A/N: Hey, everyone! This week's post is a double so I can get the story wrapped before Christmas. Thanks for the reviews and for coming along on the ride.
PDCr2O3, thank you so much for your recent reviews. I admit to using editorial license to make TJ an Iowa boy when I wrote "War Stories" but I *think* he was from Philadelphia. In one of the early episodes, someone (Jim?) makes a reference to him as "the Phantom of East Philadelphia." And yes, my complete infatuation with Robert Conrad in the role of Greg Boyington knows no limits. Obviously. Nudge. Wink. Blush.
XXX
Chapter 8
Vella La Cava, VMF 214 HQ
Kate's darkroom.
The calm before the storm.
As if anything is ever calm with this bunch.
The doorknob rattled impatiently, breaking the morning stillness. Kate dropped the freshly-exposed print into a tray of fix bath and breathed a silent prayer of thanks for the lock she'd had installed. The bluntly worded sign outside her darkroom threatened bodily harm to anyone who came in without knocking but she'd learned fighter pilots don't scare that easily.
The knob rattled again.
"Cameron? Are you in there?"
She smiled. "I'm printing photos. Come back later."
"Open the damn door."
"What's the magic word?"
"Open the damn door now!"
"Since you put it that way . . ." She shifted the print from fix to water bath, sealed up the package of photo paper, flipped off the red light and opened the damn door. Greg pushed into the small room. He was in his flight suit, mae west still around his neck and the pervasive scent of engine exhaust and adrenaline billowing off him in equal amounts.
Kate backed up to give him space. Her darkroom was the approximate size of a broom closet, which under certain circumstances could be entertaining, but the grim set of his mouth put her senses on high alert.
"What's up?"
"We found a Japanese destroyer on this morning's patrol," he said without preamble.
A chill snaked its way up her spine. The network of coast watchers on smaller islands in the area hadn't reported anything last night, which meant the ship hadn't been in these waters long. "How far out did you go?"
"About a hundred clicks northeast of La Cava."
"Isn't that a little further than you've been taking patrols lately?"
"I played a hunch and took some liberties with Lard's fuel allotment. If the Japanese are planning to attack here, they'll launch their assault force from somewhere nearby so we flew a perimeter to the north."
Greg looked around the room with its efficient arrangement of photo processing chemicals, trays of developer and enlarger. "Where's your gun?"
"You mean, where's your gun?"
"Okay, where's my gun?"
"In my tent."
"It's not going to do you any good there."
"I didn't want to be tempted to shoot people who interrupt me."
Greg glared at her. She glared back. There'd been no further communication from Espritos after General Moore's warning of a pending attack. La Cava remained on red alert but so did several other bases.
"What happens now?" Kate removed the prints from the water bath and set them to dry. The familiar routine did nothing to ease the tension that had settled over her since Greg called the unit together for a council of war the previous night.
When she turned back around, he caught her hands and pulled her to close. "I talked to Jim and Casey. We think it would be best if you took some gear and hid out in the interior until this blows over."
Kate swallowed. An invasion of La Cava by enemy forces didn't sound like something that would easily blow over. "And how long will that take?"
Greg shook his head. "No telling. My guess is they'll strike in the next 48 hours. I want you out of the way before then."
She ignored him. "Can we fight them off?"
"There's no we, sweetheart. There's the Black Sheep and Micklin's ground crew. You're going to be in the caves behind the waterfall." He paused, then added, "Where you'll be safe."
"No."
"This isn't negotiable."
"Good. I'm not negotiating."
Greg didn't look surprised.
"I'm embedded with this unit for better or worse." Kate folded her arms across her chest. "I can't report on something if I'm not here. I survived the Blitz, remember? This isn't my first rodeo."
"The Blitz was different."
"How?" Defiance crept into her tone and she didn't apologize. She'd been a correspondent in Great Britain before transferring to the Southwest Pacific theatre. Memories of air raid sirens, of scrambling into underground shelters with strangers and smiling bravely as the Luftwaffe bombs thundered overhead flashed through her memory.
"It was an air assault for one thing, you weren't face to face with ground troops. And no one was taking prisoners."
What Greg didn't say brought her up short. Japan had not signed the Geneva Convention, the protocols governing humane treatment of prisoners during wartime. If invading forces captured Americans, their treatment of the men would be brutal but what they would do to a woman was unspeakable.
"The nurses have already left the hospital," Greg continued. "Casey and TJ went to help them find a safe place inland. They'll lay low as long as they have too. You could join them but I thought you'd be better off on this end of the island."
Again, Kate heard his unspoken words. Because I don't think there's a snowball's chance you'd go any further.
"But General Moore knows this base is a target. Won't he send troops in advance to counter any attack?"
"He can't afford to commit the manpower until he's positive they're coming after La Cava. The brass thinks that destroyer out there might be a decoy and if they drop an infantry unit here, it could push the Japanese into moving on a different island."
"Are we that expendable?"
"No. But the Navy doesn't want to tip their hand until they're sure of what's going to happen. And they don't have enough men to pre-load all the potential attack sites."
She stepped forward again and rested her cheek on Greg's chest. He tightened his arms around her.
"You didn't answer my other question," she whispered. "Can we hold them off? At least until General Moore sends help?"
"I don't know, sweetheart. That's why you need to leave."
"No."
That single, quiet word hung in the air between them, as final as if scribed in ink. Of all the times she'd said it and never meant it, this wasn't one of them. Her heart was with the squadron and that's where she would stay.
"I could order you to leave."
"I could ignore your orders."
"Damn it, Cameron, I'm your commanding officer."
He had her there. Technically, as long as she was with the unit, she was bound by the military chain of command. She held his eyes without hesitation.
"I don't care."
She saw the twitch in his cheek that was usually a precursor to an explosion of temper, then watched him rein it in as he recognized the same in her. No matter what was coming, they'd go through it together, not hiding by herself in the jungle, praying he and the boys weren't being slaughtered.
"Then promise me you'll pack a gear bag so you can bolt if things go south." He turned on his heel to leave, then turned back. "And if you have to bug out, take Meatball. And for God's sake, Katie, keep my gun with you.
XXX
The next day
0500
Ahh, a peaceful Sunday morning. Or not.
Find them! Seize them!
Greg sat bolt upright, instantly awake. His Japanese was limited but he understood the shouted commands as clearly as if they'd been in English. Under his bunk, Meatball growled.
The voices were harsh on the pre-dawn morning air.
Shoot anyone who resists! Victory will be ours!
And so it was happening.
It was almost a relief. The last 24 hours had seen everyone balanced on a razor's edge of tension, waiting for the roll of the dice that would determine the enemy's target. Greg had known in his gut the Japanese would choose La Cava the minute the patrol spotted that destroyer sitting off the coast. This base's established air field, hospital and other infrastructure were prizes too rich to pass up.
He jammed his feet into his boots and launched to the door of his tent, rifle in hand. Pausing, he scanned the compound. He saw no one in spite of continued angry shouting from the flight line.
Of course, they would move to secure the only escape route off the island first. As if the Black Sheep would jump into their birds at first threat and flee, abandoning the ground crew and medical staff.
He smiled grimly. The Japanese wouldn't find Micklin or the mechanics waiting for them, though. At Greg's suggestion, the ground crew had moved into the base proper, bunking up with the pilots. It made for tight living quarters but everyone understood the concept of safety in numbers, away from the isolation of the line. He wondered if the sentries posted around the base had been disabled or if they'd managed to sound a silent alarm. The camp remained eerily quiet.
He gauged the distance to Kate's tent and made a run for it, the M1 rifle clamped in both hands, his boots pounding against the packed dirt, Meatball at his heels. He paused for agonizing seconds at Jim and TJ's tent, then Boyle and Anderson's. They were already awake and moving, responding to his clipped orders.
Then he was running again, a mad, adrenaline-fueled sprint that carried him through the compound with a single purpose in mind. He had to get Kate out of here if she hadn't already gone. Surely she would see the wisdom of his plan now that the worst was happening.
In the event of an enemy attack, whoever could raise the alarm would do it, then immediately get Kate off the base. She had a go-bag packed with survival gear. She was a North Dakota farm kid. He'd watched her fish with Casey and forage with Don. She knew how to build both shelter and fire. She'd be fine until the stars and stripes again flew over La Cava. Cranky at the lack of coffee, but fine.
He made it to her tent in less than five seconds, shoved through the door and slid to a stop, both hands braced on her desk to keep his momentum from crashing it over. Meatball leaped onto her bunk.
Kate looked up from her typewriter. She was fully dressed—shirt, trousers, boots, her hair pulled back in a loose braid. A mug of coffee steamed at her elbow. How in God's name could the girl be sitting there so calmly?
Greg set his rifle atop the stack of tarp-covered trade goods and leaned across the desk to grip her upper arms.
"Katie, do exactly what I tell you." His voice was low and urgent. "The Japanese are on the base. Take Meatball and get out of here. Go to the interior, hide in the caves behind the waterfall, like we planned. Don't come back until—"
His words were cut off as the mosquito netting behind him was shoved roughly aside and a torrent of angry Japanese shouts filled the tent. Greg straightened, cursing himself for turning his back on the door. Reflected in the small mirror hanging from the tent's center support pole, he saw two Japanese soldiers, each armed with a bayonet-tipped rifle. They shouted again, louder, as if volume would make their incomprehensible words clear. Meatball slid off Kate's bunk and vanished under the canvas tent wall.
Slowly, Greg raised his hands without turning. He didn't move, blocking the soldiers' view of Kate still seated at her desk. His eyes locked on hers. The normal rose gold of her complexion had gone milk pale, the light scattering of freckles across her cheekbones standing out with clarity. But her eyes were steady and her mouth was set in a firm line. He'd seen a similar expression on her face only seconds before she beat the living daylight out of an arrogant replacement pilot who'd made the mistake of insulting her honor. But he'd only been a loudmouthed boor, not an armed enemy with deadly intent.
Kate cut her eyes to her right hand, which rested in her lap. In Greg's headlong rush into the tent, he hadn't noticed although she was sitting at her typewriter only her left hand was on the keys. Following her gaze, he saw the dull glint of the Colt's muzzle protruding from under the loose fabric of her shirt as it rested on her leg.
His heart did slow, lazy plummet, then rose again. She knew enemy troops had invaded the island but instead of running, she stayed. Of course she had. She'd never listened to his orders before, why the hell would she start now?
Behind Greg, one of the men barked another burst of impatient orders, apparently indicating he was to turn around or get on his knees or both.
That wasn't going to happen.
He raised his eyebrows at Kate. Glancing again at the pistol, he tipped his head almost imperceptibly toward the soldier at his left. She nodded back.
"I love you," he mouthed. "Don't shoot me."
Tension radiated from every line of her body but she managed a return grin and whispered, "Then get out of the way."
The soldier giving orders became aware there was a second person in the tent. He waved his rifle and began shouting with renewed fervor but was too late.
Greg ducked to his right, out of Kate's line of fire. Tucking into a combat roll, he swept a foot to knock the legs out from under the soldier closest to him. The unsuspecting man crashed to the ground.
The other man brought his rifle to his shoulder just as Kate raised the pistol from her lap and fired point blank. The only thing that kept the inside of the tent from being splattered with gore as the man's head exploded was the fact she missed. Her shot hit his rifle stock instead, sending slivers of wood and metal slicing into his chest and face. He screamed and staggered back.
Greg grabbed the front of the fallen man's uniform and landed a solid right to his chin. The soldier sprawled in a limp pile on the floor. Kate was on her feet now. The man she'd shot cast his ruined rifle to the ground. It skittered across the tent floor and the bayonet embedded itself in a wooden crate. The soldier was bleeding from a dozen shrapnel wounds but pulled a wicked knife from a belt sheath as he regained his balance.
"Drop it!" Kate snapped, waving the pistol to indicate the knife.
The soldier wiped at his bloody face with his free hand. In broken English, he sneered, "You miss on purpose. You no shoot me. You take vow to heal, no kill."
"And that's your first mistake," Greg muttered.
The man's brows drew together as if suddenly realizing Kate wasn't a nurse.
"Drop. The. Knife." Her voice was steel. Her hands on the pistol were steady.
"Don't feel obligated to listen to her," Greg said. "She never listens to me, either. But if she misses, which I doubt, I won't." He had the fallen soldier's Arisaka rifle pointed at the man's chest.
Outside, a few early rising birds sang their morning songs in the jungle. The earlier shouting had stopped and once again an eerie pall of silence settled over the base. Through the calm, Greg heard the powerful roar of a plane approaching.
"I hope that's General Moore's cavalry," Kate muttered.
"Silence, woman! Our forces will triumph! The rising sun flag will again fly with pride while your bones rot in the jungle," the soldier sneered.
"Chlanna nan con thigibh a'so 's gheibh sibh feoil!" Kate spat in return.
Greg recognized the Gaelic. She was prone to occasional swearing in the language when the boys pushed a little too far but he had no idea what the hell this meant. He guessed it was something that involved the man's mother and a goat. He'd ask her later, when no one was trying to kill either of them.
The soldier's eyes darted from Kate to Greg and back to Kate. Greg watched the man's face, saw the temporary veil of confusion replaced by kamikaze rage. The soldier raised the knife and charged, driving the wicked blade toward Kate's throat.
Before her finger could squeeze the trigger, Meatball blasted through the tent's opening like a white cannonball and bit down hard on the man's calf. The man screamed and made a valiant effort shake the dog loose but Meatball's grip was tenacious. The man's focus turned from Kate and stabbed wildly with the knife, missing the terrier by inches as the dog thrashed back and forth. The two combatants careened off the carefully stacked trade goods and several crates fell, spilling their contents across the floor. Blood stained the lower leg of the soldier's uniform. Greg wasn't sure if it was the man's or the dog's.
"Don't you dare hurt him!" Kate yelled, bringing the pistol up again. Greg stepped forward, swinging the butt end of the rifle like a club, trying to bring it down on the man's knife arm. The tent's confines didn't allow enough room for him to get close as man and dog struggled. Greg maneuvered over the tumbled crates, Kate circling with him at his shoulder.
Someone crashed into her desk and the coffee mug tumbled onto the floor where it exploded in a haze of brown liquid and white porcelain. Her chair was knocked over, the sound of splintering wood combining with the soldier's screams and Meatball's furious growls.
The man slashed again. A line of red welled up from a gash across the dog's shoulder and this time Meatball yelped. He lost his grip, but only for a minute. The terrier launched again, this time clamping his jaws on the back of the man's upper thigh. The man flailed wildly, distracted, and Kate drove her booted foot squarely into his crotch.
The man convulsed forward but with Meatball's not unsubstantial bulk shifting his center of gravity, he could only stagger. Kate kicked him again, striking the side of his knee with debilitating force. Over the growling and grunting and swearing in at least three different languages, Greg heard cartilage pop.
The soldier howled and pitched forward. With one leg crippled and 40 pounds of enraged dog hanging from the other, he could no longer stand upright. His head struck the steel edge of Kate's typewriter and his eyes rolled back in his head as he crumpled to the floor. Kate darted in and kicked the knife out of his hand. Meatball let go but stood over his victim, growling.
"What the hell, Cameron?" Greg wiped sweat off his forehead. "You couldn't have just shot him?"
"It would have made too much of a mess," she said.
She looked absolutely feral, her eyes wide, color high in her cheeks and her breath coming in ragged gulps. He didn't think he'd ever loved her as much as he did her in that moment. He cupped the back of her head with his free hand and kissed her hard, then stepped back.
"Keep an eye on them," he said, although neither fallen man was moving. He used the soldier's knife to slash the blanket from her bunk into strips and bound both of the invaders' arms and feet tightly. Shouting and gunfire erupted in earnest from the air strip.
Rising from checking the men's bonds, he gripped her shoulders with both hands. "Katie, you have to go now."
A series of explosions split the early morning air. Grenades. At least some of the Black Sheep had made it to one of the small ammo caches they'd staged around the base.
"But—" Her breathing had calmed but her eyes flashed.
Greg glared at her. The fact she hadn't bolted like a scared rabbit the second she realized the camp had been infiltrated meant he probably didn't stand a chance in hell of getting her out of here now.
"Damn it, Cameron, listen to me for once. Just go and stay hidden until someone comes for you. Take the knife." He pressed the fallen soldier's blade into her left hand. Her fingers closed around the hilt, warm under his. She was still clutching the pistol in her right.
"Take this, too." He held out the Arisaka. She tucked the knife into her belt and grasped the Japanese rifle in her left hand. Greg did a fast search of the fallen men's uniforms and produced two cartridge boxes. He lifted the small satchel hanging from a nail and dropped them inside.
Greg pulled her to him and kissed her again. "Go. Now. Someone will come for you." He picked up his M1 with one hand and was about to drape the strap of the satchel over her neck when the canvas rustled again. They both spun to face the figure that burst through the opening.
Jim stopped hastily. Facing the combined firepower of two rifles and a pistol leveled at him and raised his hands. "Whoa." He gave a surprised chuckle. "I take it ya'll are okay?"
Greg lowered his rifle. Kate put the Arisaka and the Colt on her bunk and wasted no time kneeling by Meatball. The terrier trembled as blood trickled from a slash across his shoulder but he didn't budge from keeping watch over the prone forms.
"What's going on out there?" Greg asked. Jim was carrying his own sidearm but didn't seem overly concerned.
"A unit from the 79th Infantry and some New Zealanders are mopping up what's left of the Tojo strike force. Those sneaky bastards—Tojo, not the New Zealanders—came up on the beach some time before dawn. Tried to shut down the air field first but Micklin was on his way back from the head and caught two of them trying to sabotage oil lines." He chuckled dryly. "You know how Sarge feels about his planes. That didn't go well. Casey got an SOS out and the units on standby on Espritos took off. We held 'em off until they landed, then it was all over but the shouting."
Still on the floor with Meatball, Kate yanked a clean towel out of her footlocker and bound it around the dog's bleeding shoulder. They all looked up at the sound of running feet and Casey burst in, clad in pajamas and boots, but carrying his rifle and looking euphoric.
"We just took out the Japanese landing craft anchored off the beachhead," he reported. "The infantry boys have secured the airfield and sent a couple of patrols to sweep the jungle around the base. The strike force wasn't that big. I reckon they didn't expect much resistance."
"Would one of you help me with Meatball? If we take him to the hospital, maybe Reese will look at him." Kate asked. The terrier had crawled into her lap and Greg swore the dog was smiling as he pressed his head against her breast. He couldn't be hurt that badly in spite of the blood soaking through the towel.
"The nurses and Reese came down soon as they got the all clear," Casey said. "We took a few casualties. Everyone's in the Sheep Pen. You guys go on. Jim and I will keep an eye on these two until the infantry boys can collect them." He motioned at the still forms on the floor.
Greg knelt and gathered up his dog. Kate picked up the pistol again and looked out the door.
"You sure we're all clear?" she asked. It wasn't lost on Greg that she was holding the Colt in a very business-like two-handed grip while he had his arms full of a bleeding bull terrier. She looked as though she wouldn't hesitate to shoot anyone who threatened either of them.
"Yepper." Jim said. "Our boys put up a damn good fight. Those jokers didn't expect the Black Sheep."
"No one ever expects the Black Sheep," Kate said. "Let's go."
XXX
An almost palpable swirl of triumph and testosterone greeted Kate as she held the door of the Sheep Pen open for Greg, whose arms were full of Meatball. Inside, Doc Reese, accompanied by Dee, Laura and Ellen, were tending to the boys' minor wounds. Bob Anderson and Jerry Bragg had both sustained blows to the head during the melee. TJ sprained his ankle on his mad sprint to a foxhole and Hutch had taken a jab from a bayonet as the flight line crew rallied to stop the marauders. There were a variety of other injuries but spirits were high and a bottle of Scotch was being passed from hand to hand with reckless enthusiasm.
Silence fell as Greg carried Meatball into the room. The dog whined pathetically and Kate thought he was being a bit overly dramatic. She kept a hand on his head anyway, stroking his ears and telling him how wonderful and brave he was.
"Put him here," Dee ordered and the boys scrambled to clear a spot on a table.
Erring on the side of caution, Kate hastily crafted a makeshift muzzle from bandages. The unit didn't need any more casualties. She and Greg steadied the dog as Dee examined him. Meatball thumped his tail, every bit the wounded hero.
"This is going to need sutures or it will never close properly," Dee said. Turning to Doc Reese, she asked, "I'll do the stitching if you know where to give him a local."
The doctor, a Tennessee farm boy, calculated the amount of lidocaine necessary and administered the anesthetic. Meatball growled and rolled his eyes at the needle piercing his skin but didn't resist. Within minutes, Dee had the edges of the knife wound drawn together and tied off with a tidy line of black knots.
The boys poured a round and toasted the unit's mascot, then returned to letting the girls tend their wounds. Greg made his way through the room, checking on each of his men, then returned to where Kate sat by a window, Meatball curled at her feet.
"Your dog saved my life," she said as he sat down. "Or at least he saved me from having to shoot that man. I was ready to pull the trigger when Meatball got him. I wouldn't have missed at that range." She shuddered.
"You didn't hesitate to shoot him the first time," Greg said. "Even if you did miss."
"I didn't miss," she said indignantly. "He brought his rifle up a the last second. That shot was pure gut reaction. And I was afraid—," her voiced trembled, "I was afraid they were going to kill you on the spot."
Greg leaned forward and brushed a loose lock of hair back from her face. She leaned gratefully into the rough warmth of his fingers.
"So you'd shoot a guy who threatened me but not one who was coming after you with a knife?"
"Well, if Meatball hadn't chomped onto him, I expect it would have been a different story." Kate tried to sound glib but couldn't quite manage it. She realized, to her dismay, she was shaking.
"Here." Greg splashed a liberal two fingers of Scotch into a canteen cup and handed it to her. She sipped gratefully and let the alcohol's smoky warmth rise through her. Closing her eyes, she rested her head against his shoulder and shoved bloody images of all the things that could have happened to the back of her mind.
"We gotta get serious about our next mission."
Kate opened her eyes to find Jim and several other patched-up members of the squadron gathered around a table.
"Next mission?" she queried. "What are you talking about? Casey says the blockade has broken up and turned tail but it'll take ComSoPac another week to figure out how to get the war restarted."
"Yeah, and that's another week of waiting for a supply transport," Jim said. I got a hankerin' for barbecue. We gotta git serious about this hog hunt."
The sharp report of a rifle split the morning air and everyone froze. Around the room, the boys pulled pistols from shoulder holsters and a few grabbed the rifles they'd carried into the building. Kate reached for the Colt she'd put on the table but Greg got it first. A second shot rang out seconds later, then silence.
"What the hell? I thought this party was over," Greg muttered. He bolted for the door, followed by Kate and the boys, nearly flattening Micklin who ambled up the steps, cigar clenched in his teeth.
"You ain't gonna believe this, Major," he said and without waiting, turned on his heel and headed back for the flight line.
Kate fell into step next to Greg, flanked by Jim and Casey, the rest of the boys in tow. They passed a squad of infantry loading the captured Japanese soldiers onto a C-47 and turned onto the line. They stopped as if they'd been marching in step.
"You gotta be kidding me," Jim said.
Everhardt and Tyler, the two Arkansas boys who'd been an integral part of the wild hog hunting party, greeted them with shouts and waves. They pointed at something the size of a fifty-gallon oil drum sprawled on the sand in front of them, its dark form ominously still.
"Is that . . . ?" Casey started.
"Yepper," Tyler answered proudly.
Kate had heard stories about the wild hogs that inhabited the inland jungle of La Cava but she'd never seen one. She and the men spread out and approached the carcass.
The thing looked nothing like the fat pink domestic pigs her family had butchered each fall for a winter's supply of hams and bacon. This creature looked like it had galloped off some Medieval tapestry, pursued by armor-clad men wielding spears. It was massive, its dainty hooves seemingly too small to support its bulk. Short, dark bristles covered it from head to tail and a wicked looking set of tusks curved upward from its lower jaw.
"How?" she managed, circling the fallen beast. Monkeys were common around the base. Hogs were not.
"It's a young male, probably a loner, not with a herd. We figure it must have gotten spooked by the patrols looking for Japanese," Everhardt said. "There was a bit of a skirmish up yonder—" he waved his arm to indicate the thickly forested ridgeline nearby, "—and some yellin' and next thing we know, this varmint comes blastin' outta the trees and, well, we had our rifles handy so we done shot it." He looked at Tyler and snickered. "He shot first and missed."
"There's a lot of that going around," Greg said.
"Everyone's a critic," Kate muttered.
As the men surveyed the fallen hog, Meatball trotted up and sniffed it. The fur on the back of his neck stood up and he growled.
"It's already dead, buddy, but thanks for caring," Kate said.
The terrier grabbed one of the legs above a hoof and shook it fiercely.
"I reckon we better have war council with Beans," Everhardt said, "before Meatball chews a leg off."
"He deserves it," Kate said. "Just don't ask me to clean that thing."
XXX
Epilogue
The next day
1900 hours, on the beach
A party atmosphere prevailed. With the promise of timely supply runs to be reinstated within days, fuel restrictions were relaxed, the generators were back on line and the beer was cold. Spirits ran high, buoyed by the nurses' attendance at the barbecue. While the war machine would grind back into action soon, the boys reveled in an evening of good food and social interaction.
"Then Meatball bit the guy in the butt and saved the day." Kate had re-told the story of Meatball's valor a dozen times over but it never got old. She settled into the crook of Greg's arm and watched the flames dancing in the bonfire. The air was rich with the scent of barbecued pork as Beans served up generous helpings from a nearby table. The cook had overseen the butchering and been beside himself with delight as he brined the meat and arranged the rough-cut ribs, chops and roasts over coals in a pit that morning.
"Didn't see that coming." On the other side of the fire, Bobby Boyle looked disbelieving. "No offense, Pappy, but your dog isn't good for much beyond stealing women's lingerie and shedding."
Meatball burrowed into the space between Kate and Greg. She rubbed the terrier's head and he growled happily.
"He came into my tent at sunrise, acting odd, even for him," she said. "He was all bristly and kept looking out the door and growling. When he left, I put Greg's Colt in my lap while I tried to work on a story." She paused, then added, "A real story this time. I'm gonna have to go back to writing those now."
"Great," Jim muttered. "That's all we need—press corps that types with one hand and shoots with the other. Even though you missed."
"Really, Katie? You fired from six feet away and still missed?" Casey teased.
"I didn't miss entirely. He brought his rifle up at the last minute," Kate said. "I was mostly trying not to hit Greg."
"Appreciate that," Greg said. He took a draw on his beer. "Just one thing, what did you say to that guy? You know, right before he came at you with the knife?"
Kate laughed. "Oh. That. I may have been a little dramatic."
"I think a guy coming at you with a knife justifies a little drama," Casey said. "But what did it mean? I heard you yell from across the compound and it sounded like the 48th Regimental Highlanders were on the march."
"It's the Cameron clan motto." Kate chuckled. "It translates as 'Sons of the hounds, come hither and get flesh.' I guess Meatball took it literally."
"So it's genetic," Greg said. "If the Camerons were that bloody minded, that explains why if there's a fight going on, you end up in the middle of it."
"I am not bloody minded," Kate said.
"Katherine, you're not a pacifist, either," Anderson said.
Kate studied her beer bottle. "My grandfather immigrated from Scotland. I remember him standing on the back porch and shouting that motto when it was time to feed the farm dogs. It drove my grandmother nuts, which is probably why he did it."
"So the driving people crazy is genetic, too." It was a statement, not a question. The set of Greg's mouth indicated he'd realized another unarguable truth about her and was trying to decide how to proceed.
"That works both ways," she said mildly, thinking of all the times the squadron been faced with conflict and his strategies succeeded only by merit of their outrageousness. "And for your information, I'm never doing anything like that again."
Jim laughed out loud. Casey chuckled. Greg held her eyes and smiled.
XXX
"Have you ever considered a career as a spy?"
Greg's arm was warm around her waist as they strolled along the waterline. The sun dipped into the ocean in a molten palette of coral and lavender. "You're good at subterfuge."
"Subterfuge? That's a five-dollar word." Kate wrapped an arm around his waist in turn, enjoying the simple pleasure of his body touching hers. "I don't think I'm terribly good at it. I nearly had a heart attack every time Bob read those stories over the air."
"Was it worse than the time you had dinner with Colonel Lard?"
"No. Nothing could be that bad, although I didn't have to shoot anyone that night. I'll stick with reporting, thank you. It's a lot less dangerous."
"You're posted in a war zone, sweetheart," he pointed out. "I think you enjoy danger."
"Most of it comes from you."
He ignored that. "Besides, you're a quick thinker and not half bad in a fight."
"Not half bad? Tell me, which half was bad?"
Greg stopped. He settled his hands at her waist. "The half where you wouldn't leave the base when I told you."
"Ah. And I'm supposed to listen every time you give orders?"
"Yes."
"That's not going to happen." She wrapped her arms around his neck and tipped her head back. The tropical sunset cast an aura of shadowed gold across his features. "You know it and I know it. So deal with it."
It was dangerous, loving him. There was no promise of tomorrow. To think of a future together was folly and she wouldn't allow her mind to go there. Every minute they shared was anchored securely in the here and now. She rose and brushed her lips over his, reveling in the flush of heat that seared through her at the contact. She intended to keep it light, a promise for a later time.
"Deal with it?" Greg tangled one hand in her hair, pulled her to him and kissed her. He gave her no choice, his mouth hard on hers, and she was unable to resist.
She yielded, let the kiss deepen, felt the dark heat rising through both of them, glowing like red-hot embers in a breeze. She pulled back, heart racing. Her palms flat against the muscle of his chest, she lost herself in the blue depths of his eyes.
"Come on." She took his hand. "There are a few other things I'm not half bad at, either."
XXX
Second Epilogue
Cuz I really hate writing endings
Colonel Thomas Lard carried a handful of stateside newspapers and a mug of coffee to his desk with a pleased sigh. Finally, the madness of the last three weeks was over. The blockade had hung all the units under his command out to dry and wreaked havoc with everything. Then the unexpected end of the blockade and the attack on La Cava had wreaked havoc with everything it might have missed the first time around.
The attempted takeover of that front area base had been foiled by Boyington's men, who were apparently as good at fighting on the ground as they were in the air, even if they didn't know how to salute. They'd held off the invaders until Allied backup forces arrived. Now maybe they could all get back to running this war as it was meant to be.
Lard picked up the first paper on the stack, The Philadelphia Enquirer, and settled back to enjoy his coffee. The front page carried a story by, not surprisingly, K.C. Cameron. He sighed with resignation. Cameron was a plan that had not gone as he intended. When his decision to embed a correspondent with the 214 had drawn the writer from Great Britain to the Southwest Pacific, Lard had been beside himself with delight. Surely a journalist with that level of talent would expose Boyington and his merry band of misfits for the miscreants they were. The boozing. The brawling. The complete and utter lack of anything resembling discipline.
But to his disappointment, Cameron had written glowing stories about the squadron's prowess in the air. Not only that, the man seemed to get along exceptionally well with Boyington in spite of the major's well-known dislike of the press corps. Boyington's initial explosion at finding out the correspondent would be stationed with the 214 had not been followed by the series of complaints Lard anticipated.
Lard frowned at that. He had never met Cameron, a situation he planned to remedy at some point. Perhaps a discreet one-on-one with the man would allow him to encourage the journalist to dig deeper into the 214's shady doings. If Lard could only expose their leader for the renegade he was, he could disband the Black Sheep and send Boyington to a desk job, preferably on the other side of the war where he'd be out of Lard's hair. He ran a hand over his bald pate. Figuratively speaking.
But with every stroke of his typewriter keys, Cameron painted the man and his squadron as American heroes and the terrors of the Southwest Pacific. Well. That was true, as far as it went. Never mind they were still a ragtag unit of boozing, brawling womanizers. Lard sighed. The success of their missions was unarguable, though, their kill ratio unmatched. Until that changed, all Lard could do was bask reluctantly in the hero's glow reflected on himself as the unit's CO. It could be worse.
He sipped his coffee and pushed thoughts of the Black Sheep out of his mind. Thinking about them too much, and that wretched reporter who'd done exactly the opposite of what he intended, was not good for his health.
He scanned the headline.
U.S. Forces Surge As Enemy Stronghold Breaks
Solomon Islands: In a resurgence of force, Allied troops on land and in air have redoubled their push into Japanese territory following the sudden and inexplicable breakup of the blockade that held them motionless for nearly three weeks.
The story continued with a variety of quotes from members of VMF 214 regarding the enemy attack, then moving on to highlight the theatre's current campaigns.
Lard set the paper back on his desk. There'd been something odd about the enemy's withdrawal, even though no one had taken the time to look at it too closely. With Nimitz and Halsey occupied at Tawara, there'd been only limited assets available to make hit and miss sorties against some of the weaker links in the Japanese chain. There'd certainly been no well-thought strategy, although the War Department in Washington assured him repeatedly one was coming. He snorted. So was Christmas, if you waited long enough. The problem had, inexplicably, resolved itself, with the enemy forces turning tail and running as if they'd heard some silent threat.
He had a sudden thought. That was exactly the sort of thing Boyington would be behind.
No. No, that simply wasn't possible. A single man couldn't hoodwink the entire Imperial Navy. Not even Boyington.
Lard narrowed his eyes. Maybe not a single man. Maybe he'd had help. But who? And how? The first name that popped into his head was ludicrous. Cameron? Impossible. The man had barely filed any stories during the blockade. A few brief, cryptic updates had been called in to the press office on Espritos but generally, the correspondent had remained silent. The writer's silence wasn't a surprise. No doubt he was unwilling to tip the Japanese about the degree of impact the blockade was having the troops by transmitting a detailed story. The Japanese monitored the American airwaves, hoping to glean any nuggets of intelligence they possibly could. Even secure channels were subject to infiltration.
Lard could fly to La Cava and interrogate Boyington about his suspicions but the man would smooth talk his way out of any situation that didn't benefit him. And since the squadron was flying active missions again, the Black Sheep's leader wouldn't give him the time of day anyway.
Perhaps Lard could talk to Cameron himself. The man remained a complete mystery and always seemed to have jaunted off to somewhere else in the theatre when Lard dropped in at the base. Technically, the journalist was embedded with the 214 but side trips to other units weren't unheard of. A globe-trotting writer like Cameron wouldn't limit himself to only one element of the fight.
Lard sipped his coffee contemplatively. It didn't matter, really, in the long run. If there was anything a life in the military had taught him, it was that some things were simply better left unexplained. That was never so true as when it came to the Black Sheep.
THE END
Thank you for reading. It's been fun creating and sharing these chapters and I appreciate you taking the time to join me on this romp. I wish you all a merry Christmas and clear skies in the new year.