Susan Wiggs - The Ocean Between Us

“What is it, Lieutenant Killigrew?”

“Ms. Francine Atwater is here to see you, sir.”

Bennett hid a frown. He’d nearly forgotten their appointment. In the belly of a carrier there was no day or night, just an unrelenting fluorescent sameness, stale recycled air and the constant thunder of flight ops rattling through the steel bones of the ship.

“Send her in.” He unfolded his long frame and stood, assuming the stiff and wary posture schooled into him by twenty-six years in the Navy. Killigrew left for a moment, then returned with the reporter. Steve would have preferred to use the public affairs office on the 01 deck, but apparently Ms. Atwater was adamant about exploring every facet of carrier life. It was, after all, the era of the embedded reporter.

Francine Atwater. Francine. A member of the “new media,” eager to take advantage of the military’s newly relaxed information policy. According to his briefing notes, she had arrived COD—carrier onboard delivery—and intended to spend the next two weeks in this floating city with its own airport. Both the skipper of the Dominion and Captain Mason Crowther, Commander of the Air Group, had welcomed her personally, but they’d quickly handed her off to others, and now it was Steve’s turn.

“Ms. Atwater, I’m Captain Steve Bennett, Deputy Commander of the Air Group.” He tried not to stare, but she was the first civilian woman he’d seen in months. In a skirt, no less. He silently paid tribute to the genius who had invented nylon stockings and cherry-colored lipstick.

“Thank you, Captain Bennett.” Her glossy lips parted in a smile. She was a charmer, all right, the way she tilted her head to one side and looked up at him through long eyelashes. Still, he detected shadows of fatigue under her carefully made-up eyes. Newcomers to the carrier usually suffered seasickness and insomnia from all the noise.

“Welcome aboard, ma’am.”

“I see you’ve been briefed about me,” she said, indicating his notes from the PAO.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What a surprise. Everyone on this ship has. I swear, the U.S. Navy knows more about me than my own mother. My blood type, shoe size, visual acuity, sophomore-year biology grade—”

“Standard procedure, ma’am.” Even in lipstick and nylon stockings, the media held no appeal to the military. Still, he respected the way she stood her ground, especially while wearing three-inch heels. Civilians were advised on practical shipboard attire, but apparently no one had wanted Francine to change her shoes.

A tremendous whoosh, followed by a loud thump, rocked the ship. She staggered a little, and he put out a hand to steady her.

“Tell me I’ll get used to that,” she said.

“You’d better. We’re launching and recovering planes around the clock, day and night. It’s not going to stop.” He slid open a desk drawer and took out a sealed plastic package. “Take these. I always keep plenty on hand.”

“Earplugs?” She slipped the package into her briefcase. “Thanks.”

He motioned her to a chair and she sat down, setting aside her bag. She took out a palm-size digital recorder, then swept the small space with a glance that shifted like a radar, homing in on the few personal items in evidence. “You have a beautiful family.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I think so.”

“How old are your children?”

“Brian and Emma are twins. They’re seniors this year. Katie’s in ninth grade. And that’s Grace, my wife.” A world of pain and hope underlay his words, but he prayed the reporter wouldn’t notice. Every day he looked at that picture and tried to figure out what would fix this. He’d never deceived his wife before, so he didn’t know how to undo the damage he’d caused. An ordinary husband would go home, take her out to dinner and say, “Look, honey. The truth is…” But Bennett couldn’t do that from the middle of the ocean.

And sometimes he wondered if he even wanted to, damn it. He’d done his best to keep her from being hurt, but she didn’t seem to appreciate that.

In the photo, taken at Mustang Island when they were stationed in Corpus Christi, the four of them were laughing into the camera, sunburned faces glowing.

“This is a great shot,” said Ms. Atwater. “They look like the kind of people nothing bad ever happens to.”

Interesting observation. He would have agreed with her, right up until this deployment. Grace and the kids were part of the all-American family, the kind you saw on minivan commercials or at summer baseball games.

“What’s it like, being away from them for months on end?”

What the hell did she think it was like? A damned fraternity party?

“It’s rough. I’m sure you’ll hear that from a lot of the sailors on board. It’s hard seeing your baby’s first steps on videotape or getting a picture of a winning soccer goal by e-mail.” Steve wished he had prepared himself better for her nosiness. He should have barricaded his private self. He was supposed to be good at that. According to Grace, he was the champ.

Atwater studied another photograph, this one in a slightly warped frame nearly twenty years old. “But the homecomings are sweet,” she murmured, gazing down at the fading image.

He couldn’t recall who had taken that shot, but he remembered the moment with painful clarity. It was the end of his first cruise after they’d married. The gray steel hull of an aircraft carrier reared in the background. Sailors, officers and civilians all crushed together, hugging with the desperate joy only military families understood. At the center, he and Grace held each other in an embrace he could still feel all these years later. He clasped her so close that her feet came off the ground, one of her dainty high heels dangling off a slender foot. He could still remember what she smelled like.

Since that photo was taken there had been dozens of other partings and reunions. He could picture each homecoming in succession—Grace pregnant with the twins, no high heels that time, just sneakers that wouldn’t lace up around her swollen feet. Then Grace pushing a double stroller that wouldn’t fit through doorways. By then, her perfume was more likely to be a blend of baby wipes and cough drops. In later years, the kids kept her busy as she shuffled them between music lessons, sports practices, Brownies and Boy Scouts. But she always came to meet him. She never left him standing like some loser whose wife had given him the shaft while he was at sea, who would sling his seabag over his shoulder and pretend it didn’t matter, whistling under his breath as he headed straight for the nearest bar.

Yesterday had been Grace’s fortieth birthday. He’d phoned and gotten the machine. Lately she was so prickly about her age, anyway. She probably wouldn’t thank him for the reminder.

Atwater asked about his background, his career path in the Navy, his role on the carrier. She listened well, occasionally making notes on a small yellow pad as well as recording him. At one point he glanced at his watch and was surprised to see how much time had passed. She’d talked to him about his family for nearly an hour. He wondered if he’d told her too much. Did the American people really need to know his life was coming undone like a slipknot?

He cleared his throat. “Says on my agenda that I’m your tour guide for nighttime flight ops.” He was surprised that she’d gained authorization to be on the flight deck at night, but apparently her project was important to Higher Authority.

“I’ve been looking forward to this, sir.” She came alive in that special way of people who were in love with flying, the more high-tech and dangerous, the better. And there was no form of flying more dangerous than carrier operations.