Goliath

“Piss off. Gunnar don’t want nothing to do with you and yours—and neither do I. Now get off my land ’fore I call the cops.”

“Call the cops. I’m not leaving until I speak to your son.” She pushes past him, entering the farmhouse. “Gunnar? Gunnar Wolfe—are you in here?” She heads into the kitchen, the aroma of roast beef and potatoes instantly setting her stomach to growling. Pulling back the sun-yellowed curtains, she looks out the window and sees the distant tractor.

Gunnar negotiates the last turn, the setting sun at his back turning the dried field a golden brown. He is halfway across the acreage when he spots the woman waiting by the fence.

Son of a bitch … Gunnar throttles up, then changes his mind and shuts off the engine. Screw it. Make her walk.

Rocky stares at the tractor, which has stopped moving less than a quarter mile away. Goddamn the man. She waits another few minutes, then, cursing under her breath, unbuttons her coat and climbs over the wooden fence, her black dress shoes sinking heel deep into grass, mud, and manure.

Gunnar watches, his heart pounding. The golden hair, shorter now, is pressed neatly beneath her hat. He feels his groin stir as she gets nearer.

She approaches the tractor, slipping and sliding in the moist earth, looking up at him through angry eyes. “We need to talk.”

Gunnar swallows the ball of bile burning its way up his throat.

“Don’t just sit there, say something.”

“Screw you, lady. Six years, and you think you can just waltz back in here and say we need to talk?”

“What would you like me to say? Enjoy your stay in prison? Meet any new friends? You betrayed your country, Gunnar. I’m here to give you a chance to—”

Gunnar restarts the engine, slams the tractor into gear, and floors it, the spinning tires shooting mud into the air.

She brushes mud from the front of her skirt, then curses as she wipes the olive brown cowshit from her fingers and back across the fabric.

Gunnar parks the tractor and storms into the farmhouse, his blood boiling. Entering the kitchen, he sees his father watching from the window.

“So? What she want?”

“Don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m taking a shower.”

Harlan watches his son storm off. The old man opens a cabinet, setting another place at the dinner table.

A violet dusk has enveloped the farm by the time Rocky stumbles out of the field. Removing her shoes, she enters through the kitchen door.

Harlan is at the stove, boiling a pot of green beans. “Supper’s in ten minutes. Go upstairs and clean yerself up, you smell like somethin’ the cat dragged in.”

Rocky starts to say something, then thinks better of it. She heads out into the living room and climbs the wooden stairs in her stocking feet, hearing the familiar pattern of creaks. Entering the guest bathroom, she slams the door, unable to pull it shut within its swollen doorframe.

Gunnar hears the noise. He finishes toweling off, then slips on a pair of jeans and a sweater. He runs a comb through his wet black hair, then pauses at the bedroom door. Fingers his two-day growth, checks his breath, curses himself, then walks to the bathroom door and pushes it open.

She is standing in her slip, washing the manure from her skirt. He stares at the taut muscles in her back and legs.

Rocky never looks up, She can feel him staring at her figure.

“Enjoying the view?”

“Why are you here?”

“Orders, from my father. If it was up to me, you’d still be in prison.” She slips her skirt back on and turns to face him. “We have a situation. The Navy’s giving you an opportunity to make up for some of the damage you caused. My orders are to bring you to Washington.”

“What for?”

“You’ll be debriefed in D.C. The chopper’s refueling.” She glances at her watch. “Should be back in half an hour. Get your gear.”

“Forget it.” He walks out.

“Forget it? Hold it, mister—” She follows him down the stairs, her stockinged feet nearly slipping out from under her on the polished wood floor. “What do you mean forget it? Goddamn you, Wolfe, you owe—”

He spins around at the foot of the stairs, his face close enough to smell her scent. “I owe? Who do I owe? I’ve stepped in more blood than a butcher and have more Purple Hearts than a cow has teats, and do you know what I have to show for it? A dishonorable discharge and five years in prison. The only thing I owe is some serious payback to the asshole who set me up.”

“If that’s true, then you may finally get your chance.”

He feels his chest tighten. “What are you talking about?”

She stares into his gray irises, noticing the stress lines around the eyes. “Someone built the Goliath.”

“Bullshit—”

“Bullshit? I was there, asshole, I was aboard the Ronald Reagan when she sank.”

Rocky’s words jolt him like a live wire. “A carrier? We lost a carrier?”

“Not just the carrier, the entire CVBG.”

“My God.” He rubs his forehead, struggling to digest the information. An American carrier fleet packs more military might than all but a handful of nations in the world.