Here we go again. I started rewriting Front Page News to clean up some things from a technical standpoint – sentence structure, point of view, tense, etc. Pretty soon I was cleaning up dialogue, (hopefully) tightening up exposition and getting rid of some things that didn't quite work the first time. That led to some new scenes, additional dialogue and a general refreshing. I hope the overhauled product is cleaner, tighter, more detailed, funnier and sexier than the original. The bones of the story are the same, only the appearance has changed. If you read it before, thank you for coming back for more. If this is your first time, thank you for joining me on this very guilty pleasure. Read and review as the spirit moves you.

FRONT PAGE NEWS: SECOND EDITION

Chapter 1: First impression

". . . after Pearl Harbor, of the 1,600 reporters permitted to wear the armband emblazoned with a "C" that meant war correspondent, 127 were women." - "Gal Reporters: Breaking Barriers in World War II," by Mark Jenkins, for National Geographic News, Dec. 10, 2003

XXX

"A stunning first impression was not the same thing as love at first sight. But surely it was an invitation to consider the matter." - Lois McMaster Bujold, American fiction writer

Espritos Marcos, Allied Rear Command

"You're doing what?"

Major Greg Boyington slapped his palms flat on Colonel Lard's desk and glared at his superior officer in disbelief. Just when he thought the man couldn't possibly be a bigger pain in the ass than he already was, Lard had proven him wrong. Greg hoped his stare would be menacing enough to make the colonel change his mind. This time he had gone too far.

Seated behind his desk, Lard did not seem inclined to change his mind. He smiled with the smug complacency of someone who knows he holds the upper hand.

"Sit down, Major, it's not that bad." He gestured to a chair.

Greg did not sit down. This whole week had been one damned thing after another, none of it good.

It started with his tent leaking above his head in the middle of the night. Again. Since all the other men's tents were leaking, too, he didn't feel he had much room to complain. He'd shoved his bunk out of the way and re-arranged a few buckets and would live with it until he could get it patched. Heaven knew when that would be, since his requisitions for replacement canvas seemed to disappear once they reached Lard's desk. A lot of things he requisitioned seemed to disappear once they reached Lard's desk.

Then there had been the mess with one of his executive officers and that nurse. He'd seen the girl in question and didn't doubt she was worth it but Jim Gutterman needed to learn the meaning of discretion. Just because you could, didn't mean you should. It wasn't just Jim. The concept of restraint was not often practiced among the Black Sheep.

The girl turned out to be the daughter of a Navy admiral and daddy didn't care that his princess had been a willing participant in some after dark activity with a Marine fighter pilot. It wasn't a problem until they got caught somewhere they shouldn't have been, doing something they shouldn't have been, by someone who was not amused. Defusing that situation had taken a lot of fast talking, along with the Scotch that had been earmarked for a black market trade deal. That deal was now cooling on the back burner since the means of making it happen had been used to keep Gutterman from landing in the brig on sexual harassment charges. Daddy had been willing to negotiate his daughter's questionable honor for the sake of good whisky.

Then there was TJ Wiley. TJ was as much trouble in the air as Jim was on the ground. He'd clipped a wing tip on a tree near the airstrip coming back from the day's mission. A tree, for God's sake. The boy avoided getting flamed by the swarm of Zeroes the Black Sheep had encountered that morning and then he hit a tree. His plane was out of commission until it could be repaired and Greg didn't know where those parts were supposed to come from, either. Andy Micklin, the irascible line chief, had read both him and TJ the riot act and it had nearly come to blows.

The summons to see Colonel Lard on Espritos had been the final straw. He was already in a temper when he and Jim flew to the rear area after the morning's mission. Now this.

"You heard me," Lard repeated. "I'm embedding a war correspondent with the 214."

"Why wasn't I consulted about this?" Greg snarled. He'd dealt with Lard enough to know he probably couldn't change the man's mind but he wasn't going down without a fight. "If it effects my squadron, I should have been brought in before the final decision was made."

"Believe it or not, Major, this war is getting along just fine without your opinion," Lard returned. Greg could tell from the tone of his voice that Lard was trying not to gloat. He needed to try harder, Greg thought. "The correspondent will be assigned as part of the unit and live with you while he captures the lives and stories of the pilots for the papers back home. You know the drill."

Yeah, Greg knew the drill all right. Reporters were no stranger to Vella La Cava. They usually left shortly after they arrived. Funny, how that worked.

"You know how I feel about the press corps," he growled. "Nosy civilians. They distract my men and aren't good for anything but getting in the way. They don't belong in a front area for 15 minutes, let alone living there."

Lard leaned back in his chair. It creaked ominously under his weight. He quickly sat upright again. He thought about the Black Sheep's previous encounters with journalists. Most had ended badly. The unit simply did not handle the press well. He didn't see why this time should be any different. Maybe it would finally give him the leverage he needed to get Boyington to tow the line. He'd never met a man with such blatant disregard for regulations. Lard suspected he didn't know the half of what went on at La Cava and he'd decided a long time ago, he didn't want to know. He just wanted it to stop. If he couldn't get the Black Sheep to straighten up, he'd take the unit down. Either way, he won.

"You don't need to worry," Lard said, his tone placating. He really didn't want to piss Boyington off too much, either. The man had a reputation for settling conflicts with his fists and while Lard was pretty sure he wouldn't slug a superior officer, there was a first time for everything. "This guy has done war coverage in Europe for the Associated Press for the last two years. He was covering the war before we were in the war."

Lard shuffled some papers on his desk.

"Ah, here it is. He spent the last year with the RAF on bases throughout England and Scotland. Covered the Blitz in London before that. Knows military protocol, lots of experience with fighter units. He'll do just fine with your boys. Get that slice of life story for folks on the home front and keep 'em buying war bonds." Lard's smile was extremely satisfied.

Get that slice of life story that will get us all court martialed, more likely, Greg thought. He did not need a reporter getting in Black Sheep business for a single story, let alone having one assigned to the unit for any duration. He was pacing the room now, irritation etched in every line of his body.

"As much as it pains me to say it, the 214 is the hottest thing in the South Pacific right now." Lard's face grew hard and his tone lost its joviality. "Folks at home want pictures, they want to know what the boys over here are doing. So you will welcome K.C. Cameron to the 214 and you will give him access to whatever he needs to do his job. I do not want to hear another word about it. He'll arrive on Thursday's supply transport. You're dismissed."

Greg threw a half-assed salute and stormed out. In the outer office, Jim was wrapped up in Lard's secretary, a curvy brunette who found the Black Sheep wildly romantic.

"For the love of God, Jim, don't you ever stop?" Greg didn't slow as he strode out the door.

"Later, darlin'," Jim said and bolted after his CO.

"Come back when you can stay longer," Margaret called, watching them go. Mmm. The men of the 214 were worth every bit of trouble they caused her boss.

XXX

Lard watched through his office window as the two pilots crossed the compound and climbed into their Corsairs. He poured himself a celebratory glass of Scotch. His ulcer never felt better than when he got the upper hand on that regulation ignoring Marine and his hand-picked collection of screwballs. He sipped his drink contentedly.

Getting K.C. Cameron assigned to the 214 was a stroke of genius, Lard thought. Granted, he'd never met the man but his bylines and photo credits were all over the front page of every major newspaper on a regular basis. He was considered one of the top correspondents in Europe. It was pure luck the man had been willing to leave one theatre for another. Maybe the unit would finally come up to snuff on regs if they were under constant scrutiny by the press. Yes. This was the best idea he'd had in years. He chuckled. This was going to drive Boyington batshit crazy.

XXX

As Jim and I flew back to La Cava, I knew Lard was sitting in his office having a good laugh at my expense. It had been like that from the start between him and me. He hated it that I ignored regulations and got results. I hated the starch in his trousers and his war in triplicate. Lard knew how I felt about the press corps and no doubt he thought he'd really pulled one over on me. He was going to have another thought coming before this was over. - GB

XXX

Naval Station Pearl Harbor, Hawaii

Thirty-six-hundred miles away, Kate "K.C." Cameron paused on the steps of the base press corps office to consider what had just transpired behind the door. She'd been re-assigned to a front area Marine Corps fighter base in the Solomons. Now that was a part of the war she'd never heard of.

It had been part of the plan from the start and she knew it. This just made it official. The posting to Pearl from Edinburgh, Scotland, had never been meant to last, which was probably a good thing. The cushy assignment here had been enjoyable but she secretly admitted she was getting bored. She'd spent more time sitting on the beach than she had working. The sun was shining. The sky was blue. The palm trees waved picturesquely in the breeze. The Naval base shone with such crisp efficiency you could almost forget there was a war going on. The two weeks here had been a nice gig if you didn't mind living in a starched white wonderland. The place was just a little too uptight for her liking.

Her mind fast-forwarded to her next assignment as she walked down the wooden steps of the press office, low heels clicking briskly. A jeep with keys dangling in the ignition was parked nearby. She looked around and seeing no one, climbed in. Really, people should be more careful. She revved the engine and took off for the guest quarters. Time to load up her gear and be on the tarmac at 1100 to ship out to the real assignment that brought her to the South Pacific.

Since Dec. 7 of '41, there'd been no lack of press at Pearl. The real need for coverage was deeper in the theatre, where the campaign against the Japanese was red hot.

Damnit. She was going to have to get back on an airplane again.

XXX

I found Vella La Cava on a map and it was on the backside of nowhere. Quite frankly, I didn't care. It was about as far from Mildenhall or the West Riding of Yorkshire as I could get and that was fine with me. The only things I'd left behind there were some awfully good Scotch and a romance that had turned out to be nothing more than a lesson in how to get your heart broken by trusting a man. I'd miss the Scotch. - KCC

XXX

Vella La Cava, VMF 214 HQ

"K.C. Cameron's coming here?" Bobby Boyle sounded like a kid on Christmas morning. "To be stationed with us?" He high-fived TJ, who looked just as dazzled. The rest of the squadron was buzzing as they gathered in the Sheep Pen.

"Am I the only one who doesn't know who this guy is?" Greg said. Cameron wasn't even here yet and he already had the boys stirred up. The Black Sheep were hot right now, Lard had gotten that much right, and Greg didn't want anything messing with it. His band of flying misfits had 18 confirmed kills in their last 11 missions with no pilots lost and minimal damage to the birds. Not counting TJ's tree. They were flying better as a unit than they ever had before. The last thing he wanted right now was some unknown civilian element running through the middle of it, asking too many questions and throwing everything off kilter.

"He's only one of the hottest combat correspondents to hit the rags," Boyle said. "Right up there with Ernie Pyle. Wait. Be right back." He bolted from the building, letting the screen door slap behind him. He was back minutes later, panting, and tossed a copy of The London Times onto the table. It was four months out of date.

"Got this from a guy on a supply transport a few weeks ago," Bobby said. "It's full of Cameron's stuff."

The front page photo showed a Supermarine Spitfire careening toward a grass landing strip amidst billowing plumes of smoke, ground crew running to meet it with extinguishers. Inside page photos showed British pilots vaulting into the cockpits of their planes and surveying the rubble of shattered buildings. There were shots of them in briefings, playing cards, working with mechanics and being treated by medics.

Greg studied the photos. He had to admit, the man had a gift for capturing the urgency of the action. Those pictures hadn't been taken by a bystander on the sidelines.

Great. Not only had Lard saddled the 214 with a journalist, he'd found one who didn't have the good sense to stay out of the way. He splashed Scotch into a glass and sipped it, a plan forming in his mind.

"All right you meatheads, here's the deal. Lard can make this guy come out here but he can't make him stay. We're going to give Cameron a good, old-fashioned Black Sheep welcome and then all bets are off. The faster we get him off this rock, the better. Do I make myself clear?"

The boys nodded. It wouldn't be the first time they'd sent a reporter packing.

XXX

As the C-47 made its final approach to the Vella La Cava airstrip, Kate tucked a few errant curls back into her tidy chignon. At least she hoped it was still tidy. It had been when she left Espritos Marcos but given how long she'd been on this bloody airplane, she suspected tidy might no longer be applicable.

She shifted uncomfortably on the narrow seat, smoothing her skirt as the plane began its descent. The transport wasn't like flying first class but she didn't really care, just as long as she got off it in one piece. Flying was not her cup of tea. The irony of this assignment did not escape her.

Further down the bench, wedged next to supply crates, four Navy ensigns were nursing hangovers. They'd spent the entire flight from Espritos holding their heads and groaning. They were so miserable, they hadn't even acknowledged her.

Kate pulled a compact out of her bag and retouched her lipstick - Scarlet Majestic - and took a mental inventory of her person, from hat to pumps. She wanted to look as nice as possible when she met the CO of this unit. Professional. Competent. Business-like. First impressions were important. The face reflected in the compact's mirror showed high cheekbones and hazel gray eyes fringed with dark lashes. Her complexion glowed. Two weeks of sunshine at Pearl Harbor had been a blissful change from the fog and rain of her last assignment.

She doubted she'd have much use for Scarlet Majestic, hat or pumps in the coming days. She'd never been assigned to a front area before and was a little uncertain of what to expect. The bases she covered in the United Kingdom had all been fairly domesticated, right down to local pubs for nightlife, but the press corps liaison had made it clear she'd be living rough if she took this assignment. That was part of the reason she'd accepted it. She wanted a change.

Kate smoothed her lips together and snapped the compact shut. She wasn't nervous. All right, maybe she was. She was nervous about getting out of this flying tin can alive but she wasn't nervous about the work she'd come here to do.

She'd gotten over being nervous about pretty much everything the first night she was in the Blitz, but she'd never done anything like what she was headed into now. Covering pilots was one thing. Living with them was going to be entirely something else.

Her British editor had warned her about the squadron's reputation and tried to talk her out of moving halfway around the globe. Apparently, the Black Sheep of VMF 214 weren't exactly officers and gentlemen. So what else was new? Fighter pilots' reputations generally preceded them, no matter what part of the war you were in. She should know. Maybe she'd pay a little bit closer attention to that this time.

"Come on, Ian, I've been on half a dozen different RAF bases in the last year and before that I was in London when Hitler was having his little party. How much worse can it be on an island in the South Pacific?" She'd drained her glass of single malt whisky and set it down with conviction. "If that's where they need a photographer, that's where I'm going."

"But Katie, you'll be living with them," Ian had protested. "On the base. It won't be off-base housing this time. This Colonel Lard wants the correspondent embedded with the unit 24/7. You're a woman."

"Thanks for noticing," she'd said drily. "I think I can handle it. I've kind of made a career out of covering flyboys."

Kate used her brief time at Pearl to research the Black Sheep. The squadron had formed less than a year ago and hadn't gotten much press. What brief coverage they'd received wasn't complimentary.

"Support for the recently re-formed VMF 214 may prove to be one of General Thomas Moore's biggest blunders of the war. Sources are already starting to question if Moore's decision to back Major Greg Boyington's scheme will cast him in a negative light the next time he's considered for promotion.

"While the Black Sheep squadron has proven its mettle in the skies, on the ground, the men of the 214 are little more than a collection of bare-knuckle fighters sporting a list of charges ranging from drunk and disorderly to punching superior officers.

"This group of pilots is just as likely to knock each other out in a bar brawl as they are to knock enemy fighters from the sky. The fact they continue to perform at such a high level in combat is testament to the leadership of their commanding officer, who is most often found in whatever drinking establishment is nearest, when he's not in the brig."

And she had volunteered to go live with them.

It was possible she hadn't thought this through with total clarity but it was too late to back out now. Surely the Black Sheep had some redeeming qualities beyond an ability to drink and throw punches. Major Boyington must be an exceptional commanding officer if he could keep this band of renegades together in the air. The squadron had a remarkable kill record.

The Navy officer who insisted on buying Kate a drink the night before on Espritos had expressed his doubts when she told him where she was going.

"Are you really sure you want to do that, ma'am? That's no place for a lady." She wasn't sure if he was talking about the island itself or its inhabitants.

Looking out the plane's window, she wondered for the umpteenth time what she'd gotten herself into. The base below her was nothing like the smooth grass airfields of Catterick and Lakenheath.

The soft green fells of England had been replaced by jungle backing a rough collection of tents, shacks and equipment scattered along a muddy central track set back from the beach. She could see the sleek blue aircraft parked on the flight line as the transport dropped to the dirt landing strip. They were Corsairs, she recalled, not the Supermarine Spitfires and Hawker Hurricanes she was used to seeing in the fight against Hitler.

She breathed a silent sigh of relief when the plane's wheels touched the ground. Her confidence rose, now that she was no longer concerned with imminent death by airplane. Change was good, she thought firmly, and God knew she needed it. A drink wouldn't come amiss, either.

XXX

As the transport lumbered down out of the late day sun, the Black Sheep gathered to welcome Lard's journalist. Although the idea of hosting a famous war correspondent on the base sounded exciting on the surface, the men shared Greg's feeling that journalists were generally more trouble than they were worth. The uncertainty of an unknown quantity had them all a little edgy. At least there was the promise of a rousing welcome party to boost morale and the boys made sure to invite the nurses from the Navy hospital on the other end of the island.

Greg leaned back in the driver's seat of a jeep parked near the airstrip and tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. He and the men watched corpsmen unload canned goods, barrels of motor oil, large wooden crates of ammo and other miscellany.

Four Naval ensigns staggered out of the C-47's door, clutching their heads and squinting in the sunlight. Several Black Sheep made rude comments.

The men fidgeted. Where was this Cameron fellow?

A young woman wearing a slim-fitting skirt, low pumps and a crisp white blouse paused on the top step. A stylish hat sat atop attractively unruly sun-streaked curls. She lifted aviator-style sunglasses from her eyes as she surveyed the sprawl of trees, mud, tents, planes and men that constituted the 214. Her makeup, like her clothing, was impeccable, her face reflecting cool composure, mouth curved in the hint of a smile.

Greg knew she was trouble the second she stepped out of the plane. Even in her conservative skirt and blouse, she was a knockout. Nothing that looked like that could walk into the middle of the Black Sheep without causing problems.

Jim let out a low whistle and resettled his cowboy hat.

"Will you look at those legs," he said, his voice reverent.

"Damn," Don French echoed. "A guy could get tangled up in those and never get away."

"If I was tangled up in those legs, I sure as hell wouldn't be trying to get away," Jim said.

Greg felt the collective energy of the Black Sheep rising as they watched the girl descend the steps. She couldn't be a nurse. She wasn't wearing a uniform. She didn't look like USO or Red Cross, either. No one showed up on La Cava by accident. He climbed out of the Jeep and went to find out.

XXX

Kate stepped out of the plane and paused on the top step. A group of men were lounging against a couple of jeeps at the edge of the strip. Her eyes rested on them briefly as she swept the area. If they were deliberately trying to be out of uniform, they were making a fine job of it. Was this the unit come to welcome her or a collection of mechanics taking a break?

She slung her bag with her precious camera and lenses over her shoulder and picked her way down the stairs. As she did, one of the men got out of a jeep and headed toward her, the others falling in behind him. She hadn't talked to the CO here personally before arriving and had no idea how receptive the unit was to her moving in with them.

Ian assured her that her contact on Espritos, Colonel Lard, was delighted she had volunteered for the assignment. Yeah. But he was on Epritos, not La Cava, and Kate had been around the military long enough to know the left hand didn't always know what the right hand was doing. In any event, she hadn't spoken to Colonel Lard, either. He had not been available during her brief layover on Espritos. She was arriving at this assignment straight out of the proverbial blue.

Without warning, a white cannon ball shot out of nowhere and bolted straight toward her, barking furiously as stubby legs churned through the mud.

Meatball, Greg's white bull terrier, loved women. He loved everything about them - their scent, their voices, their touch. He adored Greg and he was buddies with all of the Black Sheep, but that was a guy thing. Women were special. He loved it when the nurses came to the Sheep Pen for a party, even though most of them ignored him. Like the rest of the squadron, he never missed the chance to meet a new girl.

Kate turned in time to see the dog barreling toward her, mud spattering in his wake as he careened straight through the puddles.

"Meatball! No! Come here!" someone yelled. The dog ignored the command and picked up speed.

Kate held her ground. She put out a hand and in a low, clear voice said, "Do not jump on me, Dog."

Meatball screeched to a stop and planted his butt in the dirt. He sat, tongue lolling idiotically out one side of his mouth and tail thumping enthusiastically.

"Good boy." Kate smiled. She liked dogs and hadn't expected to find one here. She knelt to pet him.

That was her undoing. Delighted that this new girl would touch him, Meatball leaped up and planted a paw on each shoulder. Caught off balance, Kate tipped backward on her bum in the dirt.

She said something distinctly un-ladylike and threw up her hands to push the dog away. He was sitting on her lap, blissfully licking her neck. She laughed in spite of it all. She really did like dogs. Kate was trying to get her feet under her when the dog vanished and a hand appeared in her line of sight. She clasped it and scrambled to her feet as she was pulled upright.

"Please forgive my dog," a male voice said. "He has manners but they're all bad."

Kate brushed hair out of her face and looked into a pair of eyes so intensely blue she caught her breath. Their owner was trying, unsuccessfully, to look concerned. After one glance at her muddy countenance, he abandoned the attempt and broke into a smile, complete with dimples that made his ruggedly handsome face even more attractive.

He wasn't as tall as some of the other men but his bearing had authority written all over it. In a T-shirt and fatigues, he was as informally dressed as the rest of the group. The T-shirt was pulled snugly across a well-muscled upper body and the breeze pushed dark hair over his forehead. Those blue eyes wandered slowly up and down her figure with no attempt to disguise his interest.

Oh, like that, is it, Kate thought. She drew herself up. The last year spent with pilots left her impervious to male scrutiny. It would take more than that to make her uncomfortable.

She guessed him to be in his mid-30s, although that roguish grin made him seem younger. The other men fanned out in a semi-circle to either side and Kate felt eyes on her like a physical touch. Definitely pilots, not mechanics. Typical fighter squadron, she thought. She could practically smell the testosterone.

"Your dog is extremely friendly," she said, brushing at her skirt. Oh, she'd made a first impression all right. Nothing said professional competence like going ass over teakettle in the mud two minutes after she deplaned. There were paw prints on her blouse and she knew without looking her stockings were ruined, too.

"My dog has extremely good taste." His voice held a note of amusement but not apology. "I'm Major Greg Boyington, welcome to VMF 214." Another pause. "And you are . . .?" His voice trailed off.

Kate's eyes flew open in surprise. This was Major Boyington? She was prepared for arrogance. She was prepared for drunkenness or the inevitable "Why aren't you at home where a girl belongs?" attitude. She was not prepared for those eyes and that rakish grin.

She shook herself mentally. She had bigger problems than that. He didn't know who she was. Clearly, there'd been a hiccup in the chain of communication. No one had told him. Now she had to go through the whole sticky dance to explain.

This wasn't the first time it had happened. She never used her full name on bylines or photo credits and she carefully avoided publicity. Scoring good assignments meant walking a tightrope between talent and politics. The RAF coverage had been a stroke of luck that launched her career after the Blitz, but editors still weren't crazy about sending girls into combat areas. High ranking officers were even less inclined to give them the stamp of approval. She wanted to be where the news was and if that meant an identity as the anonymous "K.C. Cameron," that was just fine with her.

She let the heavy camera bag slide to the ground and straightened her shoulders. She held out her hand. Boyington gripped it again, and she felt a little thrill of electricity jolt through her as the rough warmth of his fingers closed around hers.

"Good to meet you, Major. I'm Katherine Christine Cameron, with the Associated Press."

XXX

It's pretty easy to tell the girls who are fresh to this theatre by the way they look when they first land here - a little hesitant and overwhelmed. But this girl wasn't having any of it. She walked off that plane like she owned the place, even after Meatball knocked her on her backside. That worried me a little. She had the most spectacular pair of legs I've ever seen and believe me, I've seen a few. Damned shame she wouldn't be staying long. - GB

XXX

I hate flying. I really hate flying. So I'd spent the entire trip from Espritos to La Cava thinking about all the different ways I could die on that airplane. I should have spent it wondering why I'd never seen a photo of Greg Boyington in print. Nobody told me the CO of the unit I was going to be living with for the foreseeable future was one of the most drop dead gorgeous men I'd ever met. As it turned out, no one told me how he felt about the press, either. - KCC