A/N: Final chapters are always bittersweet. I never want the story to end but this one has reached its conclusion. Thank you for coming along for the ride and supporting my obsession!
XXX
Chapter 5
48 hours after the Black Sheep dropped the aid packs
The VIP/storage/Kate's field office tent
Kate pulled the final sheet of paper from her old Remington typewriter and jogged it neatly with the others.
Done.
The missions were done. The rescue was done. The story was done.
The story could have been done better, she thought, but she'd been unable to interview anyone other than Greg and the boys. She'd have happily committed several felonies to talk with the surviving members of VMF 237 but flying to Espritos Marcos where they were hospitalized and dodging Colonel Lard in the process was out of the question. She'd contented herself with pulling details from copies of the official reports, which was barely all the censors at the War Department would allow anyway. She directed a few pointed, professional questions at Greg, to which he had given pointed, professional answers.
They'd agreed to be deliberately vague about exactly how the Black Sheep discovered where the pilots were holed up. If Kate had written about the 214's embedded war correspondent with the Sight, her credibility would have taken a blow. And the censors would have a cat. The American public needed to hear about pilots' heroic deeds, not a writer's ethereal visions. She was perfectly willing to credit the boys with spotting something during the recon sweeps and let it go. That wasn't the important part, anyway. The important part was the men were found and rescued. Most of them, anyway.
Kate sipped her coffee and mused over the story a final time. Greg had finagled his way into the hospital on Espritos and spoken to Major McBride. Afterward, he'd given her information to flesh out the story without crossing any lines but she'd seen the brief cloud that crossed his face when she asked for more details about the pilot who cobbled together a working radio to send the SOS. Greg had changed the subject.
Well. There was nothing else for it. She slid the finished piece into a courier bag and set out to find Casey and make sure it went out on the next transport.
XXX
Four days later
Espritos Marcos
Rear Area
1100 hours
"You'll want to read this, sir. The story is in all the stateside papers. He's done it again." Margaret, Colonel Lard's trim, dark-haired secretary, placed a copy of The Des Moines Register and Tribune on his desk. Lard scowled. He was fairly sure he did not want to read it.
He didn't know if Margaret's reference to "he" meant Major Boyington or K.C. Cameron but the two were such a combined pain in his posterior, it didn't matter. The resulting annoyance was the same either way. He longed for a cup of coffee to ease the self-inflicted pain of reading the news report but didn't think his gut would welcome an influx of acid. He should just be glad the situation was over and done. He shook open the paper. The 60-point headline screamed from the front page.
PILOTS FOUND ALIVE!
RESCUED BY ALLIED FORCES AFTER MISSING FOR 14 DAYS IN SW PACIFIC!
Of course, the story was on the front page. Every damn thing Cameron wrote was front page news. The civilian press loved him. Lard snarled and read on.
By K.C. Cameron, Associated Press
Solomon Islands, Southwest Pacific Theatre of Operations
Acting on intelligence gathered in a series of top-secret reconnaissance missions, a specialized unit of American and New Zealand forces performed the daring rescue of the surviving pilots of VMF 237 on Oct. 31, 1943. The squadron had previously been believed lost down to the last man.
Two weeks prior, after engaging with enemy forces during a combat patrol, the 237 had been blown off course by a fast-moving severe weather system that wreaked havoc along the western edge of the Solomon Island chain. When radio contact with the unit was lost, search planes and rescue ships were dispatched but found nothing. It was believed all had perished at sea, victims of the violent weather and planes already damaged during that morning's combat. American air-sea rescue briefly swept the last known coordinates but continued inclement weather and the ever-present enemy threat caused high command to call an end to the search.
However, all was not lost. When it became apparent to VMF 237's commanding officer, Major Gilbert McBride, that he and his men would not be able to reach safety at the American base on Rendova, the entire squadron ditched at sea. They were carried to land by an unusually high tide with strong currents, the result of the full moon combined with storm surge. Stranded on a small, unmapped atoll off the coast of Rendova, Major McBride's men took refuge in the cave system of the largest island. There, they sheltered from additional storms and survived by collecting rain water and eating native plants.
The downed men's immediate priorities were treating their wounded, including head trauma, broken bones and lacerations. After the injured were stabilized, work began on repairing a radio salvaged from one of the planes. Working with limited resources, they were able to send an SOS. Although restricted in range and strength, the signal was picked up by a passing ship. Still, no signs of life could be detected in the immediate vicinity.
Lard scowled at the paper, as if doing so would make it stop annoying him. If the men ditched at sea, how had there been time to salvage a radio? Boyington's men reported no debris on the beaches and if the 237 had been in such broken and battered condition when they washed ashore, how would they have managed to do anything beyond saving their own lives? He continued to read, jolting slightly at the mention of his own name.
Colonel Thomas Lard, Espritos Marcos, tasked Major Greg Boyington and VMF 214, based on Vella La Cava, to investigate. The Black Sheep flew four recon missions, eventually determining survivors were sheltering on the north part of the largest island on the edge of enemy territory.
"We had a gut feeling they were out there," Major Boyington said. "Even though no crash debris was ever spotted, an entire squadron can't go missing without a trace."
"We weren't about to give up on those men," said Lt. Lawrence Casey, a pilot with the famed Black Sheep squadron. "We kept looking until we found 'em."
Lard narrowed his eyes. Exactly how they had determined where the surviving men were located was intel Boyington had not shared in the final debrief. When questioned, he'd only said, "Sometimes, you just get lucky." There was more to it than that and Lard knew it but he'd been unable to push the point. The surgeons at the hospital had nearly thrown him out on his ear when he wanted to question McBride and his men further. Eventually, he'd decided to let it go. He'd learned over time that the less he knew about how Major Boyington got results, the better it was for both of them. He refocused on the newspaper.
The Black Sheep returned for a final sweep and dropped emergency medical supplies and food to sustain the men while authorities on Espritos Marcos formulated a rescue strategy. The next day, with VMF 214 holding off Japanese fighters above, Yankee and Kiwi special forces swept onto the island to extract the downed pilots. Thirteen men were transported to the Naval Hospital on Espritos Marcos, where they are expected to make a full recovery.
Three souls were lost prior to rescue. Lt. Jedidiah Perkins and Lt. Niels Gustafson were flying planes badly damaged in the prior enemy engagement and went down in the storm, not to be seen again. While Lt. Lane Carson made landfall, his wounds were too grievous to be overcome and he perished as the men awaited rescue. He was buried at sea by his squadron mates.
Lard set the paper on his desk. "Damn it, Cameron."
The writer had not come out and said it but the implication was there, blazing like a firebrand between the lines. If Lard had acted sooner, if he hadn't pulled the initial search and rescue out of the area and written the 237 off as an unfortunate casualty of war, maybe Lt. Carson would be recovering with his fellow pilots, not lying in an unmarked grave in the Southwest Pacific.
Or maybe it was his own guilty conscience, seeing words that didn't exist and allowing his bias against Cameron to shadow the man's writing. He sighed. He wasn't biased. Not really. And it was his own fault the reporter was there in the first place.
But it still grated at him. Not only did the damnable Black Sheep succeed at whatever they turned their hand to, they had that damnable reporter backing them at every turn. The writer made the renegade squadron look like recruiting poster models for readers in the States, while Lard sat here, watching his reasons for dismantling that collection of flying misfits go up in smoke.
Enough was enough. He'd fly to La Cava and have a word with Cameron. Surely the man couldn't continue to ignore the squadron's off-duty antics. Lard had signed the orders to have Cameron embedded with the Black Sheep to bring their after-hours behavior in line. If the man didn't come around to Lard's way of thinking, Lard could boot him back stateside with another flourish of his pen. Or send him further down the New Georgia chain or to Guadalcanal or Munda. Anywhere out of Lard's immediate territory. That idea pleased him greatly.
He reached for the telephone to tell Margaret to he'd need his pilot but a stab in his gut stopped him short. His ulcer, which had been behaving itself, more or less, since he'd been released from the infirmary, sent a fiery reminder it wasn't done with him yet. Lard groaned and sat back in his chair. He wouldn't go today. Maybe he'd go tomorrow, after he'd had a good night's sleep. Or later in the week. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of antacid tablets. There was no rush. No one in this war's arm pit was going anywhere soon.
XXX
Vella La Cava
VMF 214 HQ
"I am not doing this anymore." Kate wiped sweat off her forehead and slid slowly down the side of the Sheep Pen to collapse onto a sandbag. Bob Anderson joined her with a groan.
"Katherine, next time I draw your name, I'm going to lie down and admit defeat before we start. It would be in both of our best interests."
"Deal." Kate closed her eyes and extended a hand in his direction. Bob shook it limply.
With the 237's crisis behind them, Greg had reinstituted the turn-out drills. No one was particularly happy about it but the boys didn't complain too loudly since they figured if they protested, Greg would find something else for them to do that they would like even less. Kate did complain loudly but only because she knew she could do it with impunity. Secretly, pitting herself against men generally perceived to be bigger, stronger and faster in something as simple as a footrace brought out a new facet of competitiveness she hadn't realized she possessed.
"One more run, Cameron, you're good for morale," Greg said.
"This outfit has plenty of morale, thank you," she countered, not moving.
He extended a hand and when she reached up to grasp it, he pulled her easily to her feet. "Come on, last one of the day."
"Don't pair me with Bragg again," she said. "I don't want to be responsible if he actually dies this time."
"Thanks, Kate," the chubby pilot called cheerfully.
"Hey Katie," Boyle called, grinning. "I'll give two-to-one odds you can beat Pappy."
Kate shot him a look intended to squash that thought immediately. In truth, she was surprised it had taken the boys this long to come up with the challenge but that didn't mean she accepted it.
"Okay, three-to-one," Boyle amended, mis-interpreting her hard stare and stepping back a little.
"No. Just no. I am not running against Greg," she protested.
"Afraid I'll win?" Greg's smile told her all she needed to know. He wasn't going to let go of this.
Anderson revived enough to pull a fist full of money out of a pocket and wave it above his head, calling, "My money's on Katherine." Boyle snatched it up. French and Bragg added theirs, while Casey pulled a notebook out of his flight suit and scribed the bets.
"You boys would bet against your own CO?" Greg said with feigned indignation.
"Sorry, Pappy, but Katie's really quick on her feet," Bragg said. "It's not that we don't think you can't beat her but this is a sprint and you're more of a distance runner."
"It doesn't matter, I'm done with this nonsense. I've already run twice this morning. Done. Done. Done." Kate peeled the Mae West over her head and tossed it to French. She unlaced her boots and toed them off, then unzipped the flight suit and started to wiggle out of it. The boys' collective eyes widened until it was clear she was wearing a T-shirt and shorts under the baggy garment. The suit pooled on the ground and with a twist of one elegant ankle, she stepped clear of the khaki cloth.
Greg eyed her, a smile playing on his lips. "I think you're afraid of losing."
"I am not afraid of losing," she returned. "I lost to Casey every damn time I ran against him because he's faster than any normal human being has a right to be and I always lost to TJ because he's got legs up to his armpits."
"What about me?" Greg folded his arms across his chest and raised his eyebrows.
"What about you?" She pulled her boots back on and tied the laces, trying hard not to look at him.
"You really think you can beat me, Katie?"
The tone of his voice made her heart kick up a notch and she swallowed hard. Oh, lord save her. Professions aside, there were virtually no areas where she could claim superiority over him. She was a fair shot with a rifle, better with a pistol and killer at darts. She was an abysmal poker player and even though she could match most of the Black Sheep drink for drink, Greg could still put her under the table. And physically, he out-muscled her in every respect. Not that she was complaining. Suddenly, maybe she didn't want to let this go. She just needed to think about it for a bit before committing to something that might see her soundly defeated. Well. Hell. It probably would be good for the boys' morale, if not particularly hers.
"Nah, forget it, I don't think you're up for it." Greg's grin bordered on arrogant. It was a ploy and it was working. Damn it. The energy field that surrounded him was inexorably drawing her in, making her think getting involved in whatever he suggested made absolute sense when it usually turned out to be the exact opposite.
"You don't want to know what I think." She finished tying her boots and straightened, slender and lithe next to his sculpted muscle.
Several of the boys whooped with laughter.
"C'mon, Katie, you can do it!" French yelled.
"But I've already run twice this morning," she protested.
"So have I," Greg said, his voice level. He'd been handily trounced by Casey, who apologized for beating him, then ran against Boyle, who might as well have been standing still. "So we're even on that point." Not looking back, he turned in the direction of the flight line and adapted a runner's stance, ready to break at the starter's pistol.
"Yeah, Katie, we got your six," TJ called.
"I beat him, you can, too!" Casey's voice rang with humor and optimism.
"Hey Boyle, I wanna raise my bet," Anderson shouted.
Kate rolled her eyes as more money passed hands. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, guys, but I don't—"
"Aw, hell. Ya'll talkin' or runnin'?" Jim pulled his Colt and fired a single shot into the air. After several weeks of being conditioned to bolt from the start line in response to a pistol, Kate reacted automatically. She spun toward the flight line, legs driving her forward without conscious thought. The part of her brain not devoted to running heard Greg laugh, then the pounding of his boots immediately behind her.
Kate accelerated, tents merging into an olive drab blur as she raced past. Skidding around the corner of the mess, she hurdled a support rope to take a short cut that would bring her out behind Hutch's tent, the last one at the edge of the base. A surprised snort and a swear word just off her left shoulder told her Greg hadn't anticipated that. She didn't look back.
She rounded Hutch's tent and nearly collided with the surprised mechanic as he emerged. He caught her upper arms to keep them both from sprawling in the dirt and they spun in a complete 360 before she broke loose. The delay cost precious seconds. Greg was shoulder to shoulder with her now.
"Give up?" he shouted.
"No!"
"You can't beat me." They were matching stride for stride, arms and legs pistoning across the hardpack.
"Bet?"
"Anything—you want."
"Don't promise—what you can't deliver," Kate gasped. A puddle from the previous night's rain loomed in an inopportune spot and they both pounded through it. One of her feet slipped and she slewed sideways, almost crashing into Greg. He grabbed her arm, yanked her upright, then let go.
"I can deliver—sweetheart. Can you?" He pulled ahead by a stride.
Kate couldn't tell if she was breathless from the sprint or the tone of his voice.
Out of nowhere, Meatball careened onto their path, barking and spinning madly as if he didn't know whether he was a contestant in the race or a cheering spectator. From the corner of her eye, Kate saw the dog's crazed antics put him on a vector that would intercept Greg's path in half a dozen strides.
"Look out for—" she started to yell but at their speed, it was too late. Greg saw the dog and with a monumental, last second effort, hurdled the terrier. Stride broken, he fought to regain his balance, then veered out and around a stack of ammo crates that loomed out of nowhere in a haphazard pile.
Kate saw the opportunity and took it. Drawing on the last ounce of her reserves, she shot forward, eyes locked on her target—the first Corsair in the line. Normally, Greg had the boys race to their own birds during the drills but thanks to Gutterman's impromptu start, there hadn't been time to establish any ground rules.
All's fair in love and war, she thought. She skidded around the tip of the wing, winded and panting, and nearly ricocheted off the fuselage before regaining her balance. The first few times she run drills with the boys, she'd outpaced some of them on the flat, then stalled when it came to actually getting into the cockpit. Boyle suggested she practice without the mad sprint first because getting into the big fighters was an acquired skill for shorter pilots. Anderson advised her to enter a zen state and become one with the plane. TJ told her, privately, sometimes he just closed his eyes and hoped for the best. Kate had thanked all of them for their advice, then took Boyle's to heart and spent several evenings leaping onto the wing from different angles, much to the amusement of Hutch, Micklin and the ground crew.
But damn if it hadn't paid off. She was on the wing without a second thought, up to the second toe hold and grabbing for the open cockpit. Her momentum nearly carried her over the far edge but she checked herself and dropped into the seat, fumbling for the safety harness.
"Clear!" she gasped, sweating and totally winded.
Silence.
She looked around. Greg stood poised to drop into the seat of the adjoining bird. "Cameron?"
"What? I—beat you!" she gasped.
"You know how to add insult to injury."
"What?"
He tapped the side of plane, immediately below the cockpit, and gestured at the bird she had commandeered. Kate pushed up in the seat, leaned out and looked down. She saw kill flags. A lot of kill flags. There was only one pilot in this squadron who had that many. She looked up, grinning even as she still gasped for breath.
Greg held up his hand. "Don't say you're sorry because you're not." He leaped down onto the wing, then to the ground. The boys approached at a distance. Kate hoisted herself out of the cockpit and cautiously made her way down. Unlike the men, she'd never mastered the art of exiting the planes in a hurry, probably because she'd never been in one when it was on fire.
As she bent to slid off the wing, Greg grasped her around the waist and swung her down. She turned to face him and stepped back, heart still pounding.
"Wanna run it again?" he said. A slight smile curved his lips.
"No."
"Best two out of three?"
"No."
"I'll give you a head start."
"I don't need a head start."
"Don't be arrogant, Cameron."
"I'm not. I beat you fair and square."
"You cheated." Greg stepped into her.
"I did not." She took an involuntary step back.
"You sic'd Meatball on me." He took another step toward her.
"He's your dog—I couldn't sic your own dog on you." Kate back up until she bumped into the low edge of the wing behind her.
Greg took one last step and settled a hand firmly in either side of the wing. Kate met his hot blue gaze. She fell hard into the drowning pools of those eyes and made no attempt to save herself.
"You knew I didn't stand a chance. You had me beat, easy, before the gun ever went off," he said with soft finality.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him the only answer she could manage as the boys cheered behind them.
XXX
2330 hours
On the beach
After, well, you know
The combined heat rising from their bare skin was more than enough to counteract the light breeze coming off the ocean. Tiny fireworks echoed through Kate's blood, lingering aftershocks that reflected the intensity of their loving. She let out a soft sigh and curled into Greg's side, one leg thrown over his, her body in a state of satiation that left her incapable of further movement or speech. His arm wrapped around her shoulders. She could just make out his features in the light of the rising moon.
Kate closed her eyes and lay her hand on his chest, smiling to herself as the cadence of his heart beat against her palm. She treasured these moments almost as much as the intoxicating rush of mutual need from their joined bodies that overwhelmed everything else. Opportunity for both were equally rare and she savored the rhythm of his breathing and scent of his cooling skin.
Greg rolled up on one elbow, dislodging her and effectively bringing her back to reality. Kate opened her eyes to find him watching her with one of those piercing blue looks that could mean a dozen different things.
"What's on your mind?" she asked. She didn't need to ask. He would tell her things he wanted her to know, often whether she wanted to hear them or not. She was privy to more inside information about the squadron and its day-to-day operation than she'd dreamed possible two months ago.
Greg paused, weighing his words as if they might exceed some unspoken limit.
"McBride's men didn't send that SOS," he said quietly.
"They—what? Of course they did." While she'd grown accustomed to pillow talk that involved campaign strategies and mission parameters, this was not a topic she'd expected.
Greg shook his head. "When I talked to Gil in the hospital on Espritos, he told me they were lucky to make it to high ground with a few first aid kits and a minimum of survival gear. They didn't have time to pull a radio even though what was left of a couple of the planes washed up right behind them. The storm surge was too high and the currents were too strong. They had to get out of the water or they'd have been pulled back out to sea along with the wreckage."
A shiver that had nothing to do with the breeze dancing across her bare skin ran up Kate's spine. Suddenly, sitting nude on the beach did not seem appropriate for wherever this conversation was headed. She sat up and reached for the first article of clothing she saw, which was Greg's T-shirt. She shook it out and pulled it over her head, then tugged on her panties. Greg mirrored her thoughts and pulled on his skivvies, then sat, forearms braced on his knees, staring out into the night.
"And you know this how?" she asked.
"Gil was in rough shape but he kept asking how we found them, how we knew they were there. The nurses were trying to kick me out of the ward, they wanted him to rest, but he grabbed my arm and wouldn't let go, kept asking the same thing, over and over—how'd you find us?"
"Any chance he was out of his mind?" Kate asked softly. "He'd just come through two weeks of hell. Three of his men were gone and they all thought they were all going to die there on that rock."
Greg shook his head. "He was exhausted and pretty beat up but he was in his right mind. I've known Gil for years, flew with him before the Black Sheep. He's as tough as they come. He said with the Japanese flying routine patrols over the area, they were afraid to be seen even when they heard our planes. He'd nearly given up hope by the time we dropped those aid packs."
"But you heard the signal every time you flew a sweep." Kate shifted closer and Greg wrapped an arm around her waist. She studied his face and for the first time since she'd known him, saw doubt etched there. The war meant different things for each of them. He faced the enemy in kill-or-be-killed combat. She crafted stories that kept readers in the States informed about battles and campaigns fought by U.S. forces who might never come home again. Both of them saw the war in black and white facts and tried not to look at the indiscriminate shades of gray blurring the edges. For Greg, doubt led to hesitation, which could lead to death. For her, every word she chose impacted a nation of readers desperate for accurate news from battlegrounds thousands of miles away. There was no room for speculation, no tolerance of anything but established fact for either of them.
"I told him about hearing the SOS but not being able to establish contact in return," Greg said. "That's when Gil told me they'd never sent any kind of signal. They had their hands full just staying alive. Lt. Keltner had a broken leg, Lts. Hunter and Dalton had serious head wounds and Lt. Carson had internal bleeding. All of them had taken a beating in the water by the time they reached the island. Once they found shelter and got everyone stabilized, the men with the fewest injuries spent their time gathering food and water and doing their best to keep the others comfortable. They didn't have any radio gear."
Waves lapped at the beach and night birds called in the jungle. There was more he hadn't told her but she didn't push.
"But you heard the SOS and you saved them," she ventured. "Does it make any difference where it came from?"
Greg was quiet for so long, she wondered if he'd heard her.
"Maybe not," he said finally.
"Are you going to tell the boys about this?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer.
"No. I don't have enough energy for that level of damage control," he said wryly.
"Why did you tell me?"
"Do you believe in ghosts?"
"Damn it! Would you stop that?!" She slapped his arm in mock frustration when he answered her question with a question. "You already know the answer."
"And that's why I told you. No one else knows. Not Lard, not Moore. No one. McBride and all his men are on the record as saying they transmitted the SOS through a salvaged radio. That's their story and they're sticking to it." He scrubbed a hand over his face, then continued. "Katie, Lt. Carson died four days after the storm knocked them down. The SOS was picked up by that passing flattop on the fifth day, after they buried him at sea.."
"And you think the signal came from . . ." she choked, " . . . his ghost?"
"Carson, Pickering, Gustafson . . . they were all part of the 237 and they'll never go home. The waters all around the Solomons are one big graveyard, thanks to this damned war. I just wonder if someone out there wasn't ready to let the rest of the 237 join them."
Kate shivered, a fine tremor just below her skin. Greg pulled her closer and asked, "You have a better explanation?"
She didn't. While she'd been raised in a family whose cultural heritage embraced things that went bump in the night, she'd never encountered any of them first hand.
"No," she whispered.
Needing his warmth against her suddenly chilled skin, she tangled her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and guided his mouth to hers. He accommodated her, pressing her down onto the blanket and covering her body with his. Above them, the moon cast its pale light over the beach and the tropical breeze mixed the salt tang of the ocean with the scent of aviation fuel and tent canvas from the base. They lost themselves in one another, each seeking affirmation of the here and now, and letting love hold the ghosts of war at bay.
THE END
Whew. Done. Thanks for reading and leaving reviews! Clear skies and blessed Samhain.