Author's note: I started writing this the day after Robert Conrad's death. Call it creative catharsis – a celebration of his life and reflection of the the enjoyment I found in watching him on screen. In 2015, I re-discovered the Black Sheep by accident, got hooked all over again and wrote "Front Page News" (later updated to "Front Page News: Second Edition.") It was the first fiction I'd written since college and I owe Robert for sparking the creativity that launched so many wonderful hours lost in re-creating my own director's cut of Baa Baa Black Sheep.

Since then, I've written a number of other Black Sheep fanfics, and encouraged by readers' comments and the support of a group of creative writing friends, I finished the novel (not Black Sheep, sorry) I'd dreamed about writing for years. I'm in the process of finding an agent and having it published, which is easier said than done. If you know of a literary agent looking for story about a disillusioned woman who buys a haunted house, meets a guy, meets a ghost, solves the mystery of a missing body and learns to trust men again, please send him/her my way.

In the meantime, I'm happy to present this farce in multiple acts. In theatre, a farce is a comedy that aims at entertaining the audience through situations that are highly exaggerated, extravagant, and thus improbable. Farce is also characterized by physical humor, the use of deliberate absurdity or nonsense, and broadly stylized performances. I think the shoe fits.

This caper finds the Black Sheep and their embedded war correspondent, Kate "K.C." Cameron, pulling off a heist for the benefit of the squadron. If you're not familiar with Kate Cameron and have some time to kill (okay, a LOT of time to kill), read "Front Page News: Second Edition" (still posted on this site) to get the full story of how she ended up on Vella La Cava, and in Greg's bed.

Reviews welcome. Enjoy.

OPERATION MIDNIGHT SERENADE

Chapter 1

Autumn 1943

Vella La Cava

VMF 214 HQ

"Hey, Cameron, I need your help." USMC Major Greg Boyington pushed through the mosquito netting into the cluttered tent of VMF 214's resident Associated Press war correspondent.

Kate "K.C." Cameron didn't look up from her battered Remington typewriter. The rough practicality of her cut-off fatigues and sleeveless man's work shirt only emphasized her slender curves and her sun-streaked hair was caught up off her neck in a loose knot. She clenched a pencil between her teeth in concentration as she typed with perfect composure, as if she were seated in any stateside newsroom, not a canvas-roofed field office on an island in the Pacific Theatre.

Kate fought to retain her concentration, which threatened to fly right out the door the second she heard Greg's voice. She wasn't entirely displeased by the interruption but she wasn't about to let him know that. "I need your help" were four damnably dangerous words, coming from him. The request could range from processing the squadron's recon film to joining his side in a volleyball game and a lot of things in between. It didn't pay to overthink any of it, especially the things in between.

Her fingers continued to tap out a steady cadence as she finished one sentence, then another. The story she was writing focused on the desperate need of replacement parts for the squadron's planes. Baling wire and beer cans only went so far and Greg's requisitions to Colonel Thomas Lard on Espritos Marcos had yielded less than one hundred percent approval in recent weeks.

In the meantime, wear and tear on the planes mounted while the Black Sheep continued their missions against well-trained Japanese pilots flying well-maintained aircraft. To make things worse, the 214 was experiencing an unusual drought when it came to their Scotch stockpile. This unfortunate lack of the liquid currency that lubricated so many of the unit's black market trade deals meant Andy Micklin and John "Hutch" Hutchinson were burning the candle at both ends, trying to keep the 214's birds in peak operating condition.

A timely story in the stateside papers would draw attention to the situation and eventually loosen Lard's stranglehold on the 214's supply line. It was a card Kate played from time to time and she was confident it would bring results. The problem was it might take several weeks for the top brass to push the appropriate requisitions through channels. The planes needed replacement parts now. Just this morning, Don French brought his bird home barely able to fly above the deck, thanks to a carburetor that had been rebuilt one time past its limit. He wasn't alone. Micklin started referring to several of the planes as "flying coffins," although he was careful not to say it when the pilots were within earshot.

Even with her back to the door, Kate was aware of Greg standing with his arms crossed as she poured her thoughts onto paper. She waited until she heard the barely imperceptible change in his breathing that meant his patience was nearing the breaking point, then pushed her chair back from the desk and turned to face him.

"You need my help doing what?" she asked. His easy smile triggered a number of red flags. Since her arrival on La Cava, Kate had made a study of reading Greg Boyington's body language. Initially she'd done it in self-defense. Greg had no love for the press corps. The fact she'd been assigned to the 214 by Colonel Lard automatically made her untrustworthy by association. Her first days with the unit had been spent walking the razor's edge to keep from getting herself booted onto the next transport back to Espritos Marcos. As time passed and the Black Sheep welcomed her into the fold, her continued study of their leader evolved to noticing the subtle cues that hinted at either chaos or sensuality.

Either way, watching the man operate was just plain enjoyable.

Now, the look in his eyes suggested something more involved than simply needing a ringer for a volleyball match. Oh lord, here we go again, Kate thought. It wasn't that she didn't want to help him - she was entirely helpless when it came to telling him no – but every time she got involved with a Black Sheep caper, the potential for blood and mayhem came in equal proportions.

"Something you're good at," Greg said. His tone put all her senses on alert. His voice was whisky rough, his words for her ears only in spite of the men laughing and shouting as they passed the tent just feet away. "I need you to be a distraction."

His eyes slid over her, lingered briefly on her legs and breasts, then came back to her face. If any other man had looked at her that way, Kate would have torn his head off. When Greg did it, she basked in the warmth of his gaze like a cat in a pool of sunshine. Still, a girl couldn't appear too easy. She tried to look like she wasn't having any of it but when he broke into a slow, dimpled grin, she felt her resolve crumbling. Again.

"What do you want?" she asked cautiously. That was a loaded question.

The grin broadened.

Kate tried again, determined to get a clear answer. "Who needs distracting?"

"The Navy."

"Halsey's Third Fleet in general? Or do you have something more specific in mind?"

He chuckled but still didn't answer.

"Go up to the nurse's quarters to shower and change. Casey's already called ahead and Dee's got a dress lined up for you. She'll help you with your hair, too." His eyes traveled briefly over the loose curls escaping from her haphazard style. "Be back by 2100. You've got a date."

"A date? With who?" If Lieutenant Dee Ryan's services were required as fashion consultant and hair stylist, this sounded serious.

"Gutterman. When you get back, meet him at the south end of the flight line and head toward the beach."

"What the hell?" Kate wasn't sure if she should laugh at the insanity of this or dig in her heels and flat refuse. She chose the latter. "It's dark at 2100. I am not going to the beach with Jim in the dark. That's just asking for trouble."

"Exactly." Greg looked as if this explained everything.

Kate groaned.

Captain Jim Gutterman was one of Greg's two executive officers. He was endowed with a short temper and an ego as big as his native Texas. This combination caused no end of trouble, since like most of the Black Sheep, he was in continual pursuit of the female form. Kate had disabused him of the notion she would be his next conquest shortly after her arrival at the base. Jim's ill-fated pass while helping her in the tiny darkroom in the Sheep Pen had set her up for an unlikely friendship with Greg in spite of his reservations about the press corps. Since then, Jim teased her relentlessly but kept his hands to himself. That was partly because he knew she was serious when it came to threats of bodily harm and partly because she was, unarguably, Greg's girl now.

Complications with Jim aside, Kate wasn't agreeing to anything with such vague parameters. In her experience with the squadron, girls visiting the base with nice dresses and up-do's usually represented the unspoken expectation of a romantic evening.

She came up off her chair and closed the distance between herself and the Black Sheep's CO with two strides. Standing toe to toe, she tipped her head back and glared into the depths of his blue-green eyes. She planted one index finger squarely in the center of his chest and pushed.

"I am not going anywhere with Jim until you tell me what this is all about." Her blunt assertiveness was a skill she employed often and to good effect as a war correspondent. She ignored the fact that in the two months she'd been based on the island, it had a 100 percent failure rate with Greg.

"You don't take orders very well." He took her by the upper arms and stepped forward. Kate took an involuntary step back. There wasn't much room for maneuvering. Before she moved in, the VIP tent had served as a repository for the squadron's black market trade goods. That hadn't changed. In addition to her bunk and desk, the tent was crammed with crates of Spam, soap chips, silk stockings, two-ply toilet paper and several boxes labeled GRENADES that she fervently hoped were mismarked.

Most importantly, her tent was the repository for the third element, behind engine oil and fuel, that kept the squadron in the air: multiple cases of aged Scotch whisky. The liquid currency kept the wheels of commerce spinning as units across the Southwest Pacific transacted deals for their mutual benefit. The space usually occupied by the Black Sheep's stash was currently echoingly vacant. The last bottles had shipped out two weeks ago in exchange for desperately needed parts. To date, they hadn't been replaced and the battle-weary Corsairs were beginning to pay the price.

"I don't have to take orders from you." Kate took another step backward and ran up against a stack of crates containing tent canvas and cooking oil. Greg's hands slid down to her waist, pinning her with light but undeniable authority.

"As long as you're part of this unit, you answer to me, Cameron." His voice had gone dangerously low but she saw one corner of his mouth twitch in the hint of a smile.

"Don't you dare pull rank on me. I'm civilian press and there's not a thing you can do about it." Kate knew she was losing ground fast. There were, in fact, quite a few things he could do about it.

She fought the sin of his hot blue gaze and clenched her fingers against the tarp-covered crate behind her. If she kept her hands off that hard muscled body, maybe this time she could say no. At least until she found out what he had in mind, then perhaps there would be room to negotiate her terms of surrender.

What she thought was a straight forward request for information was derailing at an alarming pace as Greg stepped closer to her. She realized she was caring less and less about why the Navy needed distracting, but made one more valiant attempt. "Tell me . . ."

He brushed his lips over hers in the barest whisper of a kiss.

Kate struggled to focus. " . . . why you need . . ."

His mouth moved to the curve of her jaw, leaving a trail of electricity sparkling across her skin.

She gave it one final try. " . . . to distract the Navy."

Greg's mouth lingered at the base of her neck and she gave up, tipping her head back to bare her throat to him. Her interest in the Navy vanished as she wrapped her arms around his neck and surrendered.

His voice was barely audible against her skin. "Remember the shipment of supplies that dropped here last Thursday?"

Supplies. Right. With the heat of Greg's body against hers and the sensual roughness of his hands sliding under her shirt to caress bare skin, Kate could barely remember her own name. She vaguely recalled Hutch and Micklin being ecstatic, then despondent, when it was discovered the shipment was intended for a Navy unit on New Caledonia but delivered to La Cava in error.

"Mmmm." That was the best she could manage. Under the circumstances, she thought it was an exceptional effort.

"There are a dozen carburetors and two crates of mag points in that shipment. Brand new parts Hutch won't have to modify. Plus distributor caps, hoses, clamps and God knows what else." His mouth moved along her collarbone and back up her neck.

"Mmmm." He could have told her the crates contained the Holy Grail and gotten the same reaction.

As soon as they realized their error, the brass on Espritos immediately sent a four-man detachment to guard the materiel around the clock until it could be re-routed to its original destination. The brass on Espritos was entirely too familiar with the way items of value tended to disappear in the vicinity of the Black Sheep. Colonel Lard was no doubt losing sleep every minute those supply crates remained within shouting distance of the 214.

Between the war and the weather, it hadn't been possible to arrange for a transport. As a result, the parts and the truck they'd been loaded onto had been sitting near the air strip for nearly a week, guarded by alternating two-man shifts. Greg had ordered the Black Sheep to keep their distance and surprisingly, the truck and its contents had gone unmolested.

Greg's mouth brushed her ear. "We need those parts and they're free for the taking."

Kate didn't think something being guarded around the clock was quite the same thing as free for the taking but she wasn't in a position to argue. Greg's mouth found hers again and she took full advantage of the stolen moment. Their relationship had gone from adversarial distrust to cautious acceptance to a guarded friendship after Greg discovered she had no intention of discrediting the Black Sheep in the stateside newspapers. They'd been lovers for less than a month, their relationship forged in the flames of the war.

The kiss was showing the promise of more thorough involvement when the mosquito netting rustled and a tow-headed pilot stepped into the tent. The Black Sheep's complete disregard for privacy showed no sign of improving.

"Hey, Katie, Dee says she's found the perfect dress for – oh – damn – sorry." First Lieutenant Larry Casey did not look sorry. His boyish grin was completely unapologetic but he did have the courtesy to look away as Kate untangled herself, reluctantly, from Greg.

"Cameron was agreeing to help us," Greg said.

"Um. Yeah. Is that what you're calling it now?" Casey's grin grew wider.

Kate glared at him to no perceivable effect. The boys treated her largely like one of the guys, which meant her and Greg's relationship was subject to the same ribald teasing as any other of the squadron's romantic escapades.

"I don't remember agreeing to anything," she protested, trying to regain some semblance of control.

Casey and Greg both ignored her.

"Dee's off duty now. She'll help you get dressed and do your hair," Casey said and glanced at his wristwatch. "You'd better get going."

Kate narrowed her eyes. Clearly Greg hadn't approached her until the last minute so she wouldn't have time to balk. If time was of the essence, he knew she'd agree. But that didn't mean she wasn't done asking questions.

"Why do I need to get dressed up for this date?" She was getting a little concerned about the logistics of the plan even though she didn't know what they were.

"Because I don't want the guards on that truck to recognize you," Greg said. "As far as they'll be concerned, you'll just be a nurse from the hospital come to the base to see your sweetheart."

Kate gave him a complete what the hell look.

As far as the guards were concerned, she'd been laying low for the last week. It wouldn't do for one of them to mention to someone higher up the food chain that a female reporter was working – and living – in the middle of VMF 214. She'd kept a painfully low profile since last Friday. Greg and the boys kept her updated on the unit's daily operations but she missed being in the thick of things. She realized, uncomfortably, that Greg's hazy request for her to be a distraction was starting to sound like an attractive respite from this temporary exile. Since the guards didn't know she existed in the first place, of course they would assume she was a nurse from the Navy hospital on the far end of the island. In a world fueled by testosterone, women on the island were quickly lumped into a single generic category – if you were female, you were a nurse. Except for Kate, but no one was pointing that out.

Her arrival on the island several months earlier had, indeed, been ordered by Colonel Lard. Lard, however, had no idea K.C. Cameron, the highly respected war correspondent he'd recruited to embed with the 214, was Katherine Christine Cameron. Once Greg discovered Kate's writing and photography skills were beneficial to the squadron's future, he and the boys launched an ongoing campaign to keep her presence a secret. General Thomas Moore knew Kate's true identity but he'd long ago resigned himself to not looking too closely at things that happened on La Cava.

The sound of boots and scuffling heralded the arrival of what Kate thought of collectively as the Bobbies – Anderson and Boyle. Casey said, "I'll tell Dee you're on your way," and left. The two dark haired pilots crowded in.

"Hey, Katie," Anderson called cheerfully. "We're here to collect that rum before you drink it all."

Kate blinked at the sudden change of topic. The cases of black island rum had been in her tent for so long she considered them a permanent fixture. They had arrived on La Cava before she did and seemed prepared to ride out the war there. Unlike most of Greg and Casey's carefully orchestrated black market trades, this one had not been moved forward to profit the squadron. No one from Bougainville to Guadalcanal wanted it.

"That rum is in no danger of anyone drinking it," she said.

The alcohol, which had been distilled into gallon jugs in an optimistic hope of large volume consumption, tasted like burned cane sugar and kicked like a Missouri mule. Not only did Kate not want it in spite of its availability, neither did anyone else. Given the Black Sheep's propensity for consuming any liquid containing a trace of alcohol, that was saying quite a bit. She had the feeling the liquor had been making its way around the theatre like the proverbial Christmas fruitcake that kept being re-gifted.

"It's all yours," she said, stepping out of their way. Anderson and Boyle made quick work of loading the cases onto the back of a jeep, then threw a tarp over it. Meatball, Greg's white bull terrier, perched happily atop the stack as the jeep disappeared.

"What are they doing with that?" she asked.

Greg shook his head. "Can't tell you."

"Does it have anything to do with what's going on tonight?"

"Maybe."

"If I'm part of this caper, I want to know."

"No."

She slanted him a look from under her lashes. She knew he wouldn't buy the blend of coy innocence for a minute but she was also fully aware of the effect it had on him.

"Stop that."

"Then tell me – "

"No." The late afternoon sunlight slanting into the tent brushed the square edge of his jaw with gold.

Kate knew it was hopeless but launched one final assault. "Where are they taking the rum? What's going to happen tonight? And why in God's name am I going on a date with Gutterman?" With a little time and privacy she knew she could work the information out of him but both of those commodities were in short supply.

"You ask too many questions."

"It's my job."

"I'm giving you a different job."

"You're a pain in the ass, Boyington."

He chuckled, then pulled her close and kissed her forehead. "You're right. But it's best you don't know anything. If we get caught, it'll mean court martial and I'm not dragging you into it. You're just an innocent bystander."

Kate thought Greg viewed anything with court martial potential as a personal challenge. "Fine. I'll go take a shower and put on a dress and go on a date with Jim. Maybe he'll tell me what's going on."

She shoved her feet into worn leather boots and tied the laces. Greg followed her out of the tent to a nearby jeep. Kate started the vehicle then paused, hand on the gear shift.

"You want something else, Cameron?" Greg held her eyes and she wondered, not for the first time, what would have happened if they'd met under civilian circumstances. They'd both fought the undeniable mutual attraction but time and circumstance escalated their relationship until it ignited with the force of a 500-pound incendiary dropped dead on target.

She shook herself back to the present. Yeah. She wanted a lot of things she wasn't likely to get any time soon but settled for taking the high road. "You know, one of these days I'm going to tell you no and mean it."

Greg chuckled. "You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart."

Kate gave it one more shot. "What am I supposed to do tonight? Besides put up with Gutterman?"

"You'll be fine. I've seen you in action."

Kate was starting to get a bad feeling about this. On La Cava, "You'll be fine" translated as "You may end up flying through the debris field but don't worry, we've got your six." She tried again. "Why Jim?"

Greg's grin was pure innocence.

"He was the first one who volunteered."