Ten minutes later Silvers looked at the scoreboard and muttered, “Holy crap.” The instructors had already lost Eagle and Truck was visibly frustrated. She stood close by as Dingle stepped up to the table to defend. She was next so she shadowed him from the edge of the circle of bodies. JT served and she watched as Dingle deftly grabbed the cue ball after the errant shot and coolly sized up his options. Well done, Dingle. Looking up, she noticed that Truck was stranded on the opposite end of the table. Dingle waited for the 8 ball as it rolled his way in the general vicinity of the corner pocket by his right hip. She knew he needed it to trickle just a little closer, just a moment more. Then he would smack it into the pocket and take Truck’s last life.
She watched what unfolded next in what seemed like slow motion. Truck snorted like a bull that has been cut and nicked and frustrated by the slippery matador. He lowered his head and charged around the corner, steam practically billowing from his nostrils. She cried “Dingle! Watch out,” as the 8 ball drifted obligingly toward the corner pocket. Dingle either ignored her or never heard the warning. He cocked his arm to shoot just as Truck turned the corner and lowered his shoulder. It looked to her as if Dingle’s limbs turned liquid, and she followed his body as it flew through the air like a crash test dummy without a seatbelt before slamming full force into Beet and knocking most of the ref’s beer onto his chest. Dingle slid to the floor.
Beet wiped the beer from his face. “That’s a life!” He reached his mug out into space. “Fill me up before I make it two,” he announced to no one in particular.
She again hurried over with a pitcher, filling him to the brim as someone crossed out Dingle’s second life. She and Moto helped Dingle to his feet and she sent him on his way with a pat on the butt. “You alright?” He nodded and she laughed, rolling her eyes. “Oh Jesus. Get back in line and suck it up. We got ’em just where we want ’em.”
She turned back to the table. Slammer, his team’s next defender, was waiting for her and her smile melted away. He placed the 8 ball in its spot at the far end of the table as Chewie picked up the cue. “You ready, Silvers?” Chewie shouted over the din. She glanced at Slammer, two short steps away. He gave her a tight-lipped smile and raised an eyebrow, stopping just shy of licking his chops. The moment Chewie’s shot hit the 8 ball, Slammer was going to plow her into the wall. She scanned the blackboard. His first two lives were crossed out but she still had two remaining; they’d be tied once he finished with her. He’d been waiting patiently to get revenge for the knuckle shot; this was going to hurt. Her only hope was to grab the cue quickly, chuck it like a hot potato and pray it made contact. If it did, it was his turn to shoot and she could bug out of the melee. If it didn’t…
She looked at Chewie and nodded. “Ready.”
The word was barely out of her mouth when the cue streaked across the felt, hitting the 8 ball with a crack like a .45 going off. The 8 ball ricocheted wildly around the table in a black blur, but the cue took a weird hop and bounced over her outstretched hand into the crook of her elbow. She fumbled to grasp it, no chance for a quick shot now. She heard Slammer’s heavy footfall and instinctively she ducked low. She felt him flash over the top, a finger dragging across the flight suit stretched tight across her back, and then she heard him groan as he thudded to the floor.
She took off running toward the opposite end and felt a bubble of laughter well up inside her. Glancing back over her shoulder she saw he was upright again on the other side, feet scrambling for purchase like a cartoon character. Damn he was fast. As she turned around she tripped on a leg sticking out from the crowd. She went from sprinting full speed to horizontal, both arms extended like she was expecting to take flight. She heard the spectators explode in protest but Beet, who was stationed on the other side of the table barked, “I didn’t see it, it never happened!”
She landed hard and tumbled like a ninja, springing to her feet holding the cue with her left hand. She still had a step on Slammer but as she turned the corner he was coming fast, straight at her. The 8 ball was rolling so slowly that Beet was leaning over it, holding his penalty rag up high, waiting to declare a dead ball. She whipped the cue backhand in the general direction of the eight ball and leaned back, bracing for impact, sliding on her knees as Slammer thudded into her.
When Slammer had placed the 8 ball in front of Silvers, their eyes had met briefly as she realized he was next to block her. On her face he saw the dawning realization that the next few moments weren’t going to go well. She would be a defenseless target.
He suppressed a smirk and thought; not for the first time, that this game was nothing but a government-sanctioned Fight Club for adrenaline junkies. They needed this fix, this jolt, this injection of intensity, like a crackhead needs a hit. Feeling Silvers’ gaze upon him, he looked down at his sore hand and flexed it, noting the lump she’d given him. It would be the size and hue of a Robin’s egg when he woke tomorrow.
It felt great to be alive.
Then the cue cracked loudly into the 8 ball and he lunged forward into action. His eyes were focused on Silvers’ right shoulder. He’d ease up just before impact. He didn’t want to hurt the girl. He coiled, sprang and—nothing. He could feel the shock on his face as he sailed over her, looking down at her tousled golden crown, his finger tracing his trajectory across the taught material of the flight suit on her back, skipping over the bump of her spine. The breath was blasted from his lungs, painfully, as he belly flopped onto the linoleum, sliding to an abrupt stop against the boots of the spectators.
He scrambled to his feet and saw her tearing counter-clockwise around the table toward the far end. He took off in the opposite direction but it was hopeless. Then he heard the crowd roar as he ran behind Beet, looking over just in time to see Silvers regain her feet and turn the corner, her face glowing with the same addict’s grin that was his own. He glanced at the 8 ball; it was slowing to a creep. If she was going to lose a life, he had to charge her now so she didn’t have a chance to aim. He reached out his right hand and grasped the corner pocket, using it to pivot him 90 degrees at full speed and there she was. Wham! He crashed into her just as she blindly whipped the cue with her left hand.
She crumpled under him like she’d been shot, collapsing onto her back, her head bouncing hard off the linoleum. He landed on top of her, straddling her, sitting on her abdomen with his arms to either side of her head. Shit, he’d hit her harder than he meant to.
She hadn’t opened her eyes since her head struck the floor but he could feel the rapid rhythm of her heart beating under him, so at least she wasn’t dead. There was no movement beneath her lids and her mouth was parted slightly. There was a childhood scar on her chin that promised a good story. If she ever woke up, maybe he’d ask her about it. A drop of sweat dripped from the end of his nose onto her face and she flinched.
“I told you I’d get you, Silvers,” he said, trying to goad her into speaking, or at least opening her eyes. The crowd gasped and he looked up. Everyone was staring at the table. Somehow, the cue found the 8 ball.
Silvers’ eyes snapped open. “Guess I hit it anyway.”
Slammer smiled with relief. “Guess you did. You alright?” He examined her face, inspecting every feature for a sign of trauma, trying not to show the concern he was feeling.
He was searching for something to say, not in any hurry to stand up, when suddenly the crowd erupted again. He heard Beet proclaim “Hell of a lucky shot, Silvers. Life on Slammer!”
Truck grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and heaved him to his feet, his deep bass voice booming in Slammer’s ear. “That’s three buddy, you’re out.”
HOB rushed over, reaching down a hand to Silvers. “That was quick, Silvers. Nice work.”
Slammer grasped her other hand and together they pulled her to her feet. “Quick Silvers…” Slammer nodded in appreciation, looking at HOB. “Now, that’s a good one.” He looked at Silvers, holding out his hand for a shake. “Hell of a shot, Quick.” She beamed and
shook his hand as if she was accepting an award.
“Thanks,” she said. The handshake continued a couple of beats longer than necessary, and he noticed some color rise to her cheeks.
HOB clapped her on the back. “Damn, Silvers. If I was a girl, I’d want to be just like you.”
Slammer felt both gratitude and irritation as HOB diffused the moment with laughter. Her grip loosened suddenly, as if she’d remembered she wasn’t particularly fond of him and she pulled her hand away and rubbed it on the leg of her flight suit.
He still felt the warmth of her hand in his, though. Shaking off the sensation he said, “HOB, you earned your call sign and so did she. Call her what she is. Quick. And Quick, come buy me a beer after Truck’s and my boys are done whooping you students.” He turned and made his way through the throng to the bar, working hard to keep the silly grin off his face.
A short while later his mood had swapped ends and he wasn’t entirely sure why. The newly minted Quick Silvers dropped into an open seat beside him with a Cheshire cat grin on her face. “I take it you guys won?”
She nodded.
“Well then, I owe you a beer, don’t I, Quick?”
“Yes you do, thanks. And thanks for the great call sign. Is it for real? Official?” He could see her trying not to appear too excited about the possibility. It really was a great call sign. Maybe better than she deserved.
But for tonight at least, she’d earned it. Time would tell if it was a mistake. He nodded. “Yup. I’ll get the new patch made tomorrow. It’s official.” He caught Lori’s eye and held up two fingers. She acknowledged and went about her intricate ballet, taking orders, vainly attempting to satisfy the unslakable thirst of her patrons. “Hell of a shot, by the way.” He turned to look at Quick. “Glad you’re alright. I thought I’d at least broken a rib.”
“I’m tougher than I look.”
He nodded, saying nothing, which seemed to make her bristle. He took a sip and tried to ignore her. Maybe a little unsportsmanlike, since his team had lost and he was obligated to buy her a beer. Whatever. He wasn’t in the mood for chitchat.
Quick could easily sense that Slammer wasn’t in the mood for company, at least not hers. Lori arrived a moment later with her prize and Quick grabbed the beer and stood to leave.
Then, out of the blue, Slammer turned her way and spoke. “Hey, Quick.”
“Yeah?” She leaned in, trying to hear him over the crush of music and background chatter.
“What the hell are you doing here?” His tone was even.
“What do you mean?” She looked around the Club, then at the stool she had occupied, confused and defensive. “I… you told me to find you. Losers buy…”
“No. Why are you in my Navy?”
She scanned his face looking for a hint of malice. “You asking because you really want to know or because you want to give me shit?”
“I actually want to know. Honest.”
She took a pause to get to the right place, beating down a jumble of alarm bells blaring in the back of her consciousness. His face looked open enough. “When I was a little girl…”
“I like the sound of this already,” he murmured, bringing the bottle to his lips.
“Shut up.” She smiled. “Seriously, when I was a kid…”
Slammer waved his free hand, stopping her. “Blah, blah, blah this little kid bullshit. If you don’t know what I’m asking, then you’re wasting both of our time.” He repeated his question in a staccato monotone. “Why. Are. You. Here. Now. That little kid crap evaporates the second we sit in a real ejection seat.”
She nodded. There were answers you could give to a reporter, or family and friends. And then there were sentiments only those in this elite cadre could relate to. But she’d never been asked. Never been in the cadre. “Look, I don’t know if I can explain it, if it makes any sense. There’s things I just feel.”
“Try me.”
“Okay.” She sucked in a deep breath and took her stool again. “I mean, just climbing in. Sitting on the seat and having the plane captain strap me in. It’s nothing like getting into a car and buckling up. It’s like, like it…” She hunted for words to do justice to the feeling.
“Becomes a part of you? Like another limb?” he finished her thought. She smiled, moving along more confidently.
“Yes. It’s crazy. I know it’s crazy. But I feel it every time. And, stupid stuff, like cloud surfing. Nobody knows what that’s like. Zipping along at five hundred knots over those wispy white peaks and valleys. It’s like a dream. Or punching through an undercast on a full-moon night going straight up. Man it’s like exploding into a whole different universe, going from absolute blackness to looking down at…”
“A silver moonlit blanket far as you can see?” he finished without a hint of mockery.
“Right.” She smiled. “It’s amazing. Nobody knows, right?” He nodded and she switched gears. “You know that feeling when you’re taking off, or flying slow and you plug in full burners? When the motors are fighting to suck in all that air and turn it into power? That incredible deep rumble in your gut? It’s what I live for. It’s the juice.”
He finally cracked a small smile. “I don’t think I can live without it. Speed is life. We can both agree on that.”
She nodded, contemplating his smile. For some reason it made her happy.
“You know, just because you love to go fast and fly jets, it doesn’t make you a fighter pilot.”
She slowly lowered her beer to the bar, feeling like she’d just been punched in the gut. Why, why, why had she said all those things? Why hadn’t she just heeded the alarms and left him alone? She stood, yearning for the safety of the crowd, wanting to melt away, silently berating herself and trying not to show the hurt.
“Wait.” There was an urgency in his voice that gave her pause.
“I don’t want to talk anymore. I just want to be with my friends.”
“I’ve never said this before, but I should have. At least once.” She waited, leaning away from him poised for flight. “I feel sorry for naturals, Quick. Everything comes so easy for them. For you.” He paused, as if he were fighting the urge to hold back.
“That’s it?” she asked, her face a mask.
Slammer shook his head. “Sometimes the naturals don’t realize how hard you have to work when things go bad. And they always go bad. You’re an amazing pilot. Probably better than I am on some level. It’s a gift from above. It’s really fun for you and it’s fun to watch you too. You’re a natural. The plane loves you. But what kind of a warrior are you? That’s a different thing, and I have my doubts. That’s all I wanted you to know.”
She stared at him, trying to decipher what the hell he had meant. “Is this about me being a girl?” she asked, reaching for the only conclusion that made any sense. Slammer didn’t answer.
Something inside her ignited and she asked, “Are you trying to tell me I’m a great pilot…for a girl?” He didn’t move a muscle, not even the smallest shrug.
Quick pushed herself back from the bar and glared at Slammer, trying to process his implications and warnings, and her own feeling about being here, about strapping on these great planes. What did he want her to do, just leave? Who the fuck did he think he was?
Finally she managed to speak, condensing myriad competing thoughts into a question. “If you, Slammer,” she pointed her finger straight at his heart, “you were in my shoes, what would you do?” She locked onto his eyes, daring him to answer. “What would you do? Would you quit just because a bunch of assholes think you smell too nice to play in their sandlot?”
She waited for him to answer but he didn’t take the bait. Her nose was inches from his, her jaw clenched. She wanted, more than anything, to throw a punch.
Finally she snapped her head away in annoyance, her hair whipping like the tail of a horse. “You know what I mean. You know what I feel. I love to fly. This is where I belong. If you don’t like it, kick me out.” She leaned in even tighte
r. “But quit being such an asshole.”
Two fresh beers arrived and she grabbed one. She took a long draught, slammed the bottle hard onto the bar, and strode away as it foamed over.
Chapter 12
21 January
Virginia Beach, Virginia
Slammer sat uneasily across from his boss as Jimmy Mac poked the mountain of paperwork covering his desk. “Can you believe this crap?” the CO groaned. “I’ve got to mow through all this junk before they let me fly.”
Slammer nodded. He admired the man because he could balance the crush of administrative duties required to run a squadron with sixty planes at 60 million a pop, a hundred instructors, a hundred and fifty students and over four hundred enlisted personnel. He was a master at fighting entropy, keeping all the disparate parts moving more or less in the same direction. But at his heart he was just a fighter pilot looking forward to his next hop.
“Skipper, I’ve got a question.”
He watched Jimmy Mac sigh then lean back into his chair as he lifted the reading glasses to the top of his head. “Yeah, I know. You want to leave now. Rotate to the Fleet.”
How the hell did Jimmy Mac know? Since the crud game and its aftermath he’d decided he was done with the NKR bullshit. This class was driving him crazy, and maybe JT too. He longed for the purity of a fighter squadron at sea. A squadron of his choosing. “Sir, there’s a squadron leaving in a month. They need a couple senior guys on their team. I figured JT could steer the class the rest of the way. They’re pretty much on cruise control at this point.” He felt a twinge of guilt for the slight exaggeration.
He noticed Jimmy Mac perk up, looking away toward his office door. A moment later the sharp clacking of woman’s heels could be heard echoing in the corridor. No one wore anything but flight boots here, except for Mandy Parker, the squadron Intelligence Officer.
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