“Salt tabs,” she muttered, shaking her head.
Of all the things they could have done to respond to the rapidly spreading virus, it was her decision to begin administering doses of sodium chloride that had the greatest effect. Maybe it was seeing Andy thrashing in the bed from a seizure, but she was unwilling to allow her other patients to burn up until they suffered the same.
“Lieutenant Crowe,” a voice called out.
Doc stopped and turned to see First Class Hospital Corpsman Diona Browne walking through the passageway from the enlisted mess. Doc had taken it particularly hard when Diona had fallen ill, and it brought a smile to her face to see the corpsman mobile again. “You’re looking better.”
“I feel better,” she replied. “Just thankful it didn’t get much worse.”
“Me too.”
“I heard they’re going to start flight operations again.”
She had heard the same thing and was just on her way to make her rounds between the squadrons and see about penciling herself in for a back seat ride or two. She was about to tell Diona as much when she noticed the mischievous look on the corpsman’s face. “You know me too well,” she said.
Diona grinned. “Enjoy your flight, ma’am. You’ve earned it.”
An hour later, Doc glanced over the Super Hornet on the catapult next to them and watched as the yellow shirt gave the pilot the signal to take tension. The jet’s nose squatted as the catapult shuttle tugged on the launch bar, and the pilot advanced his throttles to military thrust. The yellow shirt handed the jet off to the shooter sitting in the bubble between the two catapults, and she watched as the other jet’s control surfaces moved in a flurry of activity. The pilot turned to look at the bubble and saluted the shooter hidden behind the thick green glass.
Within seconds, the catapult fired and pulled the Super Hornet from a dead stop to flying. The pilot immediately dipped his right wing in a jink to starboard while raising his gear and flaps. Doc took several deep breaths to prepare herself for their own launch that was to follow.
“Are you ready?” Colt Bancroft asked her over the intercom.
“All set,” she replied, though the last time they had flown together, he had brought them back to the ship single engine. Not to mention the fact that he had just returned to the ship after ejecting from a jet he had allegedly depleted of gas.
As steam rose from the catapult track next to them, the yellow shirt turned toward their jet and prepared them to join the others in the sky above the Reagan. The yellow shirt again directed Colt to lower his launch bar and align it with the catapult shuttle, then had him add power as the sailors underneath attached a holdback bar to the nose gear. The reusable holdback bar involved collets and hydraulic fluid in a system that was a complete mystery to her. All she knew was that by design, it held the jet in place at full power but released it from bondage once the steam-powered shuttle began hurtling it down the flight deck.
That’s when the fun began.
With the holdback bar in place and the launch bar lowered into the shuttle, Colt waited for the signal to take tension. Doc saw the yellow shirt hold two fists up on either side of him with bent elbows, then rotate his torso left and right before extending one arm up and one out toward the bow of the ship.
Here it comes, she thought.
When the yellow shirt raised his hand above his head and waggled his index and middle fingers, Colt pushed the throttles to the stops, and she felt their nose dip as the shuttle pulled the launch bar forward in preparation. Colt worked the control stick in a box pattern, then reached down for the launch bar switch before pressing on each rudder pedal. Even though Doc had never manipulated a single switch or control in the cockpit, she had flown enough in the back seat that she knew exactly what her pilot was doing.
Hand salute.
Colt saluted the shooter in the bubble, and Doc braced herself against the grab handle and waited for the catapult to fire.
Within seconds, she felt herself pushed back into the ejection seat as the Super Hornet raced toward the bow, and the deep blue water of the Pacific Ocean replaced the man-made world of haze-gray painted steel.
59
Punky sat behind the wheel of a boring government sedan and inched the car forward along the curb. She saw a police officer approaching to shoo them away, but she flashed her credentials and dissuaded him from bothering them. She glanced in the rearview mirror and grinned when she saw the nervous look on Jenn’s face.
“Is this what you expected?”
Jenn turned from the window and made eye contact. “Not at all.”
Punky had experienced her share of homecomings when her dad returned from deployments, but this one was unlike most. There wasn’t a sea of people with mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, or children of all ages waiting patiently for their sailors to step ashore. There weren’t women in beautiful dresses that conveyed either a sense of patriotic pride or a strong sexual desire. This one was a private affair for two people who had been through more than most.
Punky saw her reach down and rub her growing belly. “You look beautiful,” she said.
Jenn glanced at her again and smiled. She wore a bright yellow form-fitting dress that ended just below her knees. Her red patent leather high heels were hidden from the California sun but matched her lipstick perfectly. Punky doubted they were the best shoes for a pregnant woman, but who was she to question what a woman waiting for her sailor chose to wear.
“Thank you,” she said.
Punky grinned and nodded. “Andy’s a lucky man.”
In more ways than one, she thought.
If not for the intelligence Jenn had kept safe on her computer, the slow-burning virus that had spread across the USS Ronald Reagan might have succeeded in sidelining it during a Chinese invasion of Taiwan. If not for Andy getting sick early on, the carrier CO might not have ordered a quarantine that alerted Punky to the attack. There were so many what-ifs that kept her from simply enjoying the fact that the good guys had won — that freedom had again triumphed.
Punky glanced at her watch and mentally calculated how much longer they needed to wait. Andy’s plane had touched down ten minutes earlier, and she suspected the C-2 pilot was just as eager to see his girlfriend as she was to see him. She glanced in the mirror and grinned when she saw Jenn nervously biting her lip.
“He’ll be here soon,” she said.
Jenn let out a little gasp, then the door flew open, and she jumped out in a hurricane of yellow. Punky craned her neck and watched the flight attendant weaving through a throng of deplaning passengers, homing in on her boyfriend like a heat-seeking missile. She saw Andy drop his olive drab seabag and lift his girlfriend into the air, kissing her and spinning her around with a look full of love in his eyes.
Her phone rang, and Punky answered it while watching Andy kneel to place his mouth on Jenn’s growing belly. “Special Agent King,” she said.
Jenn brought a hand to her mouth as if to stifle a cry that had been bottled inside, and Punky almost ignored the voice on the other end as she remembered what it had felt like to be reunited with a loved one. “Punky, it’s Camron.”
“What’s going on, Camron?”
“There’s something you should know.”
The overwhelming sense of happiness that had consumed her suddenly vanished. “What?”