The Right Touch

“I promise. I promise.” Cal looked over at his friend, with whom he had flown for over a year and a half. Joe was a full-blooded Hopi Indian, one of the first Hopi to make it through the rank and file to become a fighter pilot. Maybe it was because they were both taciturn, revealing little of themselves, that they had initially been drawn to each other. Cal wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was that Chief, his teasing nickname for Joe, was the very best of the fighter pilot breed. They were top scorers in competitions around the world in air-to-air and air-to-ground target practice. Cal and Chief were inseparable.

“My sister’s pretty. So just keep your hands to yourself, Travis.”

Cal laughed, bringing the canopy down and locking it. His long fingers folded over the dual throttles. “If she wasn’t your sister, she wouldn’t be safe.”

Chief gave him a dangerous look laced with amusement, throwing him a thumbs-up sign. “I know. Okay, check complete. Let’s get this baby airborne, I want to play eagle.”

The hookup man on deck, crouched beneath the A-6 Intruder, handed the plane off to the catapult officer, who stood a few feet off the wingtip. The cat officer thrust his right hand, two fingers extended, into the air and waved it in a rapid rotating motion. Cal scanned his instruments and moved the control stick forward and back, from right stop to left stop. He saw four other deck-crew troubleshooters rapidly moving down the expanse of his aircraft, searching for leaks, proper engine function, control movement or anything abnormal. When one of the crewmen gave a thumbs-up, the cat officer looked down at the hookup man, still kneeling by the aircraft’s hook that was now linked to the steam catapult.

Automatically, Cal asked, “Harness tight?” The raw power of the catapult, hurling the A-6 off the deck at one hundred eighty miles per hour, could snap a neck. The crisscross of harnesses kept Cal and Chief tightly strapped to their individual ejection seats, pinned in one position. Cal always had bruises on his shoulders from the straps biting deeply into his flesh.

“Yeah. Tight enough to make a pig squeal. Brakes full power,” Chief replied.

Cal saw the hookup man scurry away from beneath their A-6. Immediately, his gaze moved to the yellow-vested cat officer. Cal snapped off a salute, preparing himself for the release.

“We’re going to get the signal,” he said, watching as the shooter, who stood over the catapult console on the edge of the deck, raised both arms skyward. The cat officer took a wide stance, his left hand in the air, two fingers extended. He returned Cal’s salute, then suddenly dropped to one knee, signaling the shooter to press the button that would send them down the deck.

Cal heard the call from the control tower that sat above them. The dawn was turning a brilliant red and pink; the South China Sea was placid on that beautiful late October morning. But Cal didn’t notice. He was locked into one of the most dangerous maneuvers ever to be performed by any pilot in any jet—takeoff from a carrier. The jet began to scream, trembling and howling like a banshee around him and his copilot as he arced the throttles to full power. Then, at a hand signal from the navy crewman who stood five yards away from the wingtip of the jet, he knotched them into afterburner range. Cal braced himself, unconsciously pressing his helmet back into the seat and keeping his neck relaxed. His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the stick.

The wrenching jerk of the catapult driving the screaming jet down the expanse shattered the aircraft’s immobility. There would be five seconds of thousands of tons of catapult pressure pushing the jet, giving it enough speed to safely hurl it off the carrier.

It was then that Cal heard an explosion. The jet suddenly lagged beneath them. His gaze snapped to the engine manifold pressure. The engines were screamingly alive. The catapult! So many thoughts sheared through his steel-trap mind. He had decisions to make: slam on the brakes and shut down the engines, try to stop before they hit the lip of the deck and slid over the edge of the carrier or— No, it was too late! Too much yardage had been eaten up. His hand pressed against the throttles, willing the engines that were shrieking around them to have the power to lift them. Too late! Too late! His eyes bulged as he saw that the manifold pressure wasn’t enough to lift the jet’s tonnage off the deck. His breath froze in his throat. He heard Chief’s curse.

The A-6 screamed off the carrier, but Cal felt the jet drag, and he kept the throttles to the fire wall, working the sluggish rudders to turn the aircraft out of the path of the carrier. If they dropped below the bow and crashed, the ship would be heavily damaged. Teeth clenched, his body straining against the harness, Cal wrenched the stick to port, praying the jet would make the turn before they hit the gray-green water coming up fast. And then…water spewed in avalanching sheets around them as they hit the ocean’s surface. Cal wrenched back with all his strength, keeping the nose of the jet up so that they wouldn’t tunnel in, giving them precious seconds to break free as the jet’s stubby wings kept them on top of the water. His teeth ground together. Pain soared up through his left hand as the stick was ripped out of his fingers.

Frantically, Cal and Chief worked open the jammed canopy. Steam shot skyward as seawater rushed into the hot engines. Water gurgled and burped into the cockpit. Cal’s hands trembled badly as he worked to unsnap all his harnesses. He glanced over at Chief. He was doing the same.

“I’m in trouble, I’m in trouble,” Chief yelled.

Cal released the last hitch on his harness, twisting. Water slopped in over them. He felt the jet’s nose begin to drop. It would be a matter of seconds before they were swallowed by the ocean. Cal tried to help Chief get the lap harness released. The thick, heavy, leather lap belt was held by a stout aluminum device. Water washed up to their chests.

“It won’t come….” Cal said, gasping. He twisted back again, pulling his survival knife from his belt, throwing off the sheath.

“Jump, Cal!” Chief cried hoarsely. The jet was sliding in, wing down. Sliding into a cold, watery grave.

Cal cursed, sawing into the confining leather belt. “No! Shut up, damn it!”

Water closed over them. Cal took a deep breath into his lungs, clinging to the belt as the jet sliced downward with frightening speed. The knife made huge, gaping tears across the leather. Cal felt his chest expand as if it would burst. Two more cuts…God…just two more and Chief would be free. The aircraft suddenly rolled over. As it did, the action wrenched Cal, who had nothing holding him in the cockpit other than one hand on the leather belt, free. His gloved hands clawed outward as he felt himself tumbling, trying desperately to grab for the cockpit frame. Fire arched through his chest. Water funneled up into his nose and down into his throat. He was going to drown. Chief! Oh, God, Chief! Cal struck out toward the surface that seemed so far away, blackness closing in on him. Only one thought screamed through him: Chief was going down with the jet. He would drown. He’d die. Oh, God, no…not Chief! Not his best friend.

“Cal, Cal, it’s all right…shh, it’s all right. You’re safe…safe.” A soft voice crooned to him.

Cal shuddered, still hooked into the nightmare of survival that haunted him, as he broke the surface of the gray sea. Gasping, he vomited up the sea he had swallowed, flailing weakly to stay afloat. Instinctively, he pulled the cords on his life vest and it inflated immediately, holding his head and shoulders above water. He cried out Chief’s name, oblivious to the rescue helicopter that had been launched immediately after the accident. He felt cool hands on his face, fingers gently combing through his hair, and he sobbed. Chief was dead. The only real friend he had ever made was dead. Heading fifty fathoms down in a jet while he floated on the surface, rasping and swallowing the life-giving oxygen.

“You’re safe now, Cal. Relax. Come on, you’re going to be all right….” Cal felt movement. It wasn’t the movement of the ocean that embraced him. He forced open his tightly shut eyes, aware of sweat running down his taut face. Dark. It was so dark. Cal felt the moist warmth of a cloth against his face. Heat. It felt so good and he was so cold. Icy cold in the water. Automatically, he began to relax. Someone was gently running a hand across his trembling shoulders, and he visibly responded to these tentative ministrations. Where was he? Where?

“Chief?” His voice came out in a raw whisper.

“No. It’s me, Dev. Just rest, Cal. You’ve been through a lot. Just close your eyes and rest. You’re safe. I promise you….”

Her voice was so close, so rich and husky. Cal closed his eyes, trusting her. Trusting her hands that were easing the coldness and terror out of him.

“But…Chief…”

“He’s gone, Cal. You couldn’t help him. But you’re alive. Alive. Come on, try to rest. You’re so tired.”

A huge pressure welled up like a fist within his chest, and Cal turned his face, burying it in the soft warmth of her. He shut his eyes tightly, fighting the pressure, trying to wrestle with the grief and loss. The instant her trembling hand settled on his hair, he blindly reached out, his arms sliding around her body. He felt scalding tears pummeling the back of his eyes, and he felt her arms embracing him. Holding him and rocking him. The pain was like a fist ripping through him, and a low, tortured sob tore from him, sending a shudder through his entire body. The sounds were so foreign to him, so strange. But he couldn’t help himself. Animallike sounds shattered him, expressing the loss, and all the while, she held him. Held him and murmured soft, unintelligible words meant to heal.

3

CAL FORCED HIS EYES OPEN to mere slits. His head was throbbing like a kettledrum, and his mouth felt as if an army had tramped through it. His scowl deepened as he realized someone was sitting very close to him. He forced his lids higher, his vision unfocused. Light was cascading from a hall, slanting into the room, backlighting the unruly auburn hair that framed her concerned face. Her eyes were cobalt as she sat there in silence, leaning across him, her one hand resting near his hip.

He moved his mouth, trying to form coherent words. He felt drugged and incapable of speech. “Where?”

“You’re in my hotel room, Cal. The Shangri-La Hotel. Remember?” Her voice was low. He was grateful for that; each sound multiplied and reverberated through his pounding skull. His eyes slitted again as he tried to piece together the jumble of events, separating the present from the accident. And Chief. Giving him an understanding smile, she sat up, removing her hand.

“You’ve had a rough twenty-four hours, Cal.”

He forced his limited attention back to her. Back to her kind and beautiful face. He knew her. Yes, Dev was her name. Wasn’t it?

“Dev?” His voice was raw as if he had been screaming at the top of his lungs for hours. Had he?

“Touche, Major Travis. You’re starting to remember, I see. How about some water? You’ve been very sick. I think you’re close to dehydration.”

The information was too much for him to assimilate. Twenty-four hours. What was she talking about? And sick? Why? The water sounded heavenly. “Yeah…water… please….” It hurt to talk. Croak would be a more appropriate word, he thought blearily. He watched through blurred vision as she rosé and went over to a table. What was she wearing? White knickers and socks and a red T-shirt? That didn’t make sense. He closed his eyes, dizziness making him nauseated. The moment the cool dryness of her arm slid beneath his sweaty neck and she supported him with her body, Cal reopened his eyes. He rested his head against the softness of her breast and shoulder as she pressed the glass to his lips. The coldness soothed his raw throat, cleansing his mouth of the bile taste. He sucked up the water thirstily, some of it dribbling from the corners of his mouth.

“There’s more,” Dev said, setting down the glass and then blotting Cal’s mouth and stubbled chin. She poured another glass; he stared at it like a man who had been in the desert and was about to die from lack of water. Finally though, his thirst was satisfied, and dizziness forced him to close his eyes once again. He heard the steady beat of her heart, nuzzled his bearded cheek into the hollow between her breasts and took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Feel a bit better?” she asked, holding him.

“A little.”

Dev gently laid him back down, pulling the blankets up across his naked chest. “Go back to sleep, Cal. I’ll be here if you need me.”

Her voice was like thick, soothing honey pouring over him, somehow easing his spinning head and exhaustion. He looked up into her eyes, lost in their luminous softness, and felt safe from the storm’s remnants. Cal wanted to say “Thank you,” but total fatigue dragged him back into the healing realm of sleep.

* * *

SHE WAS SITTING BY HIM when he awoke the second time, her eyes filled with worry. She was chewing on that full lower lip that he sharply remembered kissing. Cal was dully aware that it was barely dawn, the sky lavender through the panels drawn across the windows. The low lighting from the hall shadowed her pale face, and he wondered why darkness lingered beneath her glorious blue eyes. “How do you feel?” she ventured softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Cal felt the dry warmth on his cool, damp flesh. It felt good. Stabilizing. “Like hell,” he answered, finding his voice a rasp.

“Do you remember where you are?”

Memory of the room and of Dev eventually congealed in his sluggish brain. Cal felt as if someone had taken a bottle brush to his mind and wiped it clean of everything other than Dev’s haunting voice. Cal moved his gaze back up to her. “I think I do. You look tired.”

Again that slight smile. Her hair curled around her head and shoulders. She looked like a winsome child. “It can’t be because I’ve been playing nursemaid to you for almost thirty-six hours. I have to hand it to you: when you want to get drunk, you really go all the way, Major.”

Cal frowned. “Thirty-six hours? What are you talking about?” He struggled into a sitting position, his head throbbing. The sheet and blankets fell away, revealing his powerful chest and hard, flat belly. He looked down at himself and then up at her, questions in his gray eyes.