“We’re having dinner, remember? Helen went to the market shopping and then we zap them in the microwave. Now before she gets back, how about a shower?”
“No shower.”
“Yes, shower. It will perk you up, dry you out a little and might even make you a little hungry. Come on. No objections. They are all overruled and countermanded and shot to hell. On your feet, girl, move it.”
The last two sentences had the snap of a top sergeant ordering around his Marines. Not exactly understanding why, Nancy sat up, then stood on shaky feet and caught Maria’s hand as they walked toward the bedroom and the shower.
The shower helped. Maria just being there helped. By the time the shower was over and Nancy dressed, Helen was back with the frozen dinners. Nancy had her choice from the four dinners. She took the barbecued steak strips.
Helen called Charlie out of the den. He carried a sheet of white paper with a short message on it.
“Got an e-mail from Dad,” Charlie said. Nancy grabbed it out of his hand and read it. She sat down and the edges of a smile touched her face, fought with the frown and won until the smile bathed her whole face.
“He’s back on an aircraft carrier somewhere south of Japan and the first mission is over and only one man got wounded and he’s recovering. He says they don’t know how long they will be on the carrier, but it’s like a mini-vacation. They’ll do a little training but not room to do much, and twenty-mile hikes are definitely out. He says he loves us and misses us and hopes they will be sent home soon.”
Nancy Dobler sat down at her place at the table and ate every scrap of the frozen dinner. Then she served the group desert, ice cream sundaes with three kinds of toppings, whipped cream, nuts, and a maraschino cherry.
Nancy smiled and almost glowed. “Hey kids, your dad is fine, he’s well, and he thinks they might be coming home soon. Isn’t that great!”
6
Howie Anderson had stripped down for his workout in the weight room on the carrier. He had been onboard for two days and this was his first time in the gym. It was adequate. He wore only a pair of shorts and sneakers.
He had warmed up for twenty minutes on the treadmill at near the maximum, now he worked his quads. He was at the bar again and felt his muscles tighten. Four. His muscles were on fire. He strained and moved it slowly. Five. He powered hard to get the last inch, then dropped his feet again and came back up, muscles screaming with fatigue. He bleated in pain and shut his eyes as he willed his legs to come up. They did, a half inch, then another half inch to the max. Six. He dropped his feet and started again. The burn was tremendous, but he couldn’t stop. He needed one more inch. His legs felt like they were burning in a furnace. One more inch. No, he failed. He always pushed himself to total muscle failure. That way he knew he had gone to the max.
He toweled off and slumped on the bench, too tired to move. Somebody sat across from him. As the pain eased he looked up and saw a woman in a sports bra and shorts. She was nicely put together. Good boobs. Her straw-blond hair was damp from her workout. She grinned.
“You’re getting pecs,” she said.
“Need a lot more work,” he said, cautious. In here you could never tell the officers from the enlisted women.
She stood and waved. “Got to go. Have the duty in twenty.”
He waved back and returned to his workout. He used his system when he could. The first day he concentrated on his shoulders and arms. The second day was for chest and back. Then the third day was for the delts, triceps, and biceps. He liked to work his forearms hard, using the rubber ring squeezes until his muscles bellowed in agony from the buildup of acids.
Howie liked to bench press. He did pyramids, then ten reps at 350 and two at 370, then two more at 390. He loved to do seated behind-the-neck presses. He filled in with the usual curls, working up to 80 pounds on the dumbbells to build his biceps. At the end he slumped on a bench panting as his breathing and heart rate slipped back to normal.
“You always work out that hard?” the question came from a guy who had a pot belly and lots of flab. He had to be in his late forties.
“Usually, when I have time. You just getting started?”
The guy laughed. “Not hard to tell. My annual physical is coming up and if I don’t hit the marks this time, I’m riding a park bench in New Jersey.”
“Start slow and work up,” Howie said. “Get a good coach to train with you and then stick to a routine. You should be in here at least an hour every day.”
The guy with graying in his temples sat down and shook his head. “That park bench might be sounding better all the time.”
“No way,” Howie said. “Hey, there ain’t no free lunch. You earn your way. If it’s there, you grab it and be grateful. Otherwise you go out and dig in and pay your dues and then you can look for the gravy.”
“Ah, yes. The philosophy of youth.” He stared at Howie for a minute. “What are you twenty-two, twenty-three?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Enlisted?”
“Yeah. You’re an officer?”
“Of a kind. I’m a chaplain, a priest.”
“Oh, boy. I better get going.”
“Why,” the priest asked.
“Before I say something that could bring me up on charges, like insulting an officer, disrespect, all that.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I think all religions are shams and ripoffs. The end result of fear and superstition that’s been formalized and organized and turned into a huge, monstrous business for profit. I think it sucks. I firmly believe that all ministers, reverends, and priests are fakes and phonies and can’t possibly believe what they say they believe. No religion is logical or reasonable.”
The priest moved to the free weights and took ten pounders and began to do curls, working on his biceps.
“You don’t think I haven’t heard this before, young man? I’ve heard and seen it all. Still I have my faith. What do you have faith in?”
“Natural laws. Gravity, the planets, the tides, weather, the rebirth of spring that has nothing to do with Easter or Christ. I believe in things that can be proved. I don’t have to make a leap of faith that two and two are four. I can prove it. A leap of faith is a dive into stupidity.”
“What’s your job in the Navy?”
“I’m a SEAL. I’m trained to kill people.”
The priest frowned. “Have you ever killed anyone?”
“Is the pope Polish? Of course, I’ve killed people. A lot. I don’t keep track. It’s my job. I kill the enemies of my nation. I believe in the United States, that’s something else I believe in.”
“My country right or wrong?”
“Something like that, Padre.” He stood, using the towel on the sweat as he headed for the shower. “Got to go, Padre. I’ll let you take your turn sweating, then you can dream of heaven. But remember, that’s all it is, a dream, a figment of man’s collective imagination.”
“I’d like to talk to you again, SEAL.”
Howie stared at the man of the cloth. He shook his head. “Afraid not, Padre. Then I really could get in trouble, especially if you had your officer’s uniform on. What are you, a full commander?”
“Actually, I’m a captain, taking an every-three-years cruise as required by our head chaplain. It keeps us grounded. Looks like I have a lot of grounding to do here.”
Howie waved and walked into the showers.
Colonel Lin Pota checked his compass bearing and adjusted the automatic pilot slightly to stay on course as the Badger flew high over western China on a most important mission. Colonel Lin was the best pilot in the People’s Liberation Army Air Force. He had more flight hours, had more kills in combat and had mastered flying every aircraft that China had. He was fiercely loyal to China and had not known what this mission was until an hour before takeoff. None of the rest of the crew knew the target. Only two knew what weapon they carried below in the bomb bay. Usually this Badger carried YJ-61 ASM (C-601), the land-based missile version of the antiship missile with a range of 120 km at mach 0.8. It had a large search-and-track radar on its nose to provide target coordinates for the missiles. Today it had a far more deadly cargo. The Badger had been reconfigured to its original capability for this mission.