Astronaut Kenai Munro has just been assigned to a shuttle mission, and she meets the man responsible for pulling her out if her shuttle goes in the drink. Click here to preorder a copy.
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The next week Kenai and Bill were scheduled for one of the unending meet-and-greets that astronauts were assigned to around the country, to show the NASA flag to the various services and contractors that designed, built, maintained and manned the infrastructure that made shuttle operations possible, and to remind them of the real men and women flying the craft and operating the equipment the contractors built. They strapped into a T-38, Bill on the stick, Kenai in the backseat, and took off for Miami and the US Coast Guard base there.
The Coast Guard was a substantial presence offshore during shuttle launches, deflecting clueless sailors, gaping rubberneckers and on occasion even alligator poachers from taking their boats in too close to the Cape during countdown and launch. Rick’s first launch had been put on hold at T-minus thirty when a charter boat skipper in a thirty-five foot Carolina Classic pretended to have lost power and was drifting ashore with the current, all the better for his four drunken clients to snap photos of themselves in front of the shuttle standing white and gleaming against the gantry. At eight hundred dollars a day each they were probably expecting something other than being boarded by a Zodiac full of irritated Coasties, their skipper arrested and their boat commandeered, but that was what they got, and the shuttle raised ship after only a sixty-minute delay, which had to be some kind of record. Rick told them that the astronauts on that mission had been of one mind when informed of the reason for the hold, to limber up the big gun on the foredeck of the cutter and blow the offending boat out of the water.
Today they landed in Miami and were picked up by a starstruck chief petty officer who couldn’t take his eyes off Kenai, who had to remind him more than once that he was veering over the line into oncoming traffic. It was only after Bill offered to drive that the CPO managed to focus on the road. When they got to District 7 headquarters they discovered that the CO had mustered the entire workforce in the parking lot to greet them, many of whom wanted their pictures taken with the astronauts. Bill said a few words, Kenai said a few more and many, many photographs were taken, after which ordeal Kenai’s new love slave hustled them out to the Munro, a high endurance cutter three hundred and seventy-eight feet long that would head up off-shore security during their launch.
The Munro also had its entire crew on parade and the helo, a Dolphin HH-65, rolled out for their inspection. The XO, a stunner who looked like Naveen Andrews, welcomed them with a smile and a firm handshake and introduced them to the Munro’s captain, whose handshake was equally firm and who invited them to join him for lunch after their tour of his ship. Kenai and Bill repeated their thank you’s and were happy to accept, after which the captain commanded his crew to fall out and go to their duty stations. He vanished up a ladder and the XO, one Lieutenant Commander Mustafa Azizi, proceeded to run Bill and Kenai’s butts off over Munro from bow prop to aft steering and all points above, below and in between, including a stop in the Combat Information Center, or Combat for short, a cool, dark room the width of the ship’s beam filled with banks of computers and monitors. It was located amidships, two decks down from the main deck. “This is where everyone comes when it’s rough or hot,” said OSC Cutburth, a tall, laconic man with a shaved head, batwing ears and a grin part saint and part Satan. The operations specialist chief radiated a quiet pride in his domain and in his crew, all of whom he introduced by name. They were the only members of the crew who didn’t have tans.
“We’re responsible for navigation. OS2 Carrey.” A thin, dark young man wearing Buddy Holly glasses whose hair stood up in agitated tufts came out from behind a console to shake their hands, beaming. “It’s an honor,” he said about seven times.
“And communications. OS3 Pachuco.” A short, plump woman with raven hair bundled carelessly at the back of her head and an Aztec face Hernan Cortez would have recognized gave them a shy smile. “And detection and identification of all surface and air contacts. OS2 Riley.” Another thin, dark young man with equally bad hair, this time with John Lennon glasses, raised a hand in a vague wave without lifting his eyes from the screen in front of him, his hands busy at a keyboard. The Chief let the silence stretch out, until Riley raised his head, made eye contact and gave them a curt nod. He looked sullen, as if he might be a little impatient with all this astronaut nonsense. Kenai’s heart warmed to him.
“Forgive him,” the Chief said dryly, “he’s better with bytes than he is with people.”
“We all are,” came a swift response from someone else, and the Chief grinned. “True enough. At any rate, this is where we’ll be keeping watch for runaways, trespassers and strays during your launch.”
Kenai thought of Rick’s last mission and said with emphasis, “Thank you.”
“Over here, we track and control the helo.” A young black man whose outsize shoulders and biceps made up for his lack of height went from dead serious to a megawatt grin so bright it made them both blink. “OS3 Griffin.”
“What does OS stand for?” Kenai said.
“Operations Specialist,” Cutburth said. “OSC stands for Operations Specialist Chief.”
“And the 1s, 2s, and 3s?”
“How high up you are in the pecking order. You go to school, you pass your tests, you break in at OS3, and move up.”
“And you call each other by your job titles. Is that a Coastie thing?”
He nodded. “People change all the time, rotating in and out of duty stations, on and off ships. Job titles don’t.” He waved a hand at his domain, very much master of all he surveyed. “In Combat we coordinate search and rescue operations. We collect and disseminate intel.” Nods all around. “And of course, in a worst case scenario, we fight the ship.”
“We get to shoot the big gun,” his number two, an OSC1 Cortez, said. She was a slim blonde with an impish expression and a crackling personality. In spite of the diamond on her left hand Bill gravitated toward her the way a compass needle does to true north and for a few moments there Kenai was afraid she might have to walk home. “What’s the big gun?” she said.
Mention of a firearm, especially a big one, naturally brought back Bill’s attention. Chief Cutburth whistled up GMC Colvin, the gunner’s mate chief, was a compact man who looked made entirely of muscle, with an air of authority either natural or cultivated–probably a bit of both, Kenai decided–that made everyone stand straighter in his presence.
Chief Colvin gave them a tour of the 76-millimeter gun on the gun deck, forward of the boat deck and two decks below the bridge. The casings on the ammunition were three feet long and weighed anywhere from 36 to 56 pounds. It could fire four different kinds of ammunition up to eighty rounds a minute, and had a range of about six miles.
“Hell, you could take us out if you wanted to,” Bill said, impressed.
“Please don’t,” Kenai said.
Chief Colvin’s face broke into what Kenai was sure was a rare smile. “I’d love to show it off for you,” he said regretfully, laying a hand on the 76’s housing, “but it’s impossible in port,” and on that mournful note they were escorted to the hangar deck, where the aviation detachment, two aviators, a gunner, a swimmer, and a mechanic were mustered.
“Helos,” Bill said loud enough to be heard with a grimace exaggerated enough to be seen by everyone on the flight deck.
Kenai gave an elaborate shudder. “They’re sort of the bumblebees of the aerodynamic world, aren’t they? Amazing they ever get off the deck.”
“And this, this is what we’re relying on to haul our asses out of the drink if we go splash,” Bill said, squinting at the helo with a gloomy expression. “Definitely a product of low bid design.”
The junior aviator, one Lieutenant Noyes, grinned and said sympathetically, “Fixed-wing types, I take it? Don’t be nervous, girls, we’ll recover said asses, and we won’t needa mile of runway to do it.”
Everyone laughed and relaxed, and Bill and Kenai got a hands-on demonstration when the AvDet did a turbo wash of the rotors, followed by a brief stop to admire the art work on the inside of the door to the av shack. Kenai’s favorite was the coastal outline of Mexico with the signatures of the AvDet from a 2000 EPAC patrol and the caption, “No drug busts, no migrants, no real SAR, no reason to be here, 57 days!” Bill’s favorite, naturally, was the upside-down helo with the caption “Will fly for beer!”
They were reacquired eventually by the XO and led forward, emerging on the boat deck. The XO helpfully pointed out a valve fixture protruding at head height from the bottom of the boat davit, labelled in handdrawn letters “the Darwin sorter,” which he said had sampled the DNA of a goodly number of the crew. They negotiated this hazard successfully, followed by two more sets of stairs which he took at a hustle and they perforce followed him at the same pace. “I’ll take zero gee anytime,” Kenai said to Bill. She hadn’t meant the XO to hear her but like all good command officers he had an highly developed sense of selective hearing and he paused to give her a sunny smile. He wasn’t even out of breath.
On the deck just below the bridge the XO knocked at a door, behind which Captain Schuyler was waiting with drinks and sandwiches. Barely registering his presence on her peripheral vision, Kenai fell on them like a starving dog.
Once the twin threats of famine and dehydration had been staved off, Kenai noticed the sitting room was furnished with bronze leather furniture, cherry bookshelves that looked as if they had been built to spec, the latest model iPod docked in a stereo speaker system, and a luxurious carpet that looked fresh off a Persian loom and brought forward in time two thousand years.
She looked back at the skipper, whom she found regarding her with a considering blue gaze that reminded her of Robert Redford in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. “Cal Schuyler,” he said, holding out a hand. “You remember, the captain? I would have said something before but I didn’t want to get in between you and the food.”
Bill choked over his soda and Kenai, well into her second sandwich, laughed out loud. Schuyler’s gaze remained steady on her face for a long moment.
He had, he told them, taken command of the Munro just that August. “Our home port is actually Kodiak, Alaska. We should be doing an ALPAT — Alaska patrol — in the Bering right about now.”
Surprised, Bill said, “What are you doing in Miami?”
Kenai was doing her best to look invisible but Schuyler wouldn’t let her get away with it. “It’s her fault.” When she squirmed and Bill still looked blank, Schuyler said, “She’s related to Douglas Munro.”
“Munro?” Bill said. The light dawned. “Oh. I didn’t make the connection. Munro like the ship?”
“Exactly like the ship,” the XO said. “Douglas Munro saved a bunch of Marines off Gaudalcanal. He’s the only Coastie to win the Medal of Honor.”
“That’s what the banner is above the lookout,” Kenai said. The Captain nodded.
“Oh yeah,” Bill said. “The blue banner with the gold stars?”
The captain nodded. “Normally, we task a 210–that’s a two hundred ten foot cutter–to bulldog offshore security during a shuttle launch. This time–“ He smiled at Kenai, and she caught the glint of mischief in his eyes “–this time the powers that be decided that since we had a relative of the only Coastie ever to win a Medal of Honor flying on the space shuttle, the least we could do was bring the ship named for him around to do the honors.”
Munro was a week away from their first patrol during their Miami hiatus, doing drug interdiction and migrant mitigation in the Caribbean. “And any SAR case that crops up, of course, plus safety boardings and inspections.”
“We’ll do three months on patrol,” the XO said, “and then three months in port. If everyone’s schedule holds together, we should be on our last inport in Miami when you’re getting ready to launch.”
“What happens when we go up?” Kenai said.
“We’ll be retasked,” the captain said, and nodded at the young mess cook standing silently next to the door with hands folded and expression anxious. “All right, Roberts, we’re done.” She came forward and cleared away the food and brought them coffee in large porcelain mugs embossed with the Munro’s seal, and offered cream and sugar around.
“Thanks, Roberts, that’ll be all,” Schuyler said.
She blushed and cast a covert glance at the astronauts. Kenai, replete with food and disinclined to move, said with real heroism, “Would you like the skipper to take your picture with us?” She got a hand under Bill’s elbow and heaved the both of them to their feet, and the young seaman produced the camera that had been burning a hole in her pocket since they’d arrived. They posed and smiled, the camera flashed, the young seaman went on her way rejoicing and the captain closed the door firmly behind her before anyone else on his crew could sidle inside. “We’ll be retasked,” he repeated, “as command for offshore security during your launch. We’ll be on station as soon as they move your vehicle to the pad, and we’ll be there until you’re in orbit, coordinating security and, if necessary, SAR efforts.”
He didn’t pretty things up, did Captain Schuyler. “Let’s hope it won’t be necessary,” Kenai said dryly, and he surprised her with a wide, dazzling grin that put interesting creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth. His eyes were very blue. Sailor’s eyes. She thought he might be blond, but like every other male crew member she’d seen he’d shaved his head almost down to the scalp in preparation for sea showers on patrol and it was hard to tell. Come to think of it, he didn’t look anything at all like Robert Redford. Robert Redford was a troll by comparison. “That’d be my plan, ma’am.”
He escorted them out. At the head of the stairs leading to the boat deck, Kenai’s love slave came up the gangway. He looked up, saw her and hurtled himself up the boat deck with reckless abandon.
The shout came in unison from both XO and Captain — “Look OUT!”
It wasn’t in time. The little PA smacked into the Darwin sorter at a velocity that put Kenai forcibly in mind of a crash test dummy hitting a windshield. He went down, hard.
“OOD!” the captain shouted and a moment later an inquiring face peeped around the hangar. “Pipe the corpsman to lay to the starboardside boat deck!”
The PA had pulled himself to a sitting position by the time everyone reached him. Blood was flowing freely from his forehead where a knot the size of a golf ball was already rising to attention. The corpsman, a tall man with gentle hands and a grave bedside manner belied by eyes brimming with laughter assisted him to his feet and took him off to sick bay.
“I’ll get you another driver,” Captain Schuyler said. At the gangway Schuyler touched Kenai briefly on the elbow. She let Bill go down ahead of her.
“You staying in town tonight?” Schuyler said.
“We are,” she said, refusing to let her smile show past her eyes.
There was an answering smile in his own. “Seven o’clock? I know a place where they brew the beer out back and the steak comes to the table still mooing.”
“Sure,” she said, “but I can’t stay out late, early flight home tomorrow.”
He stepped back and gestured at the gangway. As she passed he said in a low voice meant only for her ears, “Not a problem.”
He presented himself promptly at seven p.m. at her hotel room door, dressed in a blue polo shirt tucked neatly into tan chinos and deck shoes. She was dressed equally casually, hot pink tank top, white slacks and strappy little sandals that revealed nail polish to match the tank top. “Pretty in pink,” he said.
She smiled. “Thanks.”
He looked past her. “How’s the room?”
“Palatial. See for yourself.”
He displayed a bottle. “A drink before we go out?”
“Veuve Cliquot? I like your taste in drinks.”
He nodded at the balcony, visible through the sliding glass doors. “Have a seat. I’ll bring them out.”
It was a beautiful evening, nothing left of the sun but a band of color that matched her tank top on the horizon, stars appearing overhead, the air on the balcony soft on the skin. The pop of the cork sounded behind her. Kenai pulled the chairs to the edge of the balcony and sat down in one and crossed her feet on the railing, Biscayne Bay, the Miami skyline and the Atlantic in front of her. “Is it Callan?” she said when he brought the glasses, gently fizzing.
“Cal,” he said, raising his glass to hers. “From Callan. Family name. My father’s side of the family is very big with the passing on of family names. Where’s the Kenai come from?”
“The Kenai River. It’s in Alaska.”
“Sure, where all the big salmon go home to die.”
“I was raised on it.”
“Your dad a fishermen?”
She shook her head. “A pilot.”
“Sure, how you learned to fly. Brothers, sisters?”
“Nope. You?”
“No. You know what they say about only children.”
“Overachievers R Us.”
He laughed. “When did you decide you wanted to be an astronaut?”
“What, you haven’t read the press release?” She drank champagne, dry, a shivering along the tongue, delicious. “Again, I applaud your taste in wine.” She looked at him, broad shoulders, strong throat, firm chin, mouth hovering always on the edge of a smile, eyes so blue. She put down her glass and knotted a hand in the front of his shirt and pulled. Irresistably he leaned forward until their lips were almost touching. “Close your eyes,” she said, her voice the merest breath of sound.
Obediently, he closed them. She rescued his forgotten glass, which was about to tip out of his hand, and set it on the table next to hers. She turned back to see his eyes still closed, and noticed that his breath was coming a little faster. She rubbed her face lightly against his, nose, lips, cheeks, a long extended nuzzle that branded him with her scent, a faint, flowery perfume, a hint of Tide, and a growing muskiness that spoke of her own arousal. He shifted to ease the sudden tightness of his chinos. “Be still,” she said, and kissed him, a long, warm, wet, sensuous invitation, and nipped his lip as she drew away.
His eyes opened, dazed, and she said, her voice husky with laughter and desire, “In just fourteen hours from now, I’ll be on a plane heading north and west. I don’t have time to dance.”
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An excerpt from Prepared for Rage, ready for pre-order at amazon.com now.