‘All hands, this is Captain Gale,’ said Storm. ‘The DD (L) 01 Abner Read has sunk its first enemy combatants in action this November 3, 1997. I was privileged to witness the finest crew in the U.S. Navy undertake this historic mission, and I commend everyone, from Commander Robert Marcum to Seaman Bob Anthony – Bobby, I think you’re our youngest crewman,’ he added. Storm turned and saw Marcum grinning and nodding. ‘It was a hell of a job all around. Xray Pop has been christened, ladies and gentlemen. Now look sharp; there’s still a great deal to be done tonight.’
Humboldt County, northwestern California 3 November 1997 1205
Lieutenant Kirk ‘Starship’ Andrews got out of the car he had rented in Los Angeles and walked across the gravel parking lot toward the church. He could hear the strains of an organ as he approached; he was late for his friend’s memorial service.
He was thankful, actually. He felt he owed it to Kick to be here, but didn’t particularly want to talk to anyone, Kick’s parents especially. He just didn’t know what to say.
The music stopped just as Starship came in through the back door. He moved quickly toward the last pew in the small church, eyes cast toward the floor. The minister began reading from the Second Book of Chronicles, a selection from the Old Testament of the Bible concerning the bond between Solomon and God: ‘“Give me now wisdom and knowledge, that I may go out and come in before this people.”’
The passage spoke of wisdom and riches; the minister used it as a starting point as he asked God for the wisdom needed to accept a young man’s death. The reverend spoke frankly of the difficulty of comprehending the loss. ‘Lieutenant James Colby was a hero,’ he said. ‘But that does not make his loss any easier for us to take.’
Was Kick a hero? wondered Starship. He was a decent pilot and a hard worker; he’d been brave and seen combat. But was he a hero?
Kick had died in the line of duty, caught in a Megafortress when it crashed during an aborted takeoff in Malaysia after guerrillas had seized the kingdom of Brunei. Starship had been on the aircraft himself, strapped in next to Kick on the control deck for the Flighthawks. The fact that he was here and Kick wasn’t, he thought, was just a matter of dumb, stupid luck. Bad luck.
If he had died, would he be a hero?
Starship listened as the service continued with different friends recounting their memories of Kick. He’d gotten his nickname not from the high school football team – which was the story Kick had told – but from peewee soccer. It came during his first game as a six-year-old, when he scored a goal. The nickname had stuck from there, becoming widespread in high school, where he’d switched to football and set a county scoring record booting extra points and field goals.
Starship’s mind drifted as the service continued. If the luck had run differently – if he had been the one who got the freak piece of shrapnel, and the sudden shock that combined to do Kick in – what would people be saying about him?
Smart kid – number three in his high school class and in the top five percent at the Academy.
Should have chosen a few more gut classes and got top honors.
Won an assignment to Dreamland on the cutting edge of aviation.
A mistake. He was flying robot aircraft, glorified UAVs. The computer did most of the work. It was like sitting at a desk all day.
‘I’ll bet you’re Starship.’
Starship turned and saw that a woman had come into his pew from the side. Maybe five-two, with dark hair and green eyes, she looked a lot like Kick.
‘Alice,’ she whispered. ‘Kick’s sister.’
‘Hi.’ He stuck his hand out.
‘We’re glad you could come.’
‘Yeah, um, I’m sorry.’
‘I know.’ Distress flickered across her face, but then cleared. ‘We’re having – my parents are inviting people over later. You should stop by.’
‘I kinda gotta get back,’ Starship lied.
‘Well, OK. But say hello to them on the way out.’ She smiled – this time with visible effort – and then slipped out of the pew. Starship watched as she slid into another pew farther up. Somehow this made him feel better, as if he hadn’t been singled out, and when Kick’s parents asked him at the end of the service if he would stop by ‘just for coffee,’ he agreed and got directions.
Dreamland 1231
Mack felt the muscles in his shoulders tense into hard rocks as he lowered himself into the pool. He had to relax if he was going to do the exercise, but relaxing on command was just about the most difficult thing in the world to do. He lowered his gaze to the surface of the pool and concentrated on breathing slowly, very slowly, as slowly as he possibly could, taking long, deep breaths, as one of the physical therapists at the hospital had recommended.
‘All right now, Major, you want to start with a nice, easy breaststroke,’ said Penny Hartung, treading water next to him.
‘Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do,’ he said. But he didn’t let go of the rail, afraid that he would sink into the water like a stone.
Which was impossible, since he was wearing a life preserver. But fear wasn’t necessarily rational.
‘You all right?’ asked Frank DeLia, the other therapist. Frank was kneeling above him at the poolside.
‘Oh yeah, I’m good,’ said Mack, finally pushing away. He fought against the impulse to paddle madly, moving his arms out slowly as he’d been told.
‘Legs now. Legs,’ said Penny, hovering beside him.
Yup, legs, Mack thought. Legs, legs, legs.
The large beam that had fallen across his back and legs after the terrorist blew himself up had temporarily shocked his backbone. The medical explanation was somewhat longer and more complicated, but the bottom line was that he had temporarily lost the use of his legs. The thing was, no one could say how long ‘temporarily’ was supposed to be. He’d already seen several specialists; he got the impression they all thought he should be walking by now.
Not that he didn’t agree.
Mack pushed his arms out and willed his legs to kick. He didn’t feel them move. He thought his hips wiggled a little.
‘Legs,’ repeated Penny. ‘Legs.’
He got a mouthful of water as he started to lose momentum. He had his whole upper body working, and thought his legs must be working as well.
‘Push, push,’ said Penny.
‘Doing it.’ Mack checked his position against the far side of the pool. He’d gone maybe five feet. ‘Legs,’ he said himself, deciding he might do better if he gave himself a pep talk. ‘Legs. Let’s do it.’
There was a tremendous splash on the other side of the pool: Zen, who worked out here regularly.
‘Come on, gimp boy. That the best you can do?’
Mack ignored Zen, keeping his head toward the other side of the pool room. He sensed Zen swimming toward him. Determined to ignore him, he concentrated on doing a sidestroke, or at least as much of a sidestroke as he could manage.
‘Your arms are punier than Olive Oyl’s,’ said Zen.
Legs, Mack thought. Legs.
‘Use your damn legs,’