him from being at the front during the attack. “Here I am trussed up like a mummy, and my boys are dying like flies.” Increasing his sense of failure, Freeman’s headquarters received a message via a ham operator, using an antiquated radio set that, operational because it used vacuum tubes instead of up-to-date printed microchip circuit boards, picked up a BBC broadcast of the nine-o’clock news reporting that a strike of dockworkers was under way in several of the French Ports, including Brest. Freeman ordered Norton to grab the nearest F-16 pilot at Krefeld to take a message to Brest that the French strikers were to be shot on the spot.
“You threaten that, General,” Major Norton advised him, “and we could have one hell of a problem with France. They’re allowing us to use—”
“Allowing us nothing,” snapped Freeman. “They’re allowing us and the British and Germans and every other poor son of a bitch in that pocket to die. Only dying they’ll do is to protect France. And if the NATO commander in Brest is too cowardly to do it — I’ll order air strikes on French forces and make it look like the Russians hit them. You see how quickly things’ll loosen up then. I want those supplies and I want them now.”
Norton was appalled, staring wide-eyed at the general, convinced that when Freeman had been thrown out of the Humvee, he’d lost some of his marbles as well. “We can’t do that, General. I mean, there’s no way—”
Freeman, his face contorted with pain, eyes smarting, nevertheless managed to fix Norton in his stare. “Watch me! If I’d had my way, I’d bomb the sons of bitches myself to get them into the righting. Now, are you going to transmit that order or do I have to shoot
As the general’s Apache helicopter rose to ferry Norton to Krefeld, its rotor slap momentarily drowned the noise of battle, but he knew it was an illusion and that, like it or not, the general had a point. If they lost Western Europe, it was all over.
Freeman called for the doctor.
“Yes, General?”
“I want another shot of that painkiller.”
The doctor tried but couldn’t hide a smirk of satisfaction that said, So you’re human after all?
“I may be—” Freeman began, but for a moment he couldn’t go on. “I might be stubborn, Doc, but I’m not stupid.” He turned to his logistics aide. “Charlie — you got a manifest for the convoy that’s due in Brest?”
“No, sir, but—”
“Get one.”
“I know there are twenty-four merchantmen, all over twenty thousand tons. There’s a hell of a lot of stuff — if it got through.”
“Well, if it did get through, I don’t want any screw-ups down there. Ammunition and fuel, Charlie. Ammunition and fuel. Onto the Hercules and up here. At least we’ve still got fighter cover. Bring me a map of North Rhine-Westphalia.”
“Fox 1… Fox 1…” Shirer was calling, the nose of the MiG plainly visible in the flash of an exploding Tomcat, then he was falling. Gradually he became aware of someone holding his hand and a rush of sensations all at once, the stink of a boat’s diesel fumes and a stringent antiseptic smell and perfume, the hand holding his warm and reassuring, the woman’s face indistinct, warping in and out of focus as if through a glass tumbler, swaying to and fro with the motion of the boat. And somewhere in the distance, above the rhythmic throbbing of the marine engine, the chatter of machine-gun fire, and other wounded all around him. The perfume was a memory to him, and he couldn’t quite match the face in his mind, but it awakened a desire in him that transcended everything else around him.
“How’s he doing?” a man’s voice asked.
“He’ll be all right,” she said. “He was in a coma at first and we thought his arm was broken. But he was lucky. The marines who brought him in said his chute was a little twisted, but he came down all right, and the snow helped.”
“Can’t keep a good man down.”
“No,” she answered, smiling. Now Shirer could see her clearly.
“You know him?” the man asked.
She turned to look up at him as she answered, and Shirer knew the profile at once. “Lana?” He was grinning like a schoolboy.
“Well,” said the man, straightening up, arms akimbo, “I guess that cuts me out!” It was a tone of good- natured resignation. “And here I thought I’d hit pay dirt with a pretty navy nurse. If you’ll pardon me, I’m going to try my luck elsewhere — surely there’s one nurse who’d take pity on a lonely sailor.”
Lana laughed easily in reply, and in that moment Shirer knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that if he did nothing else in this damned war, he’d take her, hold her, and never let go.
“Captain—” Lana called out, “thank you for all you’ve done. If you and the others on that beach hadn’t got us off-”
“Ah—” he said, waving aside any thanks. “No problem, Lieutenant. Fish weren’t running yesterday anyways — and don’t call me Captain. Makes me feel like
Shirer watched her effortless laugh, as entranced by her beauty as when he’d first met her. Only she was more mature-looking now — more confident than the girl he had known before the war. And if he could, he would have made love to her right then and there. Her hand was still in his and he said, “My God, I never thought I’d be glad to be shot down.”
“Neither did I! You
“More than you know.”
Soon they were talking as if they had never parted.
“Where are we headed?” he asked her.
“To Atka,” she answered. “It’ll be about five hours. From there they’ll probably fly us back to Dutch Harbor and you’ll—” Her pause conveyed more to him than she realized. Both of them pretended that they would have more time together once they reached the safety of Dutch Harbor, but both of them had seen enough of the war to know that as soon as he was able, he would be flying again, as every effort would be made to gain air superiority over Adak as a prelude to retaking the island in order to protect Shemya, four hundred miles east of Adak, before it was permanently cut off and overrun by the Russians.
The head nurse, coming down the companion ladder from the wheelhouse, where more of the wounded had been crowded in, noticed Lana was still with the same patient. “Lieutenant Brentwood — could I see you a moment please!” Her tone was admonishing. “We need help on deck.”
Lana rose, taking her hand from his. “Uh-oh. I’m in trouble. I’ll see you at Dutch Harbor.”
“Lana?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“Are you still afraid of pirates?” For a second she didn’t know what he meant.
“They wear eye patches.” He grinned.
She was buttoning up her parka before going on deck. Her
voice was subdued, yet quietly joyful. “I love them,” she said.
“You were very palsy-walsy with that pilot,” the head nurse commented sharply. “Do you hold hands with all your patients?”
“He’s an old friend.”
“So I gathered. But I’d appreciate it if you could spare time to attend to some of the other patients. We have several cases of—”
“Yes, of course,” replied Lana. “I’m sorry. It was selfish of me.”
Surprised and mollified by Lana’s apology, the head nurse put Lana’s lapse of duty down to the battle fatigue they were all feeling. Adopting an equally conciliatory tone, she asked Lana if she would help her secure all the medical supplies they’d had to put on deck to make room below for the wounded. “We’d better hurry,” she told Lana. “Captain Bering says we’ll likely run into some squalls before we reach Atka.”
On the other side of the world, Major Norton, bearing Freeman’s message to Brest, had just finished a
