“Yeah,” she said, then kept on looking. He admired that kind of stubbornness. He also admired her toughness—not a hint of a whimper.
Their water would be gone in twenty-four hours, maybe less. They’d agreed to rationing a sip apiece on the hour, but the sun was climbing and Stoner knew that the sips would become gulps within a few hours.
Making it though the day and into the night was a realistic goal. They’d shoot for that. Twelve, fourteen hours of search time—that was the best they could hope for anyway. What they needed was something to do, something to keep them sharp.
“I think we should paddle,” he said.
Breanna turned toward him. Something happened with her eyes—she blinked as if reaching into his brain, then nodded.
She understood.
She was beautiful, wasn’t she? Her raven hair and soft lips, her blue-white skin—if he squinted she could be a mermaid, singing to a drowning sailor.
“We don’t have paddles,” she said.
“We can use our hands.”
“We can kick,” said Chris Ferris, the copilot. “Like we’re swimming.”
“Tire us out,” said Stoner.
“We’ll take shifts. I’ll take the first.” He pulled up his legs and untied his boot.
“What do you think happened to your other boot, Chris?” Breanna asked.
“I think I ate it,” said the copilot. He started to undo his vest to take off his flight suit.
“Want strip-tease music?” asked Breanna.
”How does that go?” Chris asked, then immediately began humming, or trying to hum, appropriate music. He kept it up as he got down to his underwear, which he kept on in the water. His right leg and arm were almost entirely black with bruises.
“That direction,” said Stoner, pointing west. “We’ll head toward the Chinese and Indians. More people to look for us.”
Ferris eased himself into the water. He claimed it felt good, though it was obviously colder than he’d expected. He began doing a scissor kick. “I used to be on the swim team,” he told them.
This was going to get old very quickly.
“I have a question,” said Stoner after Ferris grew silent. “Why Rap?”
“Short for Rapture,” said Breanna. “My mom was a hippie. It was either that or Acid Girl.”
“Really?”
“No. Mom’s pretty straight actually. She’s a doctor. Long story.
“That’s good,” said Stoner. “Maybe they’ll come looking for us.”
“They’ll definitely come looking for us,” said Ferris from the watter.
“A hotshot F-15 jock called me ‘Rapture’ a million years ago, right after I waxed his family in a Red Flag exercise. I was flying a B-52 at the time.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“Flying the B-52 or waxing his fanny?”
“Both.”
“Both.” She laughed. “HE was trying to pick me up, I think. So I shot him down twice. How about you?”
“I’m not trying to pick you up.”
“I mean, are you married?”
“No.” Stoner laughed.
“What’s so funny? Marriage is a good thing.”
“Good how?”
“In all ways you’d expect.”
“I’m not sure I expect any ways,” he told her, staring into her eyes. The raft was so small their faces were perhaps eight inches apart. If he wanted, he could lean forward and touch his mouth to her lips.
He did want to. He wanted to more than anything else.
She turned her head toward the sky. “We should see them soon. They’ll be here soon.”
“Yeah,” said Stoner. He turned his head and looked toward the sky as well.
“Not a cloud in the sky,” said Breanna.
“Great day for a picnic,” said Stoner.
He would kiss her. He must. He felt the weight of her leg leaning against his.
“Hear something?” she asked.
“Just your heart. And mine.”
“I think I heard a plane.” She jerked upright, scanned the sky.
There was no sound except the water lapping against the sides of the raft and Ferris’s breaths, now growing labored. Stoner wondered if she was hallucinating.
Or inventing an excuse not to be so close to him. He wanted to kiss her.
She leaned over the side toward Chris. “How you doing?” she asked.
“Good exercise. Come on. Water’s warm.”
“Later I think.” She lay back down, her head against the sides of the raft. She’d oriented herself a little farther from him—but their legs still touched.
“So, Mr. Stoner, you want to tell us your life story?” Breanna asked.
“No.”