Warriors

'Okay, I accept. You'll have to pick me up. I can't go unescorted, you know.'

'It's a deal. l'

THE HORSESHOE-SHAPED BAR WAS CROWDED WITH SIXTY flight and maintenance instructors and a few guests. The noise level was tolerable, not quite drowning out the attempt at harmonization of four pilots who occupied the jukebox corner.

He's flown the Foxtrot Two-Zero
From LA. to Riyadh and back.
There ain't a fighter that flies in the sky
He's afraid of or that he cain't hack.

They taught him to fly down in Texas,
Sent him to Nellis Air Patch.
Got an airframe to mark, it's called Tigershark
And the plane ain't been built she can't match.

Bennett edged his way to the bar, ordered iced teas for Claudia and himself, and guided her by one arm. They stopped briefly to talk with Peter Saint-Martin and his wife Lynn, a tall brunette from Buckinghamshire. Then Claudia noticed the squadron badges adorning the wall. Intrigued, she walked over to inspect them. Each represented the donor's previous units, most being enamel mounted on shield-shaped wood backgrounds.

It was an impressive display. Claudia noted the 64th and 65th Aggressors from Nellis. There was the red- starred insignia of the Navy adversaries', the Bandits and the Cylons, and the mailed fist of the Challengers. There were the Silver Eagles from Luke and their partners, the Triple Nickel of the 555th Tactical Training Squadron. And from Topgun and the Air Force Fighter Weapons School. One and all, artists in the realm of aerial combat, teaching it to the new sports or duplicating the opposition.

Bennett let Claudia take in the collection, silently pleased that she found it interesting. She turned to him. 'It's fascinating, so colorful. It's almost like medieval heraldry.'

'Some of it is taken directly from legitimate heraldry, like VC-13.' He pointed to the gold fleur-de-lis emblem of Navy Composite Squadron 13.

He'll taxi up into your saddle,
Turn on his M-39s.
He'll blow you to hell with a twenty mike-mike shell,
Safe up his guns and fly home.

Claudia walked down the hall, drawing appreciative glances from the mostly male celebrants. She looked at another panel, then leaned closer. 'My God,' she exclaimed, 'this can't be for real.' Bennett moved to look over her shoulder. He laughed aloud.

Claudia was puzzled. 'What's funny about that? I think it's disgusting. 'The World-Famous Puking Dogs.' What does that mean?'

'That's VF-143. And it's a long story.'

'Well, I don't understand. I mean, what kind of group would actually choose an insignia like that?'

Bennett placed a reassuring hand on Claudia's shoulder. 'I'll whistle up somebody who knows the story: ' He looked around the room, then motioned to a group of pilots seated around a table. 'Hey, Masher. Come here a minute.'

A short, slightly built man in Nomex flight jacket stood up and casually strode over, beer in hand. Claudia noted the jacket was well used, emblazoned with several patches. The name tag with the stamped Navy wings said MASHER MALLOY, FIGHTER PILOT.

Bennett made the introductions. 'Claudia Meyers, this is Dennis Malloy, known to one and all as Masher. Dennis, this is Claudia. Behave yourself.'

Claudia and Malloy shook hands and regarded one another.

Masher had been seeing a leggy Irish governess named Beverly, but she was not present that evening. The little aviator looked Claudia up and down for a long three seconds. A direct question was forming in his mind when he sensed his commander's purposeful gaze.

Flustered, Claudia noted that the man's startling blue eyes darted from her face to her bosom and back again. Apparently he was not going to continue the conversation on his own.

Bennett said, 'Masher, I was telling Claudia about One Forty-Three's nickname. You were in the squadron; how'd it begin?'

The query startled Malloy from his preoccupation with Claudia's chest. 'Oh, the Pukin' Dogs. Well, it all started a long time before I reported aboard, but the original idea was to have a griffin as the squadron emblem.' He sipped at his Coors, as if concentrating on the details with difficulty. 'One of the junior officers was supposed to make a papier-mache centerpiece for the commissioning. But he wasn't too good with papier-mache. He got the griffin's wings all right, but the head sort of drooped and the mouth was open too far. They ran out of time and couldn't do it over, so they had to go with what was ready.

'Well, one of the wives walked in, took one look, and said, 'Jesus, it looks just like a pukin' dog.' And that's what One Forty-Three's been called ever since.'

'Thanks, Masher.' Bennett's tone was one of dismissal. With a last soulful gaze at Claudia, the little flier walked back to the table to rejoin his drinking buddies.

Claudia's expression showed bemusement. 'Are they all like him?'

Bennett chuckled softly. 'A few, a few. But one of the first things I learned in this business is that a man's personality on the ground may have nothing to do with his flying. Masher's an example. He's a good pilot, but an even better instructor. Upstairs he's all business. Down here, he's real loose.'

Next morning a quarter to seven,
They sent him to fight once again
Against a Foxtrot 15, turns tight, fast, and mean
And they said there's no way he can win.

Well, he set up in the front quarter
At a fairly respectable range.
Hit the disappear switch, rolled out at Deep Six,
And the Fox 15 went down in flames.

The couple found a table with two vacant chairs and sat down.

Bennett introduced Tim Ottman, who gallantly rose and seated Claudia. She smiled at him, taking in the handsome six-footer. Well, maybe there are some gentlemen among fighter pilots, she thought. Soon they were deep in conversation.

'Claudia, I guess you haven't met many guys like these.' He gestured around the room. ''Tell me, what do you make of us?'

Claudia giggled, shaking her head. 'Well, I admit I've never been exposed to so many… different-'

'You mean screwy,' Ottman said.