Flight to Paradise (Flight Trilogy, Book 1) (4 page)

“I like it,” he said. “Who’s it for?”

She folded the embroidered canvas and tucked it back into the paper bag. “I think I might keep this one for myself. It has a special meaning.” After returning the bag beside her chair, she stood. “We can continue this later. We need to get ready for church.” She patted his shoulder. “Remember, life is all about learning to love others. If you miss that, you will miss life. So, know your heart and guard it. It can lead you to great happiness or great sorrow. Now let’s get ready so we won’t be late.”

He followed her down the hall, mulling over her words. Her words threatened his big dreams, yet, on another level, they satisfied his soul.

She
doesn’t
understand
.
Her
life
is
almost
over
.
Mine
is
just
beginning
….

CHAPTER 5

Friday
,
May
13
,
1983

After four grueling years at the U.S. Naval Academy, and five tumultuous years on active duty, Ryan felt like he had lived two lives.

From 1979 to 1981, he flew the Navy F-14 based at Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia, with Fighter Squadron 41—the “Black Aces.” Navy life as a fighter pilot was anything but stable, being called to perform missions around the globe with little notice.

His first of many deployments came in September 1979 aboard the USS Nimitz. During the Iranian hostage crisis, the nuclear-powered supercarrier was dispatched to increase the U.S. Naval presence in the Indian Ocean. The Nimitz became the launch pad for “Operation Evening Light”, an attempt to rescue 52 American embassy workers being held hostage in Tehran. During the cruise, VF-41 chalked-up 144 continuous days at sea; the squadron’s longest period at sea without a break since World War II.

His commanding officer quickly recognized Ryan’s potential to become an exceptional instructor pilot. His natural stick-and-rudder abilities, along with his being articulate, intelligent, and having a strong work ethic, won him an assignment to the prestigious Navy Fighter Weapons School “TOPGUN”, an intense six-week course designed to sharpen the air-to-air skills of the Navy’s best fighter crews.

In August 1981, after his tour at TOPGUN, Ryan rejoined the Black Aces aboard the Nimitz for another deployment to the Mediterranean.

On the morning of August 19, while flying combat air patrol over the Gulf of Sidra, radar spotted two Libyan, Soviet-built Sukhoi Su-22 Fitters. The Fitters had launched from nearby Okba Ben Nafi Air Base, headed his way. Within minutes, the lead Fitter fired a heat-seeking missile. After evading the missile, Ryan and his wingman, Rex Dean, engaged and returned fire using AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles, shooting down both Libyan fighters. The incident marked the first Navy air combat confrontation since the Vietnam War, and the first ever for the F-14 Tomcat.

Ryan’s final assignment with the Navy, which began in 1981, was a three-year tour at the Fighter Weapons School at Naval Air Station (NAS) Miramar, San Diego, California, as a TOPGUN instructor. With only fourteen months left, his goal was to land an airline job after leaving the Navy.

While at the Naval Academy, he’d lost contact with Keri Hart—something he now regretted. At first, she’d written him almost daily. His sporadic and infrequent responses had not been enough to keep the relationship alive. He was certain she had moved on. How could he blame her? His mother mentioned her in one of her letters, but never said anything about her love life.

Friday afternoon, May 13, Ryan arrived home—earlier than usual. The condo was empty. He glanced at his watch—four-thirty, seven-thirty Atlanta time. His mom would be expecting his call. He always called her on her birthday, regardless of where he was in the world. He imagined her sitting in her favorite chair, working her needle like a skilled surgeon, bringing a drab piece of canvas to life with one of her heart-felt scenes—each with its own special meaning about life.

After changing into his workout shorts and running shoes, he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, took a seat on the sofa in the den and dialed her number.

“Hello?” she said.

“Happy birthday, mom!”

“Ryan, so happy to hear your voice! How are you doing?”

“Good. Did you have a good day?”

“Well, at my age, they’re all good.” She chuckled.

Ryan pulled the phone over by the sofa, leaned back, and propped his feet up.

“Guess who I got a birthday card from yesterday?” She asked.

“Who?”

“Keri. She always remembers my birthday.”

“Keri Hart?” Ryan sat up. “What did she say?”

“Not much. Just that she loved me, missed me, and wished me a happy birthday. She’s so sweet.”

“Where is she now?”

“She’s in Florida…Ft. Lauderdale. Did I tell you she’s a flight attendant?”

“Yeah. You mentioned it in one of your letters.”

“I wish you two could get together.”

Ryan remembered the dreams he and Keri shared when they were younger. He loved the game they played of naming the stars, letting them represent the cities they planned to visit. The vastness of the sky reminded him of the unlimited possibilities life holds. But things had not turned out the way they’d planned.

“Me, too, but I’m sure she’s met someone by now. Does she ever ask about me?”

“I keep her up to speed with what’s going on in your crazy life. We don’t see each other much anymore; just a few letters every now and then. Do you remember that night before you left for the Academy?”

“How could I forget? She dumped me cold. I still think it had to be her mother.”

“I never told you, but the next day she came over and we had a long heart-to-heart talk. I’d never seen her so sad. She was a mess. And you were right, Barbara Ann
did
encourage her to break up with you.”

“I knew it!”

“She hated herself for doing it but felt trapped. The poor little thing was so confused. But there was no doubt she loved you more than life itself. She said she would do anything to take back that night. That’s when I told her not to give up, that you would understand. She decided to write you every day. But you know, it takes two to keep a relationship alive and you weren’t exactly the best at writing.”

“You don’t have to rub it in, but in my defense, they were busting my chops. I barely had time to brush my teeth.”

“Ryan, you could have—”

“Okay, mom, I know. I blew it…should’ve written her more…I screwed up. Nothing I can do now.”

“Why don’t you write her now? She knows you're in California. I think it would be nice. I know she would love to hear from you.” A moment of silence followed.

Ryan shook his head. “She’s probably dating someone…might even be engaged.”

“Don’t you think she would have told me? And besides, what does it matter if she is dating someone?”

“Do you have her number?”

“No. We agreed not to call, only write, because I really can’t afford long distance, and I don’t want her wasting her money. Let me give you her address.”

He grabbed a notepad and a pen. “What is it?” He scribbled it down, then said good-bye.

The thought of talking to her excited him. He remembered the note she slipped in his pocket that night:

In
time
,
we
will
know
if
it’s
meant
to
be
.

He still had it somewhere. Staring down at the white paper, he wrote:

Dear
Keri
,

His mind went blank.

What
do
I
say
?
How
do
I
start
?
Do
I
tell
her
I
still
love
her
?
How
about
:
Remember
when
you
dumped
me
?
Write
something
—
anything
.

After five crumpled pieces of paper, he finally had something.

Friday
,
May
13
,
1983

Keri
,

It’s
been
a
long
time
.
I
learned
from
mom
you're
living
in
Florida
.
She
tells
me
you're
a
flight
attendant
.
Sounds
exciting
.
I
also
hope
to
be
hired
by
the
airlines
,
once
I
complete
my
commitment
to
the
Navy
.
Probably
next
summer
.

The
Navy
keeps
me
busy
and
out
of
touch
with
everyone
.
Even
mom
complains
.
I’m
ready
for
a
change
.

Maybe
we
can
talk
sometime
and
do
some
catching
up
.
Mom
didn’t
have
your
number
.
Mine
is
619
-
231
-
1515
.
Please
give
me
a
call
or
write
.
I'm
living
with
a
Navy
buddy
in
Del
Mar
,
a
small
beach
community
north
of
San
Diego
.

He stopped.

How
should
I
sign
it
?
Love
,
Ryan
,
or
just
Ryan
?
Love
is
too
much
.
How
about
sincerely
?
No
.
Just
put
Ryan
,
then
wait
and
see
how
she
signs
hers
when
she
writes
back
—
if
she
writes
back
.

He signed the letter: Ryan.

As he licked the stamp, he heard the condo door close. “What’s up, buddy?” Rex called, as he made a beeline for the fridge.

Rex Dean was the perfect poster boy for a Southern California travel magazine: blond, tanned, and athletic-looking. Raised in an upper-class family in the prestigious La Jolla, near San Diego, and a graduate of the University of Southern California, Rex was a member of a select group of persnickety Southern California families who pridefully wore their net worth on their sleeves. His parents typified the “be” in “wannabe.” They weren’t
striving
to keep up with the Joneses; they
were
the Joneses.

Ryan met Rex while assigned to VF-41. They'd attended TOPGUN together. After the incident with the Libyan fighters, the Navy sent them to NAS Miramar as TOPGUN instructor pilots.

Their extreme personality differences made them a perfect team. Rex, the extrovert, amused Ryan, while Ryan’s more reserved personality fit the bill perfectly in Rex’s search for a social wingman.

When it came to women, Rex lived and breathed by a self-made philosophy he called “Rexology”: women are to be used, not loved, and they existed solely to satisfy and serve men. He'd once said, “Women are disposable items, much like the bones from a juicy, succulent, rib dinner.”

He strategized that single women normally run in pairs, so a wingman was essential. “You get synergistic effects from teamwork: mass firepower; different sensors looking in different places; and better self-protection.” For Rex, everything related to the kill—always striking first, leaving Ryan to pick-up the “sister ship”—one of his many code phrases. With his target acquired, Rex announced “YOYO,” meaning, You’re On Your Own. Ryan’s underdeveloped social skills and reserved personality made Rex shine which he used to his full advantage.

Ryan strutted into the den, eager to share his good news with Rex. “You won’t believe this! Did I ever tell you about Keri Hart?”

Sprawled out on the sofa, half-way through his first beer, Rex said. “Not sure.”

“Hang on.” Ryan rushed off to his bedroom, returning with a picture. “Check it out.”

“Gnarly, dude! This girl looks like she’s in high school. Who's that punk with her?” He brought the picture closer to his face. “Is that
you
?” He laughed. “You look like you’re twelve!” He handed it back to Ryan. “Dude, you can do better than that.”

“You don’t understand.” Ryan stared at the picture.

“Let me see her again.” Rex looked at the photo for a minute. “I guess…put a few years on her…it’s possible. Got a better picture?” He took a gulp from his can of beer, followed by an unrestrained belch.

“No, that’s it. I haven’t seen her since we split up back in high school.”

“Hey, dude, you'd better be careful. No telling what she looks like now. She could be bald, bucktoothed, and the size of a baby whale—a real swamp donkey.”

“You’re crazy. I’m sure she’s drop-dead gorgeous.”

“Not worth the chance. Too many babes out there for you to waste your time thinking about some woman you might not be able to recognize on a beach full of sea lions. Yo, mate, let me grab my harpoon.”

“Funny. I thought I might try to contact her,” Ryan said.

“Man, what am I going to do with you? I hope I don’t have to rescue you from yourself. Really, dude, I think you’re headed for the rocks.”

“Can’t hurt to write her a letter.”

“Just remember, the Rexter tried to warn you.” Rex picked up the TV remote and started surfing.

Ryan took the photo back to his room, returned with his letter to Keri and dropped it on top of a stack of outgoing mail by the door. “I’m going for a jog. You want to come?”