Lions of the Sky

by Paco Chierici

  “He took me under his wing and I was super grateful. You couldn’t ask for a more perfect sea-daddy. Poor Dewey wore himself out trying to teach me how to be professional.”

  He took another sip of liquid courage. “We went out for one of my first Fleet low-levels with a really good friend of mine, Grady, in his back seat. We were cruising down a canyon toward a river valley. I turned first, and Dewey was in the turn on my right side. I remember thinking how cool it looked. That plane, planform against the cliff wall behind them, just a few feet off the water. Then I noticed the tip of their wing leaving a little wake on the mirror-smooth river.” His free hand flew along with the story. “For a second, I didn’t know what was happening, it looked so perfect, so deliberate. By the time I figured it out, it was too late. The wing finally caught and they cartwheeled, smashing apart, scattering pieces all over the river. One of the worst things I ever saw.”

  He shook his head. “I remember being so pissed at Dewey, wondering how he could have killed Grady. How could the Golden Boy have possibly fucked up that bad?

  “After a while, the only explanation that made sense to me was that Dewey was so good, he tripped himself up. He was reaching into my cockpit, making sure I didn’t dork anything up, while taking his own flying for granted. And Grady knew Dewey was the best in the business, so he wasn’t looking where he should. That one hurt, and it messed me up for a while.”

  He plunked another cube into his glass and splashed another dram on top. They were with him now; they would wait. “And this one hurts a lot as well. You all know JT was my brother. And he was damn good. I know he was because I logged a couple of hundred combat hours with him dodging missiles and blowing shit up. He saved my ass more than once.”

  He paused, looking down at his glass. “But maybe JT was trying to do too much, I don’t know. Maybe it’s like some of you have been saying. Maybe he fucked up.”

  He took another sip and placed the glass back on the table. “Here’s what I do know. If you dredged all the seas and oceans, you’d pull up hundreds and hundreds of wrecks. Hundreds of guys who bought the farm, ending up at the bottom. Some were war heroes or golden boys. Most were average shitheads like me and you. A few were total fuckups. But they all shared one thing with each other, and with us. For better or worse, they were part of the family.” He tapped his right hand over his heart. “They all wore wings of gold.”

  There were a few nods, and a bunch of scowls. You couldn’t heal everything with one drunken pep-talk, but there were some things that just had to be said. “We’re a funny bunch, Naval Aviators. We never feel more alive than when death’s chasing right behind us. And let’s be honest, that’s the way we like it.” He tipped his glass over to Skids and Tiny who were shoulder to shoulder, grinning like idiots. Skids slapped his arm around Tiny and they toasted each other. There was a low cheer from the Lions as they joined in the toast to two very lucky men.

  “More often than we’d like to admit though,” Slammer continued, “The devil gets his due. Right now I want you to join me in bidding farewell to one of our family.” He stood on the dining chair and lifted his glass. “To my brother and yours, save a seat for me in hell, JT. Blacklion forever.”

  The Lions raised their drinks again. “To JT!”

  He surveyed his little posse, feeling the anger that had festered at Dusty and JT froth up. “I get that you’re pissed. I’m pissed too. But I’m here to tell you no one in the world gives a shit. No one cares why JT died. No one gives two craps that you are distraught, what your personal feelings are about what went down, or that you have issues to deal with.”

  He reached back to the table, splashing more Scotch into his glass. “D.C. isn’t going to call in the reserves. The oilrig isn’t going to turn around because you’re having trouble sleeping at night.

  “You know who cares right now?” He swept his free hand across them. “The sum total is in this room. That’s it. Look to your left and right and know those are the only motherfuckers on this planet who give a shit if you make it through the next six months.”

  Quick was standing at the fringe of the crowd surrounding Slammer. She was caught up in the act with the rest of them, whooping and drinking at the appropriate pauses. She was squeezed in tight next to Lips who kept nodding and clinking bottles with her. She felt herself forgive JT a little bit as they all tipped their drinks back. It was a start. But not Dusty. Not now and maybe never.

  “So where do we go from here?” She almost cracked up when he spread his arms like a televangelist but she was dying to hear what he said. “In our business, speed is life. You can’t stop, you gotta keep moving forward or you’ll stall out.” She watched him tip his head back, draining his glass with a shudder then setting it on the table. She felt the Lions creep forward, compressing around her, closing in on Slammer.

  “Tomorrow we pull anchor and head out for who knows what. We’re probably going to poke holes in the sky for three months then sail home. But maybe not.”

  “We’ve got a contract in our community; I watch your six, you got mine. We aren’t shit without it. I’ve got to let JT, and all his baggage, go. Heave it overboard. Bury it at sea. Can you fuckers help me with that?” She felt herself grinning at the spectacle he was making of himself, yet nodding just the same. She looked around at all the rest. Some were grinning along with her, some seemed dubious.

  But they all gasped and laughed together as Slammer drunkenly climbed higher, placing one foot on each arm of the chair and swaying precariously like a jumper on a rooftop, fully embracing the melodrama. “We might get lucky though. We might just get into the biggest furball since the Battle of Britain.” He swayed toward her side and they all let out a bunch of whoa’s. She threw her hands up to catch him with the other guys, but he corrected to center and continued. “You all ready for that? I say bring it on. Launch every fucking Fulcrum in Asia and let the Blacklions sort ’em out.” Most were whooping now, proper fired up. There were some things they could all agree on.

  She watched Slammer gather himself, then leap like a rock star into the outstretched arms with a throaty yell. The force of his landing knocked Lips backwards over the couch, flipping him to the floor next to the stereo. Lips jacked up the volume as the Lions stomped together, joining their voices with Slammer’s. For now, at least, they were all willing congregants in this revival.

  A little while later she came out of the bathroom. The Lions were in a huge drunken knot, arm in arm and singing at the tops of their lungs. The stereo was cranking out Alive by Pearl Jam and they were loudly mumbling their way through the lyrics. Then the refrain hit and they screwed their eyes shut and bellowed all as one, “…hey ahh, ohh I’m still alive…” over and over. The only part of the song they could decipher, the only part they cared about. Slammer was in the middle of the scrum with his eyes closed and his head thrown back, his arms wrapped around the shoulders of the guys next to him, and theirs around him.

  Tomorrow she would leave all this, she thought, bounding over to add her voice to the chorus. Tonight she would sing.

  Chapter 7

  08 August

  Singapore

  Slammer woke on the couch to a shaft of light beaming through a fold in the curtain straight into his brain like a diamond-tipped drill.

  He lifted his head gingerly, surveying a scene of utter chaos in the dim light. The coffee table was overturned and every flat surface was littered with bottles and glasses. The couches were stripped of their cushions and pillows, which could be found under the victims scattered haphazardly across the floor. Bodies were strewn in every corner in unnatural poses, some wrapped in sheets, some in bath towels. A few were under the dining table and one was under the bar. A desk lamp lay on its side, providing the only illumination. The air reeked of stale booze and sweat.

  He wrinkled his nose at the funk as he climbed reluctantly to his feet, unable to resist the call of nature any longer, and picked his way through the mess to the master bathroom. It wa
s mercifully devoid of bodies. After what seemed like an hour, his stream ended and he flushed the toilet, making his way out the door.

  “Can you turn off the light please?” said a small female voice emanating from the bathtub.

  “Quick?” he said incredulously.

  Her head peeked slowly from under a dozen towels. She looked like hell. He chuckled then cringed as nails pounded into his eyes. “This is clearly your first port call. Never sleep in the tub. You’re lucky you didn’t get thrown up on.”

  She looked forlorn. “Did you?” he asked.

  She sat up, shaking her head. “No, but I think I heard every guy in this squadron piss. If they shoot missiles with the same aim, the whole world is screwed.”

  He laughed softly, sliding down the wall to sit on the cool tile floor across from her. “Next time, maybe consider under a desk.”

  She tilted her head, squinting in the bright overhead light. “There’s not going to be a next time. You were right. I’m no warrior.”

  He nodded slowly. “Somebody told me something recently. ‘You don’t know until you know, and then you’ve got to hope you do the right thing.’ I think if you walk away now, ten years from now you’ll be pissed.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve been fucking up. Dusty…”

  He cut her off. “You’re a nugget. Nuggets fuck up. Dusty was her own ball of crazy. Just because you two share a chromosome doesn’t mean squat.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Nuggets fuck up, Quick. Accept it.”

  Quick opened her mouth to speak but at that moment the door to the suite crashed open. Slammer jumped to his feet and entered the living room as Skipper Clam marched in, a gleam in his eye.

  The Skipper strode to the stereo, clicking it on, then to the curtains, whipping them open. All at once the suite was filled with blinding mid-day light and extremely loud Asian pop. Bodies twitched and groaned like zombies reluctantly reanimating.

  A little louder than he needed to, Clam shouted, “Let’s go Lions. The ship pulls out in two hours and we’ve got a date to keep. Let’s get a move on.”

  Slammer watched the zombies climb slowly and stiffly to their feet, bent in pain, squinting fiercely to block out the burning light. In groups of twos and threes they began to shuffle obediently out the door.

  “Howdy Skipper,” he croaked.

  “Good day to you, Slammer,” Clam barked cheerfully. Through the slits of his lids he could make out the time on the night table clock, which swung gently upside down by its cord. 13:30. Across the room, Quick exited the master bath, shedding the terrycloth hotel robe she was cocooned in. She still looked like hell, but she tossed a crooked smile their way as she walked by.

  Clam joined him as they walked through the living room, ushering the laggards to the exit. They watched together as Quick opened the closet, lugging out her two big duffel bags. She hefted one to her shoulder and was about to lift the other when Lips came over. “I got this one.” Lips swung it up, nearly buckling under the weight. “Jesus, Quick! What you got in here?”

  Slammer watched her smile weakly. “Just a few eveningwear options. Didn’t know which shoes to wear.”

  He and Clam heard Lips groan as the squadron mates walked to the door. “Holy fuck.”

  Clam looked at him, eyebrows raised. Slammer shook his head. “She’s a goner Skipper. It’s probably for the best.”

  Clam nodded curtly. “It’s probably for the best,” he affirmed impassively.

  Her head felt like an army of dwarves was trying to hammer their way out as she shuffled along the hall, listening to Lips prattle on as if he’d been sipping herbal tea all night. She considered clawing out his voice box but she didn’t have the energy.

  He carried on down the elevator, across the lobby, and all through the cab line. But he did lug her heavy bag the whole time, even helping her load it into the trunk of the taxi. She climbed in, gratefully anticipating the next few hours of silence. She almost groaned aloud when he plopped into the seat next to her. The cabbie turned to look at them. “Back ship?” he asked.

  “Yup,” Lips answered. The cab started moving.

  “No,” she said. The cabbie stomped on the brakes. “Airport.” Lips looked at her as if she were crazy. “Lips, I’m going home.”

  Confusion washed across Lips’ face. “What the fuck?”

  She was exhausted, in no mood to explain the billions of reasons she wasn’t supposed to go back to the Bush. “I’m quitting. You can either catch the next cab or you’re riding to the airport with me.”

  He spluttered for a second, chasing a few thought streams until he settled on, “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “I’m not. Get out.”

  “Quick, I know we got off to a bad start, with HOB and the Lion’s brass balls and all.” She nodded, unimpressed. “Sorry about that, by the way. But, you know, not everyone’s going to like you.”

  “Thanks for that,” Quick said sarcastically. “Great talk.” She gestured toward the door as the cabbie glared in his rearview mirror at them, impatiently awaiting a destination. She ached to be alone, to lose herself in the sights on the drive to the airport. Who knew if she would ever get to Singapore again? Hell, who knew what she was going to do with the rest of her life?

  “Back ship?” the cabbie repeated more insistently.

  “I mean, I like you. As a person,” Lips said, continuing as if the driver hadn’t spoken. “But not everyone is going to, being a girl, you know.”

  “I am aware. Again, thanks. I feel better already.” Maybe if she threw up on him he would leave.

  “Okay, I’m just sayin’, fuck them. Don’t ever quit. Make them kick you out.”

  She stared at him, jarred by his use of the very words she’d said to Dusty back at the start of their training. “I think I remember saying something like that myself once.” The words came out slowly. “A long time ago.”

  Lips nodded seriously, clearly interpreting her reaction as an acceptance of his wisdom. “Hell, yeah. But if you’re gonna do it, you gotta do it the right way,” he said.

  “How’s that?”

  He grinned. “Balls to the wall, baby. No half-assing.”

  “You’ve got a way with words, Lips,” she said, a million thought fragments and memories now racing around in her head and bouncing rudely into each other. The story Dusty had told her in the infirmary. Slammer’s sermon and bathroom therapy session. The barely remembered girl who had showed up at the Gladiators in some previous life.

  Lips nodded in agreement, easing back into the seat and closing his eyes. “I know. It’s a gift.”

  The old Keely Silvers knew he was right. There was no way she would have let them drum her out. She had worked hard for the last ten years to achieve her childhood dream of becoming a Rhino pilot, ignoring the barrage of sexist bullshit that had pelted her nearly every step of the way. She had studied her ass off in high school and college. She had puked at the end of training runs and done push-ups till she couldn’t feel her arms anymore. And when she finally got that coveted training slot and made it to flight school, it had all paid off. She was a great student and she could fly the shit out of those planes. Like Slammer had said, she was a natural and she had kicked ass.

  But when she had arrived at the Gladiators and become Quick Silvers the world beneath her feet had become less firm. The journey that started as an obsessive personal challenge when she was a twelve-year-old had now become something far more real and dangerous. This was the big league, where people occasionally died while training. Soon there would be planes from hostile countries with real missiles sharing the skies with them, with pilots who might actively be trying to kill them. If she didn’t do her job right she wouldn’t just get a bad grade, she could be responsible for obliterating her own squadron mates. Her friends.

  She looked at Lips as he leaned back, his fingers laced behind his head, his eyes closed and the hint of a smirk on his face. What gave him that kind of carefr
ee confidence? Was he any better than she was? Was she just a normal nugget, like Slammer said, screwing up on a normal trajectory?

  She leaned over to the cabbie, thinking about the long journey she’d made to get to this place and this moment, about Dusty, about the long flight home. About all the assholes who’d doubted her, undermined her, harassed her, or all three. Well fuck them. Only one way to find out. “Back ship,” she said. “Back fucking ship.”

  Chapter 8

  09 August

  USS Bush (CVN-77)

  Slammer’s Stateroom

  Slammer woke early the next morning after twelve hours in deep hibernation. As he lay under his scratchy gray Navy-issue blanket, he felt the familiar vibration of the Bush smashing through the waves at max speed.

  In his gut he knew they were close. They had been moving fast all night, heading northeast into who knows what. By now they were deep into the South China Sea. By the time they started flight ops this afternoon they’d be in the Op Area, somewhere near the Paracel Islands.

  He sucked in a deep breath, then rubbed the salty crust from his eyes. He had leaked a few tears last night. A final farewell alone in the dark privacy of their stateroom. JT was dead. He closed his eyes and pictured hands chiseling his best friend’s name into a dark marble slab, adding it at the bottom of the long list. Someday he would sit back and churn through what it all meant. Probably over lunch with his mother.

  His stomach tightened at the thought of telling his mother about JT. She would be devastated.

  And Quick was gone. He spent a few minutes in the warmth of the covers mulling over how he felt about probably never seeing her again, but he couldn’t come to a conclusion. He had done the right thing, so screw you, JT. And she had made up her own mind, though he never figured her for a quitter. In fact, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to see her again after that. Leave it to her to surprise him one last time. He added her to his litany of regrets, forcing himself to shake her off because now it was time to leave Quick, and the NKR part of his life, behind.