Chapter 6

Vella La Cava, VMF 214 HQ

Where one thing often leads to another

Don and TJ greeted Kate, Greg and Jim with excited whoops when they returned from the hospital.

"Got some good news, Pappy!" TJ said.

"You've finally outsmarted a hog?" Greg swung out of the jeep without giving the younger pilot a chance to reply. His tone was joking but Kate recognized the hard set of his jaw. While neither he nor Jim had been seriously injured in the dust up with the Japanese patrol, the situation drove home how vulnerable they were.

Without waiting to hear the alleged good news (which judging from Don's eye roll did not involve the hog hunt) Greg headed for his tent with Don and TJ following. Kate went with them out of curiosity. The boys' idea of good news could mean anything. Jim muttered something about a drink and went in the opposite direction.

In his tent, Greg stripped out of his flight suit with a total lack of self-consciousness. Kate watched appreciatively as he bent to pull a T-shirt and trousers out of his footlocker. The taut fabric of his skivvies accented the lean curve of his backside nicely.

TJ caught her admiring glance and smirked. "See anything you like, Katie?"

"Stop it," she hissed, color flaming her cheeks. This was exactly why she made it a point to keep her relationship with Greg plutonic when they were in the squadron's public eye. The boys never missed an opportunity to tease. But damn, it was impossible not to admire something that was right in front of her and she unapologetically let her eyes sweep Greg's bare torso. It would be a sin not to.

Don cleared his throat. "Hutch says the damage to Jim's bird isn't as bad as he thought. It was just oil burning off but it still took out a few hoses and he says it'll be hard to replace them."

"Thought you were the good news fairy." Greg pulled the T-shirt over his head and Kate gave a final glance at the muscle rippling across his back. TJ started to chuckle, then hastily turned it into a cough when she shot him a wicked side eye.

"I am! We are!" Don said, regaining his prior enthusiasm. "Casey and Jerry made a trap from some spare camouflage netting. They rigged it up about fifty yards off the beach when the tide was high and when it went out, they caught a bunch of fish."

"Fish? That's your good news?" Greg stepped into a pair of fatigues.

"It's fresh meat for supper!" TJ said. "You gotta see this."

"I've seen a fish before." Greg waved a hand in dismissal. "Where's Casey? I've got to re-assign tomorrow's patrol. Doc Cameron says I can't fly for 24 hours since I bumped my head."

Kate folded her arms across her chest and smiled sweetly at him.

"But you've never seen fish like these," Don persisted. "Come on." He turned and they all trooped out of the tent toward a group of men clustered around several barrels in the shade of a palm tree.

Kate had heard excited shouts earlier that afternoon when she was out on the line with Hutch but hadn't witnessed the results of the fishing excursion firsthand. Privately, she shared Greg's doubt about the good news worthiness of whatever they'd caught. The boys' previous fishing forays typically yielded small creatures barely worth the effort of cleaning. Beans was less than enthusiastic about being tasked to fry them although as the base's supplies dwindled, anything fresh was a welcome respite from canned meat. The hog hunters' biggest claim to success was that no one had fallen out of a tree lately.

"Holy shit." Greg pulled up short. Kate looked down and echoed his sentiments. Filtered sunlight flashed off silver and red scales like an ever-changing child's kaleidoscope as fins twisted in the water-filled barrel. The fish were easily two feet long and plump. There were a lot of them.

"What are they?" Kate asked.

"Some kind of sea bass," Casey said. "I've had them on Espritos when we were there for R and R, broiled with dill and lemon sauce."

"I don't think Beans' kitchen is up to dill and lemon sauce at the moment," Don mused.

"Maybe you'd like to cook them yourself, flyboy."

Everyone jumped. They hadn't heard the cook approaching. Beans Jorgensen was surprisingly stealthy for a man of his bulk. Standing five feet, 8 inches and tipping the scales at a solid 275 pounds, he was dangerously close to being as big around as he was tall. When some of the stouter members of the squadron were called to task for their weight, they pointed out no one was telling Beans to go on a diet. Greg pointed out that Beans was not expected to fit in a Corsair cockpit and besides, who trusted a skinny cook?

Beans looked into the barrel and rubbed his hands together. "Now these are fish worth my time." He looked around the assembled group. "Who's going to clean them?"

The boys shuffled, looking awkwardly at each other.

"Jerry and I caught them and hauled them up here, someone else can clean them," Casey declared.

"Don't look at me," Boyle said. "I grew up in the city."

"Me, too," TJ added. "There aren't any fishing holes in Philadelphia. We got our fish at the market."

Kate looked at the gathered men. "Seriously? Didn't they teach you that sort of thing in survival training?"

The boys' collective blank look was all the answer she needed.

"Oh for heaven's sake," she muttered. Turning to the cook, she asked, "Do you have a knife I can use?"

The cook looked her up and down, eyebrows raised.

"I grew up cleaning catfish and bass," she said. "A fish is a fish. These can't be much different."

Pleased to have found an unlikely sous chef, Beans brightened and powered off toward the kitchen.

"Bring two knives," Don yelled, stepping forward. "I'll help you, Katie. I'd like to eat before the war's over." She flashed him a thankful smile. Cleaning two dozen large fish in the afternoon heat wasn't her idea of a good time but she honestly had nothing else to do and needed to stay busy. The air of unease following the ambush of the patrol left her edgy. Not only hadn't the Japanese ships moved out under the manufactured threat of Allied retaliation, now enemy planes were pushing aggressively into La Cava airspace. She had a bad feeling about this.

She bit her lip and focused on the task at hand. Turning to Greg, she said, "We're gonna need a work table and a couple of gut buckets."

"You heard her," Greg barked and the rest of the boys dispersed to find the requested items. Jerry and Bob Anderson constructed a hasty cleaning table of planks atop sawhorses and Anderson produced several buckets. Beans returned with a variety of knives, none of which could be described as fillet knives, but were all wickedly sharp. He conferred with Kate and Don, then convinced they knew what they were doing, headed back to the mess. He looked positively ecstatic at the prospect of preparing a meal that didn't include Spam.

XXX

Greg lounged on an upended packing crate in the shade of a tree. He never tired of watching her, no matter what she was doing. Even now, splattered with blood and fish scales and wielding a knife with brutal efficiency, she moved with the same clean economy of motion he'd grown to appreciate whether she was working in her darkroom or playing volleyball with the boys. Watching her was a respite from the escalating threat of danger that hung over the island like a brewing storm.

He blessed the Fates that brought them together. What were the odds in a world ripped by war, a girl like her would not only walk onto his base but into the arms of a slightly battered fighter pilot like himself?

His mind drifted back to that night he'd held her as they danced, the fabric of her dress clinging to her curves, her lips not entirely surprised when he kissed her. When they'd woken up together the next morning, she'd been half-furious, half-scandalized and completely beautiful in her frustration. Nothing had happened. She'd fallen asleep in his bunk and he'd been a gentleman and spent an uncomfortable night on the floor. He smiled at the memory of that morning, the sun highlighting the color on her cheeks as she tried to adjust her dress and find her shoes.

Kate looked up as if reading his mind, a habit he found both intriguing and slightly unnerving.

"I'm sure one of these knives would fit your hand if you wanted to help," she called.

"Can't. You told me to take it easy, remember?" He gestured toward his temple. He'd taken off the bandage as soon as they left the hospital. Damned if he wanted the whole squadron fussing over him if they thought for a minute he was seriously hurt. Which he wasn't. Any lingering trace of a headache was the result of annoyance that his plan wasn't working.

What had started out as a few weeks' inconvenience—no cold beer, no jukebox, no nurses—was now complicated by the enemy's subtle but unmistakable forays into Black Sheep territory. Occasional sweeps of the island by Japanese patrols weren't unheard of but the squadron they'd run into today—a full squadron, not just a flight—had a different feel to it. The enemy had been reluctant to engage, as if they were there for a higher purpose than a run of the mill dogfight.

"How's your head?" Jim sauntered over and slouched on a nearby crate.

"Still attached. How's your leg?"

"Hasn't fallen off."

The two men sat in silence, watching the fish cleaning. Kate and Don worked with assembly-line efficiency, she removing the heads and entrails, then passing the gutted carcass to him to fillet.

Finally, Jim spoke. "Greg, maybe it ain't my place to say, since I don't have a better idea, but this plan of yours ain't working."

"It'll work." Greg's eyes never left Kate. "It just hasn't worked yet."

Jim snorted. "What are we gonna do until it does?"

Greg stood up. "Stay frosty. I've got a new plan."

Jim followed his CO's gaze. "It don't have nothin' to do with them riceballs, does it?"

"Nope. But it'll clear my mind."

Jim's broke into a knowing grin. "Clear your mind or clear your pipes?"

"Call it a strategy session."

"Don't hurt yourself, old son."

XXX

As TJ and Casey carried the last trays of sea bass fillets to the kitchen where Beans was prepping to work his magic, Kate dropped her knife on the table and stretched her aching shoulders. She flicked a fish scale off her forearm and rubbed at the blood caked on her hands. She sniffed delicately, wondering how much soap and water it was going to take to get the reek of fish off her skin. Don had departed directly for the showers. Not wanting to share his company there, she decided to wait.

"All done?" Greg asked.

"Finally. Thanks for helping." She pushed loose hair off her cheek with a sticky forearm. She'd been aware of him sitting under a nearby tree the whole time, doing absolutely nothing. At least he was taking it easy although she didn't doubt for a minute his mind had been working overtime.

"Here." He ignored her sarcasm and handed her a bundle of cloth wrapped in a towel.

Kate took the bundle, which turned out to be a clean shirt and shorts, plus undergarments. He shrugged, grinning, and she withheld comment about him plundering her footlocker.

She raised her eyebrows in silent question but he didn't answer, just took her elbow and steered her down the trailhead toward the beach. The light breeze off the ocean carried away the stink of sweat and fish offal. The noise of the base gradually faded, lost in the slap of waves washing onto the sand.

"Gotta admit, I've never been so glad to see that many fish in my life," Greg said.

"Spam and sourdough sandwiches are getting kind of old, even with Don's salad of the day," Kate agreed. She stopped and bent to unlace her boots. She tugged them off and followed with the socks. Tying the boot laces and hooking them on a finger, she splashed ankle deep in the water. The water felt delicious on her sweaty feet.

"A fish fry is a good break," Greg said. "It 'll give the boys something else to think about instead of sitting around, obsessing over what might happen next."

"What do you mean?"

"That patrol we ran into this morning didn't expect us to be up there. If we hadn't splashed a few of them, they'd have come straight for the base."

"Will they try again?"

Greg ran a hand through his hair in a familiar sign of frustration. "I'd bet on it. They counted planes this morning and they know we didn't put up a full squadron. They'll either hit again soon, because they know we're operating on limited resources, or they'll back off for another week, wait until we're stretched even thinner."

"What are you going to do?" Kate's questions were automatic, coming not only from a reporter's viewpoint but also from genuine curiosity. What were they going to do?

"I'd like to mine the water off this beach, because it's the most likely landing point if they launch an amphibious assault to retake the island. They're not likely to have troops parachute in because of the trees, and they won't rely on an air assault because they don't want to tear up the buildings or the airfield. But Lard's not going to listen if I request a mining detail so I guess it's Plan B."

"Plan B? Did I miss Plan A?"

"Your stories were Plan A." He grimaced. "Although I'm not convinced they aren't working. In fact, this morning's dust up might mean the riceballs are pushing to see how much damage they can do before the blockade breaks."

"Or it might mean the blockade is holding solid and Japan has decided it's time to get serious about retaking the island," she said.

"You've got a problem for every solution, you know that?" His words were serious but his eyes sparkled. He did not, however, tell her what Plan B was.

They moved further down the shore and Kate let the wind and water push away the day's stress. There was no sense borrowing trouble. Whatever was going to happen, would happen. She knew Greg had left the base on the pretense of going for a walk with her because he didn't want the boys to see him worrying about what the coming days might bring. He'd needed to work things through in his mind and come up with Plan B, whatever it was. She was afraid to ask, although at this point, any plan seemed better than the convoluted chain of events her writing was supposed to set in motion.

And if it was working, it seemed to have made things worse, not better. She sincerely hoped his mind was working out a reasonable contingency because hers was caught in a loop of what-ifs and none of them ended well for the Black Sheep. Or herself.

The late afternoon sun had begun its lazy descent and purple shadows lengthened as the warmth of the day lingered. The white sand beach, edged by a fringe of palm trees, made it almost possible to forget the pending danger. They'd gone a fair distance from the base when Greg stopped. Without comment, he unlaced his boots and tossed them out of the way. Turning to her, he indicated her gore-splattered shirt and shorts. "You might want to take those off."

She backpedaled, immediately suspicious. "Why?"

"Damn it, woman, do you ever stop asking questions?"

"No."

"At least you're honest. But you're lousy at taking orders."

"You're a fine one to talk. Are you ordering me to take my clothes off?"

"Yes."

Something in his tone set off a series of not entirely unpleasant warning bells. "No."

"Anyone ever tell you you've got a problem with authority?"

"Pot—kettle—black," she said, crossing her arms. Ugh. They itched with dried fish blood. Maybe she'd go wading and rinse off the worst of the mess. She'd shower later.

"Suit yourself."

Greg shucked out of his T-shirt and fatigues. Kate raised her eyebrows and didn't bother trying to hide her admiring glance this time. The broad, sculpted expanse of his chest tapered to lean abs and muscular thighs. She knew how every inch of that body felt, lying against hers in the dark, their mutual power blending until she couldn't tell where she ended and he began. Her fingers gave a small, involuntary twitch as she thought about how he felt under her hands.

"Are you coming swimming with me or not?"

She hesitated. She wasn't against horseplay in the water, either with the entire squadron or alone with Greg. If it was the former, she'd prefer to do it in a proper bathing suit. If it were the latter, she knew a bathing suit would quickly become optional and they were still too close to the base for her comfort.

"Um . . ." she started.

Greg captured her arm. "Not to put too fine of a point on it, but you stink."

Kate gathered up her dignity. "I was thinking about getting cleaned up when you kidnapped me."

"Kidnapped? I didn't see you fighting it."

"I didn't know what you had in mind."

"Sweetheart, you always know what I have in mind." In the split second before she could reply, Greg swept her off her feet and carried her into the water. This time, she did fight it, if only on the principal of the thing. It was useless. Her flailing legs and pounding fists only made him hold her tighter and the warmth of his hands made her oddly reluctant to protest too much.

Five yards off shore, Greg gave her a toss and she splashed unceremoniously into the tropical water. The waves closed over her head, then she rose to the surface, sputtering and pushing wet hair out of her eyes. She launched herself at him, he caught her easily, and they both tumbled into the surf.

The warm, clear water washed away the dried muck and sweat. It also swept away the day's tension, letting time pass with an ease that blurred the ever-present threat of the war. When she tired of swimming, Kate flipped lazily onto her back and floated, weightless, the late day sunshine like a benediction against her skin. When the surf carried her onto the damp sand, she leaned back on her elbows and watched Greg as he swam laps in the small lagoon.

Whatever Plan B was, he must have figured it out, she mused, as he came out of the water and sank onto the sand next to her. His eyes played over her soaked T-shirt without apology and she was glad she hadn't taken it off. He could damn well sit there and think about what was underneath it. She'd done it often enough with him. She deliberately pushed her elbows back in the damp sand, tightening the wet fabric clinging to her curves.

"See something you like?" she asked, then bit her lip, unaccustomed to this degree of forwardness. Living on the base, surrounded by the men, she rarely got the chance to flirt openly.

"Yes."

The whisky roughness of that single word was like a lit match to tinder. She rolled onto one elbow and reached to trace the water running from his collarbone down his chest. The heat of his skin flowed into her fingers, leaving her aching for his touch in return. When her hand flattened low on his belly, he twisted his fingers through hers and pulled her down onto him.

Kate's mouth found his without hesitation and the kiss connected a circuit of need that ran through her like a lightning bolt. Cool water foamed around them, creating a delicious counterpoint to the combined heat of their skin.

Greg's teeth nipped her jawline to the hollow of her throat. As the embers in the very center of her being began to glow, he rose and pulled her to her feet. Before she could protest, he skimmed her T-shirt up and over her head but when he started to unbutton her shorts, she pulled away, breathless but cautious.

"We can't—not here—" she started, her hands arresting his. Her whisper was uncertain in spite of her earlier boldness.

"Yeah, sweetheart, we can."

And it was becoming clear he intended to. He loosened the buttons and began to tug her shorts down. The wet fabric refused to slide.

Greg scowled. "If you were a proper girl, wearing a proper skirt, I wouldn't have this problem." He rolled the fabric over her hips, his hands slow and deliberate.

"If I were a proper girl, we wouldn't be doing this in broad daylight," she hissed. She cast a glance back toward the base, which was far enough away the men's shouts could only be heard faintly but still entirely too close for where this was going. Her innate desire for privacy made another futile bid. "What if—oh!" She stopped abruptly as her shorts dropped to the sand. The pressure of his body against the thin silk of her panties made him undeniable.

"It's not broad daylight."

The sun was still up, which in her world qualified as daylight but Kate found herself in no position to argue semantics. She was becoming less inclined to argue about anything as his hands cradled her hips.

"We don't have all the time in the world but . . ." He tipped her head back and kissed her again. She tasted salt on his lips, inhaled the faint, dry hint of cedar from his shaving lotion overlaying the musk of his skin, blended by the sun and water. When he unhooked her bra and tugged the straps down over her shoulders, she stepped away, pausing as his eyes drifted over the contours of her body. A thousand words hung in that look, with no need to say any of them. Kate slid a fingertip through the dark hair on his chest down his abs to catch in the waistband of his skivvies, heard his breath catch.

"I'm not that easy, Major." She spun away and splashed back into the water. Greg dropped the white silk garment onto the sand and followed.

She outswam him deliberately at first, cutting sleekly through the azure waves like an otter, until, breathless, she slowed.

"And you tell me I'm difficult," Greg said when he caught her. Kate wrapped her legs around his waist and let the gentle crests of the water buoy her. He supported her with one arm, the other tangled in her hair as he took her mouth in a kiss that brooked no argument.

"But you're hurt." She brushed gently at his temple when they broke apart.

"I got hit on the head, the rest of me is fine." He let her slide lower and it became obvious how fine the rest of him was.

Kate softly invoked a deity and surrendered. Their shared urgency swirled in a hot whirlwind as he carried her out of the water to a sheltered stretch of sand beyond a driftwood deadfall. The rest of their clothes came off with fast tugs and a few snarled swearwords at uncooperative fabric, then his hands were on her in all the places she ached for. Anticipation built outward from her core, the blunt strength of his fingers pulling the energy shimmering under her skin to the surface until she glowed with need.

Her hands traced the muscles of his back, his hips, then teased his thighs, smiling with pleasure as his low growl echoed against her throat. His scent, his taste, his very essence ran through her blood like a drug she could never get enough of.

This tumble among sun-dappled shadows wouldn't be the slow seduction she'd grown to savor with him as the flames of a driftwood fire danced on the edges of her vision. It was still daylight. And the base was entirely too close. And there should be a hundred other things that took priority.

She didn't care. They were bound to one another by chains neither of them had expected and she was helpless to deny him when her own body demanded his, propriety be damned. Her tongue flicked over his in invitation as her hand slid along his rigid length.

"God, Kate." He rolled her onto her back and took her.

Her fingernails sank into his shoulders, her body writhing under his. She took his heat and power, drove it back against him, felt it echo through both of their bodies with each gasping moan. This this moment—this now—was an affirmation of the love that defied the odds. Release came quickly. Her hips lifted as an exquisite wildfire of pleasure seared through her, her head thrown back and breath gone ragged. Greg buried his face in her neck, her name a hoarse whisper as they both burned to ash.

The soft whisper of the waves rushing and retreating over the sand brought her reluctantly back to reality as they lay, entwined in each other. She shifted and brushed her lips over his, lingering against his echoing smile. He cupped one breast and pressed his hand against her still racing heart. She caught it and kissed his palm.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked.

He shifted up on an elbow. "Lord, Katie, what more do you want?"

She blushed and poked him in the chest. "About the threat to the island." She hated to drag the stain of war back into their bubble of paradise but it was impossible to escape for long. She'd long ago accepted their pillow talk would be that of war, not picket fences.

Greg twisted his fingers with hers. "Set a 24-hour watch with dual perimeter patrols. Move what's left of our supplies and munitions to critical access points. I'll put two men on comms instead of one. Pull Micklin's crew into the base. He'll bitch but there's safety in numbers. They're too isolated out on the line."

She winced at his words. Doubling up on assignments meant he expected trouble sooner rather than later. In light of an attack, having two men on each duty meant increasing the odds of someone surviving to raise an alarm, plus it was harder to take out two men without making noise that would alert the rest of the base.

"If we set up an emergency command, we can combine comms and ops and we've got enough wire to fence a small compound," he continued. "We'll be ready when those bastards come."

"You thought of all of that just now?"

"Hell no, sweetheart, I thought of it before we came out here."

"Of course you did." It was a statement, not a question. "Then why did we come out here?"

"You needed a bath."

"I could have showered at the base."

"You wouldn't have enjoyed it nearly as much."

Kate started to speak, then paused. Tipping her face to the sky, she asked, "Did you hear that?"

"Sweetheart, all I could hear was you."

She ducked her head in embarrassed amusement. "Never mind." She rose and turned toward the water.

"What are you doing? We should probably head back if we want any supper."

"Rinsing off, back in a sec." Kate waded back into the warm water. She swam a lazy lap between two outcroppings of volcanic rock that had plunged, molten, into the ocean a millenium ago. Greg joined her and they lingered, out far enough to feel the cooler ocean current swirling around their ankles when they paused to tread water.

Kate was half way back to the beach when a shrieking flock of jungle birds lifted out of the trees ahead of the unmistakable drone of incoming aircraft. She shielded her eyes with one hand and searched the sky. Except for the Black Sheep's reduced patrols, air traffic entering and exiting La Cava airspace was non-existent these days. It would be just their luck Colonel Lard or some other nosy brass from Espritos had decided to spend precious fuel to spring a sudden inspection.

Then Greg was yelling her name.

"Swim!" he shouted and pointed toward the volcanic breakwater looming fifty yards away.

The planes bore down on them as she dove into the surf. Hot lead peppered the space where she'd been floating only seconds earlier. The sound of rounds hitting the water with lethal force was oddly muted but sent up sprays of foam that fell back to earth with the force of hailstones. Greg cut through the water ahead of her, his powerful overhand crawl eating up the distance. A second plane passed close on the tail of the first one. The Zero's 20 mm cannons disintegrated the pile of driftwood on the beach and tore holes in the lagoon.

Kate kicked furiously, her arms churning through water that suddenly felt cold as ice as the plane's shadow enveloped her.

To be continued . . .