JT nodded, looking out. Rhodes, holding her green helmet bag, was walking in alone. “That the one you were talking about? Big mouth?” He shifted his weight. “She’s pretty hot.” There was something about JT that made this an awkward comment. He wasn’t unattractive, but whatever it was some guys had with girls, he didn’t have it. For years Slammer had watched his best friend tense up when he was in a situation with possibilities. The more interesting, assertive, and pretty the girl, the more self-conscious and stiff JT got. He could picture JT ending up with a quiet, nurturing type; a nurse or a librarian. Somebody with a shawl, always ready with a cup of tea.
Slammer shook his head. “She didn’t have a big mouth, buddy. She had big attitude. Showed me up in front of the class over her call sign.”
“What were you going to call her?”
He rolled the memory around for a few moments. The girl had something on the inside you could sense straight away, but he wasn’t sure what it was just yet. She’d been impossible to push around, to back down. Generally a good trait. “I called her Buffy, like the vampire slayer.”
“What’s wrong with that?” He imagined JT’s back stiffening.
“Not sure. But she threw it right back at me. Said it wasn’t “her.” I thought her classmates were going to shit themselves.”
JT’s eyes tracked Rhodes as she walked purposefully across the hangar floor and swung open the door to the computer room. “I guess you had to slap her down,” he said quietly, almost morosely, like he was already beat down just from the thought of dealing with her.
“Something about her pissed me right off. She’s from Manhattan. She walks and talks like she owns the place.”
JT looked at him, a crooked smirk on his face. “So what’s she now? “Cashmere?” “Uptown?” Hell, as far as the WSOs are concerned, “Chauffeur” is always a good call sign for you stick monkeys.”
He laughed. “Yeah. Wish you’d been there. No, I went the other way. She ended up with Dusty.”
JT nodded. “Dusty Rhodes. Not bad. Should keep her on her heels for a little while.” He sipped at his coffee, peering at Slammer through the steam. “How’d you end up with not only one, but two girls in your last class?”
One of the things Slammer liked least about JT was his ability to poke deep inside his psyche and jab directly at the things he kept locked away. The fucker had a laser scalpel that cut through serious layers of bullshit.
He made it a point to keep his feelings about female fighter pilots a closely guarded secret. It was public record that the Navy had been forced to integrate women back in the mid-90s because of the Tailhook fiasco. The tightly knit brotherhood, steeped in eight decades of tradition, was blown apart like a fraternity house going co-ed overnight. Probably past due, but he’d always felt women continued to get a pass on the hard stuff for political reasons. He knew about those pre-integration days and often felt like he’d been born too late. And sometimes, when he was a little drunk or a little lonely, he allowed himself to peek at the heart of the reason it burned him deep inside, it was how the politics and the messiness of the integration had surely contributed to the death of “Robin” Bateman. Since that day, three years ago on his birthday, he had washed his hands of the matter. Women in the Navy were no longer his problem and he’d worked very hard to avoid being involved again. “You can’t fight city hall,” was his private motto on the matter. It wasn’t his fight and there was plenty of room to stay out of the issue, if you were smart about it. Until Jimmy Mac stuck him with this last class.
A lot of time had passed since the gender integration. It wasn’t a huge novelty anymore to have a female in the squadron. Hell, there’d been female COs and a female Air Wing Commander by now. But a female in the Ready Room was still unusual enough to cause a ripple. Close to half the fighter squadrons had one, maybe two girl aviators. A couple had never had any. His rational side figured what you packed between your legs made no difference in the air. But the integration, the ‘we’re all the same here’ line still felt a little forced, a little disingenuous—or maybe just not to be trusted, like fat-free cookies or politicians kissing babies. The whole situation was N.K.R, Not Quite Right, the letters in the acronym being deliberately incorrect. Until now Slammer had managed to avoid having any women in his classes, and now there were two. He just wanted to get it over with and get on with his life. But the situation was definitely NKR.
He looked at JT, taking the bait. “I don’t know, John Taylor. The lord, the Navy, or both have it in for me. I must have something to atone for.” He stood and walked in the direction of the instructors’ office.
JT followed a step behind. “Well, I guess they’re generous enough to give you one more chance.”
Slammer snorted. “Lucky fucking me.”
In the bowels of the hanger two levels below, Silvers sat at the computer and slipped the headphones over her ears. Moto was on her right; he flashed a quick sourpuss look then turned back to his screen. Pig shuffled in and gave her a friendly wink as he made his way to the bank of cubicles on the other side of the room. He liked to study alone. She sighed in resignation, tossing her helmet bag on the empty seat to her left. This was not her favorite part of the program. This, she thought, was the penance you endured to get to the good stuff. As far as she was concerned, the systems either worked or they didn’t. And if they didn’t, you pulled up a checklist to fix as much as you could. From that point on, it was three basic choices: keep flying, look for somewhere to land ASAP, or eject. She knew she could read, she knew she could fly, she knew she could press buttons. The rest would take care of itself.
She typed in her password then watched the menu screen load. The background wallpaper image was a Rhino in a hard-G turn during a fly-by of an aircraft carrier. The people on the flight deck were cheering the action, their arms held high like spectators at a football game, their faces frozen in open-mouthed excitement. From the cockpit aft most of the plane was obscured in a cloud of vapor. The tips of the vertical stabilizers peeked out, as well as the missiles on the wing tips. It was a still image but it screamed action. She could almost feel the slight Gs the plane would be pulling to get that vapor on a humid Indian Ocean day. She forced her eyes to focus on the menu in the foreground of the screen. Hydraulics, Electrical, Fuel, Radar, Countermeasures, Weapons, and a few other fascinating subject areas to master. Flying an actual Rhino seemed like a distant dream right now. But she was in the game. All she had to do was not screw up. Any more.
She felt her cheeks flush at the memory. At first, it was a pleasant sort of heat. She replayed that afternoon, which had started out so perfectly. She was having fun driving, minding her own business, clearing her mind. Then this guy in a Shelby chased after her. It happened often enough. She was able to dust most of the morons after a turn or two, but this guy was damn good. He followed her through the twists and turns and chased her past the tractor, missing the semi by inches. He was having as much fun as she was, she could feel it. And he had a great smile once he let it go. Right up to his eyes. But then she felt the heat in her face sour to anger. He’d set her up. Once he found out she was a student, he’d peeled out and ditched her. No warning, nothing. He’d set her up and then put her on notice in front of the whole class. One strike already. Slammer may be a MiG killer, but he was a douche bag as far as she was concerned.
She selected the next chapter in the syllabus—Landing Gear—and clicked “Start,” mashing the button on the mouse a little more emphatically than required. The monotonous female voice began her recitation, inducing immediate drowsiness. They were in their first week of CAIs, Computer-Aided Instructions, and it was pure tedium. This part of the program was supposedly self-paced. They had three weeks to complete the CAIs and they could come and go as they pleased. But no one wanted to be last, so as usual, they balanced speed against accuracy. Once you felt like you knew enough about a subject to pass the test, you gave it a shot. But if you missed too many questions and failed, you highlighted
yourself with the instructors in a decidedly negative way. Standard shit with this crowd. Even breathing was a competition.
She yanked her attention back to the lecture, grimacing when she realized that three slides had slipped by without her having absorbed a single detail. She was about to back click when the classroom door opened and in walked Rhodes. Dusty. Silvers smiled. Not a bad call sign. She evaluated the other woman with a couple of quick glances as Rhodes strolled the room looking for an empty cubicle. A little taller than average, trim. Straight black hair cut shoulder length. Attractive but low maintenance. Points for that. She moved well, looked fit. Clear skin, high cheekbones. Kind of elegant, but not delicate.
Dusty spotted the seat next to her and walked over. Silvers looked up and smiled as she pulled off her earphones. “Hey, I’m Keely Silvers,” she said, extending her hand for a shake.
Dusty returned a contained smile and reached out her own hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Lexi. Dusty, I guess. For now.” She glanced down at the bag on the seat at the empty desk. “Someone sitting here?”
“You!” Silvers said, collecting her bag. “Let’s get this crap over with so we can get back in the sky. It’s been a couple months since I flew and it’s starting to make me itchy.” Dusty nodded in agreement though Silvers sensed she was being humored. She was slowly learning that not everyone loved to fly as much as she did and it still surprised her.
“Thanks.” Dusty sat, scooted in, and gave her a quick nod as she reached for her own mouse. Not one for small talk, check, Silvers mused turning back to her own monitor, now twenty or thirty slides ahead. Ugh.
An hour later she finally muscled through the landing gear lecture. She’d poised the cursor over the link for the test when she noticed Pig shambling for the door. At first she thought he was going to pop out for a quick smoke, but he’d picked up his helmet bag and car keys. He was heading out. She had noticed he was the first out the door yesterday, and he was even earlier today. As he swung the door open she threw down her headset, giving chase.
She caught up two steps down the passageway. “Hey Pigpen! Wait up.”
He stopped, turning around. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. “What’s up Blondie? Wanna catch a smoke?”
“I don’t smoke, jackass,” she said, punching him in the shoulder. “You know that.”
“Okay, sorry. What’s up Keely Silvers?”
Now that she was standing in front of him she didn’t quite know how to begin. It wasn’t her intention to make him feel uncomfortable. This was a competitive group, but it wasn’t a competition. If he needed help, she wanted him to be able to ask.
“Hey man, I just noticed you were, you know, spending a lot of time away from here. Away from the computers.” She looked at him, waiting for him to jump in and help her.
“Yeah?” He stood stone-faced and unkempt, and a bit smelly.
She shuffled, uncertain how to proceed. It was a sink or swim atmosphere in Naval Aviation. You had to pull your own shit or get the hell out. There was no place for dead weight. But there was also a great sense of community, and if one of your brothers was having a hard time you always reached out to offer assistance. There were so many ways to not make it. So many pitfalls. She didn’t want to see one of them spit out if there was something she could do. “If you need some help with the Systems stuff, let me know Pig. I’m doing alright. We can go over it at the house. Grab a six-pack and crack the electrical diagrams or something.”
He cocked his head slightly, evaluating her. He glanced up and down the passageway then fixed her with his torpid gaze. “Seriously?”
She knew it. He must be foundering. From the first day of indoc to the academics of the F-18 training, the responsibilities piled on at a dizzying pace and it would only ratchet up from here. She had studied more in the last eighteen months than in all her days of college and high school combined. It was a grind, but she would double down if that’s what it took.
“Yeah, seriously.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Look Pig, we’re all in this together. You need my help today, I may need yours tomorrow. Let’s not flame out because we didn’t help each other.”
He gave her a searching look then picked her hand from his shoulder like he was removing a curious bug. “Silvers, you are a special breed. No question about it.” He pulled a pack of unfiltered Camels from his bag and smacked the bottom twice, releasing a stick from the tear on top. “I got a feeling we’re in for some fun.” He looked around again, making sure no one would overhear. “Alright, here’s the deal. I may not look it, but I’m about the smartest motherfucker you ever met. I pulled a Suma Cum Laude in Aerospace at Georgia Tech. The damn eggheads wanted me to go build these things instead of flying ’em. Can you imagine?” She shook her head slowly, stunned by the chasm between expectation and reality.
“I got this stuff down before lunch yesterday. I’m just marking time, waiting for the rest of you dipshits.”
Her eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You’re finished?”
“Nah. I’ll come in and take a test every day or so. I don’t want to make y’all look too bad.” He took the cigarette and tucked it into the corner of his mouth, “Now do you mind if I head out for a smoke and some barbecue? Then I got a hot yoga class at fourteen-hundred.” He reached into one of the many zippered pockets on his flight suit to remove his Zippo.
Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t help but visualize Pig in a downward dog sporting crumpled threadbare white boxers with a lighted Camel dangling from his mouth. “What? No. I’ll catch you back at the house.” She watched dazed as Pig sauntered down the hall flicking his lighter in anticipation of lighting up.
He looked back over his shoulder. “Just kidding, about the yoga. Give Moto a hug for me.” And he was gone.
She walked slowly back into the Academics Room trying with limited success to purge the hideous yoga visual from her brain. Dusty was packing up her things now. Crap, was she the only stupid one in the whole class? “You done too?”
Dusty shook her head. “God, no. I just need a break from that woman’s voice. You’d think they could have a dude narrating for us.” Dusty must have noticed the distracted expression on her face. “You alright?”
Silvers shook her head to clear it, internally rectifying “smart” Pig with the grossly erroneous impression she’d had of him for the past two years. “Yeah, fine.” She nodded toward the door. “You want to grab some lunch?”
Dusty shook her head. “Maybe later. I’m heading up to Mission Planning to get a head start on the tactics stuff.”
Silvers brightened immediately. “Now that sounds lots more exciting than the inner workings of the landing gear. Mind if I tag along?” She leaned over the keyboard to log off before Dusty could object. She had a feeling she was going to have to do the driving in this relationship.
Mission Planning was upstairs, on the second deck of the hangar, deep in the warren of passageways and offices surrounding the heart of the aviator’s work spaces—the Ready Room. It was protected by a blast-proof door and a cipher lock. Inside there were a number of computers and an IS—an enlisted Information Specialist who assisted the students and ensured no one walked off with any sensitive hard drives. The girls sat at their stations, logged on, and began to read. She selected the Topgun Manual, digging into the article on 1v1 Dogfighting with relish. Other than the ever present IS sitting at his desk like an acolyte tending the oracle, she and Dusty were the only two in the room. It was as quiet as a morgue and almost as cold. The silence was punctuated by the occasional whir of a hard drive and the gentle click of fingers on keyboards. The world outside bled through the cinderblock walls in gentle murmurs of conversation from the nearby offices and the ever-present rumbling roar of jets in the pattern. Then the ruckus began and the girls’ eyes met, studies forgotten as they listened to the mayhem leaking in beneath the door.
Not fifteen feet down the hall, Slammer and Truck were seated at their desks clacking away on their
own computers, catching up on the endless documentation demanded by one of the largest bureaucracies on the planet. Chewie walked in, a hangdog look on his face.
“What’s up?” Slammer asked, eyebrows raised.
“Slammer, brother of mine, I just wanted to apologize for ruining your birthday night. The whole jacket thing. Sorry man. I wasn’t thinking. That girl was so hot she made me lose my mind.”
Slammer had almost forgotten the recent failed birthday celebration at the Atlantis. The guys had dragged him to the strip club and events proceeded as expected, until Chewie’d flung his flight jacket at the beautiful redhead dancing onstage. She’d spun around, somehow putting on the jacket and tossing him her black leather bra in one graceful movement. Chewie had danced around like he’d won the lottery.
Truck leaned back in his chair, a big smile spreading on his face. “Well, tell him,” he boomed in his deep bass voice.
Chewie looked from Truck to Slammer and back again, like a dog following a tennis ball. “Tell me what?”
Slammer’s jaw tightened a bit. The sight of the redhead in the flight jacket had set him off and he’d had to get out of there. Immediately. But he didn’t really want to talk about it.
Finally he cracked a slightly forced grin. “Don’t sweat it, Chewie. Best thing ever.”
Chewie looked askance at his friends, feral instincts wary of a trap. “Dude, I’m sorry. Seriously. I’ll wash your car, whatever. Let it go.”
Truck barked a laugh. “Just tell him.”
“Tell me what, dammit!”
“He hooked up with her, Chewie,” Truck jumped in. “Because of you.”
“Who? The smokin’ redhead on stage? Fuck off.”
Slammer shrugged his shoulders, leaning into his computer.
“You hooked up with Candy, with the red fucking hair?” moaned Chewie bug-eyed.
“She prefers Candace. Sweet girl. I ran into her when I went back to find you guys. I was going to catch up but you’d already bolted. No big deal.”
Lions of the Sky Page 4
