Volition_Uniform & Lace Romance Novel

by Tina Maurine

  “Do you see this shit going on?” I whispered to Sam.

  She rolled her head to the side on the seat back and regarded me with a raised eyebrow. “To what shit are you referring? Could you be a little more specific?”

  “What do you mean? Look around! They’re married!”

  On ‘married’, Sam gave me a look that shut me right up. “What? Were you born under a rock,” she asked in a voice barely above a whisper. “These are DFBs…deployment fuck buddies. Some of these couples make the same hook-ups deployment after deployment, squadron after squadron. Unbeknownst to their spouses, many take new orders every two years to be with each other and continue their secret deployment lives. I guess this is pretty common. I heard from AD1 Hickey to prepare myself for this. He said I needed to be discreet when I come to work in the mech shop with him and the crew. I guess some of my AD shopmates video chat in the shop, and he doesn’t want me screwing things up.”

  “Unbelievable.” I didn’t quite know what else to say. The fact that Petty Officer First Class Hickey felt it was important enough to tell Sammie she had better not rat out the cheating couples when she came to work in the shop kinda made me wish I hadn’t taken these orders. I wondered if my shipmates on aircraft carriers behaved the same way.

  “At this rate,” I commented sourly, “with the bad taste I’m getting in my mouth, I’ll never make it out of First Lieutenant. I’ll live like a newbie forever. They’ll keep me there instead of promoting me to my shop just to keep their secrets safe.”

  “Good luck with that.” Sammie’s expression told me I was an idiot. “In First Lieutenant, you can expect to work custodial jobs like stripping, waxing, and buffing the floors.”

  “Cleaning and mopping the bathrooms, too,” I added. “If nobody else wants to do it, First Lieutenant has to.”

  “That’s right, chickee,” she confirmed. “When other shops have to send one volunteer to the wash rack for each wash, First Lieutenant had to send four. Let me tell you, washing P-3 Orions…”

  “What’s that?” I interrupted.

  “Enormous four prop airplanes with three wheel-wells…hmmm, how to put this? IT’S A BITCH,” she replied, not holding back.

  “I would hate to do it. Washing helos and A-4 Jets in Puerto Rico was bad enough.” I quickly realized if I wanted to do well in this squadron, if I wanted to make it out of First Louie and into the Line Shack, and then into my Aviation Electrician Shop, I’d have to wise up and grow a thicker skin; all the while not compromising my morals and values.

  This, as it turned out, proved harder than I envisioned.

  2

  “Attention Squadron Sixteen-Oh-Two!”

  A hush fell over the concourse where we all waited to find out what was going on.

  The intercom speakers crackled. “We are back in business. We’ve found a replacement for the government contracted plane that broke down here in Brunswick. We will be boarding a C-130 cargo transport plane that will take us to NAS Keflavik, Iceland. Due to its size and ability to carry forty feet of cargo, we’ll be transporting some additional items for the base in Nova Scotia. We’ll refuel there, and we’ll be stopping in Greenland to refuel a second time. Flight-time is projected at sixteen hours.”

  A resounding moan echoed through the concourse as we all lamented over this unwelcome news. It was going to be ONE HELL OF A LONG FLIGHT…

  “Sorry to tell you this, folks,” the crackly voice continued, barely comprehensible over the static on his intercom and the buzz of conversation, “but we’re not going to be getting off the ground just yet. Stand by for further announcements.”

  I groaned and settled in against the terminal bulkhead with my notebook. Figures we’d have to continue suffering through this grueling layover in Brunswick that has already lasted in excess of seven hours.

  A thought, fuzzy and undefined, nagged away in the back of my mind. What’s bugging me? I frowned as I remembered. Damn. Writing a letter to my step-mom. I had been thinking about doing it since I had gotten to JAX, but somehow now, the timing suddenly felt right. I want to close the chapter where I held my silence. In order to do this and move forward, I need my step-mom to know all the things I kept from her all these years. Digging out a pen, I began…

  Dear Tulla Dean,

  I know that I haven’t really taken the time to write you since I joined nearly three years ago, and I’m sure you can understand why. Sitting here in the terminal, on my way to Iceland—pretty much alone—has me missing Dad, home, the boys, and thinking about you more than I normally do. I guess, too, I should clarify that I’m not actually alone; I’ve met a great friend—Sammie—but you know how it is. Someone can feel alone even when they aren’t. After all, isn’t that something we have in common?

  I’m not a good letter writer, so to that I just say… deal with it. Also, before I forget, please let Dad know that I am happier than I’ve been in a long time, now that I’m not with Teddy anymore. Did you know we got a divorce?

  Let Dad how much I love him and miss the long walks and talks we used to have about Mom, life, love…

  The reason I am actually writing, though, is that I need you to know something that has been weighing heavily on my heart for a very long time. I guess only now that I am in my twenties, single again and resetting my life so to speak, I feel the need to get this off my chest.

  So, here goes…

  Tulla Dean, when Dad met you, I was a very sad, hurt, lonely little girl who had just lost the love of my life. My MOM. I sit here shaking my head, more than a little pissed that you failed to see that and thought I needed to be reformed, changed and forced out of what you perceived was depression. I had just lost my mom for Christ’s sake! Why you couldn’t understand that is a mystery to me. Even now, I don’t think you’ll get it…

  I digress. Back to why I’m writing to you. Well, it’s because I am tired of not talking to Dad and sharing my life with him. I miss him. I am glad you somehow make him happy, but Jeezus… live a little. Don’t squash him like you did me. Don’t smother my brothers with all of your stupid rules, curfews and overly controlling need to run their lives. Let them live.

  Let them all live!

  You were so conservative and controlling that as soon as I could leave and go to school… I did. I tried to go against everything my mom and dad had instilled in me about being a good girl—just to spite you—but I couldn’t. All those ideas you had about me whoring around, and all the judgements you made and poisoned my dad’s mind with… were WRONG.

  DEAD WRONG.

  Oh, Tulla Dean, I guess all of this, and all of my bringing up the past is merely an attempt for you to understand who I am and show you that the person you tried to change… wasn’t. You couldn’t change me because I wasn’t acting out or creating drama in your life. It was me. Just who I was… Who I AM.

  So, we’ve been sitting around for over nine hours while they tried to fix the plane we flew in on and then to find us another one. We should be leaving soon. I just wanted to get all this out on paper, since I never have told you how I felt; how much I despised the strict rules you enforced that did nothing but clip my wings—nearly killing my desire to fly.

  Well, guess what, Tulla Dean? I AM flying. I have spread my wings, and I want you to know that with it has come wisdom. I forgive you. I know now you weren’t trying to be mean. My beautiful, courageous, full of life mom left shoes too big for you to fill, and that wasn’t your fault. I forgive you for only putting forth what I perceive as the minimal effort that you did.

  I hope you and Dad are okay.

  Send my love to the boys.

  Tessa

  XOXOXO

  I sat and looked at the letter on my lap for a long time before cramming it into my duffel. Lying down on the terminal floor, I propped my pack under my head and tried to find some sleep.

  It hadn’t even been an hour before the smell of coffee woke me from my catnap. I opened my eyes and squinted at Sammie, who was holding me a cup of
brew from the snack cart. I sat up and gladly took it.

  “Now I’m bored,” she announced. “We’ve already played ‘getting to know you,’ but how would you feel about cards?”

  I agreed with a nod, but before she could even finish dealing, a crackle of static and a squeal of feedback dragged my attention away from my hand.

  “Squadron Sixteen-Oh-Two, ready yourselves for departure soon,” the anonymous male voice mumbled. “All hands stand by.”

  “Soon? Sure,” I snarked.

  “I know, right?” She agreed, turning her gaze back to the cards in her hand. She dealt a few more, and then studied her own with an expression of easy determination.

  “Where did you get such a fun-loving poker face?” I teased.

  “Soccer trips,” she replied promptly. “Too much time on the bus leads to dubious skills.” She grinned at her cards, but her lips’ stretched appearance made me wonder if it was a grimace.

  “Soccer, eh?”

  She nodded. “Back in high school in San Diego, of course, and then on to Florida State.”

  My jaw dropped. “I’ve been following college soccer a bit. Didn’t your team do super amazingly well last year?”

  “Eighth in the NCAA Women’s Division 1.” She smirked. “I was a freshman.”

  Sounds like a big deal. “With all that going on, why on earth did you leave?” I inquired.

  “Bad relationship,” she replied with a shrug, as though that said it all.

  Perhaps it did. Looking to turn her life around, she found herself running away and straight into the Navy’s loving arms. Nearly everyone I’d talked to in boot camp and at my last duty station had either joined because they were given an ultimatum; a last chance before serving time; or they’d been running from drugs, bad grades, poverty, toxic relationships and brutal home lives.

  It seems the military promises restitution and a chance to leave all the crap behind. HA! Liars! Every damn one of those recruiting bastards! I doubt anyone was thrilled to be in, but a job is a job. At least we had that to console ourselves with.

  We’d been lounging around on the tiny airport terminal’s hard tile floor, heads propped on our carry-ons, shooting the shit for quite some time. STILL waiting to leave. The Navy’s motto should be ‘hurry up and wait.’

  I dozed off, but when I came to again, Sammie still sat beside me, listening to her CD player.

  “Looks like it’s about that time.” She nodded toward the flight line doors, and we could see the lounging crowd rising and shouldering their packs. I must have missed the final announcement while I slept, and I’d bet Sammie had too since she’d had her headphones on when I’d awakened.

  Sammie and I gathered up our backpacks and took off for the restroom.

  “Think the line will be bad?” I asked.

  “It’s bound to be,” she replied, “but maybe we can beat it.”

  Sadly, we were too late. The line snaked back dismayingly far.

  “Do we wait?” Sammie suggested.

  “Let’s look for another,” I replied, frowning at the women dancing in place.

  In our hunt, it didn't take us long to realize that the airport at NAS Brunswick had exactly ONE restroom. We noticed the airport also had a small snack and gift shop, which we were thrilled to see was still open at 0300. We grabbed snacks and some batteries for our cd players, to hold us over on the flight, and headed back to join the line for the restroom. Somehow though, on our way, we’d gotten distracted talking to some of the other kids from First Louie, and before we knew it, the boarding area was nearly empty.

  “Hey, where is everyone?” Sammie had a panicked look on her face. I grabbed her and headed to the restroom.

  “Don’t worry. They have to take muster again before we board to make sure we’re all accounted for. Quick, go! I don’t think we’ll be able to pee on the plane.”

  She’s not wrong to worry. If we miss muster, there will be hell to pay. We quickly finished up.

  What if they really have already left us?

  We grabbed our carry-ons and pushed open the heavy restroom door. My stomach fell. Please, I prayed, let everyone just be standing outside waiting!

  Only a handful of people remained in the cold terminal, and as we weren't traveling in uniform, I had no idea who was military or civilian. Sammie started to head over to ask someone, but I grabbed her and pulled her through the exit doors.

  Man, if I thought 46 degrees in Jacksonville was cold for February, it was nothing compared to the 18 degrees that hit my face as we stepped outside. It was inky dark and snowing. The bright auxiliary light carts they had on the flight line blinded me.

  “You two! Are you with VP 1602?” We heard a shout from the left and headed into the light blindly. I stepped up first.

  “AE3 Christy,” I said, a little out of breath. I figured we’d heard the mustering officer so easily because her voice was carried by the wind, but running into its resistance, carrying my backpack and airport purchases, with snow whipping my face… well, that was a little tough. Sammie ran up right after me.

  “Airman Anders,” Sammie choked out before she began a fit of coughing.

  “You two should have your foul-weather jackets on,” she said, referring to our FWJs—the ugly, sage green, fleece lined, feather-down quilted, fur-lined hooded jackets we were all issued before this adventure started.

  “Hurry up and get on the plane. I’m missing two more bodies. Have you seen them?”

  “I’m not sure,” I informed her. “The terminal isn’t completely empty.”

  Well, this is it. I looked at Sam and the MASSIVE plane looming in front of us. As she looked at me, I saw a fear in her eyes matched by only the plane’s size. For twenty, she seemed younger; more naive and sweeter than me. At twenty-two, I felt I’d already lived a pretty full life. I had gone to the University of Washington, worked in Alaska processing fish, and joined the military at nineteen. I had also gotten married and divorced already. I’m not calloused or jaded—not at all—it’s just that few things actually scare me anymore. Certainly not a big-ass plane. What she saw in my eyes was excitement; I couldn’t wait to get to where we were going.

  Holy shit that’s one big plane!

  The immense cargo bay stood open. We walked up to the belly of the beast and, as the bright, intrusive flight line lighting disappeared, our eyes adjusted to the soft amber emergency lighting inside.

  NO WAY! This is NOT what I expected.

  Before me, there were four rows of seats, if you could call them that. Before actually seeing them, I had no idea what troop seats were. Turns out they consisted of narrow strips of parachute-like material slung like a hammock between the top and bottom tube-like rigging. A three-point seatbelt came off the top rigging, hooked over the passenger’s shoulders, and the bottom buckle piece attached between the legs.

  A row of these ‘troop-seats’ hung along the left and right sides of the plane. Two more dangled down the middle, back-to-back, facing the other rows on either side of the plane. Pallets of cargo cluttered the space between the two middle rows.

  Sammie and I looked at each other and got down to business trying to find seats. We located one against the left side porthole windows, which I took, and one kitty corner from me in the center. She was close enough to see, but not really close enough to have a conversation. Chatting, clearly, was not in the cards. Once those propellers started turning, it became annoyingly evident that it was just too dang loud to try.

  After we had completed our ascent to cruising altitude, I set about trying to get comfortable. They were projecting we’d be in Keflavik, Iceland in about sixteen hours, during which we’d land twice to refuel, and battle the storm between where we were and where we were going. This is going to be a rocky flight, which will only make the uncomfortable arrangements worse. We sat literally shoulder-to-shoulder. As in, two other sets of shoulders squeezed mine.

  This really SUCKS!

  “Hey, I’m AE1 Dunnmoth, but you can cal
l me Tim,” the guy to my right introduced himself with a smile. Thankfully, he had a mint or gum in his mouth. Since he was about the only one I could hear, I figured it was a good thing that he didn’t have cat-shit breath.

  “AE3 Tessa Christy, but you can call me Tess.” I smiled, but if he had turned to see it, our faces would have only been about four inches from each other.

  “An AE too, eh? You must be a new check-in—I haven’t seen you on the shop transfer-in list though. Is this your first duty station?” he asked with kind indifference.

  “Nah, but I guess we’ll be working together after I get out of First Lieutenant and the Line Shack… I am looking forward to that, since I only worked in the Line Shack and Corrosion at my last duty station.”

  My thoughts took me back to the uncomfortably hot flight line where I launched and recovered A-4 jets and H-3 helos as a line-man attached to the Line Shack. We’d stood out in the unbearable Puerto Rican sun, running the pilots through all the flight pre-checks before signaling a ‘GO for launch’ with our wands… the kind you see ground crew using to park civilian airplanes at the airport.

  And the adrenaline rush! The flash of pure exhilaration I got from standing out in front of the aircraft as they screamed onto the tarmac for a landing. I held my wands held high in the air, waiting to bring them into our squadron flight line area and park them. I actually preferred the hectic schedule of launching and recovering aircraft to the laborious sanding and painting I’d done in the corrosion shop.