A/N: Hope you enjoyed the first chapter! I know I'm in good company with fans of a show that went off the air over 40 years ago. We all loved it for different reasons—the Corsairs, the salute to history (no matter how Hollywood-ized), Robert Conrad, all the boys and Meatball—and the crazy loyal fanbase is still out there.
Chapter 2
Vella La Cava, VMF 214 HQ
Where things can always go from bad to worse
The party atmosphere, which had resumed posthaste after Bobby and TJ's fight, faded into confused silence as the room remained blanketed in darkness. The occupants of the Sheep Pen shifted uneasily, offering ideas about the cause of the outage.
Had a curious monkey, fascinated with the shiny knobs on the main generator, pulled something loose again or did this sudden lack of power have a more ominous meaning? Somewhere in the shadows near Kate's elbow, Casey muttered, "I've got a bad feeling about this."
Kate jumped at the touch of a hand, then relaxed, recognizing the familiar strength of Greg's fingers as they settled at the small of her back.
"Hey, Cameron." His voice was husky in her ear.
"Hey, Boyington." The moonlight silvering the room played over his chiseled features as he tipped her chin up and leaned in for a quick kiss. Adrenaline ricocheted through her like a rouge firework at the fast brush of his lips across hers but she pulled chastely away, reluctant to chance a public display of affection. Not so chastely, her body hungered for a second kiss - or more - to reaffirm his safe return.
The waxing moon slid behind a cloud and the Sheep Pen's interior turned from silver to pitch. Jim and Casey were only an arm's length away, or at least they had been when the lights went out. She wasn't sure where they were now and she didn't dare chance that second kiss. With her luck, the clouds would part, leaving her and Greg in a moonlit spotlight. There would be a great deal of cheering and whooping if that were the case. Damn it. She lived with a bunch of opportunistic voyeurs.
"What's going on?" she managed. Greg didn't seem surprised about the situation. She turned toward where she thought he stood and fumbled in the dark, flattening her palms against a solid chest and praying she had her hands on the right man. Jim would never let her hear the end of it if she inadvertently slid her arms around him. He wouldn't stop her, either, at least not until things started to reach the point of no return. The Black Sheep's code of honor was questionable at best, but you didn't mess with someone else's girl.
Kate's fingers recognized the heavy, tightly-woven cotton of a Marine Corps issue flight suit and traced the chest patch that carried name and rank. Greg had come directly from the line without changing, while the other boys were in field khakis for the evening. It was him, thank God. If she'd grabbed either of her earlier companions, Jim would laugh and Casey would be mortified but neither of them would ever let her forget it.
Her fingers worked up to his shoulder, then down his arm, closing over a muscular bicep. Kate paused. While she was intimately attuned to the energy field that surrounded Greg Boyington on a daily basis, tonight he resonated with something beyond his usual intensity. Her hand slid down his arm, aiming to twist her fingers with his, then inadvertently dropped to his hip as someone jostled her. Without thinking, she caressed the curve of his buttock. She hadn't intended for her hand to end up there but since it had, it would be a waste not to appreciate it.
"Find what you're looking for?" Greg's low chuckle was for her ears only. "Or do you plan to keep going?"
Kate blushed furiously - thank God it was dark - and pulled her hand back. Before she could answer, he caught her wrist, kissed the pulse point, then shifted her to his side.
"Listen up! Ladies, too, although you'll get your version from Lt. Commander Delmonte when you get back to the hospital. I've sent a messenger with a dispatch regarding your orders to her office. Can someone get us some light?" Greg's voice rang through the darkened room, quieting the last of the conjecture about the loss of power. The sound of shuffling and anticipation filled the darkness.
The rasp of a match was loud, followed by the tang of sulfur, and a tiny yellow light flared behind the bar. The flame lengthened and steadied as Anderson lit a candle, then another. When there was enough light to illuminate the gathering, Greg looked around at the assembled pilots and nurses.
"We're on restricted fuel rations, effective immediately," he said. "Generators will be used to power communication equipment only. Zero use for extraneous lighting except as needed on the flight line. That means no power to the mess, the Sheep Pen or tents until further notice. This is per Colonel Lard."
"He can't do that!" French protested. "Our beer will get warm."
"We've got bigger problems than warm beer." Greg's voice held a warning note. "The Army fuel depot on Espritos controls fuel allotments for all the units in the theater—gas for vehicles and generators along with aviation fuel. Their supply is running low and right now, the Japanese are restricting the shipping lanes for tankers coming in from the States. They've got flattops at strategic points from south of the Marshall Islands through New Caledonia and intelligence is following up rumors that some routes have been mined. Our tankers have all been pulled back to Pearl. Until the eggheads in Washington can figure out how to break the blockade, we ration every drop."
"Gives a whole new meaning to flying on fumes," Jim muttered.
"That's right," Greg continued. "Our missions are being reduced to conserve fuel. We'll still go up on patrols, just not so far up and down the Slot. Micklin and Hutch get priority for the gasoline for the generators on the line so they can keep us in the air."
Kate bit her lip as she listened. The mechanics often worked far into the night to avoid the worst of the blistering afternoon sun. The lights strung to illuminate the planes in various states of repair lent an almost festive atmosphere to the scene, although the work performed there was as deadly serious as anything the boys did upstairs.
"Micklin gets power so he can find his grease rags but we can't have cold beer?" Jerry Bragg muttered.
"Really, Bragg? You want him fixing your bird in the dark just so you can get a buzz?" Casey scoffed.
"Maybe he'd put the wings on backward and you'd fly better," Anderson said.
"Nobody likes a smart ass, Bob. I oughta—"
"Let me repeat myself, gentlemen." Greg cut Bragg off and waved an arm to encompass the Sheep Pen. "Any non-essential use of the generators is curtailed."
Anderson summed up the situation. "So we're on blackout between sunset and sunrise."
"Yepper. Don't get lost going to the head at 0200," Casey said.
"More like don't get lost coming back from the nurses' quarters," Jim snickered.
"The restrictions apply to the hospital, too," Greg said. "Most of the staff and any ambulatory patients will be evac'd to Espritos in the morning. Only a skeleton staff and the patients who can't be moved will stay." He paused. "So for God's sake don't do anything stupid because our medical resources are going to be limited."
Next to Kate, Casey inhaled sharply. His steady girl, Lieutenant Dee Ryan, was among the nurses stationed at the La Cava Naval Hospital. As a member of the long-term medical personnel, there was a ninety-nine percent chance Dee would be among those staying on the island.
Kate let out a small sigh of relief. Dee was her best friend from childhood. It was sheer happenstance that saw the career Navy nurse stationed on the same chunk of rock where Kate had taken a correspondent's assignment. As much as Kate loved the Black Sheep, she treasured being able to escape the choking levels of testosterone now and then for an evening with Dee and the other girls at the nurses' quarters. While she wouldn't wish hardship on her friend, Kate was glad Dee would still be firmly entrenched at the hospital. It wasn't like this Marine base in Japan's back yard was a five-star resort to start with. Things couldn't get much worse than they already were, could they?
"The nurses are leaving?" TJ sounded devastated. "Maybe we can get R and R and go see them."
"What part of non-essential fuel use don't you understand?" Greg asked dryly. "R and R is suspended and our weekly supply transports are canceled for the foreseeable future. The majority of available food supplies and gasoline are going to the front area infantry units that are seeing action. We're not going to starve, but we'll need to tighten our belts for a while."
This brought another chorus of groans.
"Maybe we can trade with other units for things," Boyle suggested.
"Great, Boyle, and how are we going to get them? In a row boat?" Jim said.
"Jim's right," Greg said. "And it's not just us. All the units in this part of the theater are under the same restrictions. We'll have to use some old-fashioned Yankee ingenuity to make up for the lack of supplies."
There was a moment of silence while the squadron digested his words.
"Stop by the supply tent when you leave here and pick up lamps and kerosene if you don't already have them," Greg ordered. "Keep their use to a minimum. When we run out of kerosene, there isn't any more and if you set your tent on fire, don't expect a new one for Christmas."
More mutinous grumbling.
"Stop complaining" Greg ordered, "most of you do your best work in the dark anyway. Now get outta here." There was an outbreak of agreeable noise as the boys considered this an endorsement of future activities.
With no lights, no music and no more cold beer, the nurses returned to the hospital, leaving only the whisper of perfume and hairspray lingering on the air. The boys drifted out of the building and when the door slapped shut behind the last group, only Greg, Kate, Casey and Jim remained. It was 2100 hours. The night was young, by Black Sheep standards.
"What are you gonna do, Greg?" Jim queried.
Kate wondered the same thing. Life with the Black Sheep catapulted the squadron from one crisis to the next without break and while she admired Greg's outward lack of concern over this latest crisis, she wondered if he already had a counter strategy in mind.
Jim didn't wait for an answer. "We're gonna be locked down on this rock," he groused. "No nurses, no cold drinks and goin' to bed with the chickens cuz there ain't no lights. And Beans is gonna lose his shit when he finds out he ain't got power for the mess."
Anders "Beans" Jorgensen operated the 214's mess hall with a degree of creativity unheard of among USMC head cooks. The son of Danish immigrants who ran a bakery in a small Minnesota town, he held a pastry arts degree from the Culinary Institute of America. Before his number came up in the draft, he worked as a pastry chef at The McKinley, a five-star restaurant in downtown Chicago, creating flaky croissants and cloudlike creampuffs. If there was a medal for "Most Unlikely To Feed Marines," Anders would have won it five times over.
"Always thinking with your stomach." Greg crossed his arms. "Don't worry. I talked to him after I talked to Micklin and he assured me he can still whip up three squares a day for you ingrates if someone will help him convert the cooking units to wood-fired. Casey, after morning mess, find someone to help with the switch-over and organize a firewood detail."
In the flickering candle light, Kate studied Greg's face. His attitude was cavalier but lines of tension bracketed his mouth. The 214 was going to be on their own for the long haul.
Greg continued, echoing her thoughts. "We're gonna have to supplement our existing food supplies. Jim, go out to the line tomorrow and see about borrowing those Arkansas boys, Williams and Everhardt. I bet they've hunted a wild hog or two in their day. We'll go after some of that inland herd we've seen from the air. I'll talk to French and see if he knows which plants out here will kill us and which won't."
Jim brightened at the thought of organizing a hunting party.
"We're goin' native," Casey whooped.
Kate listened as Greg ran through the exigencies of survival in the face of limited resources. His confidence reflected the strength that had built the Black Sheep out of nothing and turned them into the deadliest squadron in the Southwest Pacific. Excelling with only Yankee ingenuity was nothing new to these boys. As long as she'd been with the 214, they'd been making do or doing without.
An unpleasant thought struck her but she bit her tongue. It was insignificant in light of everything else.
"Yes, Cameron?"
She jumped, unaware he'd been watching her. She cursed having a face that showed every emotion. This was exactly why she rarely played poker with the boys and she never played if Greg was at the table. She might as well just hand him her money and be done with it, a fact he found amusing.
"Nothing," she said quickly. "It's not important."
"You're as much a part of this unit as any of the boys," he said. Jim snickered, then stifled it. "If you've got a concern, lets hear it."
"What about coffee?" she ventured.
"What about it?"
She narrowed her eyes at him. "You know what I mean." Kate took her coffee seriously—hot, dark and on demand. Fortunately, she'd cut her teeth on newsroom coffee that wasn't for the faint of heart and found the 214's quite acceptable.
"That's what I like about you." Greg squeezed her shoulder. "You always have your priorities in order. Don't worry, Anders says he'll still brew up a pot of bean juice whether there's electricity or not. You'll have it by Revile every morning."
"That's not terribly reassuring." The Black Sheep weren't known for any adherence to playing Revile.
"Beans says we won't starve but he'll need our help. With reduced mission parameters, we'll have plenty of time to devote to food gathering. We'll hunker down and play by Lard's rules."
Jim snorted. "Since when do you play by Lard's rules?"
Kate, Casey and Jim recognized the smug look on Greg's face at the same time. They all spoke at once.
"What are you going to—"
"Greg, you can't—"
"Let's hear it, Pappy!"
"Lard only told me we were on fuel restrictions." Greg paced the length of the Sheep Pen, turned around and came back. The flames on the candles lengthened and twisted in the breeze he created. "He ordered me to conduct this unit with the utmost sense of economy for the foreseeable future. He didn't order me not to figure out how to get the Japanese to move out so our tankers can pass safely."
"Isn't that for Washington to figure out?" Kate challenged. "Last time I checked, they don't put squadron leaders in charge of theater battle tactics." Greg would do what he pleased, but her reporter's instincts meant she'd question him every step of the way. Secretly, she thought he liked it.
"They don't let majors form squadrons, either, and look where we are now," Casey said. "Honestly Greg, you can't take over a major military operation just because you don't want to wait for Washington." His resigned tone indicated he'd used that line so many times he was just going through the motions.
"Of course I can. I just haven't decided how yet," Greg said. He held Kate's gaze across the flickering candles and a familiar sensation curled through her stomach. Whatever his plan was, it had all the makings of another balls-to-the-wall caper that could go wrong on a dozen different levels.
She was fascinated by his absolute refusal to just do as he was told for once and let the higher-ups take it from there. She suspected he was genetically incapable of that. One corner of his mouth lifted in a subtle grin, his eyes still locked on hers. The feeling in her gut—adrenaline edged with terror—twisted around a bold rush of heat. Whatever he had in mind, she was going to end up right in the middle of it. Again.
"When you figure it out, let me know." Jim yawned. "I'm gonna go pick up my Aladdin's lamp in supply and make a wish. Maybe I'll wake up back in the States." He left, followed by Casey, who was still muttering about military protocol and things that couldn't be done. Greg had done most of them.
Kate didn't move from her spot against the bar. For a heartbeat, she allowed herself to get lost in the unarguable power that surrounded him. In the last two months, he'd woven her into the tapestry of a squadron that conquered impossible odds by skill and luck, led by his sheer force of will. He'd also pulled her into a world where only the two of them existed. A shared glance or discreet touch was all it took to made the war fade away.
Greg blew out the candles, reducing the building's interior to dappled moonlight. Smoke wraiths drifted upward in the air currents and the smell of melted wax filled the room. He straightened and set his hand in the small of her back.
"Let's go, Cameron. Your tent. I've got an idea."
Kate hesitated. During her two-month stint on La Cava, she'd become intimately familiar with his ideas. They ranged from suicidal to sensual and everything in between. There was no telling what he had in mind this time but his smile and the subsequent dimples, made her heartrate kick up. He seriously could not be thinking about anything but the crisis at hand, could he?
Meatball trotted along behind them as they made their way to her tent. The base's security lighting, which hadn't been ample to begin with, had gone dark when the generators were cut. The moon did little to light their way and they navigated by memory, dodging parked jeeps and stacks of supply crates as they loomed out of the darkness.
Reaching her tent, Kate fumbled briefly, then struck a match and lit the kerosene lantern on her desk. She already had one, since at some point, the light bulb dangling from the utilitarian metal fixture overhead had disappeared. It had been easier to switch to using a lantern than to get another bulb, which would inevitably get pilfered again.
The small orange flame flickered, then lengthened and steadied as she closed the glass globe. She turned to face Greg, who leaned against a tarp-covered stack of trade goods. Meatball curled up on her bunk and put his nose on his paws.
"Do you really have a plan to deal with the Japanese or were you just pulling Casey's leg?" she asked. "It's going to take more than one squadron to break that blockade and it's completely out of the Black Sheep's range, even with drop tanks, unless you plan to take off from a carrier." Her time with the unit had given her an appreciation of the boys' capabilities, which frequently exceeded realistic expectations. Still, not even the Black Sheep could fly beyond their fuel range.
Greg surveyed the cluttered interior of the tent/field office without answering. A worn Remington typewriter sat atop her desk amidst a litter of pencils, notebooks and outdated stateside newspapers. A collection of white porcelain coffee mugs and a scattering of books competed for space on the cramped surface.
"You still have the bottle I left here last night?" he asked.
Kate pinned him with a vexed look. "You didn't answer my question, Major." She tempered his rank with just enough emphasis to let him know she expected an answer and would push to get it, regardless of their relationship. It was a technique she employed when interviewing recalcitrant brass who tried to dodge her requests for information. It worked with Greg about half the time. She knew it and he knew it but it was a game they played.
"You didn't answer mine either." His hot blue gaze dared her to push her agenda.
"I asked first." She pushed because she liked seeing what kind of response she'd get.
"It's on a need-to-know basis, sweetheart. You'll find out soon enough."
That wasn't the answer she was looking for but damned if his presence in the soft glow of the lantern wasn't taking her mind off military operations at a dangerous speed. To cover her distraction, she pulled the bottle of Scotch out of her footlocker. "Nightcap?"
"Thought you'd never ask." He watched as she poured and handed him a glass tumbler. For once, she actually had glasses. Half the time, they drank out of canteen cups or coffee mugs or straight out of the bottle.
Kate sipped appreciatively, savoring both the whisky and the company. She treasured these small moments at the end of the day. Greg's habit of stopping by for a nightcap lent an air of civility to the war that let her forget, at least for a few minutes, the fragility of their lives here. Tonight was different, though. The darkness outside the tent felt unusually heavy without the scattering of lights and hum of sound drifting from the Sheep Pen.
"How long does Lard think it's going to take for Washington to figure out how to break the blockade?" she asked.
"I asked him the same thing. He told me it wasn't any of my business and to just follow orders for once." Greg looked offended at the implication he wouldn't follow orders unless explicitly reminded.
Kate wondered how Lard could remain so oblivious about the nature of the men he commanded. Telling Greg something wasn't his business was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. If it involved his squadron, he'd make it his business whether Lard liked it or not. The impact of the cut supply line on the Black Sheep would be more than physical. The men were used to living with a degree of deprivation but the mental impact would be further reaching. Reduced missions meant more time on the ground and without the outlets of cold beer and female companionship, the boys' morale would spiral down in a hurry. It was a recipe for chaos.
Which brought her back to her original question.
"Tell me about this plan of yours." Maybe approaching it from a different angle would yield better results.
It didn't.
"Nice try, Cameron." He sipped his drink and watched her, his gaze steady, the hint of a smile playing on his lips.
Trying to get information out of him when he had no intention of giving it was an exercise in futility. Still, that ghost of a smile made her think she'd made some small progress although it might have nothing to do with the current crisis. She was a lousy poker player but she could read his tells when cards weren't involved. That smile, even from a distance, was an invitation to play with fire.
"You're impossible," she said without heat and turned back to her desk to refill her glass. She knew he'd moved up behind her even before his hands slid around waist. The air around him hummed with energy, like wind rising before a storm and she set the bottle down, uncertain.
"Katie, I need you to do something for me."
Her name on his lips was an invocation, calling something hot and wild that neither of them could totally control.
"What?" This was dangerous ground. She turned in his arms to face him.
"It's something you're good at." Greg lowered his mouth to her neck and her senses, already on high alert, soared into the stratosphere. Kate forced her imagination under control. Whatever he had in mind, it was unlikely to happen in her tent but the night was still young. More than once they'd slipped off to the pseudo privacy of the beach for a few stolen moments.
"Mmmmm?" was all she could manage.
"Very good at." His lips grazed her jaw, then her throat. One hand slid under her shirt to stroke the bare skin of her back and he pulled away far enough to trace her lower lip with an index finger. She caught his finger in her teeth and flicked her tongue over the tip, then released it.
"We're not doing that here," she whispered.
"Your tent, my tent, the Sheep Pen, wherever you want."
The Sheep Pen?
"What are you talking about?" She tried stepping back but he didn't let go.
"What are you talking about?" His grin was unapologetically boyish.
"I thought—" she started, then broke off, heart pounding. If he was trying to confuse her, he was doing a damned fine job. "Oh never mind. What exactly do you want?"
Greg laughed appreciatively, still not taking his hands off her. "It's not so much what I want, it's what I need."
Kate failed to see the difference. What she wanted and what she needed were fast becoming the same thing. She took a deep breath and reined in her emotions.
"What. Do. You. Want?" she tried again. His hands slid up her arms, warm and rough against her bare skin, every touch leaving her wanting to return it in kind. The irresistible pull of his eyes would have her agreeing to anything, anywhere, and they both knew it.
He leaned in and kissed her, softly, but with the promise of heat. She took his tongue, tasted whisky and ached for more of him. Every fiber of her being wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and drag him down onto her bunk and to hell with propriety. If anyone walked in on them, well, they could just turn around and walk back out, couldn't they? It was darker than usual after all and deprived of its usual entertainments, the base had settled for the night. The odds of being interrupted were diminished enough to make her consider taking the risk.
Pulling away, Greg whispered, "I want you to write a story for me."
Of all the things she'd expected him to say, that wasn't one of them.
To be continued . . .