The Right Touch. Eileen Nauman

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      1

      “COME ON, CAL, you need to get off this carrier for a while,” Captain Scott Guthrie said as he entered the cramped quarters. He held his friend’s icy gray glare.

      “Tell the squadron commander I’m sick,” Cal muttered, lying on the bunk, hands clasped behind his head as he stared grimly up at the ceiling.

      Scott leaned against the hatch, shoving his hands into the pockets of his summer uniform. “You’re the guy who’s supposed to be heading up this shindig, remember? Hey, it isn’t every day we get an unexpected week in a port like Hong Kong.”

      Cal flinched, his eyes darkening to charcoal. He and his copilot, Chief Stanton, had been the reason for the stay in Hong Kong. Repairs to the carrier’s catapult system were being completed. Cal shut his eyes, unable to deal with the loss shearing through him. His copilot had been like a brother to him. Now he was dead. And Cal was alive. A fluke of fate.

      “I’m not up to a party, Scotty. Much less an embassy function,” Cal growled, wrestling with the pain that radiated outward in his chest. He hadn’t slept well since the accident. Four days…God, four nightmarish days. He had been put on waivers immediately after the helicopter had fished him out of the South China Sea. Doctors had checked him over. Reports in triplicate and quadruplicate had been filled out. A talk with his squadron commander. A talk with the chaplain. And then a talk with the psychologist. Cal was sick to death of being poked, prodded and probed. All he wanted was to be left alone to mourn the loss of his best friend.

      Scott’s oval face was shadowed with concern as he studied his fellow aviator. “Look,” he began earnestly, “maybe this is what you need, Cal. Get off the ship. Get away from here for a while. We don’t have to report back aboard for three days. Hell, let’s punch the ticket, do our bit for the American consulate, play escort and then hightail it to the Wanchai District over on the island and tie one on for Chief.”

      Cal drew in a ragged breath, opening his eyes, staring blindly at the ceiling. “Maybe you’re right.” Get drunk. That was a good idea. Maybe it would dull the pain. He was on flight waivers; he didn’t have to worry about having alcohol in his bloodstream because he wasn’t allowed near one of the combat jets he flew. Ordinarily, he’d toss down a beer or two with his friends. But right now, a couple of double scotches seemed a reasonable alternative. He could forget for a blessed while. He could finally get more than one or two hours’ sleep a night. Cal rubbed his bloodshot eyes and slowly sat up, moving to his feet.

      “That’s more like it,” Scott said as Cal pulled on his long-sleeved khaki shirt.

      “Where is this party being held?” Cal asked, putting on the shirt and then straightening the tie of the same color at his throat.

      “Over on Kowloon. Shangri-La Hotel. Supposed to be a five-star place.” Scott shrugged, a grin curving his lips. “Hell, good chow, good booze and more than likely some very foxy ladies. Us bachelors couldn’t ask for anything more.”

      Cal snorted, running a comb through his short, walnut-colored hair. “Right now, all I feel like is a dark corner with my drink and that’s it, not a woman.”

      “Just turn on your marine corps charm, smile and be the handsome devil you always are and you’ll survive,” Scott drawled.

      Cal picked up his jacket and shrugged into it. Hong Kong in late October was in the low eighties with ninety percent humidity. They’d sweat to death in their uniforms. All part of punching the ticket to get to test pilot school, he reminded himself. Only tonight, he wanted no part of official duties. He didn’t want small talk, coy games being played by a woman—he didn’t want any company at all. Grief wasn’t something he could share. It was too personal. Too explosive in its pain, ripping him apart inwardly every waking moment. If only he could sleep…God, he could escape the hurt.

      “I heard from Sam,” Scott went on, “that we’ll be playing escort to a group of national and Olympic amateur fencers from America. They’re over here for an international competition this week. The American embassy is throwing a party for all the competitors. Isn’t that something? Never met a fencer. I knew the sport existed, but I didn’t know it had women in its ranks. Always thought of it as a man’s game. They’ve even got the Russian and Chinese teams here for the meet.”

      Cal opened his locker and pulled out his service cap, making sure the black patent leather bill was dust and fingerprint free before he settled it on his head. He shrugged noncommittally. That would mean CIA types posing as businessmen littering the party. Those in the marine corps would be watched like hawks because one slip, one hint of top secret military knowledge would be just what the Russians would love to overhear—or so the undercover men would assume. Well, at the first opportunity, Cal was going to get rid of his assigned female and take a ferry over to Hong Kong and drown his misery in the Wanchai District.

      Scott opened the hatch and they both stepped out. “I know what you’re thinking, Cal, and we haven’t got a thing to worry about: we’ve got the complete U.S. fencing team with us. All they gotta do is draw their swords and protect us from these undercover guys, СКАЧАТЬ