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NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 26 Jan 2007 14:36:18 -0600
From: Nick Scipio <nick@nickscipio.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} "Nereids" by Nick Scipio - Ch 5 (no sex)
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Date: Fri, 26 Jan 2007 19:10:04 -0500
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Author: Nick Scipio
Title: Nereids
Part: Chapter 05
Universe: Summer Camp
Summary: Jack MacLean is happy with married life, but it's the
Swinging Sixties and he wants more. His wife does too,
and they have their eye on her new friend, Beth Hughes.
But Jack and Beth's husband will soon be fighting a war
in the skies over Vietnam. When they return, everything
will change.
Keywords: no sex
Revision: 1.1
Word Count: 8,713
Web Site: http://www.nickscipio.com/summercamp/nereids/
FTP Site: ftp://ftp.nickscipio.com/summercamp/nereids/
Discussion Forum: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Scipio_Forum/

*****************************************************************
                        STANDARD DISCLAIMER

This story is intended as ADULT entertainment. It contains
material of an adult, explicit, SEXUAL nature. If you are
offended by sexually explicit content or language, please DO NOT
read any further.

This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events
portrayed in it are fictional, and any resemblance to real people
or incidents is purely coincidental. The author does not
necessarily condone or endorse any of the activities described.

This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without
the written permission of the author, Nick Scipio
(nick_scipio@yahoo.com). It may be freely distributed with this
disclaimer attached.

Copyright (c) 2007 Nick Scipio. All rights reserved.

*****************************************************************

Nereids
A Summer Camp Story
by Nick Scipio

CHAPTER FIVE

Jack watched the plane in front of him taxi into place at the
number one bow cat. Commander Featherston was at the controls,
flying as second-in-command of the day's strike. It was their
fourth in five days, and the grueling pace of operations was
starting to take its toll.

The Old Man's four-plane flight had just finished launching, and
they were already climbing toward the assembly point. David was
with them, flying as Scarlatti's wingman. Alvin Young and Keith
Olin comprised the second section.

The jet blast deflector rose from the deck, protecting Jack's
plane as Featherston prepared to launch. Jack looked to the left,
at the sailor who held the board with Jack's estimated takeoff
weight written in precise chalk numerals. It was within fifty
pounds of his own preflight calculations, so he flashed the
sailor a thumbs-up.

Featherston's aircraft suddenly leapt forward in a roar of noise
and steam, racing down the deck. The plane sprang into full view
a moment later, airborne and already banking to the left. Out of
the corner of his eye, Jack saw the number two bow cat fire,
launching Bob Weigand.

The blast deflector sank to the deck and Jack taxied forward,
guided by hand signals from the flight director. He braked to a
stop and watched the green-shirted crewmen scoot under his plane
to attach the catapult bridle. At the director's signal, Jack
gently released his brakes and felt the shuttle tug the bridle
taut--the plane was held in place by the tension bar alone.

Jack made a final control check and then met the eyes of the
catapult officer. The shooter gave him a signal and Jack ran his
throttle to the stops: full military power. He flashed a thumbs-
up and then saluted. The plane roared and shook at full power as
he awaited the shooter's pleasure.

The launch came as a surprise--it always did. One moment Jack was
staring down the deck at the ocean beyond, the next he was
violently slammed into his seat, his vision blurred by the G-
forces of the launch. Just as suddenly, he was airborne. The
stick came aft before his vision cleared, but he gripped it
automatically. His eyes focused a moment later, and he banked to
follow the curving flight path of Featherston and Weigand.

Jack didn't look back, but he knew that Jerry Schmidt was behind
him, already tucking into loose formation. They joined up with
the other planes. Scarlatti's flight was topping their fuel tanks
at the orbiting tanker. The planes tanked in pairs, so Jack and
Jerry were the last to finish.

They established their strike formation and headed toward the
coast, toward Vietnam. They were still "feet wet"--over the
ocean--when they received a call from the EC-121 Super
Constellation orbiting over the Gulf of Tonkin.

"Legion Zero One, Daffodil Seven Seven," the controller in the
Super Connie said. "Abort your current mission and contact Mayfly
Five Niner on Uniform, button four. Mayfly needs close air
support, ASAP."

Mayfly Five Niner was the callsign of a forward air controller
flying somewhere over South Vietnam. Jack's thoughts grew
predatory--their routine mission had just turned interesting.

"Roger, Daffodil," Scarlatti said, "copied all."

The members of the flight were all combat veterans, so they
didn't need to be told to switch their radios to button four.

After a suitable pause, Scarlatti broadcast on the new frequency,
"Legion flight, check in."

"Two," David said immediately.

The other pilots answered by the numbers.

Jack said "Seven" when it was his turn, and Jerry finished with
"Eight."

A moment later Scarlatti called, "Mayfly Five Niner, Legion Zero
One on Uniform."

"Hello, Legion Zero One, Mayfly Five Niner here. Glad to have
your help this morning. I have troops in contact, American
wounded. The bad guys are suspected regular NVA..."

Mayfly gave his location and a quick rundown of the situation on
the ground: units of a Marine battalion had encountered stiff
resistance from enemy elements near the village of Dong Ha.
Dustoff helos were already en route to evacuate the wounded, but
they needed tactical air cover to suppress enemy fire.

When Mayfly finished, he asked for Legion's lineup.

"Flight of eight Scooters," Scarlatti said, using the A-4's
nickname. "Each has six Mark 82 slicks, eight Zunis, and two
hundred rounds of twenty mike mike. Be advised we're heavy, and
will have to dump fuel, so we won't be ready to roll in for about
five."

"Copied all, Legion. Your targets are enemy troops along the tree
line running east-west." With that, he gave the target elevation
and altimeter setting.

"Initial attack heading will be east to west," Mayfly continued.
"Friendly forces will be at your nine o'clock, one hundred and
fifty meters south of the tree line. Your emergency bailout
heading will be one eight zero degrees. I want Zuni rockets all
along the tree line. Save your Mark 82s for any dug-in targets. I
will be orbiting south of target at angels one point five. Do you
have me in sight? How copied?"

"Copied all," Scarlatti said. "Don't have you in sight yet. Give
me your beacon... ah... tally, there it is." To the rest of the
flight: "Legion flight, you heard the man: let's turn 'em on, set
'em up, and stick it to 'em. Wagon wheel left."

Jack grinned to himself with barely suppressed eagerness. Then he
banked to follow Weigand's plane as the flight shook itself into
a loose circular formation.

"Legion's ready when you are, Mayfly," Scarlatti said at last.

"Legion flight, Mayfly in with smoke... _now!_"

Fifteen seconds later the marker rocket exploded in a
chrysanthemum blossom of white phosphorus.

"Roger, Mayfly, I have the smoke," Scarlatti called. "Legion One
is in hot from the east, FAC in sight."

A moment later his plane rolled inverted and dived for the deck.

Jack split his attention between following Weigand and watching
Scarlatti's attack run.

The tree line erupted with green tracers. Most were from small-
arms fire, ineffective above two thousand feet. But several
tracer streams were from 23mm guns. Those _were_ effective above
two thousand feet. Worse, two other lines of tracers were
tracking Scarlatti's dive.

A cool, detached part of Jack's brain identified them as 37mm
guns, probably radar controlled. Sure enough, his radar warning
light flared to life and pulsed an angry red, the alarm warbling
in his headphones. Unlike the small arms fire, the bigger guns
were a significant threat. The gunners had been lying low when
the FAC made his smoke run, saving the surprise for when the
attack jets rolled in.

Serious anti-aircraft fire was usually sparse in the South, and
Jack realized that the enemy troops must be more than a single
battalion. He watched with a sickening lump in his stomach as the
37mm tracers converged sinuously. Scarlatti tried to jink, but
the guns' radar had him locked up. A gout of fire erupted from
his plane.

"One's hit," he called, his voice absurdly calm.

His plane was still flying, but the tailpipe belched an ugly
trail of smoke and flames as he banked to the south and pulled
into a shallow climb.

"Punch out, One, you're on fire," someone shouted, his voice high
with panic.

Several others echoed the call.

"My controls just went to hell," Scarlatti said, as if he hadn't
heard the frantic radio calls. "I still have power, but--"

A burst of static cut off the rest of his words.

Jack's breath caught in his throat as Scarlatti's aircraft
exploded in a shower of burning fragments. The largest piece, the
engine, turned lazy cartwheels with flames trailing behind it.

"Did anyone see him eject?" someone asked.

The radio was ominously silent.

Jack scanned the sky for any sign of Scarlatti's parachute. He
strained against his harness to get a better view.

Time slowed to a crawl.

Jack heard his own breathing in his ears.

His heart hammered in his chest.

He didn't see _anything_ below him, except the patchwork of
fields and jungle. His eyes darted back and forth, scanning,
searching, desperately--

"_Got 'im!_" David shouted.

The radio erupted with chatter: "Where?" "I don't see him." "What
bearing?"

"South of the tree line, over that L-shaped field to the west."

"I see him," someone else said.

Jack tried to lift out of his seat, his helmet pressed against
the canopy as he searched for the small white dot of Scarlatti's
parachute. When he saw it, he let out an explosive breath.

"What the hell?!" someone called. "They're shooting at him!"

Sure enough, several streams of tracers had erupted from the tree
line.

"Two's in hot," David called, as calm as if he'd just told them
the time of day.

"Negative, negative, Legion Two," Mayfly said quickly. "The tree
line's too hot."

David didn't answer. Instead, he hurtled at the ground. The
Vietnamese gunners shifted their aim to him, the tracers
searching malevolently. David jinked to confuse their tracking,
his plane prancing like a skittish colt. But the radar-controlled
guns followed spitefully, and Jack watched as the tracers reached
for David, as if in slow motion.

David steadied for less than a moment, timing it perfectly. Four
gray-white smoke trails erupted from under his wings. He rolled
and pulled hard, to get under the big guns' tracking arc.

The eastern stream of 37mm tracers abruptly cut off when the gun
died in an explosion of fire and smoke and splintered tree limbs.

"Legion Two, Legion Two, break _off_," Mayfly called. "A flight
of Huns just arrived with snakes and napes. They can suppress the
whole tree line."

Jack quickly glanced up, searching for the newly arrived F-100s.
He chuckled mirthlessly--their napalm would keep the NVA gunners'
heads down for sure.

"Negative, Mayfly," David said, his voice hard but calm as he
banked around for another run. "I got it."

The tree line lit up again, 23mm tracers filling the air. The
remaining 37mm gun spurted deadly fire as David steadied.

Jack watched in tense silence, adrenaline making his skin tingle
as a _new_ gun opened fire. It was bigger and more dangerous--a
57mm cannon--but David didn't break off. Four rockets flashed
from under his wings.

"And the horse you rode in on," he said, deadly calm.

Jack glanced at the ground and saw the tight group of smoking
craters. David's rockets had bracketed the anti-aircraft mount,
wrecking the gun itself and killing the crew.

"Legion Two, break off and return to station," Mayfly barked.
"Legion flight, who's in charge up there?"

"Legion Five," Featherston called, his voice as steady as ever.

"Are you gonna call your guy off?"

"He seems to be doing a pretty good job," Featherston said.

Someone chuckled.

Jack felt his cheeks pull tight in a grin. Featherston was a by-
the-book officer, but he _was_ an attack pilot, and his commander
had just been blown out of the sky. He obviously wanted revenge
as much as the rest of them did.

"Mayfly, Legion Two," David called, sounding irked. "While y'all
are chatting, I'm gonna take out that third gun."

"Negative, Legion Two," Mayfly said. "Break off. Repeat, break
off, and--"

"Sorry, Mayfly," David interrupted, "but my radio might've taken
a hit on that last run. In case you can hear me..."

Jack snorted at the obvious fiction.

"...I have a good fix on the last triple-A cannon. I'm gonna drop a
pair of Mark 82s on 'em, see if that doesn't teach 'em not to
shoot at parachutes."

"Mayfly, Legion Five," Featherston called, preempting the
controller. "We'll attack in sequence when Legion Two clears the
target area."

"That's a rog, Legion Five," Mayfly said, sounding resigned.
"Unload the Zunis. Light up the whole tree line."

Jack took his eyes off David's plane and turned to business. He
thought about Commander Scarlatti for a brief instant, but Mayfly
had already sent a call for Search and Rescue.

A moment later Jack was surprised to hear Mayfly talking to the
leader of Lobo flight, a group of F-4 Phantoms. He hadn't even
heard them report their arrival. After Mayfly finished with them,
a group of A-4s called in, Sunliner Six One and three friends.
Mayfly was stacking them up at thousand-foot intervals, ready to
throw against the enemy as soon as the remainder of Legion flight
cleared the target area.

Just then, Jack heard David's voice over the radio.

"Mayfly, Legion Two, the third gun's out of action. Nothing but
twenty-three mike mike and small arms down there now. I've got
four more Mark 82s. Where do you want 'em?"

"Hold for now, Legion Two," Mayfly said. "Legion Five is ready to
commence his attack."

As if on cue, Featherston called that he was rolling in hot.
Fifteen seconds later Bob Weigand followed. The tree line erupted
with 23mm fire but then disappeared behind deadly orange-black
blossoms as the rockets struck.

"Legion Seven, rolling in hot," Jack called.

He vision narrowed and he ignored the streams of tracers arcing
up at him. A shameful part of him was glad that David had
silenced the most dangerous guns, but he immediately put the
thought out of his mind. Instead, he concentrated on his attack
run.

The tree line slid under the V-pipper and he steadied his
tracking. Time stood still as he unconsciously calculated a
thousand little variables about his aircraft and its trajectory.
He sensed the right moment a half-second before the bombing
computer did.

Eight Zuni rockets rippled from their launchers in sequence. Jack
wasn't _quite_ the artist David was, but the rockets were on
target. He pulled into a climbing turn and looked back to watch
Jerry Schmidt launch his rockets. Legion Three and Four attacked
last, adding to the destruction along the tree line.

"Mayfly to all units, did anyone see where Legion One landed?"

"Mayfly, Legion Two," David said. "Legion One landed in that
field about a thousand meters east of the horseshoe bend in the
river."

"Roger, I see him," Mayfly said. A moment later: "Oh, shit. He's
got bad guys headed his way."

"_Mother_fuckers!" David snarled. "Two's in hot."

Jack felt a rush of amazement and craned his neck to watch as
David's bombs blew huge craters in the field. The swarm of enemy
troops halted in confusion, the ground strewn with bodies.

"Mayfly, Legion Two," David said, still fuming, "I'm gonna make a
cannon pass."

"Roger, Legion Two," Mayfly said, no longer arguing. "Fire 'em
up."

Once again, the tree line erupted with hostile fire, but David
didn't even bother to jink. He was concentrating on his firing
run, red-orange tracers squirting from his wing roots in
controlled bursts.

"Holy shit, look at 'em run," someone half-shouted.

Jack immediately rolled his plane to see what had happened.

"What did you do, Legion Two?" Mayfly asked.

"I dropped my empty rocket launchers on 'em," David said with
grim satisfaction. "I think I got a couple, too."

Jack burst out laughing. He could imagine the enemy troops
panicking when the mysterious cylinders came hurtling out of the
sky, plowing through their midst. Sure enough, the NVA soldiers
were running from the field.

"Mayfly, Legion Two," David said. "I still have some cannon
rounds if they decide to come back. And I have two Mark 82s if
the little gook bastards _really_ need persuading."

"You just hold on to 'em, Legion Two," Mayfly said, the hint of a
laugh in his voice. "And if you don't mind, let me get back to
running this show."

"Oh," David said, sounding abashed. "Um... sure. I mean, roger,
Mayfly."

"Mayfly, this is Sandy Lead," another voice called. "You ordered
a pick-up?"

Jack smiled at the Sandy pilot's studied calmness. The Sandies
were piston-engine aircraft, and usually escorted Search and
Rescue helos. They could loiter on station long after the fuel-
hungry jets reached bingo fuel. They also carried a staggering
amount of ordnance--more than enough to keep the enemy at bay
while a helicopter extracted the downed pilot.

"I don't know if we're gonna need you, Sandy," Mayfly said. "It
looks like our guy might make it to friendly lines."

Jack couldn't see for himself--he was far too high by now--but he
heard David's jubilant whoop a moment later.

"Yeah," Mayfly said, "he made it to the Marines. He's safe for
now."

"Well... since we're here," Sandy said, "and since the bad guys
were kind enough to show up..."

With a low, evil chuckle, Mayfly agreed, and resumed directing
the battle from the air.

The seven remaining Warhorses formed up several miles away. They
switched their radios to another channel and had a quick
discussion about remaining fuel and ordnance.

"Um... Five, this is Two," David said uncertainly. "I think I've
got a problem."

"Let me look you over, Two," Alvin Young interrupted. A moment
later: "You've got two big holes in your starboard wing, and your
horizontal stabilizer's missing about two feet from the starboard
leading edge."

Young swung his plane under David's and continued his damage
assessment. "You've got fluid coming from several holes in the
fuselage, and a gaping hole in the port wing, near the root. I
count one, two, three, four..." He trailed off. "How many times
were you hit, Two?"

"Um... I don't remember being hit at all," David said. "Although my
leg hurts like hell, so _something_ must've hit me."

Jack could almost hear Young shaking his head in wonder.

"Uh-oh," David said a moment later. "I've got another problem."

"What?" Young asked, his voice calm and deliberate.

"I just lost my primary hydraulic sys-- correction, I just lost
_both_ hydraulic systems."

"That would explain the fluid coming from your fuselage," Young
said, with more than a trace of irony. "Disconnect your boost
package."

"Yes, sir," David said. "And... um... sir, my RAT just popped out."

Jack jerked his head in alarm. The ram-air turbine automatically
deployed to provide power when the plane's electrical system
failed. If David had lost both hydraulic systems _and_ electrical
power...

"Two, pickle your racks and head for the beach," Featherston
snapped immediately. "Who's lowest on fuel?"

"Six," Weigand piped up, "I took a hit on that last pass. It's
not bad, but I'm losing fuel from my wing. I still have fuselage
fuel, but..."

"Right," Featherston said. "Six, escort Two back to the coast.
Try to make the ship if you can, but keep an eye on your
emergency fields. If you have to eject, Two, make sure you're
feet wet when you do. Take care of him, Six."

"Aye, aye," Weigand replied.

"Good luck and Godspeed," Featherston said at last.

The two planes peeled from formation, heading toward the coast
and safety.

With that, Featherston had the remainder of the flight switch
back to Mayfly's frequency.

"Mayfly, Legion Five," he said.

"Go ahead, Legion Five."

"Legion has five planes with ordnance remaining--six Mark 82s
apiece, plus twenty mike mike--and we'd like a little payback."

"Affirmative, Legion Five," Mayfly said. "The battle on the
ground has spread out, so I want you to..."

**

The two planes made it back to the carrier, but David's was so
badly damaged that Lieutenant Commander Young declared it a
combat loss and ordered it stripped for parts. Jack and several
other pilots were on the hangar deck as Young and his maintenance
chiefs counted the holes in the aircraft: nine major ones, with
another forty from small arms fire and shrapnel.

One of those pieces of shrapnel had actually gouged a furrow
across David's calf. The wound wasn't deep, but it was painful,
and he'd nearly tumbled to the deck when he tried to climb down
the side of his plane.

When David limped back from the sickbay, Young told him about the
extent of the damage to his aircraft. David turned ashen-faced
and promptly bent over a nearby trash can to throw up. No one
said a word. The other pilots simply looked at each other, their
faces hard, eyes tight with understanding.

**

Jack lay awake for a long time that night, with streams of green
tracers playing behind his unseeing eyes. David had dived into
that maelstrom three times. And then he'd braved the still-heavy
fire to make two more attack runs.

Jack laced his fingers behind his head and asked himself--for the
umpteenth time--if he would've done the same thing. The gung-ho
part of him said yes, but visions of Susan and the boys loomed in
his mind's eye. Had David thought about Beth? Had he thought
about Paul and Erin? Had he even thought about _himself?_

Jack knew fear. He felt it every time he attacked into ground
fire. He felt it when the radio erupted with SAM warnings. And he
felt it during night landings, when the carrier was a mere ghost
of half-imagined lights in the distance. But he always conquered
his fear and did his duty. Still, he wondered what kind of
courage it took to make repeated attacks into overwhelming fire.

Did he have it?

He _thought_ he did, but in the silent darkness of his cabin, he
wasn't so sure. The thought gnawed at him until he fell into a
dreamless, troubled sleep.

He woke the next morning and put thoughts of fear out of his
mind. The squadron had to fly a strike, and he wasn't about to
let the other pilots shoulder the burden alone.

Unfortunately, the flight surgeon had grounded David because of
his leg wound, and the doctors in Da Nang still had Commander
Scarlatti. So the XO led the squadron on a strike against a
"suspected ammo dump." They didn't take any ground fire, and
didn't observe any secondary explosions. Jack cynically wondered
who'd planned the mission, but he kept his mouth shut.

The skipper returned to the ship that evening. He was scraped and
bruised, but no worse for his ejection and near-brush with the
North Vietnamese Army. He _was_ half-full of medicinal brandy,
though, and retired to his stateroom after a brief word with
David and then Commander Waulk.

The mood in the squadron ready room was mixed: happy to have the
Old Man back, but upset over the day's pointless mission. Jack
played a half-hearted game of backgammon with David, losing three
dollars in the process. When he retired to his cabin, he re-read
Susan's latest letter and then added to the serial letter he
planned to send the next day. He looked up at a knock on his
door.

"Come in."

The door opened and Jack rose at the sight of Commanders Waulk
and Featherston.

"As you were," Waulk said.

The cabin wasn't large, and the three men filled it completely.
Waulk shut the door and glanced at Featherston, who was as
taciturn as ever.

"I'll get right to the point," Waulk said at last. "Commander
Scarlatti wants to recommend Ensign Hughes for the Silver Star.
But the commander doesn't consider himself an impartial witness,
so he asked me to take the lead."

Jack blinked in surprise.

"Since I wasn't there in person, I'm talking to the section
leaders who were," Waulk continued. "And my question is this: do
Mr. Hughes's actions constitute 'gallantry in action,' or simple
recklessness?"

Jack snorted softly. "What gallantry _isn't_ reckless? They don't
exactly hand out Silver Stars for tending to your knitting, sir."

"A good point," Waulk said. "But was Mr. Hughes acting out of
disregard for his own safety, or was he simply ignorant of the
danger?"

Jack felt his expression harden as he bit back a sarcastic
answer. "You've flown with him," he said at last. "He may not be
Einstein when he's on deck, but put him in a plane and he's
sharp. _Real_ sharp. Hell, he's better at getting ordnance on
target than most of the guys in the air wing, much less the
squadron. You know that, Frank."

Waulk looked up sharply at the use of his first name, but nodded
at the truth of Jack's words.

"So, do I think David's actions constitute 'gallantry in
action'?" Jack asked, repeating the semi-official question. He
tossed his head dismissively. "No question, sir... they do." He
turned to Featherston. "You saw that ground fire, Terry. Would
_you_ have flown into it? _Five times?_"

Featherston's heavy silence was answer enough.

Waulk rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Then he turned to
Featherston. "Write up your account, Terry," he said softly. He
turned back to Jack. "Write up your account of the events,
Lieutenant, and have it on my desk by oh nine thirty tomorrow.
I've asked Lieutenant Commander Young to--"

"What did _he_ have to say?" Jack interrupted.

Waulk didn't answer.

For once, Terry Featherston grinned. It was lopsided and a bit
doleful, but a grin nonetheless. "Alvin wanted to recommend him
for the Navy Cross," he said at last.

Jack blinked in amazement. The Navy Cross was the second highest
award in the Navy, second only to the Medal of Honor.

"Mr. Young might have been... unduly impressed... by the amount of
damage Mr. Hughes sustained during his attacks," Waulk said. He
snorted and said in an undertone, "It's a miracle the kid wasn't
killed."

Jack nodded.

"In any event," Waulk continued with the voice of authority, "I
agree that Mr. Hughes's actions are worthy of commendation."

Jack nodded. "I'll have my report on your desk first thing in the
morning, sir."

"Good," Waulk said curtly, nodding.

With that, the two men left, leaving Jack to stare at the closed
door.

**

A week later, a strike near the Thanh Hoa bridge turned into a
disaster: Keith Olin was hit by anti-aircraft fire during his
attack run. His damaged electrical system sparked a fuel leak and
his plane caught fire. He ejected, but the other pilots watched
in growing alarm as his parachute drifted toward a hill in the
midst of a concentration of enemy troops.

For half an hour, the pilots did everything they could to hold
off the better part of an NVA regiment. But when Search and
Rescue arrived, the ground fire only intensified. Sandy Lead
assumed command of the rescue operation and quickly determined
that the Vietnamese were using the downed pilot as bait.

Undaunted, Sandy pressed the attack, calling upon every aircraft
in the area. He threw them into the fight, raining fire and death
on the North Vietnamese. The battle raged for more than three
hours. The remaining Warhorse pilots even flew back to the
carrier to rearm and refuel, in order to return to the fight.

But if the Vietnamese never got close to Keith, the Search and
Rescue helos didn't either. They encountered withering ground
fire every time one of them approached. The battle ended abruptly
when the enemy walked mortar fire across Keith's hilltop
position, killing him.

Jack seethed with fury as he flew back to the carrier. He felt an
overwhelming urge to do something--_anything_--to kill the enemy.
He wanted to rearm and refuel to fly a _third_ sortie of the day,
to drop his bombs on the first village he saw. He wanted them all
dead. D-E-A-D, _dead_.

Anger and resentment were thicker than the cigarette smoke as the
pilots gathered in the ready room for debriefing. Terry
Featherston tried to lead them in prayer, but they answered with
desultory grumbles. David furiously glared into space, his
knuckles swollen from where he'd punched a steel bulkhead. Alvin
Young, Keith's section leader, looked worst of all. His eyes were
red and his face was creased with lines of self-recrimination.

"All right," Commander Waulk said, upon seeing them when he
entered the room, "we lost a man today. I'm upset too, but we're
naval officers, and we have a job to do."

"Yeah," someone muttered, "kill the fucking gooks."

"Fuckin' ay right," Jack echoed darkly.

"Who said that?" Waulk demanded.

"It doesn't matter," Commander Scarlatti said as he entered.
Softly: "At ease, Frank." To the room in general, he said,
"Listen up! I talked to CAG a few minutes ago, and I'm taking the
squadron off the line. We've had a tough couple of weeks, and we
need some time to recover."

"What we _need_ is more bombs," someone groused. "McNamara and
his fucking bean-counter Whiz Kids can kiss my ass if they think
we don't have a shortage."

"Secure that, mister," Waulk barked.

Scarlatti glanced at Waulk and a look passed between them.

Waulk glared for a moment longer, but then backed down.

Scarlatti turned back to the room. "Yeah, you're probably right
about the bombs," he said, "but that's above our pay grade."

The pilots looked sullen, but reluctantly agreed.

"But it _isn't_ above my pay grade to order you to take some R-
and-R," Scarlatti continued. "We're to stand down for a week.
Half of you will take planes to Da Nang for three days of Rest
and Relaxation. When you return, the other half will take three
days. But Commander Waulk is right: we _are_ naval officers, and
we _do_ have a job to do. When we resume combat operations, we
will be sharp and well-rested.

"Now, I know you're all upset about Keith," Scarlatti said into
the silence. "I am too. Hell, the whole air wing is. But that
doesn't mean we stop doing what we came here to do. Is that
clear?"

The men reluctantly nodded.

"Now, I've drawn up a list of names for the first group to Da
Nang. I want you to forget about North Vietnam. Forget about
flight ops. Just relax. Go to the beach. Get drunk. Get laid.
Hell, I'll even give Mr. Cousins permission to get laid for me,"
Scarlatti added.

Half-sullen chuckles greeted his crack.

"Keith was a good man," Scarlatti said at last, and the men
sobered. "He was one of us, our brother. But he's in a better
place now."

"Or a hotter place," Jerry muttered.

"It can't be much hotter than _here_," someone else said.

"You didn't know Keith."

"Keith's in a better place now," Scarlatti pressed on, "and if I
know him, he's watching over us. He'd want us to keep going, to
keep fighting. And he'd want us to remember him the way he was...
full of life."

"And full of beer," Schmidt said feebly.

"And full of beer," Scarlatti agreed with a strained laugh, his
eyes sad. He handed a slip of paper to Waulk and then waited for
the murmuring to die down. "Gentlemen, Mr. Waulk has the R-and-R
list. The first group departs at oh six hundred tomorrow." He
paused to look around the room, meeting eyes and holding them
before moving on. "We lost a good man today. You have a right to
be upset. But don't dishonor Keith's memory by forgetting what we
came here to do."

After a last look around the room, Scarlatti nodded solemnly.
"Carry on."

**

Beth heard Susan shut Paul's bedroom door and walk quietly toward
the dining room. Erin was already asleep in her room, but Paul
had wanted Susan to give him a backrub before he took his nap.

"He was telling me what he wants for his birthday," Susan said,
smiling as she took a seat opposite Beth.

Beth arched an eyebrow, a silent, "Oh?"

"Mmm hmm," Susan continued, grinning. "He wants his daddy to come
home. And he's decided that Erin can stay, as long as she doesn't
play with his cars."

Beth grinned.

"Oh, and I almost forgot," Susan added, "he said he needs more
blocks. He doesn't have enough. He said he's going to build a
house where his daddy can stay, instead of going on cruise. He
said 'Uncle Jack' can stay in the house, too."

"Sounds like you two had quite a conversation."

With a grin, Susan nodded. Then she took a sip of lemonade in an
attempt to cover her expression as it turned serious. "Did David
tell you about Keith Olin?"

Beth nodded and blinked back a sudden rush of tears.

"Jack said they recovered his body. The Search and Rescue planes
guarded him till they could land a helicopter."

Beth nodded. David had told her much the same thing.

"They had a memorial service for him in Da Nang."

"Is there anything we should do?" Beth asked.

Susan shrugged. "Mary said his car is parked in a neighbor's
garage, and he had several trunks full of his personal items.
They'll go to his next of kin."

Beth nodded. She wondered how he could live like that, packing up
everything he owned before every deployment.

"He was talking about getting a house," Susan said, as if reading
her mind.

The two women sat in silence for several long moments.

"Congratulations on Jack's promotion to Lieutenant Commander,"
Beth said, breaking the silence by changing the subject.

"Thank you," Susan said. "And congratulations on David making
Lieutenant JG. Jack said they had a ceremony in the admiral's
briefing room. He also said that Don Scarlatti used the bars from
when _he_ was a Lieutenant JG."

Beth felt a rush of pride at the compliment the commander had
paid David. But then she thought about Keith, and her pride felt
empty and hollow.

"What did David say about his medals?" Susan asked.

Beth looked up and shrugged. "He doesn't think he deserves them.
Not the Silver Star, at least."

"Jack told me what he did," Susan said softly.

Beth nodded. David had told her a sanitized version of the story,
but she could read between the lines. He was hiding something,
and she knew him well enough to suspect what.

"I don't know the particulars," Susan continued, "but Jack said
he saved Don's life."

David hadn't said the same thing--not in those terms, at least--
but Beth knew how loyal he was. "I should probably be proud," she
said at last, tears stinging her eyes. She swallowed hard. "I
_am_, but..." Her vision turned watery.

Susan was there, holding her, whispering quiet words.

Beth let out a great sob.

"Shhhh," Susan said, rubbing her back, "it's all right."

"What if it had been David?" Beth asked, ashamed at her relief
that another man had been killed, another man instead of her
husband.

Susan shushed her again. "Nothing's going to happen to David,"
she said.

Beth let herself go and cried, tears running down her face, sobs
wracking her shoulders. Susan merely held her, a quiet,
comforting presence.

When Beth finally regained enough composure to choke back her
tears, she simply buried her face against Susan's shoulder and
sniffled. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

"David's going to be just fine," Susan said at last, her voice
soothing. "Trust me."

"I know," Beth said, "but sometimes I just can't help thinking..."

"Don't," Susan said, an edge to her voice.

Beth nodded and swallowed hard.

"Don't," Susan repeated, softer. Then she crouched in front of
Beth and looked into her teary eyes. "Listen, there's nothing we
can do about it. The guys take care of each other. What happened
to Keith was a random thing. A fluke! It can't happen to David
and Jack, because they watch out for each other."

Beth knew she was right, but she still felt the weight of dread
in her chest.

Susan smiled, tender and affectionate.

All of a sudden Beth felt a rush of very _un_ladylike emotion.
She closed her eyes, burying her face in her hands and trying to
drown out the image of Susan's eyes.

"It's all right," Susan said, misreading her reaction. "David
will be fine."

"I know," Beth said at last, wiping tears from her cheeks. She
tried to smile, but her lip trembled and spoiled the effect. She
blinked several times, until she could see clearly. Her eyelashes
were sodden, and her eyes were already starting to sting.

"C'mon," Susan said softly. "Let's get you cleaned up." She
looked down at her own blouse, and the dark stain of tears and
mascara. With a deliberately lighthearted laugh, she said, "Let's
get _both_ of us cleaned up."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Beth said.

"Nonsense," Susan said, standing and pulling Beth to her feet.
"All in a day's work."

Beth tried not to balk as Susan turned her and propelled her down
the hallway. Once they reached the master bathroom, Susan began
matter-of-factly unbuttoning Beth's blouse. Beth recoiled in
shock, but quickly mastered her emotions.

"Here," Susan said, undoing the last of Beth's buttons and
indicating her own blouse. "We'll soak these after you wash your
face."

Beth had to fight down a momentary urge to flee. _What if she
takes off her bra?_ she thought frantically. Conflicting emotions
assaulted her. She _wanted_ to see Susan's breasts. She wanted to
see the rest of Susan, for that matter. _But it's_ wrong_! Nice
women do_ not _want to see other women's breasts. Nice women do
not think of other women in "that way."_

"Come on, be a good girl, wash your face," Susan said
disarmingly. "I'll get the Woolite."

Beth robotically bent over the sink and washed her face. When she
finished, Susan handed her a towel. Beth dried her face and then
turned to look at the full-length mirror. Her eyes were drawn to
Susan, who stood with her blouse open, her bra exposed.

Beth quickly covered her face with the towel and listened as
Susan began filling the sink, adding a capful of Woolite to the
basin. She felt a rush of heat and desire, and tried to suppress
it.

"Here, give me your blouse," Susan said.

Beth shrugged and let the shirt slip down her shoulders. She
tried to fight down her desire, but it was no use. Unfortunately,
it only grew more intense when she heard the soft rustle of
fabric as Susan took off her blouse.

Beth swallowed hard and tried to master her emotions. She tried
to think about David: his face, his shoulders, his chest, the
trail of hair leading from his navel to his...

_Stop it!_ she cried silently.

Thinking of David only made things worse. The rush of heat
between her legs turned to heat and _moisture_, and she fought
the urge to squeeze her thighs together.

"Are you okay?" Susan asked.

"What? Oh? I'm fine," Beth said quickly, lowering the towel. Her
face felt hot, and she knew her cheeks must have been cherry red.
Her chest felt hot too, and her nipples...

"Do you mind if I borrow one of David's T-shirts?" Susan asked.

Beth shook her head, recoiling from her own thoughts.

When Susan returned a moment later, she casually took off her
bra.

Beth tried not to stare at her breasts, but she couldn't help
herself. They were so round and full, dark pink areolas
surrounding stiff nipples. Beth's face burned with a mixture of
shame and desire. She swallowed hard and looked away.

"Are you okay?" Susan asked again.

"Oh, yes, I'm fine," Beth lied.

With that, she mustered her courage and dropped the towel. She
closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then, her eyes still
clamped shut, she reached back and felt for the catch of her bra.

It took her _three_ tries to open it, and when the heavy elastic
finally popped free, she almost gasped in relief. With her eyes
still closed, she shrugged, and the shoulder straps slid down her
arms. She discarded the bra and swallowed hard. Again.

Her heart raced and her breath came in ragged gasps as she opened
her eyes. She desperately hoped Susan hadn't seen her
nervousness, but when she caught sight of the other woman's
reflection, her hopes died.

Susan was grinning wryly. Worse, she still hadn't donned her
borrowed T-shirt.

Beth fought an internal battle in the span of a heartbeat. She
desperately tried to keep her eyes on Susan's face. She fought
not to let them wander to what she _wanted_ to look at. She did
everything she could, every fiber of her being straining to...

_They're so beautiful,_ she thought, losing her battle in an
instant of weakness. She tried to pull her eyes away from Susan's
chest, but she couldn't. She felt mesmerized, transfixed.

"I love your breasts," Susan said, breaking the spell.

Beth blinked for a moment, shocked.

"Mine used to be that big," Susan added, "when I was still
nursing." She casually glanced at her own breasts, as if sizing
them up. "Unfortunately, they shrank."

"I think they're beautiful," Beth blurted before she knew what
she was saying.

Susan smiled, gracious and surprised at the same time.

Beth wanted to wither and die. Her face blazed with heat, and she
couldn't seem to catch her breath.

"Thank you," Susan said at last.

Beth looked up in shock. Susan had always been very open about
her body--and her sexuality--but she'd never shown even a _hint_
that she might feel "that way" about another woman. Beth tried
not to gawk, but she couldn't help herself.

"It's all right to look at another woman," Susan said softly.
Then she smiled. "I do it all the time."

"But aren't you worried about...?"

"About what?" Susan asked, almost derisively. "About what society
thinks? About what people like Mary Scarlatti think? Or Phyllis
Waulk?" She scoffed. "Why should I? I'm not like them."

Beth gaped.

"And neither are you," Susan said earnestly.

Beth felt an insane desire to reach out and touch Susan, to
caress her soft skin, to pull her closer.

"No, I don't worry about what others think," Susan said, her
voice defiant for all that it was barely above a whisper. "And
neither should you."

Beth felt herself nodding.

"We're grown women, and if we want to look at another woman's
body, it's okay. That doesn't make us lesbians."

Beth flinched at the word, but Susan chuckled, low and throaty
and... ironic?

"It doesn't," she said. "It simply makes us honest. Women look at
each other all the time. We ask ourselves, 'Is she prettier than
me? Are her hips thinner? Is her tummy flatter? Does she dye her
hair?' We're all hypocrites. We look at each other and pretend
we're not. Well, I'm tired of it. I'm tired of keeping to myself
and being a prude."

Beth swallowed hard at the intensity in Susan's voice.

"You're very beautiful," Susan said deliberately. She smiled,
diffidently at first, but then with the warmth that Beth had come
to know and love.

_To love?_ she thought.

"I like looking at you," Susan continued. "I've wanted to see you
since we first met."

Beth swallowed hard and nodded, but it was an automatic reaction.

"I look at you and hope I look _half_ as sexy as you do. Your
breasts are a bit bigger than mine--"

"That's only because I'm still nursing," Beth said quickly, if
only to avoid thinking about Susan's _first_ comment. "But your
hips are thinner than mine."

"I wish my stomach were as flat as yours," Susan said.

Beth looked down, between her breasts. Her stomach was fuller
than it had been when she was nineteen, but at least it had gone
back to its natural shape.

"I have this little pooch," Susan complained.

"Oh, it's not a pooch," Beth snapped gently, quicker than she
wanted to. Her eyes darted to the soft swell at Susan's navel.
"It's just a little... cushion."

Susan laughed. "That's a nice way to put it."

"Besides," Beth added, "if you didn't have it, you'd be perfect."
When she realized what she'd said, she blushed furiously. Even
the tips of her ears were burning.

"Oh, I don't know about 'perfect,'" Susan demurred. "I don't
think I look as good as you."

It was Beth's turn to demur, although she did it by hastily
looking away.

"But listen to us," Susan said at last, "trying to one-up each
other with compliments."

Beth smiled bashfully.

Susan met her eyes in the mirror and held them. She smiled. She
started to speak, but couldn't find the words. Then she looked
away, almost nervously. "I don't know what I'd do without you,
Beth," she said at last. "You're... you're my best friend, but
you're so much more ..."

Beth didn't know what to say, so she kept quiet, waiting for
Susan to finish her thought.

"You're like the other half of me... the half I've been missing all
along."

Beth felt a rush of emotion, and before she knew what was
happening, she was hugging Susan.

"I... I love you," Susan whispered, her voice nearly choked with
emotion.

"I love you too," Beth said without thinking. She almost recoiled
when she realized what she'd said.

She caught herself in time, though. Instead of pulling back, she
held on tighter, acutely aware of the feeling of Susan's bare
breasts pressed against her own.

**

Jack shifted in his chair and tried to relieve the stress of his
erection. He'd already had a long day, but he couldn't tear his
eyes away from Susan's letter. He read the words over again:

_Oh, Jack, I've fallen in love. Beth is wonderful. She's amazing!
I know I've told you that a thousand times, but I really mean it.
I love her. And not like a sister. You know what I mean. I've
seen hints that she might feel the same about me, but I didn't
know for sure. And I didn't want to scare her away by telling her
how I felt. But yesterday, she was upset about Keith's death, and
she started worrying about David. I don't want this to turn into
a steamy letter (I'll write that one a little later), but I truly
didn't expect what happened next..._

Jack hurriedly read through the rest of the letter, his eyes
scanning over words he'd read at least a half-dozen times. When
he finished he sat back and imagined the two women pressed
together, their bare breasts touching, bulging to the sides, soft
and smooth.

Susan had described Beth's figure a dozen times, and he could
imagine how she looked now. She was a thinner version of Susan
herself, with bigger breasts and wider hips. Not _much_ wider,
but just enough to give her the perfect curves.

He was a little disappointed that nothing had happened after the
hug, but Susan assured him that she felt something special pass
between them. He scanned that part of her letter again, his
mind's eye wandering as he imaged the two women in bed together,
writhing in passion.

His dick throbbed painfully and he swallowed hard. He wanted to
fuck Beth more than he'd wanted anything in a long time. The only
thing he could compare it to was when he'd first met Susan.

Even better, he was absolutely convinced that David was the right
man. During their R-and-R, they'd gone bar hopping in Da Nang
with several other pilots. But when the other men had taken the
party to the next bar, Jack and David went down to the beach.

David had been very, _very_ drunk (Keith's death had hit him
hard), and they talked for a long time, slowly emptying a bottle
of whiskey they'd brought with them. The conversation had
eventually turned to sex, and David told him how he wanted to
have sex with another woman.

"Not that I don't love my wife," he'd slurred. "I do. God, I love
her more 'n anything. She's so fuckin' sexy. Oh, man, she's got
the sweetest pussy. And her tits...?" he gushed, hands cupping
imaginary breasts. "Don't get me started on her tits. I had a
hard-on for 'em the first time I saw her. So I love my wife--more
'n anything--but I jus' want a little vari... vari... variation. You
know? Is that so wrong?"

"Nothin' wrong with that," Jack had said, suddenly more sober
than he'd been all night.

"And Jesus," David had gone on, "I'd love to fuck t... two... two
women at once. You know, Beth and S... S... I mean, somebody else. S-
somebody really sexy, with a great body and great tits. Yeah,
great tits... the kind you can really get your hands around. Not
like these little brown fucking machines with their slanty eyes
and little tits. God, Jack, how I wanna see a round-eyed woman
and a nice set of tits."

"Amen, brother," Jack said.

"Somebody like Beth... but not Beth, you know? Is that so wrong? Is
it?"

"It ain't wrong at all."

"I just want a round-eyed woman with a nice set of tits. Beth's
got great tits. So's Susan, if you don't mind my sayin' so. Great
tits, both of 'em. Tits, tits, tits... just made for lovin'."

And with that, David had passed out.

Jack had been too drunk to get him back to their room by himself,
but a helpful F-4 pilot and his backseater had lent a hand. They
had poured David into one bed and then helped Jack to the other.

Predictably, Jack and David awoke the next morning with vicious
hangovers. They commiserated over a breakfast of dry toast and
strong black coffee. David claimed not to remember anything from
the night before, but Jack privately suspected that he was
embarrassed about the entire episode.

To take his mind off his embarrassment, they spent the last day
of their R-and-R in a rented sailboat--a 21' sloop--sailing among
the civilian ships in Da Nang harbor. David was a good sailor,
although he didn't have Jack's years of experience. But with the
wind in their hair, the sun on their faces, and the fresh scent
of salt air in their nostrils, they could pretend they were back
in the World.

As Jack's mind returned to the present, his thoughts returned to
sex. He imagined David fucking Susan, his dick pounding into her,
her legs spread around him, her breasts bouncing with each
thrust.

Jack shifted to straighten his own erection in the real world,
and then shook his head to clear his thoughts. He'd have time to
jerk off later. Besides, he wanted to take his time and re-read
Susan's other letter: a steamy one describing what she wanted to
do with him and another man.

In the meantime, he had to meet David and Jerry for dinner. As he
walked toward the officers' mess, he imagined how he'd tell David
that fucking Susan was a definite possibility.

He _wouldn't_ tell him, though. Not yet, at least. Susan had told
him--firmly--that she'd handle things on her end, through Beth.
But Jack whistled as he walked along the corridor, his mind
running through different scenarios.

He was still whistling when he stepped through the hatchway into
the mess. David and Jerry were waiting for him, and they looked
at him with puzzled expressions.

"Jus' thinkin' 'bout my wife, boys," he said in his homiest
drawl.

Jerry merely rolled his eyes at Jack's affected Southern manner.

David, on the other hand, hurriedly turned toward the chow line.

_Welcome to the world of swingers, David,_ Jack thought wryly,
gazing at his embarrassed friend's back. _You just don't know it
yet._

**

Copyright (c) 2007 Nick Scipio. All rights reserved.

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