by Dan Stratman
Thick prescription glasses hung from her neck on a silver chain. She hoisted them in place and squinted. A big smile suddenly crossed Ruby’s face. “Well, I’ll be. Come on in, dearie.” She unlatched the chain and ushered Cyndi in.
Once a rough and tough cowgirl in her youth, Ruby was now wafer-thin, stooped over, and needed a cane to walk even the shortest distances. An oxygen canula encircled her head. The plastic feeder tube trailed Ruby wherever she went, occasionally entangling her feet like an overeager puppy.
She hobbled over to the kitchen table, pushed aside a stack of coupons, and told Cyndi, “Put them here.”
Cyndi’s biceps rejoiced after depositing the heavy bags on the table. She flopped her arms around like wet spaghetti to work out the tension. She’d spared no expense getting the best options the local Safeway had on its shelves. Cyndi reached in and pulled out a bounty of healthy, nutritious food from the bags. She put each item away in its proper place.
“Did you get the chocolate cake Henry likes so much?” Ruby asked. “I nag him all the time about how bad it is for him, but he don’t listen. Mule-headed fool.”
Cyndi laid a hand on Ruby’s shoulder. “Henry has been gone for over a year now. Remember?”
Profound sadness washed over her weathered and wrinkled face. “Oh goodness gracious. My darn memory is shot to hell. Gets worse every day. Doc Worthington says there’s nothing more he can do. Says one day I won’t even be able to remember my own name.” She looked at Cyndi with a weary expression. “Don’t go gettin’ old, dearie. Nothing but problems.”
Being defenseless against the cruel toll aging took on her body and mind were all too familiar realities to the once strong woman.
Cyndi changed the subject. “Do you have the coupons for next week?”
Ruby gathered up seventy-five cents’ worth of coupons and handed them to Cyndi. “You wipe out all those dang commies yet?”
“No, not yet. Maybe tomorrow, Ruby.”
“You better hurry. We got so many damned missile silos in these parts it looks like an outbreak of chickenpox on a map. We’d be nothing but a glowin’ hole in the ground if they ever decided to kick off World War III.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Ruby cocked her head and looked into Cyndi’s tired eyes. “You okay, dear? How was work today?”
“Very strange.”
“Did I ever tell you I worked in the Powder River coal mines when I was your age?”
“I think you might have mentioned it once or twice,” Cyndi said with a patient voice and an understanding smile on her face.
“That was some tough work. I worked twice as hard as the guys just to get half the pay. Even then, they told me I was stealing a job from the men in town who were trying to feed their families. But I laid down the law with the fellas on my first day. I told them, ‘I was raised on a farm with five older brothers, so I ain’t about to take any guff from you damned rednecks.’ They got the message real quick. If any of those boys out at the base give you any trouble, you send them over my way. I’ll fix their wagon, but good. Us girls, we have to stick together.”
“Thanks for having my back, Ruby. I’ll remember that.”
The old woman plucked a handful of tattered one-dollar bills out of her pocketbook. “How much do I owe you?”
Cyndi reached into the last grocery bag, crumpled up the receipt, and quietly slipped it into her pocket. “You already paid me for the groceries when I came in. Don’t you remember?”
Ruby bounced the heel of her hand off her wrinkled forehead. “My darn memory is shot to hell. Gets worse every day. Doc Worthington says there’s nothing—”
“Okay, Ruby, have a nice night. I’ll come by tomorrow to check up on you.” Cyndi let herself out before the entire conversation with Ruby could be replayed. She went across the hall and unlocked the door to her apartment. When she opened it, an object darted toward her.
A fluffy black-and-tan Yorkshire Terrier ran up, bouncing up and down like an over-caffeinated four-year-old.
“Silo!” Cyndi shouted with equal excitement. “How are you, girl? I missed you.” She scooped up her dog and gave her a big hug. Silo began furiously licking Cyndi’s face when she headed toward a certain cabinet in the kitchen. She opened the cabinet door and grabbed a bag of Purina, pouring out a small helping in the dog bowl. “Bon appétit.” Silo dove in before the bowl even hit the floor. Cyndi dumped out the old water from the second bowl and refilled it.
After Silo was taken care of, Cyndi pulled a frozen enchilada dinner from the freezer and popped it into the microwave. When the timer went off, she pulled the steaming meal out and gingerly transferred it to her kitchen table as quickly as possible before burning her fingers.
Cyndi stabbed at the unappetizing blob of Mexican food while she watched a young anchor with KGWN read the evening news. The lead story was about the city council approving the budget for an additional snowplow. Big news in a small town.
After taking a few bites, she pushed the tray away. She looked around her small, sparsely furnished apartment. On a coffee table were wooden models of an Apache helicopter and an F-35 Lightning II. Next to them was a faded picture of her father posing on the boarding ladder of an F-15 Eagle. In the photo he was clutching his flight helmet under his arm. His confident pose exuded his usual fighter pilot swagger.
There was no question she was her father’s daughter. From her steel trap of a mind to an ego she had to work to keep in check, Cyndi was most definitely Brock “Razor” Stafford’s daughter. Even the resemblance was striking. Cyndi dwelled on the picture for a moment then let out a heavy sigh. A single tear trickled down her ivory cheek. She got up and tossed her dinner in the trash.
Cyndi marched off to her bedroom, emerging a few minutes later wearing baggy gray sweatpants emblazoned with large block letters spelling out USAF. A tight white spandex tank top, pink Nikes, and black fingerless exercise gloves rounded out her outfit.
Cyndi stormed into the modest workout room in the basement of her apartment complex. She jumped on the stationary bicycle and cranked the resistance up to the max. After ten grueling miles, she did a set of twenty reps at each station of the weight machine. Next, she attacked the heavy bag hanging from a chain attached to the ceiling. It was the size of a water heater and covered in faded, peeling leather. She unleashed devastating kicks and punches on the hapless bag, splitting open duct tape that had held together a previous split.
Ten minutes later, she slumped down to the floor and leaned against the wall, drenched in sweat. Cheyenne was almost one thousand feet higher in elevation than Denver. The thin air left her lightheaded and gasping for oxygen. Cyndi closed her eyes and forced herself to moderate her breathing. Once it had returned to normal, she stood up and gave the bag one more powerful roundhouse kick for good measure.
Back in her apartment, she cranked up the temperature in the shower as hot as she could stand it. Slowly, the steam bath washed away the tension in her muscles. Sweat and Wyoming dust were swept away by the soothing spray. But no matter how hot she got the water or how many gallons she wasted, the guilt that haunted her refused to drain away.
Cyndi gave up and got ready for bed. She changed into a T-shirt adorned with a rendering of Pistol Pete, the U of W mascot. She’d snatched it out of the air at a basketball game when it was shot into the stands from an air cannon.
She nestled under a thick, down-filled blanket and flipped open a thriller novel by her favorite author. Silo lay curled up at the foot of the bed.
Just as she began to drift off, her iPhone rang. She rolled over and looked at the Caller ID on the screen. “Oh crap.”
Chapter Nine
She tapped the screen. “Hello.”
“Hi, pumpkin. It’s your mother calling. I’m still alive in case you’re wondering.”
“I’m so sorry. I meant to call you back.”
“You scared the daylights out of me.”
“I didn’t know it was a false
alarm when I called you this morning. We only learned that later. It’s been crazy all day. They locked down the base. No phone calls were allowed in or out after that.”
Silo got up, extended her front legs, and arched her back. She came over and snuggled up next to Cyndi.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay,” her mother said in a passive-aggressive tone Cyndi had heard many times before. “Your tour in the missile command,” she said the words as if they were the name of some awful disease, “will be over soon. I know we’ve talked about it before, but…”
“Mom, don’t start with that again.”
“You’d be perfect for the job. What else would you do when you get out? I can’t imagine there’s a huge demand in the business world for employees who specialize in vaporizing the competition.”
“My job is called missile combat crew commander. And there’s a lot more to it than just that. Besides, I’m not interested in taking over Dad’s job running the flight school now that he’s gone.”
“Business is really booming. I could sure use the help.”
“Sell it then. Move to Florida. Enjoy life.”
“I couldn’t do that. You know me, always have to stay busy.”
“Get Stevie to help out then. He certainly has the time.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t ask your brother to help. You know how stress upsets him.”
“No, we wouldn’t want to upset poor Stevie.” Cyndi took a calming breath. “When I get out, maybe I’ll look for a job here.”
“Wyoming?”
“It’s not so bad. There’s a sort of rugged, untamed vibe here. It’s like stepping back in time. People look you in the eye when they talk to you. I can breathe the air without coughing. No police helicopters flying over the house every night. No traffic jams. Unless you count a herd of antelope crossing the road and blocking traffic.”
“Animals running loose in the city? That sounds positively dreadful.”
Silo growled at hearing her last comment.
“Far be it for me to say anything, but…” Her mother left the unfinished sentence hanging in the air.
“Yes, Mother, what is it? I know that tone,” Cyndi said, exhaling loudly.
“Anything new in the boyfriend department?”
Cyndi held her phone up to her face and silently screamed at the screen. Once she’d gotten that out of her system, she said, “You just don’t let up, do you, Mom?”
“I just don’t understand how a beautiful girl like you doesn’t have boys lined up outside your door. That’s all. So sue me.”
Cyndi got out of bed and wandered into the kitchen with the phone cradled against her shoulder and cheek. She pulled a quart of Rocky Road out of the freezer, then grabbed a spoon. “Maybe it’s the job. Civilians don’t understand why I do it, and the guys at work are intimidated by me. As soon as I want to get serious, they suddenly get spooked. What is it with men? They act like being in a committed relationship is worse than standing on a pile of radioactive kryptonite that’s on fire. Guys can be so infuriating.”
Cyndi refused to believe that her hard-earned success in the martial arts could have contributed to her dismal track record with guys.
From her first lesson as a young girl, her parents had taken decidedly different views on her involvement in the violent sport.
Cyndi’s dad had pushed her every step of the way as she climbed the national rankings. He never missed a match no matter how far he had to drive.
Her brother had never shown any interest in sports. Looking back, Cyndi couldn’t help but wonder if her father’s obsession with her winning was more about soothing his disappointment in Stevie than taking pride in her accomplishments.
Her mother had refused to attend her matches. She felt it wasn’t ladylike for a girl to wrestle around in a smelly gymnasium with a bunch of sweaty boys. In high school her mother had made her opinions crystal clear. She told Cyndi no teenage boy wanted to be teased about how their girlfriend could put them in the hospital if he crossed the line with her. Their fragile egos wouldn’t allow it.
So much for equality among the sexes.
“You do what’s best for you, pumpkin. I don’t want to make you feel guilty.”
“It’s a little late for that.” Cyndi plunked down at the table and scooped out a big helping of frozen solace.
Chapter Ten
One month later
Cyndi pulled out of the parking lot of the Front Range Riviera apartment complex to begin her morning commute. The drive was a delightfully short five minutes—a far cry from the snarled nightmare that is Los Angeles traffic.
Every driver passing the opposite way gave a friendly wave of the hand, as was the custom among locals. It had taken her a while to get used to this practice. A motorist in LA shaking their hand at you had a completely different meaning than here in Cheyenne.
Cyndi turned onto Randall Avenue, the road leading to the main gate at the base. A modest brick sign proudly proclaimed that Warren AFB was the Home of the Missileer. She got in line behind four cars waiting to enter. As she inched along, she looked over at the three massive nuclear missiles on display—an antiquated Minuteman II, a Minuteman III, and a Peacekeeper. The glossy white missiles chronicled the never-ending evolution of technology and destructiveness.
The line of cars moved quickly past the guard house until it was her turn. When the guard caught site of Cyndi, the young airman suddenly decided it was imperative that he leave his warm hut and personally check the picture on her ID against her attractive face. Then he walked around her car and did a slow visual inspection. The guard handed back her ID, flashed a flirtatious smile, saluted smartly, and wished her a good day.
The parking lot in front of the base theater had filled up fast. Rumor was that a four-star general had flown to Cheyenne and was making a big announcement today. By order of General McNeil, attendance was mandatory for all officers. He didn’t want his boss speaking to an empty room. No flight suits were allowed at this event. Air Force blues were the uniform of the day.
Lance Garcia walked into the theater lobby with his buddies. When he turned to enter the auditorium, he accidently bumped into Cyndi. “Sorry about that, Captain Stafford. Didn’t mean to knock into you. Please don’t throw me to the ground. I promise I’ll never do it again.”
His friends laughed the way guys laugh at everything their buddies say.
Cyndi ignored them. “I’ll spare you the humiliation in front of your friends, but only on one condition.”
“How considerate of you. What’s your condition?”
“You tell me the truth about your martial arts training. I’m not buying your lame explanation that watching Jackie Chan movies was why you did so well on our first encounter.”
Lance let out a long sigh. “You’re not going to let it go until I come clean, are you?”
“You’re very perceptive, Lieutenant Garcia. With a mind that sharp, I’ll bet you’re up for early promotion.”
“My friends call me Lance.” He stuck out his hand in a gesture of friendship.
Cyndi hesitated, then firmly grasped his hand. “You can call me Captain Stafford, Lieutenant.”
Without releasing her hand, Lance leaned in and whispered, “You aren’t a Russian spy by any chance, are you, Captain?”
She just rolled her eyes and yanked her hand away.
“I could have my top-secret security clearance taken away if I tell you. But…in this one case I might be willing to take that risk.” He locked eyes with her and waited.
Cyndi crossed her arms and glared back. “If?”
“You still owe me twenty bucks. But I’d be willing to let that slide if you buy me dinner.”
“You want me to buy you dinner?”
“Or…you could make me dinner. Your choice.” A cocky grin spread across his face. “That’s the price for divulging my secrets.”
She stroked her chin. Cyndi inhaled slowly, then said, “I’ll think about it. Although…there is
a well-known restaurant in town I think you’d be happy with. It serves your favorite meal.”
“My favorite meal?”
“The one that comes with fries and a toy in it.” With a triumphant smirk, Cyndi strode off into the auditorium.
The entire front row had been reserved for members of the press. Only three showed up. Two were from the local Tribune Eagle newspaper.
The audience snapped to attention when the commander of the Global Strike Command, General Rayburn, walked out onto the stage and took his position in front of the podium. McNeil and a thin, high-strung Asian man trailed behind him.
“Seats,” Rayburn said, in a commanding voice.
The crowd sat down. The lights were dimmed.
The movie screen behind the general lit up with the first slide in the PowerPoint presentation. It showed his official Air Force photo, name, and rank. The left breast area of his blue uniform jacket looked like a fruit salad had exploded onto it. Dozens of multicolored service ribbons decorated his jacket, the sign of a broad career and a long tenure in the military.
Then the second slide came up.
A noticeable murmur arose from the crowd of missileers.
The reporters turned and looked back. They were at a loss as to why the crowd was reacting to the slide. To them, it was just a picture of a Minuteman missile, but the experts in the audience knew differently.
The nose cone on the missile was longer and wider.
Chapter Eleven
“I’m sure you’ve all heard the rumors floating around about a new weapons system,” Rayburn said. “I’m at Warren today to end the rumors and announce that your base has been chosen to be the first to deploy the updated LGM-30H Minuteman IV missile.”
Heads nodded in approval. Applause broke out among the missileers in the audience.
Rayburn turned on a laser pointer and used the beam to trace a circle around the top of the missile. “The enlarged shroud on the missile will now house ten W87-1 warheads.”
