Afraid to Fly

by L. A. Witt

  I wanted to tell him he didn’t owe me a thing, but the prospect of having lunch with him was too good to pass up. “Sounds great.”

  He smiled. Almost laughed. Like he’d been holding his breath while he waited for me to respond, and was relieved I’d agreed to go along.

  Are you kidding? I’d be stupid to say no.

  “Okay, well.” He gestured over his shoulder. “I should get back to work. I’m having lunch with Captain Rodriguez and some blowhards today, but let’s do something tomorrow. Say, eleven?”

  Yes, please. “I’ll be there.”

  “Great.” He held my gaze for a second. “I’ll see you then.”

  I nodded, trying not to compromise my cool exterior. It was lunch with a coworker. No big deal.

  He started to go, but paused. “Oh, by the way, a bunch of us are going out to the O club tonight. You want to come along?”

  The offer didn’t sound nearly as appealing as he probably thought. I didn’t drink—although God I wanted to—and I didn’t particularly like hanging out with ex-pilots.

  Tonight, though, I could handle being the only RAP around a bunch of smart-aleck flyboys. I could handle being around gallons and gallons of booze I couldn’t touch. After all, Travis was going.

  So I smiled. “Sure. Looking forward to it.”

  It still sometimes amused me—and on bad days, depressed me—how much our office resembled a normal, civilian environment instead of a military one. We even had cubicles, a watercooler, and the odd potluck for a birthday. If not for the uniforms and the framed photos of our uppermost chain of command, it would be hard to tell us apart from a corporation.

  Exactly what I’d had in mind when I went to the Academy.

  But, hey, at least I still had a career. There’d been some talk of medically separating me back when I got hurt, and I sometimes felt like I had the Forced Medical Retirement of Damocles hanging over my head, so I couldn’t complain. Even if I’d traded my wings for an office and hadn’t worn my flight suit in way too long, I had a paycheck and benefits I couldn’t get anywhere else. If that meant working under fluorescents in a boring, pastel office complete with motivational posters on the wall? Fine.

  I carefully twisted and stretched, trying to work out some of the tightness in my back. At least it wasn’t as bad as the other night. Kimber and I had even discussed me retiring yesterday, but just the thought of it made my skin crawl. The Navy made a lot of postcareer promises on paper, but I knew too many people who’d been screwed in practice. When we stopped being useful to the military, the tumble down the priority list could be quick.

  So, even if staying in meant working at a desk and making myself run a mile and a half twice a year, it was a job. It was the closest thing I’d ever have to stability.

  Shortly before lunch, I was on my way back to my office after a meeting, and passed through the shared area between the training and admin departments. Clint and three of his people were discussing something beside the whiteboard where they scheduled all of their classes.

  A few feet away, some of my guys were hunched over someone’s phone.

  One laughed. “That’s insane!”

  “Right?” Lieutenant Bailey grinned. “It looks even better on a tablet, but still—check this shit out!”

  The group with Clint craned their necks.

  “What’re you guys watching?” one asked.

  “Someone got a video of a terrorist training camp eating shit during an airstrike.” Bailey turned his phone toward Clint and the others.

  Clint grimaced and turned away a split second before the thump-boom! came from the phone.

  “Aloha snack bar, motherfuckers!” Bailey said, and the group burst out laughing.

  Except for Clint. And the petty officer standing next to him who looked like he was about to break a sweat. Or throw up. Maybe both.

  “Lieutenant Bailey,” I said. “Don’t you have work to do?”

  The red-faced lieutenant shoved his phone into his pocket as the others quickly dispersed. “Sorry, sir.”

  I turned toward Clint. The petty officer was still a bit green, but Clint had a hand on his shoulder and looked him right in the eye.

  “You okay?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  The poor kid nodded. “I’m good. Just, uh, wasn’t expecting . . . um . . .”

  “Why don’t you go wrap this up?” Clint pushed a folder into the kid’s hands. “Use my office if you need to.”

  The petty officer swallowed hard and nodded again. “Thank you, sir.” With that, he hurried toward Clint’s office, probably grateful for the escape and a moment to himself.

  Clint met my gaze.

  I raised my eyebrows. You okay?

  He nodded subtly.

  “All right.” I looked around at the rest of the guys, who were watching me uneasily like some kids who’d been busted fucking off at school. “Everybody get back to work. And Lieutenant—could I see you for a minute?”

  “Yes, sir,” he muttered.

  I shut my office door behind us, cutting off the muffled snickering from his coworkers, and faced him. Leaning against my desk, I folded my hands in front of me. “Listen, if you guys want to share that shit with each other on your own time and your own equipment, be my guest. But let’s not pass it around here, all right?”

  “They asked to see it, sir. I was—”

  “Yes, I realize that. I was there. But LC Fraser and Petty Officer Vincent obviously don’t enjoy watching or listening to—”

  “What?” He laughed and gestured over his shoulder. “Fraser was a drone pilot. He used to do that shit, so what’s he got to be—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I hardened my voice, hoping he caught the warning in my tone that I wasn’t going to stay civil and calm for much longer. “It might just be that he doesn’t enjoy watching footage of people being blown up. I don’t care for it myself, and neither do some of the other people in the building.”

  Bailey scowled.

  I resisted the urge to sigh with frustration. Sometimes, it was like trying to keep kids in line. “Listen, you don’t object to the policy of not slamming doors in the office, right?” I inclined my head. “Since you know damn well that can fuck with someone who’s been to a combat zone?”

  Bailey shifted his weight. “We’re just having a little—”

  “Let me rephrase that, Lieutenant.” I looked him in the eye. “No more of that shit in my department, and it’s not up for discussion. That’s an order.”

  He stiffened a little, and nodded. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Dismissed,” I said through my teeth.

  He gave another nod and left my office. After the door shut, I rolled my eyes and wiped a hand over my face. Sometimes the kinder, gentler Navy tried the hell out of my patience. I didn’t mind seeing some of the abusive disciplinary methods go by the wayside, along with a lot of the hazing that happened in the name of tradition, but there were days when the old Navy really appealed. Like when I wanted to drag someone into my office, get in their face, and scream at them until their vocabulary was reduced to yes, sir and sorry, sir and won’t happen again, sir. When I didn’t want to explain myself or make an attempt to reason with the subordinates who, a decade or so ago, wouldn’t have even thought about questioning a superior officer.

  Cursing under my breath, I went around the desk and eased myself into my chair.

  As I downloaded my overstuffed inbox, I glanced at the door the lieutenant had gone through. The military’s old model had been effective in its own way, but it had been a hot mess too. Screaming in someone’s face and finding out a moment too late they were irreparably traumatized by something that had happened on the battlefield six months ago—that didn’t do anyone any good. And cultivating a reputation as a leader who screamed in his people’s faces and ruled with an iron fist was a good way to intimidate subordinates into being afraid to approach him when they needed to. I’d learned that a few years ago from a close friend who’d l
ost a lieutenant commander to suicide.

  Sighing, I faced my screen again and started working my way through emails. I wasn’t crazy about coddling my subordinates, but if it got results and didn’t alienate me from my people, then fine.

  But just let me bust you doing it again, Lieutenant . . .

  The workday finally ended, and the video incident had been more or less forgotten. I didn’t see Lieutenant Bailey even looking at his phone. I’d passed the petty officer in the halls a few times, and especially toward the end of the day, he’d seemed to be back to normal. I had no doubt Clint was keeping an eye on him, so I didn’t approach him about it. And for that matter, Clint had returned to his usual self as well. When we crossed paths, he smiled before continuing on his way.

  Good. Most of the people in this building, including some of the civilian contractors, had been to combat at some point, which meant there was plenty of PTSD. It was more obvious in some people than others. Like Lieutenant Commanders Stevenson and Norris, who were the reasons every door was marked Please Don’t Slam. Or Chief Radford on the third floor who’d had a violent flashback after a bookshelf in the office adjacent to hers had been shoved too hard into a shared wall. Or the time it had taken several people a good five minutes to catch their breath after a seagull had crashed into a meeting-room window.

  The last thing anyone in here needed was some idiots who thought it was fun to watch footage of air strikes and sniper kills. Most of the time, if they were watching anything on their phones or computers, it was cat videos or song parodies. I was willing to let that go as long as work was getting done. One more combat video, and I’d ban electronics from the office so fast all their heads would spin.

  But everyone seemed to have gotten the message, and Clint and his guy were all right. Hopefully this would be the end of it.

  Now that the day was through, I shut off my computer and headed out to join everyone at the officers’ club on the other side of the base. As I walked in, there were a few guys from base security milling around, but they didn’t seem to be there in any official capacity. They were fucking off on their phones, talking about a recent football game—they’d probably come here for a late lunch, not to respond to any kind of disturbance. On my way past, they all murmured, “Good afternoon, sir.” No one saluted since we were indoors and not wearing our covers, but I responded with a nod and, “Good afternoon.”

  It was still kind of weird to see enlisted personnel hanging out at the officers’ club instead of their own enlisted club, which was across the street. Times had changed, though. Like a lot of bases, the E club and O club here on NAS Adams were open to everyone unless there was a special event, which would be exclusively officer or enlisted. And I couldn’t begrudge them for coming here—the food was pretty fucking amazing.

  When I walked into the lounge, about half the people from my department were there along with several from Clint’s—including him—and had taken over a table in the corner. Most had beers, but two or three had nonalcoholic drinks. We did this often enough that I trusted them all to make their own designated-driver arrangements. That, and one of the first things I told a new check-in was, “If I ever get called in front of the CO because you got busted for DUI, you’ll regret the day you ever thought to join the Navy.” They all seemed to take that warning seriously—in twenty years, I’d only ever had one subordinate nailed for DUI—so while I kept an eye on them when we went out, I didn’t worry too much.

  I swung by the bar to get a beer for myself, then joined them.

  Surprise, surprise—as I sat down, they were in the middle of giving someone a hard time. If I’d learned one thing about people—especially guys—in the military, regardless of rank, it was that they were all constantly on the prowl for a reason to bust someone’s balls.

  The current lucky winner was, ironically, Lieutenant Bailey.

  “Look,” Stevenson said with a smirk, “all I’m saying is, if you can park a C-130, you can park an F-150.”

  Wolcott chuckled behind his beer. “Maybe the difference is he had a copilot back then.”

  “Hey!” Bailey rolled his eyes. “I told you guys—Chief Hanson’s giant fucking SUV was over the line. I had to park over the other line so I’d have room.” He brought his mostly empty glass up to his lips. “Gimme a break, assholes.”

  “Uh-huh. Totally makes sense.” Norris nodded. Then he held up a finger. “Oh, except for the part where Chief Hanson’s been on leave since Tuesday.”

  Bailey winced, defeated, and everyone burst out laughing. They all clapped his shoulders and sent him up to the bar for more beer. It was a form of the walk of shame among my guys—you hadn’t truly conceded until you’d bought the next round. Poor son of a bitch. He’d probably have everything from driver’s ed booklets to fake parking tickets under his wiper blades for the next month or two.

  Before he’d even come back, they’d shifted their sights to Ensign Lee, ribbing him about all the bumper stickers on his wife’s Jeep, which he was driving this week. I was honestly surprised he hadn’t rented a car instead. Pricey, but better than letting this group catch him in a vehicle that proclaimed No, This Is Not My Boyfriend’s Jeep and Silly Boys, Jeeps Are For Girls.

  As Bailey returned to the table with two pitchers of beer, he joined right in, probably happy to have their focus on someone else. In five minutes, Lee’s ride would be forgotten too.

  I laughed and rolled my eyes. The group was mostly good-natured about it. If someone was really bothered, they always backed off. At least when I was around.

  While they bantered and carried on, I tried to look anywhere but right at Clint. The last thing I needed was for the guys to catch on that I was checking him out. Again. Still. Whatever. It had taken them weeks to let me hear the end of it when I’d been caught taking a long, appreciative look at Admiral Young’s ass last year. It would probably be years before I heard someone say “Rear Admiral,” and didn’t want to crawl under a desk and die. Assholes.

  I couldn’t help myself, though, and stole a few glances at Clint, and not just to check him out. Every time someone came out with another story to one-up the last, he seemed less comfortable. He shifted. Stared into his glass. Chased ice cubes with his straw.

  I bristled whenever someone looked his way. This was his first time hanging out with the group, so maybe they’d go easy on him. They would if they knew what was good for them.

  Or maybe not.

  “Hey, Fraser.” Bailey reached for his beer. “You’re a drone pilot, aren’t you?”

  Clint squirmed, looking about as thrilled as he had over the video earlier. “I was, yeah.”

  “Was?” Norris said. “So why don’t you fly anymore?”

  I couldn’t decide if the hint of sarcasm on fly was real or in my imagination. In the past, I’d joined in with ribbing the drone pilots about all the G-forces they must’ve sustained in their cushy desk chairs, or how many times they could eject before they were grounded, but only when I was with feisty drone fliers who gave as good as they got.

  Clint was on edge already, and the question from Norris was obviously not helping. He tapped his nails on his glass. “Oh. Well, you know how it is.” He laughed, and it sounded forced. “Decided I was bored with that game and wanted to play Call of Duty instead.”

  The guys cracked up, and Clint chuckled, but when his eyes darted toward me, his expression said nothing if not get me out of here. And I was the one who’d invited him here in the first place.

  Way to go, Wilson.

  I stood. “All right, you idiots behave. I’m going out for a smoke.” I met his eyes, tilted my head toward the door, and raised my eyebrows.

  Clint held my gaze, then rose. “Mind if I join you?”

  Please do. I smiled. “Sure.”

  We went outside onto the deserted, tree-shaded patio, which overlooked the gently sloping hill that led down to the golf course between here and the flight line. At the edge of the patio, as far from the door as we could get,
I sat on one of the picnic tables and lit up a cigarette.

  Clint sat on the other table, forearms resting on his knees and fingers dangling between them. “So did you just take up smoking or something? Because I swear I’ve never seen you take a cigarette break.”

  “I only smoke when I drink.” I brought the cigarette up to take a drag. “Or when I see a shipmate who obviously needs a break.”

  His face colored. He quickly looked out at the golf course. “Thanks. I, uh . . . appreciate it.”

  “Don’t worry about it. And listen.” I pulled in some smoke and breathed it out. “Sorry about the rest of the guys. They’re just hotheads who like shit-talking.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Clint laughed with a touch more feeling this time. “This isn’t my first base.”

  “No, of course not. But after the video, and—”

  “It’s all right.” He smiled. “Honestly. It’s all right. I guess I’m not a fan of . . .”

  “Sea stories?”

  “Air stories.” He turned toward to me. “Can’t really add much, you know? I flew drones.” Something about the self-deprecating comment didn’t land quite right. It was like there was an undercurrent, an unspoken plea for me to read between the lines and not push for details.

  “I don’t blame you.” I tapped my cigarette. “When you’re off work, the last thing you want to talk about is work, am I right?”

  Another laugh, this one sounding like more relief than humor. “Yeah. Exactly. And hey, this morning . . . you didn’t read Lieutenant Bailey the riot act or anything, did you?”

  I shook my head and blew out some smoke. “Nah. I asked him to keep stuff like that out of the office. He does it again, then I’ll read him the riot act.”

  “Thanks.” Clint didn’t look at me. “I don’t think they meant any harm.”

  “No, of course not.” I tapped my cigarette over the ashtray, then took another drag. “He’s never been anywhere near combat, though. It’s hard to imagine how much a video can affect someone when all you’ve done is float around the Pacific on an aircraft carrier.”