The Ocean Between Us. Susan Wiggs
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it was like? A damned fraternity party?
“It’s rough. I’m sure you’ll hear that from a lot of the sailors on board. It’s hard seeing your baby’s first steps on videotape or getting a picture of a winning soccer goal by e-mail.” Steve wished he had prepared himself better for her nosiness. He should have barricaded his private self. He was supposed to be good at that. According to Grace, he was the champ.
Atwater studied another photograph, this one in a slightly warped frame nearly twenty years old. “But the homecomings are sweet,” she murmured, gazing down at the fading image.
He couldn’t recall who had taken that shot, but he remembered the moment with painful clarity. It was the end of his first cruise after they’d married. The gray steel hull of an aircraft carrier reared in the background. Sailors, officers and civilians all crushed together, hugging with the desperate joy only military families understood. At the center, he and Grace held each other in an embrace he could still feel all these years later. He clasped her so close that her feet came off the ground, one of her dainty high heels dangling off a slender foot. He could still remember what she smelled like.
Since that photo was taken there had been dozens of other partings and reunions. He could picture each homecoming in succession—Grace pregnant with the twins, no high heels that time, just sneakers that wouldn’t lace up around her swollen feet. Then Grace pushing a double stroller that wouldn’t fit through doorways. By then, her perfume was more likely to be a blend of baby wipes and cough drops. In later years, the kids kept her busy as she shuffled them between music lessons, sports practices, Brownies and Boy Scouts. But she always came to meet him. She never left him standing like some loser whose wife had given him the shaft while he was at sea, who would sling his seabag over his shoulder and pretend it didn’t matter, whistling under his breath as he headed straight for the nearest bar.
Yesterday had been Grace’s fortieth birthday. He’d phoned and gotten the machine. Lately she was so prickly about her age, anyway. She probably wouldn’t thank him for the reminder.
Atwater asked about his background, his career path in the Navy, his role on the carrier. She listened well, occasionally making notes on a small yellow pad as well as recording him. At one point he glanced at his watch and was surprised to see how much time had passed. She’d talked to him about his family for nearly an hour. He wondered if he’d told her too much. Did the American people really need to know his life was coming undone like a slipknot?
He cleared his throat. “Says on my agenda that I’m your tour guide for nighttime flight ops.” He was surprised that she’d gained authorization to be on the flight deck at night, but apparently her project was important to Higher Authority.
“I’ve been looking forward to this, sir.” She came alive in that special way of people who were in love with flying, the more high-tech and dangerous, the better. And there was no form of flying more dangerous than carrier operations.
He was dog tired, but he put on a smile because, in spite of everything, he shared her enthusiasm.
“I thought about going into the service and learning to fly,” she said, her eyes shining. “Couldn’t make the commitment, though.”
“Lots of people can’t.” He said it without condemnation or pride. It was a plain fact. The U.S. Navy demanded half of your life. It was as simple as that. He’d been in the Navy since his eighteenth birthday. And of his twenty-six years of service, he’d been at sea for half of them. That kind of commitment had its rewards, but it also carried a price. He was finally figuring that out.
As he went to the door, the Inbox on his computer screen blinked, but he didn’t check to see what had come in. If it was personal, he didn’t want a reporter reading over his shoulder.
He led her single file down a narrow passageway tiled in blue, narrating their journey and cautioning her to avoid slamming her shins on the “knee knockers,” structural members at the bottom of each hatch. Lining the P-way were dozens of red cabinets containing fire-control gear and protective clothing. The least little spark could take out half the ship if it happened to ignite in the wrong place.
Steve spoke over his shoulder, but he wasn’t sure how much she was taking in. The constant din of flight ops intruded—roaring engines, the hiss and grind of the power plant and arresting gear, the whistle and screech of aircraft slamming on deck—drowning out normal conversation. In the enlisted men’s mess, they created a small stir. Sailors enjoying MIDRATS—rations for personnel on night duty—stopped what they were doing the minute they saw Francine Atwater. Their jaws dropped as though unhinged. Even the female sailors stared, not with the raw yearning of the males but with wistfulness, and perhaps a flicker of disdain. In the service of their country, they had learned to do without makeup, without hair spray, without vanity.
As they climbed an open steel ladder, Atwater took it in stride, but she was probably wishing she’d worn pants and thick-soled boots. They crossed the hangar bay, where aircraft waited with wings folded like origami cranes.
In the passageway under flight-deck control, the roar of aircraft pounding the steel deck was louder still. “We need to gear up,” Steve said, handing her a flight suit and boots.
“I’ve been briefed on safety procedures.” She sat down and slipped off her civilian shoes, flashing a slim foot encased in a nylon stocking. “Hours and hours of briefing.”
“The Navy loves to brief people,” he admitted, hearing echoes of the endless droning of Navy gouge he’d endured over the years, litanies of instruction and advisories. “In this case, I hope you listened,” he added. Then, assuming she hadn’t, he reiterated the list of hazards on the flight deck. A sailor could be sucked into an engine intake. Exhaust from a jet engine had the power to blast a person across the deck, or even overboard. He’d seen large men bouncing like basketballs all the way to the deck edge. Or an arresting wire might snap as a tail hook grabbed it, whipping with enough force to sever a person’s legs. Taxiing planes, scurrying yellow tractors, breaking launch bars—all were hazards waiting to happen.
His hand wandered to his throat in a habitual gesture, seeking his St. Christopher medal. Then he remembered that he’d lost it, the good-luck charm he’d had since his first deployment. He never went to sea without it. Ah, hell. At least he wasn’t flying.
He distracted himself by perusing the bulletin board of one of the squadrons. The postings included items for sale or trade, a movie schedule and an invitation to the upcoming Steel Beach picnic, during which a dozen or so garage bands would perform. Personnel on board were desperate to create a normal existence in a highly abnormal situation.
It didn’t always work, Steve thought.
After she finished gearing up for flight ops, Francine Atwater looked totally different. Steel-toed boots, a shiny gray-green jumpsuit and a white visitor’s jersey hid all of her charms except those big brown eyes.
Feeling a bit like an airline flight attendant, he showed her how to operate her float coat. The vest was equipped with a beacon light, a packet of chemical dye to mark the water if she found herself in the drink, a flare, a whistle. “This is your MOBI,” he said. It was a transmitter the size of a cell phone, with a whip antenna connected to a small box.
“Let me guess. Man Overboard…Indicator.”
“You did your homework.”
“I told you, I was briefed. But you’re forgetting something,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t intend to go for a midnight swim.”
“Then we’re on the same page.” He slipped the device into the dye pouch of her float coat and closed the Velcro fastening. “But just in case, the transmitter has its own unique identification. That way, the bridge will know identity and location immediately.”
“So this one has my name on it?”
“Just the number of the float coat. You want me to show you how to fasten everything?”
“I’ve