The size was my first clue. This man was at least six inches taller than any of the soldiers who had accompanied us out here, although his color was the same. But in him, it was the result of years ? perhaps decades? ? spent under the harsh Vietnamese sun. There was no doubt in my mind as I peeled back one eyelid to examine the dead, staring orbs.
He was Caucasian.
5
I was working on the popcorn popper when the messenger stopped by to drop off the daily flight schedule. Normally, the next day's schedule is out early in the afternoon, at least during peacetime operations. However, with the world going to shit pretty damn quick, Strike Ops was taking a little bit longer to massage the matrix of aircraft, weapons, and people into a strike package.
Skeeter, that dumb shit, was Squadron Duty Officer. Actually, the popcorn machine didn't need all that much work on it ? the junior officer in the squadron is responsible for its care and well-being ? but I'd caught wind of a little something in the air and was using the popcorn popper as my excuse for hanging out in the ready room looking busy.
The skipper was in the ready room too, and it was a pure sheer delight to watch her chew a piece of Skeeter's ass into small, bloody strips. Commander Flynn ? the Mrs. Admiral Magruder ? is not usually one to rag on you just out of sheer meanness. With that red hair and those green eyes, you'd expect an explosive temper, but she wasn't like that at all. She was one of the first chicks to fly this big bad aircraft, and she'd paid her dues on more combat missions than I had under my belt. Somewhere along the line, she picked up this ice-nasty freezer voice that's a helluva lot worse than the screaming meemies would ever be. In the last month, I'd been on the receiving end of it twice, and didn't like it either time.
But not after the E-2 got shot down. I guess she figured I felt bad enough on my own.
Anyway, the right respectful young Lieutenant Skeeter Harmon was getting a royal, public ass-chewing. That was kind of odd for her too, because she'd usually call you into her stateroom when she was really pissed. But Skeeter had fucked up big time and publicly, so the pound of flesh got extracted the same way.
'See, it's just a buildup of old butter around the whatchamacallit,' I said to the ensign who was watching me play with the popcorn machine. 'It happens when you don't take good care of it.' I shot him a hard glare, and was mildly satisfied with the way he flinched. Of course, the fact that the skipper was having at Skeeter in the background made it all that more effective.
'I cleaned it yesterday,' my particular victim muttered surlily.
'Not well enough.'
'But sir, it won't-'
I straightened up and put my hands on my hips and stared at him. 'You telling me how to clean a popcorn machine, mister? Because if you are, I'd like to share one small fact with you. I've got more time cleaning this popcorn machine ? the particular damn machine, which never during my eight months as SLJO, Shitty Little Jobs Officer, ever, ever fucked up in this particular manner. So when I talk to you about popcorn-machine maintenance, you may damn well assume that I know what I'm talking about. Got it?'
'Yes, sir.' The surliness was gone, replaced by the bored, long-suffering tone that junior officers master far too early. Hell, I never sounded like that.
I paused for a moment, and let him think I was staring at him while I listened to the skipper run on up the scale. She was on a roll now, and it behooved me to pay attention to my betters. I could learn as much about chewing ass from Tomboy as this ensign could learn from me about cleaning popcorn machines.
'And the next time you are so inclined to refuse to sign a bird out for flight because it is dirty,' she continued, reaching minus two hundred Kelvin easy, 'please take it upon yourself to come see me. Or the Maintenance Officer. Or the Executive Officer. Any one of us will be able to adequately explain to you alternate methods of resolving the difficulty. Other than threatening to throw the plane captain overboard.'
'I wouldn't have done it,' I heard Skeeter mutter. I shook my head. At that point, the fastest way out of this for my errant wingman was to shut up and take it. Skipper had him dead to rights, and he ought to have known that.
Not that it wasn't actually kind of funny. The plane captain really had thought Skeeter was going to throw him overboard. Hence the complaint, hence the ass-chewing. I could have told him. But he didn't bother to ask, no more than this young asshole had bothered to ask me about popcorn machines.
'You do not-'
A shower of sparks arced out from the popcorn machine, splattered harmlessly against the deck with an ominous crackling sound. The ensign to my right yelped. The singeing, acrid smell of a short circuit quickly filled the ready room.
The skipper was at my side in an instant. I gestured futilely at the popcorn machine, now sitting quiet and peaceful, and said, 'Guess I'd better have the electricians check it out again, huh, Skipper?' I tried for a concerned, diligent look.
It didn't work.
I'm not a MiG, mister,' she snapped. She turned back to glare at Skeeter. She seemed like she was about to say something else, then simply settled for a final snarl before storming out of the ready room.
I heard a deep shuddering sigh behind me, and turned around to see my wingman slumping down in the Squadron Duty Officer chair. 'Man, don't she have some bite,' he said wonderingly.
'Sir, what's wrong with the popcorn machine?' the ensign asked, evidently with his priorities in order. 'And what was that about her being a MiG?'
'Nothing. You clean those damn wires better, we wouldn't get the short circuits,' I told him. The ensign nodded uncertainly, and a new, grave appreciation for the scope of his duties was evident on his face. He did a quick exit stage left, saying something about hunting down an electrician's mate to look at the power cord.
After he left, I turned back to Skeeter. 'You could've even asked me ? I would have told you you were about to be a dumb-ass.'
'Like that would have made any difference. You're always telling me that.'
Damn if we didn't have a lot of surly junior officers in this squadron. I was getting right put out about it, particularly seeing as I just saved his skinny young ass from permanent damage.
'And what was that crack about a MiG?' Skeeter continued. 'Young dildo head may buy your explanation, but I don't. What did she mean?'
I sighed, and shook my head. 'What the captain meant,' I said, enunciating carefully for the edification of my wingman, 'is that her preference would be that the only thing I shook off your ass was MiGs ? not her.'
I looked at the bafflement on Skeeter's face, followed by grudging, dawning respect. I basked in it for a moment. About time he got his priorities in order.
'You engineered that?' he asked. He pointed at the popcorn machine.
'Come here ? I know you don't think there's anything I can teach you about flying, but there are certain things you don't know about a popcorn machine. Like how to make it spark on demand.'
I was just delving into some of the intricacies of popcorn machine performance with Skeeter when the flight plan arrived. I snatched the first copy out of the messenger's hands and scanned over it eagerly.
There was something wrong with it. The neat, long line of aircraft, missions, weapons loads, and aircrew was missing one thing ? my name.
'They screwed up.' I held the offending document out to Skeeter and pointed at the line of missions assigned to our squadron. 'Big time. Boy, are they going to be embarrassed when they see this.'
Skeeter took the flight schedule and studied it carefully for a moment. When he looked back up at me, his face was glum. 'I don't think it's a mistake, Bird Dog. We're just not on the flight schedule.'
'Well, of course you might not be. You're junior, after all.'
