Chapter 7

Vella La Cava, VMF 214 HQ

On the beach, after, well, you know . . .

Kate's lungs burned with exertion as she kicked frantically toward the rocks. The water of the lagoon felt like a solid substance, holding her limbs immobile while overhead, a shadow blotted the sun and the whine of the diving Zero filled her ears. Greg was a body length ahead of her, churning through the water with powerful strokes.

"In here!" he shouted as the planes unleashed their lethal firepower again. A nearby rock disintegrated, spraying razor-sharp slivers of volcanic glass. Something stung Kate's cheek but she didn't dare stop. With a final, explosive kick as the plane roared down, she threw herself forward. Greg grabbed her extended arm, yanking her under the shelter of the natural breakwater. The plane's 20 mm guns fired, sending silver tracers spearing into the water just yards away.

Gasping raggedly, Kate looked around. They were in a small cavern. A vaulted rock ceiling arched high overhead. The water was deep—she couldn't touch bottom—and cooler than the sun-warmed waves of the lagoon.

Neither of them spoke, silently treading water as the planes circled a few more times then headed south toward the base. Greg brushed a thumb across her cheekbone.

"You're bleeding."

"Hope there aren't any sharks in here," she deadpanned, reaching up to touch her stinging cheek. Her fingers came away smeared with blood. "How bad is it?"

"Not deep. Just a scratch."

"Good. I won't have to give up my modeling career."

An air raid siren sounded in the distance, followed by the clatter of anti-aircraft fire. Kate gripped an outcropping of rock with one hand and wrapped her other arm around Greg's neck. His solid warmth was both an anchor and a buoy. The base had been attacked several times since she'd been with the Black Sheep but this time it felt more personal. Maybe because she was bare-ass naked, hiding in a cave.

"What are they doing here?" She already knew the answer and it sent an icy finger of dread down her spine.

"Recon patrol. I'd guess they're following up on what they started this morning before we put a stop to it."

Kate's shiver wasn't due entirely to the cool water. "You told me last week it wouldn't come to this."

"Yeah. Well. I may have been wrong."

Under other circumstances, she would have teased him for this rare admission but there were bigger things at stake.

They waited, treading water. The anti-aircraft guns at the base stilled and the Japanese planes reappeared, the shadows of their wings dark on the turquoise water as they looped low figure eights over the lagoon before heading out on a northeast vector. Greg eased back into the sunshine to watch the departing aircraft as the drone of their engines faded into the distance.

"I wonder if there's a carrier sitting out there somewhere," he said. "If Tojo's staging for an offensive, they'll keep sending air assault to soften us up without destroying the infrastructure. Come on, we gotta get back."

They swam slowly back to the beach where Kate collected her clothing from the scattered bundle on the sand. She shook out her T-shirt.

"Damn it!" A fist-sized rip had been punched through the garment by a 20 mm round. "That son of a bitch shot my shirt." She pulled it over her head and inspected the result. A generous expanse of both her midriff and back were exposed. "Think anyone will notice?"

XXX

Greg called for a damage report as soon as they were back at the base. In light of the immediate situation, the boys uncharacteristically had no comments about their prolonged absence. Jim gave them both a knowing smirk but kept his mouth shut.

The marauders' focus had been the flight line but Micklin took a dim view of anyone shooting at his planes whether they were in the air or not. The men's quick action with the anti-aircraft guns prevented the damage from being little more than cosmetic. A couple of rounds had punched through the roof of the latrines, leading to jokes about the head now having skylights, and the steps had been blasted off the Sheep Pen.

"They weren't interested in tearing things up," Jim said. "They came in low and slow, like it was a parade. They wanted to see how the base looked, if our birds were ready to lift off or if they were all pulled off the line."

Greg snarled something inarticulate. Several members of the ground crew poked at the pulverized remains of what Kate recognized as an empty stack of parts crates. Micklin followed her gaze.

"They musta thought we was dumb enough to leave our spare parts sitting around where any yahoo could use 'em for target practice," he groused, chomping on his cigar. "Them boys don't know we ain't seen spare parts out here for weeks. Anything we got's already in them birds and damned if I was gonna let them bastards shoot 'em up."

Don bemoaned the loss of the crates, which he'd planned to use to line the barbecue pit for the wild hog. Kate thought this was putting the firewood before the hog, since the wily creatures continued to elude the hunting party.

"Guess we'll have to go back to collecting driftwood," he muttered. "It's not like we've got anything else to do."

Kate's growling stomach overrode the fact she was wearing a shirt that was more holes than cloth and she didn't bother going to change. She and Greg followed the boys back to the mess, where Beans was frying fish like it was a Friday night during Lent in Minnesota. Kate learned later when the marauders struck, he'd shouldered his rifle and squeezed off a series of shots at the low-flying aircraft, then gone right back to stoking the wood-fired grill and flipping fish.

Doc Reese, along with the remaining nurses and patients from the hospital, joined the Black Sheep and the ground crew for the meal. Dee waved from the table where she was seated with Casey. Kate returned the wave, then concentrated on filling her plate. Sea bass, fried golden in cornmeal breading, and slices of sourdough bread were heaped on serving platters. A blend of island fruits had been diced in a huge vat and sprinkled with the camp's precious allotment of sugar. It was a veritable feast.

She and Greg had just sat down when Jim sauntered past on his way for another serving. He eyed Kate's shirt and chuckled, unable to keep quiet this time.

"Good thing you weren't wearing that when the riceballs came blasting through," he said.

She narrowed her eyes. "What's your point, Captain?" The warm afterglow of her interlude with Greg still resonated and in spite of everything else, she wasn't about to let Jim's teasing spoil it.

"Not judging, darlin'," he said with a grin that was clearly judging. "Nothing wrong with a little skinny dipping."

"Go away," she said.

Grinning, he did.

XXX

After the meal, Kate gathered soap, a towel and a change of clothing and made her way to the outdoor showers to wash away the film of salt lingering on her skin and hair. She closed the flimsy wooden door of the shower stall behind her, stripped down and pulled the chain to the overhead tank. She gave an involuntary shriek as the water hit her. It wasn't cold but it wasn't hot, either. The boys topped off the tanks each morning from a nearby fresh water spring and by mid-afternoon, the tropical heat warmed it pleasantly. Showering this late in the day meant the water had started to cool but it also meant she was granted a degree of privacy she wouldn't have had earlier.

Footsteps sounded above the cascade of water and she groaned. This was the problem with living on a military base. She was never alone. Short of locking herself in her darkroom, there always seemed to be someone withing shouting distance. She appreciated being part of the squadron's brotherhood and knew they always kept an eye out for her safety but sometimes she thought they took it a little too far.

"Katie? Is that you?" a female voice called. "It's Dee."

"And Ellen!" another voice chimed in.

"And Laura," another added.

Kate rinsed the last of the soap from her hair and released the chain. Reaching for her towel, she called, "What are you guys doing here?"

"Same as you," Dee answered.

Kate dressed and stepped out of the stall. The three waiting nurses were armed with towels and shower buckets.

"What happened to your showers at the hospital?" she asked. The hospital's plumbing relied on several wells that pumped water directly from an underground aquifer. The heated, pressurized result was practically a five-star luxury.

Ellen made a face. "The maintenance crew cut the electricity to the water heaters in our quarters last week. We've been warming water on the kitchen stove and doing sponge baths since then."

"Casey invited me to shower here," Dee said. "And I invited the rest of the girls. Safety in numbers."

"Knock yourself out." Kate gestured toward the stalls. "But if the boys get wind you're down here, you'll have company."

"They already know," Laura said. "We had plenty of offers to help."

"Make sure you stop by the mess when you go back," Ellen said. "Beans took a couple of Dutch ovens of peach cobbler out of the fire and it's to die for."

"Oh, I think she already had dessert." Dee flashed a not-so-innocent smile.

"What makes you say that?" Kate knew feigning innocence would get her absolutely nowhere but geez, couldn't she have any secrets? Dee was as bad as the boys when it came to sticking her nose in places it didn't need to be.

"You were absolutely glowing at dinner," Dee said. "And nobody on this rock smiles like Greg was, under the circumstances, unless they've just been thoroughly—"

"Stop it. Yes. We did. Are you happy now?"

"We'd be happier if you'd share a few details," Ellen said slyly. "Maybe you could tell us —"

"I am not telling you anything." Kate tried to look offended. Then she added, "But you could say it was mutually . . . thorough."

Dee whooped, then sobered. "Speaking of Greg, he asked me to tell you to stop and see him when you're done here. He didn't say why."

Kate knew why. It was time to write yet another Operation Eagle Talon story and heaven only knew how she was supposed to fabricate any more deception than she already had. She marshalled her thoughts and headed for Greg's tent. She may have already had her dessert but a glass of Scotch wouldn't come amiss.

XXX

Meanwhile, aboard the Japanese aircraft carrier, The Akagi

Imperial Naval pilot Captain Arima Daiki leaped from the cockpit of his aircraft before the prop had stopped spinning and strode purposefully across the Akagi's flight deck.

"Wait up!" Asao Fumito, his wingman, called but Arima did not hesitate. The line chief was already inspecting the damage to his plane and he would not give the man a chance to berate him for bringing the craft back with slugs from an American rifle embedded in the underbelly.

Arima had seen the rifle-wielding soldier take aim as he swept low over the American base. He remembered the man specifically because he was wearing a white apron. A cook. A cook with a rifle. Were the Americans so desperate they armed the most menial of their soldiers?

Arima had sneered until the first rifle round punched through the metal sheeting of his plane, narrowly missing the landing gear. The second shot penetrated the cockpit from below, blasting a furrow along the edge of his seat before embedding itself in a metal strut on the canopy. Arima flinched, just thinking about it. He'd nearly been shot in the butt by a cook. His wingman had witnessed the whole thing and given him so much grief about it on the return flight, Arima finally insisted on radio silence to shut him up. He'd never hear the end of this.

Entering the superstructure of the ship, he made his way to the bridge where Admiral Ikeda Miura was waiting. Asao was panting from running to catch up as the two men stepped onto the bridge and saluted.

"At ease," the admiral said, turning from his view of the flight deck. "Tell me, did you find anything of interest at the American base?"

Asao snickered and Arima glared at him. They had agreed not to mention the couple they'd strafed in the lagoon. Admiral Miura would consider their behavior uncouth. War was an art, an exhibition of skill and strategy, not random potshots taken at naked people cavorting in the water.

"Sir." Arima drew himself up. "We encountered more resistance than anticipated. Their anti-aircraft placements are highly functional and the soldiers did not hesitate to defend their camp."

Miura pondered this, then asked, "In your opinion, how prepared are the Americans in the event of a takeover of Vella La Cava?"

He did not say attempted takeover. It would not be an attempt. It would be a victory, whether the high command chose La Cava or another site. Two days ago, Miura had received word from Tokyo of a pending Allied strike against the blockade. Now the war cabinet was clustered together, preparing an offensive to re-capture a strategic foothold in the theatre before the Allies struck. There were several possible islands, all with a variety of assets and all ill-supplied for weeks. With little food, fuel or ammunition, the defenses would crumble like a child's sandcastle, no matter how much resistance they might initially offer.

Arima chose his words carefully. His experience with the flight over La Cava did not match what he knew the admiral wanted to hear. When he spoke, he said simply, "The Americans are not as weakened by the lack of supplies as we have expected. They are like feral dogs, tough and snarling in spite of deprivation. If we attack, they will fight with everything they have."

XXX

Greg's tent

1900 hours, that same evening

"Take it."

Greg held the Colt 1911 out to her, butt first. Kate's stomach tightened. A number of smart replies ran through her mind but in the end she only asked, "Why?"

"Because when Japan makes a move, I want you to have something more than Meatball to defend yourself with."

The terrier was curled on Greg's bunk. He flipped his tail at the sound of his name.

When, Kate thought, not if.

"Go on, take it. I don't expect you to carry it everywhere you go, just keep it close."

"Close? I keep a bottle of Scotch close, not a gun."

"It's loaded," he said, ignoring her flippancy, then added with a tight smile, "I trust you not to shoot Jim."

"No guarantees." Kate took the pistol. The metal was cool in spite of the evening's warmth. It lay heavy in her hand, familiar but not an intrinsic part of her life. She'd done a fair amount of target shooting with Greg and the boys and while she wasn't as good of a shot as some of them, she could hold her own. There was a big difference between shooting at coconuts and firing in self-defense, though. Nothing in her life had prepared her to fire a weapon at another human with deadly intent.

"Hey." Greg cupped her chin and tipped her face upward. "I'm serious, Katie."

She swallowed hard. "But what will you have?"

"Sweetheart, I've got an M1 under my bed, a field knife with a six-inch blade and 50 caliber guns in my bird. I'll be fine."

Kate bit down hard to keep from telling him if he thought anything about their situation was fine, he was crazier than a fruit bat. She'd keep the gun close in her tent, maybe stashed atop clean clothes in her footlocker, but had no intention of carrying it like so many of the boys did, their firearms worn in shoulder holsters as much a part of their daily kit as their flight suits.

Greg wrapped his arms around her and awkwardly, she returned the embrace. She wasn't used to hugging someone while holding a loaded semi-automatic.

As if reading her mind, he kissed the top of her head and muttered, "Don't shoot me, either."

XXX

Two days later

Aboard The Akagi

Admiral Ikeda Miura set his teacup gently on the fine china saucer. He pushed away the small plate holding crumbs from the sandwiches and biscuits his chef had prepared. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and closed his eyes. This afternoon tea ritual created a veneer of civility that allowed him to ignore the war for a brief period of time. But now it was over and he must deal with the damnable Americans.

His second in command had reported another transmission from the war correspondent on La Cava and there was no denying the threat. The American admiral, a man named Halsey who the press corps had fondly dubbed "Bull," was staging part of the United States fleet for a crushing blow to the Japanese destroyers near New Caledonia. The ships stationed there were older, smaller, with less fire power and more vulnerability. They would put up a valiant fight but Miura knew they could not withstand the forces of an American juggernaut. Once part of the blockade crumbled and supply ships could again reach American bases, the Americans would launch their own offensive and caught between the two, the Japanese fleet would sustain staggering losses.

Miura stayed abreast of the American newspaperman's writing. K.C. Cameron was credible, his reporting rang true, with little of the hyperbole generated by so many of the press corps. Miura respected the man as one might respect a worthy opponent. What a stroke of luck communications had become so frayed as to allow the reporter's stories to seep through the wires into his officers' headsets.

He would never say it out loud but he knew the American forces were superior in all ways. The conclusion to this madness was inevitable but Japan would not go down without a fight. It was time to move before this American Bull reduced Japan's pride to rubble. He barked an order and his secretary appeared in the doorway.

"Sir?"

"Get me the war cabinet in Tokyo. I must tell them of this latest transmission. We will strike now, before all chance of claiming ground is lost. I know which island we must take."

He let a small, amused smile play across his lips. It seemed fitting K.C. Cameron himself had played a role in selecting the target.

XXX

"Pappy?"

"Come in, Casey." Greg didn't look up from the stack of reports he was finishing. The paperwork continued even though their corner of the war had nearly ground to a halt. The squadron was doing less than nothing, yet he was still required to file reports on it. He hoped it gave Lard a headache.

"I just saw Kate walking across the compound with a pistol. I didn't think correspondents were allowed to have firearms."

"They aren't. You want to tell her that?" Greg pushed back from his desk. Good. She hadn't buried the weapon under her clean socks and was taking him up on his suggestion for supplemental target practice with TJ.

"Uh, no, sir. So what's she doing with one?"

"You know Cameron. What do you think?"

"I think Jim better look out." Casey paused, then persisted. "What's she need a gun for?"

"It's mine. I gave it to her."

Casey ran a hand nervously through his hair. Greg was deliberately not answering his questions, which was an answer in itself.

Greg read the worry on his clerk's face. "What's on your mind?"

"Anderson and I have been monitoring Japanese radio transmissions. From what we can translate, there's a lot of chatter about the blockade breaking up under the threat of a targeted Allied strike. Seems Kate's stories made someone sit up and take notice after all."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Casey grimaced. "But there's more—confirmation of plans to re-claim territory in this part of the theater."

"We've heard that for weeks now. Have they said where, specifically?"

Casey shook his head. "No, but intelligence has narrowed it to New Caledonia or the Marshall Islands or here." He looked mildly guilty. "We weren't supposed to hear that transmission either but we've boosted the radio to pull in more frequencies."

That was the elephant in the room. Greg had no doubt the enemy would move on American-held territory before the blockade was eliminated but no one knew where. There was an incredible amount of conjecture and rumor flying around the theatre and it was impossible to get a straight answer out of Colonel Lard. Lord knows he'd tried.

Greg tapped his pencil on his desk. "Let's not borrow trouble. The brass on Espritos hasn't said a word. If Lard thought there was a viable threat to La Cava, he'd have put us on alert. Tojo must be focused on one of the other bases."

The sound of boots outside the tent heralded Bob Anderson's arrival. He was flushed, his face grim, as he handed Greg a slip of paper. "This just came over from Espritos."

Greg opened it.

FROM GEN. T. MOORE

TO MAJ. G. BOYINGTON

EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY, THREAT LEVEL RED FOR VELLA LA CAVA. ENEMY AGGRESSION EMMINENT. TAKE ALL PRECAUTIONS.

He dropped the paper on his desk, felt the weight of Anderson and Casey's expectant stares.

"Casey, round everyone up and tell them to meet in ops in five minutes for a briefing. Bob, go get Kate. She's with TJ on the firing range, she needs to hear this, too. It's time we have a council of war."

The boys left the tent at a run. Greg ran a hand over his face, trying to ignore the lead ball that settled in his gut. He'd known it would be La Cava. When would the attack come? Tonight? Tomorrow? Three days from now? This was the last place he wanted Kate in the face of an enemy strike but there was no way in hell to get her off the island.

Like she'd go if he asked her.

To be continued . . .

A/N: One chapter left – in light of getting this wrapped before Christmas, next week's finale will be a double. Slainte and happy holidays!