A/N: It's been a few years since I got to spend time on La Cava and I'm happy to be back. Like most of my Black Sheep stories, the idea for this one popped into my head out of the blue and I started writing to see where it would go. It took on a bit of a paranormal theme, making it perfect as the calendar turns to October.
Usual disclaimer: I don't own rights to anything but my own ideas. Feedback always welcomed—enjoy!
GHOST RECON
CHAPTER 1
1943
Vella La Cava
VMF 214 HQ
Where things aren't always as they appear
How had she let him talk her into doing this even once, let alone repeatedly?
Her lungs burned, her breath came in shallow gasps and sweat trickled between her shoulder blades as she raced through the thick morning heat. Running feet pounded behind her. Were they getting closer? In the nearby jungle, a flock of birds erupted with noisy squawks, disturbed by the sudden motion, but there was no time to look anywhere but ahead. Any distraction cost precious seconds she couldn't afford. She poured on a burst of speed and muscles screamed in protest as her boots skimmed over the hardpack near the flight line. A mud puddle loomed out of nowhere. Slipping madly, she careened straight through it, staying upright by sheer force of will as water sprayed in arcs. Behind her, Don French swore with admirable creativity, given the circumstances.
Twenty yards to go. Fifteen. Ten.
The loose material of the flight suit flapped around her legs and the Mae West threatened to blind her as it bounced crazily. She hadn't gotten the damn thing fastened right. Again. She batted it away and made a hard right turn, decelerating and swerving to avoid cracking her head on the wing of the big blue fighter that was her ultimate goal. She rounded the wingtip, paralleled the wing for two strides and searched frantically for the toe hold.
Swear to God, he's going to pay for this. This is NOT what I signed up for.
One step up and she propelled herself onto the wing, felt it shift slightly under her weight. A second toe hold brought her up to the canopy. Without hesitation, she swung in and dropped onto the leather seat rather harder than she intended but speed was the only thing that mattered. She yanked the safety harness into place, heard the satisfying click of metal and with a final, victorious surge of energy, thrust her arm out of the cockpit. Flashing a thumbs up, she drew a gasping breath and yelled, "Clear!"
"Fifty-one seconds."
Kate "K.C." Cameron turned to see VMF 214's chief mechanic grinning at her from the opposite wing, stopwatch in hand.
"Nice job, Katie," Hutch said. "You beat yesterday's time by four seconds."
"That's because I've finally figured out how to get into these things without breaking my neck." Kate gave the instrument panel an affectionate pat, then unfastened the harness and shrugged out of it. "But I don't think a new record is a good thing. The faster I get, the more times Greg will make me run it so he can tell the boys how slow they are." She stretched up, looking past Hutch toward the next plane in line. "Is French all right?"
The slightly chubby pilot had collapsed against the port wing, a plaintive look on his sweaty face.
"Damn it, Katie, that's four times you've run me into the dirt," he wheezed.
"Sorry." Kate tried to keep the grin out of her voice. She wasn't sorry the 214's CO would keep running turn-out drills until the boys got fast enough to satisfy him. She was mildly sorry she'd ended up being part of those drills but she hadn't had much of a choice. There were a lot of things she was good at but telling Major Greg Boyington no wasn't one of them. Oh, she was good at telling him no, he just didn't listen. And she didn't say no to all of his ideas.
Greg had a way of getting her involved in things she'd never dreamed of when she arrived on Vella La Cava as a war correspondent a few months earlier. His schemes offered a respite from pounding out stories on her worn Remington typewriter and the benefits were . . . satisfying.
Kate hoisted herself out of the plane and her legs automatically sought the toeholds with what was almost practiced ease. The first time she'd tried to climb into a Corsair by herself from an all-out run, she fumbled to a dead halt while her race partner, TJ Wiley, had practically leaped from the ground straight into the cockpit. She'd say that for the Black Sheep—they could get into their birds hungover, in the dark and under a variety of other less than ideal circumstances. She'd struggled to master the skill stone cold sober in broad daylight.
Kate jumped from the wing to the ground and circled the bird to check on French. He was upright, braced against the fuselage, and had gotten a little color back in his face.
"Sorry, Don, I really am."
He gave her a mournful look. "It's not your fault, Katie, and I don't hold it against you but next time, could you run just a little slower? You're making me look bad."
Kate pushed sweaty tendrils of hair off her face. Even this early in the morning, tropical heat lay thick over the base. It would inevitably lead to afternoon thunderstorms and this part of the Southwest Pacific had seen more than its share of rough weather recently. The storms had come hard and fast for the last two weeks, wreaking havoc with missions, communications, housing and supply lines, not to mention what happened to VMF 237. Nobody wanted to talk about that.
"I keep hoping there won't be a next time," she said. "But if Greg backs off on this, he'll just find something new to keep you guys in shape."
Don groaned again. "You have to be in shape in the first place before you can stay in shape."
Kate laughed. In this case, Greg's fitness regimen for the squadron was less about fitness and more about discipline. Out here in the back of beyond, as long as the boys brought their A game every time they lifted off the air strip, no one really cared about calisthenics or five-mile runs along the beaches. Which brought them to the current situation.
A starter's pistol cracked somewhere on the base. Don and Kate both jumped reflexively, then breathed a joint sigh of relief. They skirted the edge of the line, taking care to stay out of the way as Jim Gutterman and Bob Anderson pounded toward their birds, their faces hard masks of concentration.
"The 219 has to cover for us because we're late to a Tojo intercept one time and Pappy thinks running our legs off is the answer," Don muttered.
"I think it's working," Kate said. "Everyone's times have improved. Besides, the morning you guys got scrambled out of the sack for that intercept, you practically walked to the line. You knew he wasn't going to let that go."
That slow response time the previous week tarnished the Black Sheep's reputation when they almost failed to stop an enemy sweep. Their delayed arrival to the engagement nearly let a squadron of Japanese fighters break through to Espritos Marcos, something the brass on that rear area took a dim view of.
As a result, Greg had the boys running drills every morning. When this program was greeted with a marked lack of enthusiasm, he folded his arms, looked at his assembled men and said in a dangerously quiet voice, "Cameron could beat half of you in a dead heat. Doesn't it bother you that an Associated Press war correspondent could make it into the cockpit faster than trained Marine Corps pilots?"
While a good many of those pilots indicated they had absolutely no problem with that, others rose to the challenge and so it began—multiple sprints from the base to the line every day, in flights of two. The boys drew straws each morning for running partners. Greg may have overestimated her speed on the ground but with her lithe build and agility, Kate was a legitimate challenger for most of them. She would have preferred if Greg had consulted her on this plan before launching it but she was getting used to his unorthodox style of leadership. When he pulled her aside and said, "I'll make it worth your time, sweetheart," in the whisky rough tone that sent sparks through her blood, she'd agreed without a second thought. Well. There'd been a second thought. But it hadn't been about running.
Over the last week and a half, she'd been paired with each of the 214's pilots in madcap gallops across the base, over obstacles, into the mud and once, straight through Casey and Bragg's tent, to see who could reach their bird first.
She outpaced Jim Gutterman when his arrogance proved his undoing. He'd had a solid lead on her, turned to run backward for a few strides and tripped over Meatball.
She beat Bobby Anderson only because his prowess in the cockpit didn't extend to physical coordination on the ground.
TJ Wiley proved both surprisingly fast and agile, and while she'd arrived at what she'd started calling her plane several strides before he reached his, he'd edged her out by leaping into the seat while she fumbled to get onto the wing.
Larry Casey, who'd been a high school track star, was just plain unbeatable. He apologized to her every time he reached his plane first because that's just the kind of guy he was.
But Kate was victorious against the rest of the boys, whether by yards or inches. When someone complained it wasn't fair she was running in shorts and a T-shirt while they were in full kit, she borrowed a flight suit from Bobby Boyle and a Mae West from Jerry Bragg. She still beat half the squadron. Jim suggested adding a sidearm to her ensemble but Greg deep-sixed that idea, asking his executive officer if he really thought it was a good idea to give Kate a loaded weapon. Jim reluctantly admitted that was a viable point.
The only member of the Black Sheep she hadn't run against was Greg, although not for lack of encouragement by the boys. She wasn't entirely sure that was a good idea. Her relationship with Greg was a tangle of hard-won mutual respect, trust and passion. Head-to-head competition on anything beyond the Black Sheep's version of a friendly volleyball game was just asking for trouble.
"We're done for the day and we're both still alive," she said, trying to bring French's spirits back up. "Let's go find a Coke while they finish out here. You guys have a patrol to fly this afternoon if the weather holds."
"Yeah," French said morosely. "If it rains again and the patrol is canceled, Pappy'll have us running in the mud to build character or some damn fool thing."
Kate started to say something about the boys' collective character, then looked up as the sound of an aircraft on approach drew her attention. She and Don scanned the cloudless blue sky as the tiny speck grew steadily larger. A familiar Stinson L5 Sentinel dropped toward the La Cava runway.
"If that's Colonel Lard, I need to disappear," she said. She ducked behind the tail assembly of a nearby fighter as the smaller plane taxied past. "He thinks I'm a nurse and I'm sure there's something in his blessed Marine Corps Manual against Navy nurses impersonating fighter pilots."
"We could say you were here to teach emergency life saving measures and I could fake a heart attack," Don suggested. "If Greg keeps this up, it might be the real thing." He shielded his eyes against the sun as the L5 rolled to a stop, then called back, "You're safe, it's General Moore. Wonder what he wants?"
"I'm not sure Moore is thrilled I'm here, either," Kate said. "But at least I don't have to pretend to be somebody I'm not when I'm around him." As they strolled amicably back toward the base, the pistol cracked again and Jerry Bragg and Bobby Boyle thundered past, Meatball hot on their heels, barking encouragement.
XXX
Major Greg Boyington leaned against a jeep at the edge of the flight line, hands in his pockets, watching with satisfaction as his men raced from the base to their planes. It wasn't Paris Island level discipline but it would remind the pilots he expected nothing less than 110 percent from them on the ground as well as upstairs.
He sketched a salute to Kate as she and French passed, acknowledging his appreciation of her. She'd had every right to tell him to take a hike when he asked for her help but instead, she'd given him a quiet smile that said yeah, she'd help but it would come at a price. That was one bill he looked forward to settling.
She flashed him a generous smile, her face glowing not only with the morning heat but an energy that resonated as if she'd physically touched him. She was sweaty and mud-splattered and wearing a baggy flight suit that barely hinted at her curves but she was still beautiful. God only knew why but she thrived here among the men and mud and mosquitoes. The first day they met, he couldn't wait to get rid of her. Now he couldn't get enough of her and if that meant making her part of everything the squadron did, so be it. That's why Lard had assigned her here, wasn't it? Well. Sort of.
"Incoming," Jim said at his shoulder, breathing hard after his sprint against Anderson. "That's Lard's L5."
Both men automatically glanced toward Kate's departing form.
"Want me to warn her to lay low?" Jim asked. "Gonna look funny if you run off soon as Colonel Lard lands."
Greg shook his head. "Lard wouldn't think anything of it, he expects me to run off. Looks like it's our lucky day, though. It's Moore."
"You got a strange definition of lucky," Jim mused. "When the brass shows up it usually means someone's gonna get an ass chewin' or we're gonna get sent on a mission half of us ain't comin' back from."
Greg thought the same thing but couldn't recall any offenses the Black Sheep had committed lately that would warrant a visit. That didn't mean they hadn't committed any, just that no one knew about them. Their last R and R on Espritos had admittedly gone off the rails but they'd settled up for the damages to the officers' club and no one landed in the hospital this time so all was well that ended well.
"I'm outta here just in case Moore's here to collect for additional damages at the O Club," Jim said. "Wasn't my fault that window broke. They don't make glass like they used to." He jogged off to catch up with Kate and Don as the general climbed out of the small plane.
"Good to see you, sir." Greg tossed off something resembling a salute. Moore generally had his back but that wasn't something Greg took for granted and a slight sense of unease tickled the back of his neck. When the general wanted to bend his ear, he usually summoned Greg to Espritos. Leaving the security of the rear area base to come all the way to this rock did not bode well.
Moore muttered an appropriate greeting but his attention was focused over Greg's shoulder. Greg didn't have to turn around to know what had caught the other man's attention.
"That's not . . .?" Moore's voice trailed off as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
"Yes, sir, it is."
"She's wearing a flight suit."
"Yes, sir, she is."
Moore pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Greg," his voice held a tone of resignation, as if he were preparing for a truth he didn't want to hear. "Tell me she isn't . . . that you're not teaching her . . ."
"To fly? No, sir, not a chance. Cameron doesn't like airplanes." Greg let Moore ponder the incongruity of the statement. It wasn't entirely true. She liked them as long as they stayed on the ground. She liked writing about them. She liked taking pictures of them whether they were grounded or not. In fact, the 214's battle-weary collection of Corsairs had played an integral role in him getting to know her better. A lot better. Just don't ask her to get in one and head down the air strip unless it was absolutely necessary.
Moore gave Greg an appraising look. "I hear she likes pilots fine."
Greg shrugged, noncommittal.
"Some of them more than others," the general pushed. "One in particular."
"What's your point, sir?" Greg crossed his arms across his chest. His relationship with Kate was nobody's business but his and Kate's. His avowed dislike of the press corps, combined with their 13-year age difference and her absolute refusal to let him intimidate her in any respect, created a dynamic that fascinated the Black Sheep. In the fishbowl of the 214, it provided endless fodder for speculation among the men but for once in his life, Greg found himself keeping what happened between the two of them to himself. A gentleman didn't kiss and tell. Neither did he.
"Damn it, Greg! You know what my point is!" Moore returned. "That girl is a loaded gun pointed at your career. If Lard finds out—"
"If Lard finds out what? That K.C. stands for Katherine Christine, not Kevin Charles? That's his own fault, isn't it? He ordered a war correspondent embedded with the 214 because he thought it would make us toe the line. He got what he asked for."
General Moore harrumphed and continued to watch Kate's departing backside. Greg agreed it bore scrutiny as each stride pulled the khaki fabric taut over a nicely rounded hip. He knew what those hips felt like, cradled in his hands as she—
"That is not what he asked for and we both know it," Moore interrupted that particularly pleasant memory. "I still don't know what twist of fate got her past him on Espritos when she flew out here. And hell, she even had dinner with him last month and now he thinks she's one of the nurses at the hospital. Plus, he's nearly gone around the bend because K.C. Cameron keeps making the Black Sheep look good in print. He'll throw the Marine Corps manual at you seven ways from Sunday if he ever finds out the truth. Then he'll find a way to make it all your fault!"
Greg broke into an easy smile, boyish dimples making him look younger than his 35 years. "Then we'd better make sure he never finds out."
Moore looked like he'd swallowed a bug.
"Come on, General, you didn't fly all the way out here to tell me things I already know. What's up?"
"You got any of that good Scotch handy?"
"The 20-year-old stuff we, uh, liberated from Espritos? I might be able to find a bottle."
Moore snorted. "Liberated, my ass. Your bunch of merry bandits stole it."
"The OC had a surplus. They never missed it and we traded it for engine oil." Greg paused and eyed the sky. "I'm the last one to complain but isn't it a little early to be drinking?"
"It's 5 o'clock somewhere," Moore said doggedly. "When you hear what I have to say, you'll wish you'd started sooner." His eyes sought Kate's distant figure. "Bring your XO and have Miss Cameron join us, too. What I'm going to tell you is top secret, Greg, mostly because no one higher up the chain knows what the hell is going on but they won't admit it. I'm authorized to release details on a need-to-know basis. I don't want it leaked to the press but I suspect she'll get it out of you one way or the other so she might as well hear it straight from me."
"She's lousy at taking orders, sir, but if you ask, she'll keep it out of the newspapers until the time is right," Greg said. If Kate found out through back channels that the brass was throwing the Black Sheep into the middle of a top secret mission, she'd be on it in a hot minute. He'd learned a long time ago it was easier to read her in on mission briefings with the rest of the squadron and trust her discretion rather than try to keep operation parameters sewn up tightly.
The girl was a bold writer but she never released information the enemy could use. Her writing skills had been a godsend for the squadron, and their reputation—along with their supply line—had flourished as a result. Well, improved might be a better description. They still lived what often felt like a hand-to-mouth existence but Colonel Lard's personal vendetta to destroy the Black Sheep had cooled markedly, given the amount of positive press they were receiving. As their overwatch, this reflected well on Lard. If Kate looked the other way when the boys were involved in unauthorized activities or occasionally got caught breaking into the nurses' quarters (which was rare, the nurses let them in), you couldn't expect a lone correspondent to keep up with everything, could you?
Moore watched Kate's figure until she turned into her tent, then gave Greg a long, calculating look. "I hope you know what you're doing."
"I know exactly what I'm doing."
And he'd like to do it more often but a relationship in a war zone tended to be more about fast kisses and less about slow romantic interludes. Hell, he'd be happy with a fast romantic interlude and had the feeling she would, too. Damn war. And now it looked like the brass was going to stir things up even more.
—To be continued—
