehension melted when she found him leaning weakly against the basin, pale and shaky.

  “Hold on,” she whispered, grabbing a cloth and wetting it. Her heart twinged with fear when he lifted his head, his dark eyes upon her.

  He said nothing as she gently wiped his nose and mouth as a mother would her child’s. She got him a cup of water, and he took it in his shaking hand.

  “Slosh it around in your mouth and spit it out,” she told him, keeping her arm around him. He was incredibly weak, and she strengthened her grip to steady him as he followed her directions.

  “Good,” she soothed, taking the cup from his hand. “Come on, you need to get back to bed.”

  Clay placed his arm around Aly’s small shoulders, leaning heavily upon her. His mind spun, and he was totally disoriented. “Where?” he managed to rasp, resting his head against her soft hair.

  Aly told him, guiding him back to the cot. His uniform was soaked with sweat, and he was shivering. “You’ve really tied one on,” she muttered.

  Collapsing back on the cot, Clay shut his eyes, and the room spun wildly. He threw an arm across them. “I—don’t remember coming here….”

  Aly tucked him in. “With as much as you drank, I’m surprised you even remember your name.”

  He was feeling too sick to respond. After she shut off the light, he muttered, “Thanks…” and fell back into a deep sleep.

  The next time Clay awoke, clarity was there. The room was quiet, and his gaze moved slowly toward the entrance. The door leading into the duty office was open. His mouth tasted like mothballs, and the pain at his temples was like massive hammers striking blows inside his head. It was agony to move.

  Slowly events of the night before trickled through his clogged mind. He lay very still, vividly remembering his conversation with Aly. And their kiss. He groaned softly. Sweet God in heaven, he’d kissed her! The entire sequence of events came back—every feeling, every nuance of emotion shared between them. His chest felt constricted, as if he were going to have a cardiac arrest. But he was stripped of his own armor and defense, and all he could do was feel…feel those powerful emotions sweeping through him as savagely as a dam bursting.

  There was no hate toward Aly left in him. Just the opposite, Clay admitted haltingly to himself. The luminous look in her blue eyes last night had told him everything. There was only love between them, not hate. And if he was any judge of their fiery, breathtaking kiss, she wanted him, needed him, as much as he did her.

  A ragged sigh escaped him. What a mess. A miserable mess! Clay couldn’t find it within himself to overcome the last hurdle that stood between them: he could never forget that Aly’s brother had murdered Stephen. The fact loomed like a ghost in his mind and heart every time he was with her. She didn’t deserve any of this, his heart whispered.

  Dragging his arm away from his eyes, Clay stared up at the ceiling. Aly was a casualty of the war, just as he was. She carried ghosts just as he did. But they were on opposite sides. Sides that could never meet and bury the sword. But he loved her, dammit! And Clay knew she cared for him. No one, not even Aly, deserved that kind of sentence.

  Clay knew what had to be done. He would protect Aly the only way he knew how, and that was to continue the charade. Let her think that he remembered nothing of the night before, their conversation or the kiss. With time, Aly’s affection for him would wither on the vine of their relationship. He loved her enough to free her from the past that would always haunt him. Never again would she suspect his true feelings for her. That way, she would be free to find someone who could truly make her happy. And God knew, she deserved a little happiness after the hell he’d put her through.

  Chapter Six

  “I hate September weather,” Dan griped, settling down behind the throttles.

  Aly went through the automatic motions of preflight with Clay. Six months ago, she’d sweated out the procedure. Now it was second nature. “Why, Dan?”

  “Typhoon season down south along the Baja where we’ve been flying one too many missions.”

  “I see.” Aly began engine start-up at Clay’s nod. In the nine months she’d been part of his crew, they’d melded into a smoothly functioning team.

  “You don’t have to sweat it today, Dan,” Clay said, snapping off a salute to the chief ground crewman standing outside the port window. “We’re just taking Gray Lady out for a spin to test this new engine.”

  Dan nodded happily. “Okay by me. There’s a typhoon raging in Baja right now. I want no part of it.”

  Aly grinned at the chief engineer. “You’re hoping we don’t get called out for a mission in the next five days, is that it?” P3s flew in all kinds of weather, and Aly knew from grim experience that flying below fifty feet, skimming the surface of the ocean, was dangerous at all times—good weather or bad.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he chortled.

  “Let’s get this show on the road,” Clay ordered. “Miss Trayhern, you take the controls. I’m playing copilot today.”

  Pleased that Clay was allowing her the privilege, she smiled. “Yes, sir.”

  Flying the P3 was easy in Aly’s estimation. She took Gray Lady off the runway, the turboprops singing deeply as the plane moved through the cloudy afternoon sky above San Francisco Bay. Dan took over the throttles, his long, sensitive fingers playing with them until all engines were perfectly synchronized. Aly’s gaze swept the instruments. Keeping her hand firmly on the yoke, she guided the responsive aircraft up and out of the heavy traffic patterns that plagued the West Coast. They would be heading far out to sea to begin testing the new engine thoroughly. Aly knew that with a full load of fuel aboard, Clay intended to be out at least four or five hours. A new engine could have quirks, and through a series of prepared tests, they’d find out just how well it was functioning, and whether it needed any adjustment by the mechanics.

  That was all right with her. It was Friday, and she had a long, lonely weekend ahead of her. Flying released her from the constant heaviness that resided in her chest. Aly stole a look at Clay. His profile was clean, his mouth set, as usual, into a single line. Only his eyes gave him away—sometimes.

  Aly had never forgotten that morning he’d kissed her and made the admission that he didn’t hate her. Their relationship had changed subtly since that time. Clay had taken fewer angry shots at her. No, he’d grown only more distant. Never a smile, never a teasing remark like those the rest of the crew traded with her. Just that haunted look she sometimes saw in his gray eyes when he didn’t think she was aware of him staring at her.

  Sighing, Aly had no answer for how she still felt toward Clay. His praise for her flying ability had grown over the months, and he’d given her more and more flight responsibility on each mission. For that, she was grateful. It meant that he trusted her not only with his life, but with the lives of his ten-man crew. With time, she had thought her feelings toward him would die, but they had not. If anything, those emotions clamored even more strongly to be expressed. But Clay hadn’t given her one sign that he really did care for her. Not with the past in their way. With a shake of her head, Aly concentrated on the series of tasks to come. Flying was a balm to her aching heart, but not the cure.

  “Salty Dog One, Moffett Control. Over.”

  That was their call sign. Clay signaled that he’d answer the radio transmission from the station. “Salty Dog One, over.”

  Aly listened intently. They were flying three hundred feet above the ocean, fifty miles off the coast, near San Diego. They had been in the air only two hours, putting the engine under a number of test stresses and logging the results on a specially prepared engine chart that Clay held. Her heart began to pound when the transmission ended. She saw Clay’s features cloud.

  “They want us to go down to Baja, on Jester Track
, to relieve Salty Dog Three?” she asked in disbelief.

  Clay nodded. “Yeah, number 3 has a broken oil line. They can’t stay on track with that condition. They’re going to have to shut down that engine and start back to the station immediately.”

  “But,” Dan said, “we don’t have a full crew, Mr. Cantrell. What do they expect us to do?”

  “There’s an Israeli frigate by the name of Titania, being shadowed by a Soviet sub off the coast of Baja. Operations is afraid that if number 3 leaves the area without another replacement on scene, the sub might try to make an attack on the frigate.”

  “They wouldn’t dare,” Aly muttered, scowling.

  “Don’t count on it,” Clay answered heavily. He pulled out a map, looking at the coordinates given to him by Ops. “Put Gray Lady on this heading.”

  Dan scratched his head. “Sir, we don’t have any weapons or radar operators on board. How are we going to discourage this Red sub from dogging the heels of that frigate?”

  “Hopefully, just by showing up. The sub will know we’re in the area. We’ll fly low and make some radio exchanges with the Titania, which they can monitor. Moffett’s getting the standby crew ready to take number eight. They’ll be in the air within the hour. We’re to hold Jester Track surveillance until number eight arrives to relieve us.” Clay glanced down at his watch. “We’ll be on track within forty minutes. It will take the standby crew another hour to get down here. Then we can head home.”

  “Doesn’t sound too bad,” Aly agreed. She chewed on her lower lip, coaxing the P3 up into smoother air. “We’ll be a decoy. That sub will never know we’re not armed and prepared to take action.”

  Clay nodded to her. “Right.”

  “What about the weather?” Dan asked, worry in his voice.

  “That’s the bitch,” Clay muttered, busily planning their flight. “That typhoon is full strength, with winds at a hundred miles an hour around the Titania and the sub.”

  “Damn,” Aly whispered. “Wave height?” That was critical knowledge, because if the P3 flew fifty feet off the surface, a twenty-or thirty-foot wave could catch a wing and smash the aircraft into the ocean, killing all on board.

  “Salty Dog Three will give us an update on oceanographic conditions over the track in a minute.”

  A cold shiver wound through Aly. It was the first time she’d ever experienced such a sensation. Her stomach knotted with fear. Fear! Where had this reaction come from? She had flown the P3 at fifty feet above the ocean in all kinds of stormy weather. But never in a typhoon. The only safety she felt was the fact that Clay and Dan were there. There wasn’t any finer pilot or engineer.

  “Looks bad,” Clay muttered, signing off the radio with Salty Dog Three half an hour later. “Twenty-foot waves with rogue waves up to forty feet down there, and not a prayer. Damn.”

  Only the familiar vibration of the P3 soothed Aly’s mounting terror. She hated rogue waves. They could crop up out of nowhere, coming from an entirely different direction than the rest. Frequently, they were ten to twenty feet higher than the other waves. They could be the death of a P3 if the copilot wasn’t alert enough to see one coming and yell at the pilot in time for him to ascend to a higher altitude and miss it. They were on track, descending through the murky midafternoon soup, rain slashing relentlessly across the cockpit windows. She and Clay were tightly strapped in, with Clay at the controls. Dan had no support, kneeling at the throttle base, jostled with each bump and shudder as the plane fought its way downward through the heavy, buffeting winds.

  “Aly, contact that Israeli frigate.” Clay silently chastised himself at the slip. Every once in a while, when things got tense, he’d accidentally call her by her first name. But if she’d noticed his mistake, it didn’t show in her voice.

  “Right.” Switching the radio dial to the ship frequency, Aly made contact with the Titania. She knew Clay was counting on the Soviet sub to eavesdrop on the plane-to-ship conversation. That would warn the sub that the frigate was still being protected, despite the deteriorating weather situation.

  As Cantrell brought the P3 into a standard pattern of flight approximately four miles from the frigate, leveling off at fifteen hundred feet, the buffeting weather got worse.

  Aly’s job was to keep an eye on the altimeter, and on the plane’s elevation in relation to the ocean that frothed like mountains and canyons not far below them. The peninsula of Baja was no more than ten miles away, but nothing could be sighted because of the heavy pall of rain that surrounded them. Flashes of lightning licked from one cloud to another, blinding her for an instant. Her palms became damp.

  “Mayday! Mayday!” Titania’s captain screamed. “I’m under attack! Repeat, I’m under attack!”

  Instantly, Aly was on the radio. “Salty Dog One to Titania. What is your status, over?”

  “Salty Dog One, a torpedo has just been launched at us! We’re trying to turn out of its way, but it’s going to be close! Help us! Help us!”

  Aly swiveled a glance at Cantrell. His face glistened with perspiration. She could feel sweat trickling beneath her armpits. “Clay?” She hadn’t meant to call him by his first name, but it had come out in a plea.

  “Radio Ops. Tell them what’s going down. Dan, prepare to drop this girl to fifty feet.”

  “Fifty feet?” Aly gasped after making the call. That was suicide in weather like this. “That water could rip off a wing!”

  Clay’s mouth tightened. “You heard me. Prepare to descend immediately.”

  “You’re gonna make that Red sub think we’re going to drop a depth charge on him, sir?” Dan guessed.

  “That’s right, Dan. You’d better play those throttles like your life depends on it.”

  Dan grinned weakly. “Don’t worry, sir, I will.”

  Shaken by the turn of events, Aly shut off her emotions. She had to become a thinking machine. She radioed the Titania to let them know that the P3 was going to make an attack run. Below, on the turbulent ocean, they could see the Titania turning to starboard, hitting high, powerful waves in order to avoid the torpedo.

  “Let’s go down.”

  Cantrell’s voice was taut as he gave the order. Aly nodded. Her entire responsibility centered on the low-altitude altimeter, or LAA, that sensitively monitored the plane’s height between ten to fifty feet above the ocean’s surface. It was a delicate instrument, sometimes given to being inaccurate. As copilot she had to divide her attention between using her eyes to estimate the plane’s altitude from the ocean and checking the LAA for possible inaccurate readings. On a number of occasions, Aly’s quick observation had saved them from plowing into the ocean when the LAA had messed up.

  Sweat formed on her upper lip, and she quickly wiped it away with her gloved hand. “Descending…now,” Aly began hoarsely, “five hundred feet…four hundred feet…” The ocean grew closer. Each wave that reared skyward looked a little bigger, a little more ominous. The P3 bucked and quivered. And each time it did, Clay ironed out the craft’s reaction with his skillful flying abilities.

  “Make the turn to two-five-zero, ten…nine…eight…” Aly used her watch, counting down the seconds. The P3 always made an attack on a sub into the wind.

  “Three…two…one!” The Titania flashed under them.

  Clay brought the P3 into the wind, steadying her out.

  “Three hundred feet…”

  “Wing lamps!” Clay ordered tightly. Every P3 was equipped with huge, powerful lights at the end of each wingtip, plus one beneath the nose of the aircraft.

  Aly reached down, gripping the switch. “Wing lamps on.” The bright beams of light surged through the graying light of early evening, stabbing bright patches through the blinding spray and spume thrown up by the murky ocean below them.

  “Nose lamp!”

  “Nose lamp on.” Now three blinding lights emphasized the angry sea’s territory, helping Aly to ascertain distance between them and a possible watery grave.

  They were going to need a
ll the help they could get, Aly thought disjointedly, her gaze swinging from the instrument panel to the LAA, and back out the window to check their elevation.

  In case the sub had picked up their radio frequency, Clay went through the attack sequence as if there was a full crew on board. Aly worked with him, tension mounting in the small cabin.

  “Two hundred feet—” Aly’s voice broke. The ocean looked so close!

  “One hundred feet.”

  “On attack run, keep her steady,” Clay told Dan tensely.

  The P3 slipped through the turbulent wind and vicious rain, her wings skimming the surface. Each tiny air pocket, each up or down draft, was a potential crash situation. Clay kept both hands locked on the yoke, sensing and correcting each of the aircraft’s reactions almost before it happened.

  “Easy,” he crooned to the plane.

  Aly forced a breath, some of her tension dissolving beneath Clay’s deep, steadying voice.

  “Fifty feet,” she croaked.

  “Roger, fifty feet. Keep me apprised of our altitude.”

  “Roger.” Sweat ran freely down her temples. Aly kept glancing out the window. Spume from the tops of the twenty-foot waves were flung into the sky, smashing into the P3. She could barely see! The windshield wipers labored heavily on the front windows, unable to keep them clear enough to fly by sight alone. She saw Clay switch to flying by instruments.

  “One minute until depth charge drop!” she reported.