by Liza Palmer
I nail him with a look. “Don’t change the subject.” Bianchi throws up his hands in surrender. “Like I was saying, I used to waitress. And whenever there was a baby crying in the diner, do you want to know what would stop them crying the fastest?”
“Something to eat? Picking them up?”
“Nope. It was when another baby started crying way louder.”
Bianchi grimaces. “So, I’m the first crying baby in this scenario.”
I grin back at him. “Well, yeah, but you’re missing the point! The reason they stop crying is because when they’re able to experience themselves, really see themselves? They stop.”
Bianchi looks skeptical. “Is that science, Danvers, or conjecture?”
I shrug. “Hey, I’m no scientist, but in the diner my theory never led me wrong.”
Bianchi’s brow is furrowed in thought as we thread our way through the crowd that’s bunched up around the starting line. “And I was a great waitress,” I toss over my shoulder.
“Of course you were,” Bianchi says, rolling his eyes. But it works; his mood lightens as we fall in with the upperclassmen from our squadron. I am the only woman in our squadron participating. They’re setting the order based on our PT-evaluation times.
“I’m trying to decide whether to put you first or last,” the upperclassman in charge says to me.
“Last,” I say confidently. The upperclassman nods and proceeds with assigning the rest of the positions. I scan the bleachers and find Jenks almost immediately. He’s here and watching. Good.
The race begins. The upperclassman in charge of our squadron bursts off the line. He rounds the corner, and the race is tight. As he comes in to pass the baton, our team is a close third. The handoff is smooth, and our second leg is striding down the track with ease. Bianchi steps up to get ready for the third leg. I can feel Johnson watching as he figures out that it’ll be me—not Bianchi—facing him in the final heat. The second leg comes in and hands off to Bianchi. I step onto the start line.
“Good luck,” Johnson says, unable to help himself, his tone full of snark. I am quiet, concentrating. “Danvers. I said good luck,” he repeats himself a little louder, but I ignore him. I watch as Bianchi moves us into second place, right behind Johnson’s team.
Johnson and his mocking fall away as Bianchi rounds the corner. We lock eyes and suddenly the baton is hot in my hand. Then it’s just me and the track. I pass Johnson easily. I allow myself a small smirk as I leave him in the dust. While I do love a withering comeback, most of the time actions really do speak louder than words.
This is not one of those breathtakingly tense races where I explode ahead right at the last moment. Not even close. After I glide past Johnson, I finish first by a long shot.
The Aggressors are named Honor Squadron. And for a few brief moments there’s no yelling, no drilling, no marching, and no measuring sheets with a ruler. We’re allowed to talk and laugh and congratulate one another. Bianchi and I share a genuine smile. The day is a beautiful clear one and the sun feels so good on my face.
I scan the group of USAFA dignitaries as they make their way through the crowd, congratulating each member of the Aggressors. Jenks is the last to come through, hanging back and taking his time. I look over at Maria. She sees him, too. The conversation between the VIPs and the Aggressors squadron is casual, for once. We’re at ease, and for these brief moments of celebration, there is no yes, sir or no, sir. It’s truly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Jenks extends his hand to me, the recollection of our brief encounter nowhere on his face at first, and then…I see him remember. His face drains of any civility as he steps toward Maria without a word.
“Well done out there, Rambeau,” he says.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I was particularly impressed with your leadership in the tug-of-war. I saw you reposition your team members just at the start. I couldn’t quite hear what orders you were yelling, but they must have been spot-on,” Jenks says.
“Our team fought hard, sir,” Maria says. Jenks smiles and is about to walk away. “Sir, about the Flying Falcons.” She motions to me. “We heard you’re the one in charge.”
“Yes?”
Maria squares her shoulders. “Well, we are interested in applying.”
“The Flying Falcons tryout is open to anyone”—Jenks waits just long enough for Maria and I to share a look of excitement, before he adds—“with a private pilot’s license.”
“A private pilot’s license?” Maria asks.
“Am I to assume, then, that you don’t have one?” He asks, the condescension in his tone barely detectible.
Barely.
“No, sir,” Maria says. Jenks slithers his gaze over to me.
“No, sir,” I say.
“Such a shame.” Jenks smiles.
“Yes, sir,” Maria says. Her voice is flat.
“But chin up.” Maria and I straighten. “The Flying Falcons are always looking for support.” Jenks pauses. We wait. “From the ground.”
“Yes, sir,” Maria says firmly.
Jenks gives us one last thin-lipped smile and walks off the field with the rest of the higher-ups.
“‘From the ground,’” I slowly repeat Jenks’s words.
“The pamphlet didn’t say anything about a private pilot’s license,” Maria fumes.
“What are we going to do?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
Maria and I are quiet, the day’s victory paling in comparison to the stark disappointment of this moment.
Both of us are lost in thought, searching the horizon for an answer, a lightning bolt of an idea, or maybe even a private pilot’s license. Every now and then we both shake our heads in frustration. We grind our teeth, put our hands on our hips and then drop them, pace and huff. Maria comes to a stop just in front of me.
“We’ll find a way,” I say, trying to boost us both. She nods and nods. And then a wide, ornery smile breaks across her face.
“We always do,” she says.
“WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PROVE?”
“You won’t last a week!”
“You don’t belong here!”
We’re in the thick of Second Beast in Jacks Valley. I’m crawling under barbed wire, on my back, weapon in hand, and I can no longer remember a time in my life when I wasn’t covered from head to toe in mud.
We run the assault course and compete against other cadets with pugil sticks. We learn basic first aid, which I put to use almost immediately as I leap, fall, and launch myself through the obstacle course. We are trained on our M16s and become very good at holding our weapons over our heads for long periods of time.
I try to hurl myself across a lake using a rope swing, but I miss. I do it again and miss by less. I do it again, my fingers curling around the rope just long enough to give me a mean rope burn, and land, for the third time, in the icy water.
I successfully scale a six-foot wall—after seven tries.
Our flight is well on its way to earning Beast excellence (to add to our Honor Squadron). And the plan that Maria and I still have is to win all the awards, 80 percent for us, 20 percent for rubbing Jenks’s nose in it.
To be honest, after our encounter with him on Field Day, it’s more like 70 percent versus 30 percent.
This plan hinges on us getting the Warhawk, an award given only to the trainees who achieve the highest physical level, and then each of us cementing an Honor Graduate nod.
I sleep on a tiny cot in a giant tent out in the open. We eat our meals in a Quonset hut and fall asleep to the sounds of nature and snoring cadets.
It’s. So. Great. I. Can’t. Believe. It.
Maria and I sit at breakfast in the early-morning hours. The air around us is crisp and beautiful. We are quiet, staring off into space. As she takes a sip of her coffee with a sigh, I can only smile. There’s a certain wonderfulness to that moment when you can just sit in silence with someone who’s becoming a better and better friend. May
be even a best friend.
I don’t know what these weeks would have been like without Maria. No, I know exactly what these weeks would have been like without Maria.
Lonely. Painfully lonely.
I’ve never had a friend like Maria. I mean, I’ve had friends, but not ones I could totally be myself with. Back in school, there was the real me and then there was the version of me that I’d trot out for public consumption. I knew I wasn’t being myself, but now that I’ve met Maria I can’t believe I got by while giving so little.
“I can’t feel my arms,” Maria complains.
“I just feel soreness, and I’m assuming the soreness is where my arms are,” I say, taking a long gulp of my tea.
Over the course of Second Beast, Maria and I have thrown out hundreds of possible scenarios to push through, drive past, or flat-out get around Jenks’s whole private pilot’s license setback. After doing some research, we found out that you need forty hours of flight time and to be able to pass an FAA-knowledge written test in order to get a pilot’s license. The written test will be a piece of cake, but forty hours in the air? How are we supposed to get that before the Flying Falcon tryouts?
Maria and I have started to come to terms with the fact that we probably won’t be able to apply to the Flying Falcons this year. If we get our private pilot’s licenses over the summer, then we can try out for the Flying Falcons next year. It’s not the best outcome, but at least now we have a plan.
Suddenly, OCs Chen and Resendiz are looming over us. It’s time. Our lovely shared friend-silence will have to be put aside, because today is the day we cadets have all been dreading since long before we ever stepped foot on campus.
CBRN.
CBRN sounds like exactly what it is. These letters stand for Chemical, Biological, Radiological, and Nuclear. CBRN is an exercise where we must stand in an actual gas chamber, take off our gas masks, say our reporting statement, and then “calmly” exit the building, hoping we won’t be the ones who throw up or pass out.
We’re quiet as we arrive at the site, learn about our chemical-warfare gear, and are walked through every possible scenario that awaits us once we’re inside. Trying to keep my head and not give in to my now-rampaging fear, I follow the group as we head down to the main building. Once there, we watch as flight after flight take up their positions in line.
“I hear it gets stronger and stronger with every group,” Maria whispers.
I look around at the remaining flights. Johnson and Noble’s flight is already in line, while we wait for Del Orbe to finish gearing up. Del Orbe’s zipper has gotten caught and Bianchi—his wingman—won’t leave him until all is well. And without Del Orbe and Bianchi, we can’t get in line as a full flight. Del Orbe finally wrestles his zipper free, and Bianchi gives us all the high sign and we line up.
We are the last flight to go in.
As we stand in line, we can see a stream of cadets who’ve already gone through the gas chamber exiting the back of the building. Their arms are outstretched, their reddened faces are dripping with snot and tears. Every once in a while, a cadet lurches over and vomits as efficiently as possible, trying not to call too much attention to themselves. I notice that I’ve gone into a mode that even I have only seen a few times before. Hyper-focused, every brain cell fixated on surviving the next ten minutes.
I remember one of the mantras I used to recite on the track team whenever my legs would burn as I tried to push faster than I ever had before, or run a new personal best: I can do anything for ten minutes! I’d repeat it over and over in my head with every step, reminding myself that whatever pain I was feeling was temporary.
“We can do anything for ten minutes,” I whisper to Maria, who’s lined up in front of me. She doesn’t turn around, but I can see her nod. They open up the doors and we are finally ushered inside.
Our flight lines one wall until the commanding officer in the center of the room tells us to start doing jumping jacks, or anything else to raise our heart rates. Maria and I both run in place, throwing in a jumping jack here or there. Almost immediately I can feel the burning just around my hairline, right where the sweat has started forming. The stinging moves to the nape of my neck and all around the area where my gas mask is. My breathing is getting more and more erratic as the gas fills the room. I try to stay calm. Focus on my breathing. Focus on one foot hitting the floor and then the other. I try to convince myself that the burning is just an itch as it prickles down my back, but it’s getting worse. The commanding officer orders us to loosen the elastic bands on our gas masks and get ready to take off the whole thing. He instructs us to hold the gas masks at our chests once we take them off, recite our reporting statement, and then calmly walk out of the building with our arms outstretched like a T. If we run, he says, we will have to do it all over again. This is when the mantra Don’t run eclipses I can do anything for ten minutes. There’s no way I’m doing this again.
The commanding officer tells us to take off our gas masks.
The gas hits me like a tidal wave of acid. It’s everywhere. I blink and blink, trying not to gulp down any more gas than what’s currently burning its way down my throat. I clutch the gas mask to my chest and recite my reporting statement in an eerily calm voice. Tears and snot run down my face as I turn toward the exit and follow Maria out of the building, both of us extending our arms into a T position as instructed. Once outside, I walk the two laps around the building that we’re supposed to. I see Pierre fold over and throw up so violently that he’s almost curled into a kneeling position.
“You okay?” Maria rasps at me as we round the corner on our second lap.
“Yeah,” I gasp. “You?”
“That was worse than I thought it would be,” she says, blinking and blinking through her tears. We pass Pierre again, and he’s still doubled over. Maria and I look at each other and at the same moment, make a beeline over to him.
“Come on,” I say, taking his right side while Maria pulls up his left. He grunts out a thanks as we lead him over to where everyone is rinsing out their masks. His gas mask has left a bright red mark on his tawny skin, right at the base of his hairline, and his brown eyes are bloodshot and welling with tears. Clutched in his hand are his chunky black glasses, now caked in vomit. He swipes at his nose, hoping to take some of the snot with it. But there’s plenty more where that came from.
“At least it’s taken care of my cold,” Pierre finally manages to say, as we sit with our Meal, Ready-to-Eats, also known as MREs, later that afternoon. He breathes in deeply. “Completely cleared up.”
“At least it’s over,” Maria says, taking a long drink of water. “I’d been dreading that since…I mean, since before I even applied to the Academy.”
“Me too, Rambeau. I’d heard horror stories,” Pierre says.
“I’m Maria. That’s Carol,” Maria says to Pierre, jerking her thumb in my direction. “By the way.”
“Garrett,” he says, laughing. “I didn’t even…It never occurred to me that I didn’t know anyone’s first names.”
“It’s not like we’re ever going to call each other by them,” I say.
“Right?” Maria agrees. I look over just as Bianchi and Del Orbe make their way to us.
“Can we join you?” Bianchi asks, gesturing to the ground right next to us. All of us nod or sweep our arms in a welcoming manner. Fine. It’s me who does the sweeping. I don’t know what else to do.
“We were just saying we didn’t know each other’s first names,” I say. Bianchi takes a big bite of his food. “Not that we’d ever use them, but…”
“Might be nice to know them,” Maria prompts. Bianchi and Del Orbe nod, but don’t volunteer right away.
“Carol,” I say, deciding to set the tone.
“Maria.”
“They already know mine.” Pierre takes a drink of water from his canteen. “I figured I should probably tell them because they helped me over my vomitfest just after my wingman straight up left me.”
> “My name’s Erik,” Del Orbe says, smiling. He has the deepest dimples I’ve ever seen. And then all eyes are on Bianchi.
“Tom,” Bianchi says, begrudgingly.
“That is unexpected,” Maria says, snickering.
“What? Why?” Bianchi says.
“You just…don’t look like a Tom,” I say.
“You look like a Brad,” Pierre blurts out. Everyone nods and laughs.
“Brock,” Maria says.
“Chip,” I say.
“Laaaaaance,” Del Orbe says, unable to keep from laughing. Del Orbe has one of those great cackling, leaning-all-the-way-back, mouth-fully-open sort of laughs.
Bianchi only nods, turning red around the ears, as we continue to tease him with names.
Finally we grow tired of our game, and as Del Orbe, Pierre, and Maria fall into conversation about the upcoming Acceptance Parade, I turn to Bianchi.
“You didn’t leave Del Orbe,” I say. Bianchi looks over. “Earlier. When his zipper got stuck.”
“I’m his wingman,” he says, simply.
MARIA AND I MAKE OUR WAY DOWN TO THE parade field dressed in our blues. We’ve taken all our tests and had our evaluations. We’ve been drilled on the inverted-wedge formation that we’ll march in during today’s festivities about as many times as we’ve been told that we’ll only be marching in the inverted-wedge formation two times in our entire Air Force career: once on Acceptance Day, and once when we graduate from USAFA.
Today is the first time. After thirty-seven days of Basic Training, I’ll march in the Acceptance Parade and, as a fourth-class cadet, will finally be called Airman Danvers.
I’ve never been more proud of anything in my entire life.
As we fall in with the rest of our flight, I’m nervous and excited. I walk into today’s Acceptance Parade knowing I have done what I need to do to be on track to become the Air Force’s first female fighter pilot. Or at least, one of them.
Maria and I were both awarded the Warhawk. Our flight was presented with the Honor Flight, and earned the Beast flight back in Jacks Valley. And out of all those honors, Maria and I were singled out as two of just eight of the cadets to be named an Honor Graduate.
