Chewie stood, leaning both hands on the desk, bending his arms to get eye level. “No big deal? How do you do that? Strippers, especially hot ones, are part of the unattainable class. Like hot waitresses and hot bartenders and, and, and…”
“Hot massage therapists?” Truck offered.
Chewie snapped upright, pointing an emphatic finger at Truck. “Yes! Hot massage therapists. Thank you, Truck.”
Truck shook his head. “Your mind is a dark, frightening place.”
“It is not,” Chewie sat back down, exasperated. “It’s a happy, fun place.” The WSO turned to look at Slammer, a mixture of sadness and admiration in his eyes. “Where do you get such powers?”
“She felt sorry for me, buddy. All my friends bailed on me. It was my birthday. Her shift was over. It was dinnertime and we were hungry. What can I say? It just worked out.”
“What just worked out?” JT asked as he entered the room.
“Slammer hooked up with Candy.” Chewie flung his hands in the air in resignation. “Just like that, like it’s no big deal.”
“Candace,” Slammer corrected.
JT scanned the room, looking for a clue from the other three. “Candace who?”
“Candy, from the Atlantis?” Chewie stood up again. “Slammer’s birthday? My jacket? Jesus, JT.”
JT looked at Slammer and raised an eyebrow. “Nice. How’d you manage to nail a stripper?”
“Easy boys, nobody nailed anybody. We just ate dinner. Simmer down, Chewie. And she’s not a stripper. Exotic dancer.”
Truck snorted. “What’s the fucking difference?”
“A stripper just takes off her clothes,” Slammer explained, as if reciting a line he’d just learned. “Candace is a dancer. No nudity. Though there may be tiny pasties involved.”
“Well, she looked pretty nude to me! Under my flight jacket.”
“Oh yeah. That reminds me, she needs the leather bra back, buddy.”
Chewie furrowed his brow. “I don’t have it. Why would she say that?”
Slammer put his hand on Chewie’s shoulder. “She saw you stuff it in your pocket, stud.”
Chewie sat with a thump, defeated. “Fine.”
“What, are you building a collection? Who stuffs stripper clothes in their pockets?” said JT.
“Don’t ask. Please.” Truck held up a warding hand. “It’s time for lunch and you’re gonna kill my appetite.” Truck logged out of his computer and stood. Slammer did the same.
JT opened the door and the four spilled out into the passageway just down the hall from Mission Planning. Truck muscled his jacket over his broad shoulders as he exited the office. It was adorned with dozens of embroidered patches, testaments to missiles he’d fired or deployments to faraway lands, each reflecting another dimension of his experience. He looked both ways down the hall before speaking. “I like my strippers without jackets, and my pilots without tits.”
Slammer was in his element now, relishing the twin roles of devil’s advocate and instigator. “Seems pretty judgmental, coming from you.” He reached a finger and rubbed Truck’s cheek as if trying to wipe away his ebony pigment. JT and Chewie howled while Truck swiped at his hand.
“Bullshit Slammer, race and gender are two separate issues. Women have not cut it in combat. Simple fact. And keep your damn finger off my face.”
Slammer grinned. He didn’t necessarily disagree, but it was too much fun poking Truck. “And not every swinging dick is the Red Barron, either.”
Chewie jumped in again. “Seriously, Slammer? You of all people should know. It’s a failed experiment.”
Slammer grabbed Chewie around the shoulders and leapt onto his back, buckling the little man at the knees. Chewie was an ironic call sign; he was the inverse of the massive Chewbacca. Wire-rimmed glasses and a slight frame gave him the appearance of an accountant in a Halloween costume.
“We let you play, despite your girlish figure, Chewbacca. You afraid of competition from some actual ladies?”
Despite his lanky build, Chewie was scrappy and Slammer received a sharp elbow to the sternum for his efforts. He rolled off the WSO onto the floor.
Chewie straightened, standing tall as he could, trying to generate as much gravitas as possible. “Look, it’s not like I believe a woman’s place is in the kitchen or anything like that…”
“Let me make it clear I do not want to know where you think a woman’s place is,” Truck said, cutting him off.
Slammer raised a hand to JT, who pulled him to his feet again. He was hovering between pissed off at Chewie for bringing up the Robin situation, and enjoying the hell out of tweaking him. “Let me guess, it involves chains and/or straps.”
“May I? Please?” Chewie held his hands out like a crossing guard trying to control traffic, a final attempt to quell the rabble. “Let’s face it man. This hasn’t worked. I mean, this is aerial-fucking-combat. Shit happens at 1400 miles an hour.” He waved his arms at the guys around him. “We dudes have been playing war games our whole lives.”
He was so serious, so intense, so out of character that the other three just couldn’t tolerate it further. “When you say ‘we dudes,’ you including yourself, too?” Truck asked.
“Shut the fuck up. We’re just genetically designed to do this shit. You can’t change it. Not with the stroke of a pen. It ain’t ever going to work.”
Slammer nodded slowly, “Now that I think about it, we got it all backwards. The more chicks in the Navy, the more chance Chewie has of finally getting some ass.”
JT put his hand on Chewie’s back like a concerned friend. “Has been a dry spell, hasn’t it?”
Chewie’s shoulders sagged and Slammer sensed him accept there was no chance of a serious discussion. The WSO sighed, then a smirk made its way to his face. “Okay, why don’t we do this? I’ll bang each chick coming through.”
“Sort of an initiation,” Slammer said. “I love it.”
“Damn, I love it too. If they can make it though you, they can survive anything,” Truck said. “Good call, Slammer.”
The humor, if there’d been any to begin with, landed badly, missed a turn and skidded well off the runway. Slammer turned abruptly and retreated down the hallway.
JT, as usual, was by his side, “Lunch?”
Slammer shrugged him off, suddenly disgusted with himself, his buddies, and the whole goddamned problem. “I’ll catch you later, boys,” he said. “I’m going for a drive.”
Inside Mission Planning the two women and the IS listened to the sound of voices and thumping boots fading down the passageway. Silvers felt something wash out of her, like dirty bathwater draining at her feet. She felt, at first, spent and empty. Then adrift, a raft whose line had been cut in a heavy wind. That untethered feeling was rapidly replaced by a fury starting low and burning all the way to her face, sizzling the sorrow and pity like a snowflake in a furnace and setting a fire she felt all the way up to her cheeks.
She stood abruptly, ejecting the chair from behind her in her haste. It clattered to the floor, the sound echoing violently around the stark space. She logged out with angry keystrokes then grabbed her helmet bag. On the other side of the table Dusty was also on her feet, a stony look of acceptance on her face like a person who’d just been told she had terminal cancer, merely confirming her worst expectations. Together they turned to the IS.
He waved both hands in front of himself as he shook his head, trying to distance himself from the words that had infiltrated his orderly, secure space. “I just work here. Leave me out of it.”
Silvers snorted in disgust and headed for the exit, searching for a target to direct her fury against. Dusty blew past her saying “Follow me.”
They punched out and Silvers trailed Dusty through a series of passageways until they reached a stairwell. Dusty closed the door behind them and held a finger to her lips. Silence. Then she pointed to a metal ladder affixed to the wall. It was painted emergency red and lead far up into the cavernous darkness above. Dus
ty grabbed the sides of the ladder and scrambled up.
Silvers leapt up the ladder in pursuit, following Dusty though an open hatch. She found herself squinting against the glare of the afternoon sunlight on the flat roof of the massive hangar. The two pilots crunched to a stop against a low wall.
“I can’t believe that bullshit!” Silvers exploded, unable to contain herself any longer. “I thought we were done with all that, that crap.”
From their vantage point, the vastness of the Oceana Air Station was visible in its entirety. The control tower lorded over dozens of hangars, each housing a squadron of F-18s. Flight lines were laid out in front with jets arranged in orderly rows. Taxiways led to the long black ribbons of the asphalt runways, and beyond an expanse of short green grass stretched away to the line of pines marking the distant edge of the airfield boundary.
“This is the boy’s club of all boy’s clubs.” Dusty sounded tired and worn. “From what I’ve heard there’s less than thirty of us who are flying fighters in the whole Navy. Even after all these years we’re still interlopers.”
Silvers nodded as she toed the gravel with her boot. “I know. But I figured, hey, I’m a damn good pilot, right? And that’s what they respect, a good stick.”
Dusty’s half-smile was sad and wry. “Unfortunately, you don’t have the right kind of stick.” She looked back over the runways and continued, “It’s always been like this. If they don’t let you in, you have to make it so they can’t kick you out. Take the fight to them, if you know what I mean.”
Silvers watched with a twinge of envy as a Gladiator crew walked out and manned up. The Rhino’s engines whined to life while the plane captain stood a few yards in front of the nose guiding the pilot through the ritual of pre-flight checks. The wings spread, the flaps extended, the pilot initiated the on-board test that sent the flight controls into a programmed frenzy of twitches and shivers, ensuring the many digital systems were communicating properly. The hook dropped and subjected itself to inspection, retracting as the plane’s inertial navigation system completed its alignment.
The pilot gave a thumbs-up to the plane captain and the wheel chocks were removed. The pitch of the engines rose slightly as power was added, setting the fighter rolling slowly forward. The nose dipped gracefully as the brakes were tapped, testing them within the security of the flight line before being released for the freedom of the runways.
A welling sense of empowerment started to fill the void of Silvers’ dissipating anger. “We’ll just have to be so damn incredible they have no choice.”
“Yeah.” Dusty was still staring out over the field. “But sometimes even that isn’t enough.”
Silvers felt a bond crystallize between them. A sense of shared precariousness. “Hey, at least we’re in this together. You watch my back, I’ll watch yours. We’ll make it through together. Deal?”
Silvers sensed the brunette studying her, taking her measure. Then Dusty held out a hand and she grasped it. “Deal,” Dusty said.
Chapter 5
23 October
Southern Theater Command
Guangzhou, China
The commando sat alone in the General’s office contemplating his bleak future. He was in full uniform perched on a straight-backed chair facing an empty desk. The stiff cloth was unfamiliar and restraining and the discomfort adding to his unease. He wondered what he could have done differently to have prevented this inquiry. The door opened and he stood abruptly. General Yongsheng strode briskly into the room unaccompanied by his usual entourage of aides, and the commando was face to face with the youngest theater commander in China’s history.
“Biédòngduì, please forgive me. I will not be offering you tea today, but I mean no offense.” The commando was caught off guard by the comment, nearly forgetting to bow. “Please, be seated, we have only a moment.” He sat, wise enough to not speak. The General continued, “I wanted to personally congratulate you on the success of the mission. The results were precisely as desired.”
The commando nodded. He studied the general as the man sat behind his large lacquered desk, remarkably clear of paperwork or personal touches. It was bare but for a computer and a large phone with many buttons. The General was on the tall side, well fed, his hair slicked straight back. He wore very few medals and decorations on his uniform, which was a rare understatement.
“I understand you voiced concerns about some details in the planning stage?” the General asked. There it was; he had been far too vocal about the brazen stupidity of the Spratly mission. He was a dead man. If he must die, let the truth be on his lips.
“It was not how I would have chosen to achieve the objective, sir.”
The General regarded him for a few moments. Finally, he spoke. “I understand this, and accept your concerns.” He stood, walking from behind his desk. “The issue is, you assumed you understood the objectives.”
The commando’s heart raced as the General circled behind him, standing very close. His tongue was thick as he responded, “Yes, sir.”
“I have a few more excursions that will require your special skills. I will need to discuss them with you directly.” The General slipped a mobile phone over the commando’s shoulder and it slid into his lap.
The commando forced his breathing to be regular, grasping the phone like a life preserver. “Yes, sir. I have the most capable team in the PLA. We will not fail.”
“No, you are no longer leading your team. Only you.” He heard the General’s footsteps move toward the door. “I will provide the missions, and the details. There may be further discrepancies between your vision and my plan, but be sure, the details will match perfectly with my objective.” The commando heard the door open.
“Good day Biédòngduì.”
And the door closed again.
Virginia Beach, Virginia
Slammer regarded himself uncomfortably in the mirror. Steely gray clouds tossed angry sheets of rain against the bedroom window as he dressed for the night out with a care brought from lack of practice. It was easy to dress for work—just jump into a flight suit then head out the door. When he went out with the boys he wore a T-shirt and jeans, maybe a sweater if it was fancy. There were no choices involving color coordination or tie patterns.
But tonight was different. He was going out with a lady, just the two of them. No bar atmosphere or drinks or music to hide behind. It was dinner. A proper date, of sorts. He unwrapped a shirt his mother had given him last Christmas and gave it a good shake. It looked nice enough, buttons and patterns, but the deep creases from its ten-month confinement stubbornly refused his manual smoothing. He glanced at the closet wondering briefly if he might dig up the iron he vaguely knew he owned. Hell with it, he pulled the shirt over his head, ignoring the buttons but for the one at the collar.
“Fuck!” He ripped the shirt off and peered inside, rubbing a red spot on his collarbone. A silvery pin winked in the recesses and he swore again as he gingerly hunted though the shirt for others as if he were sweeping for mines. “Who the hell needs fifty pins to fold a shirt?” Finally ready, he did a once over in the mirror to ensure there were no glaring alarms. The folds were far less noticeable once he was actually stuffed in the shirt. Jeans are jeans, he thought. And the shoes were nice, his one concession to fashion.
Thirty minutes later he hurried out of the rain into a warm, dimly lit Italian restaurant in Ghent, a cool, eclectic neighborhood in Norfolk. His date was already seated and her face brightened as he approached.
“Hi Sam. You look great. Nice shirt.” She laughed, clearly happy to see him.
“Hi Mom.” He leaned down to peck her cheek. Despite the fact they lived a half hour apart, and spoke on the phone weekly, their schedules made it difficult to get together. He braced himself for the predictable first question.
“So, are you seeing anyone I’d like?”
He removed his jacket, hanging it from the back of the chair as he sat, considering the answer. She was an unusual woman and it was
tough to surprise her, but he tried. “I had dinner with an exotic dancer on my birthday. You’d probably like her.”
“A stripper, very nice,” she responded with a smile. His mother was an attorney, a litigator. Impossible to knock off guard. “At this point I’ll take what I can get.” She reached across the table, taking hold of his hand. “A guy even, Sammy. I’d be happy enough if you brought a guy to dinner.”
It was at that point the waitress arrived, the words still hanging in the air. One look at Slammer’s face and the server jumped to his rescue. “You’ll be needing drinks immediately, I’m guessing?”
Slammer shook his head, amazed that this woman could still manage to pare him down to size. He let his mother order her glass of red wine first. Then, in the spirit of the evening, he ordered a Scotch, two cubes.
They chatted for a bit, catching up on the mundane until finally the drinks arrived. “To Dad. Happy birthday old man,” he toasted, and they tipped their glasses together. He took a small sip, feeling the heat hit the back of his throat and roll down to his stomach like an express elevator. He wasn’t convinced he liked the taste. It felt raw and smoky. But he noticed the effects almost instantly. The warmth spread from his belly to the tips of his fingers as the first shock melted through him. He didn’t remember much about his father, but the ritual of after dinner Scotch was vivid just from the smell.
“I know,” she said.
He swirled his glass again, listening for the cubes, squinted at her, fishing for what thread they were going back to.
“I know what’s eating away at you,” she supplied.
“Do tell.” He was familiar with this trick. He’d stopped falling for it in high school, in fact.
“Why don’t you tell me what you think it is, and I’ll let you know if you’re correct.” She was a lovely woman. Well-coifed and trim. She’d been a young mother and she was still attractive in her mid-fifties. He wondered, though never asked, why she had never married again. Never even dates after his father’s death, as far as he knew, and that had been a good fifteen years ago.
Lions of the Sky Page 5