Libby didn’t anticipate any problems. She was confident flying the airplane and had a quiet, easy-going disposition. She wasn’t out to prove anything, either political or personal. She just wanted to be accepted as an equal in the squadron and to fly.
There was only one potential complication: Charlie McKay was waiting in the terminal to meet her.
“Hey, Libby!” He shouted, as he swept her up in a warm embrace. “You finally made it!”
“I was beginning to think I’d never get out of Tokyo,” Libby laughed, her pleasure at seeing Charlie enhanced by the excitement of her arrival. “Is the weather up here always so unpredictable?”
“This time of year.” He gestured toward the window. “Fog.”
“How’s the flying?” She asked as Charlie took her arm and steered her through the crowd toward the baggage area.
“Fantastic.”
The two officers, friends since their days at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, stood arm in arm in front of the luggage carousel. They were a striking couple, both tall and fair, and their appearance was causing quite a stir among the passengers who stared with unabashed interest at the handsome gaijin — at the woman in particular, with the smooth cap of silky blonde hair. Libby smiled self-consciously at an old man who was pointing her out to his grandson.
“Charlie, why are they staring at us? I feel like a freak.”
“Oh, you’ll get used to it. The Japanese are fascinated by foreigners — especially blondes. Tall blondes. And the men can’t have failed to be impressed with your, er, figure.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she bristled, tugging on the hem of her jacket. “I’m an Air Force officer for heaven’s sake. I thought Japan was supposed to be a civilized country.”
Charlie shrugged. “Not even that uniform can disguise your feminine charms,” he smiled. “And I can assure you that Japanese men will be as appreciative of … as appreciative as American men. As I am,” he added, his eyes twinkling mischievously.
Libby ignored the implications of his remark. She didn’t want her first day in Misawa spoiled by Charlie’s allusions to the distant past.
“Oh, Charlie, I’m so happy to be here. And it’s so wonderful to see you again.” She squeezed his arm. “It will be just like old times.”
Exactly one week after arriving on base, Captain Comerford was taxiing the swept wing General Dynamics “Electric Jet” onto the runway for a check ride with Major Johansing. What should have been a routine flight had turned into a media event, much to Libby’s embarrassment and the major’s annoyance. The local newspaper wanted to do a feature on Libby and, never one to turn down positive publicity for the Air Force, the Wing Commander had agreed. Libby reluctantly consented to an interview and being followed around by two awe-struck photographers while she briefed the mission and suited up in the life-support room for the flight in the sophisticated safety “Combat Edge” gear required to fly a supersonic airplane — the snug, corset-like G-suit which prevented hypoxia when pulling Gs, the PPV — positive pressure vest, a mesh survival vest, inflatable horse collar and parachute harness. They accompanied Libby and Major Johansing in the truck to the flight line and snapped dozens of pictures of her posed on the ladder, helmet tucked under her arm, until they were led reluctantly away so the flight could finally get underway.
Libby hated every minute of the ordeal, every bit as much as she knew the other pilots resented the disruption to their routines and the notoriety she was receiving simply because of her gender. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself. Libby’s goal was to be accepted into the squadron as a pilot — not as a woman pilot. But the publicity, no matter how well-intended, made it that much more difficult, especially when the reporters focused on such inanities as how she relieved herself in the cellophane-like “piddle pack” designed specifically for the male anatomy.
Once she was in the air, Libby was too busy reacquainting herself with the cockpit of the F-16 to dwell on the incident. After a month’s leave visiting family and friends in Dayton, Ohio, she was elated to be back at the controls of the jet, soaring alone, above the earth at supersonic speed. When all was said and done, it was the visceral thrill of flying fighters that made the grueling and dangerous profession so worthwhile — and to civilians, so glamorous.
Libby’s first flight in Japan took her up over the sprawling base and Lake Ogawara, along the axe-shaped Mutsu-Shimokita Peninsula, toward the island of Hokkaido. Sea fog obscured the sparsely populated coastline but to the west, the Hakkoda Mountains were clearly visible rising sublimely above the thin layer of clouds.
After completing several instrument approaches at Chitose Airport on Hokkaido and doing a little sight-seeing along the spectacular coastline, dotted with a chain of active volcanoes, Libby returned to Misawa in an expansive mood, ready to assume her full responsibilities in the squadron.
All that remained was the three-week Mission Qualification check-out.
That night, Charlie McKay and Libby celebrated at a restaurant in downtown Misawa. They walked, arms linked, along the narrow sidewalk, past rows of shops barricaded for the night behind corrugated, metal shutters. Despite the large military presence, Misawa remained a small, unsophisticated farming community. During the day the streets were crowded with farmers in muddy, rubber boots and baggy trousers, students hauling heavy leather book bags, young mothers scurrying along with babies snuggled in slings on their backs, and the ubiquitous Americans shopping for souvenirs.
At night the only establishments open for business were the garish Pachinko parlors with their flashing colored lights, restaurants, and the numerous bars, some not much bigger than closets, located on the maze of narrow side streets.
Charlie, who did not have a very adventurous palate and rarely ventured off base, had chosen a Chinese restaurant for the occasion, in order to avoid having to sit on cushions on the floor. Chinese restaurants always had tables and chairs, which he considered more civilized, as well as more comfortable.
“It kills me, the way the Japanese sit on the floor,” he said after they had been seated by the hostess.
“Well, I suppose it’s difficult for someone so tall. Do you think I’ll be able to manage?” Libby laughed.
“It won’t be easy. Women aren’t allowed to cross their legs. They have to kneel.”
“It must be torture,” she agreed. “But of course, they’re used to it.”
“And they have short legs,” he added.
“Oh, Charlie, really.” Libby shook her head. “I have missed you.” From the pleased look on his face, she knew he had misinterpreted the casual remark and that she would probably regret it later. But why did she have to be so circumspect around Charlie, of all people. He was one of her dearest and most loyal friends and she had missed him.
It was just that liking someone and missing him meant something different to Libby than it did to Charlie. He wanted to be more to her than a good friend. And she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do at this juncture in life besides fly fighters.
She smiled across the table at him in an attempt to defuse the situation. “You know what I mean.”
“I know what you think you mean, Libby,” Charlie said as he opened the menu and appeared to be scanning the long list of selections. But his mind was plainly not on whether to have Chicken Seizan or Mu Shu pork.
“We’re not teenagers anymore. We’re both responsible adults, with needs and desires that can’t be ignored … .”
“You sound so serious,” she chided. Libby liked Charlie better when he wasn’t so earnest. To someone who had focused the last five years exclusively on her career, discussing needs and desires was as unnerving as it was infuriating. The last thing she needed was Charlie lecturing her on her love life — or lack thereof.
The withering glance she cast across the table did not deter C
harlie in the slightest. “I am serious, Libby. Being a carefree bachelor isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. As an officer, enlisted women are off-limits. There are two single American school teachers on base and three single nurses in the hospital under forty.” He smiled. “The local beauties don’t want to have anything to do with American men, if I were so inclined. I’m lonely, Libby, and horny as hell.”
“Charlie … ”
“You used to know how to have a good time,” he said, with a hint of peevishness.
“I was young. I didn’t know any better.”
“Rumor has it you lived like a nun in Iraq. No boyfriend, no booze.”
“Iraq is not exactly the party capital of the world. I wouldn’t compromise my career for a drink of contraband booze. I was too busy flying to worry about not having a man in my life.”
Charlie smiled. “All work and no play … How long have you been here, two weeks? The guys in the squadron are already referring to you as the Ice Maiden.”
Libby would never have tolerated the conversation with anyone else. But she and Charlie went back a long way and, for a brief period in their lives, during their junior year at the academy, they had been — Libby could never think of a word that adequately described their short-lived relationship. Intimate sounded too clinical, lovers, too romantic a description for the clumsy encounters in the back seat of Charlie’s Chevy. They had always been absolutely honest and forthcoming with one another about everything.
“Charlie, my career is very important to me. I’ve worked hard to get where I am. I don’t want any emotional entanglements screwing things up. No pun intended.
“You and I both know what can happen when a female officer steps out of line. The powers that be aren’t as sympathetic to women as they are to the men.”
Charlie shrugged. “Maybe.”
Libby glanced at the other tables in the small, crowded restaurant. The clientele was about equally divided between Americans and locals but there did not appear to be any social intercourse between the casually dressed gaijin and the quieter, more circumspect Japanese.
“Do you have any Japanese friends?” Libby asked a baffled Charlie.
“Japanese friends?” He looked like the novel idea had never occurred to him despite the fact he had spent the last year and a half in Misawa. “The bartender at the Stagger Inn,” he grinned. “He’s everyone’s friend.”
Libby had intended to invite Charlie in for a nightcap when he brought her back to the “Q.” They were both billeted in the same Bachelor Officers’ Quarters and she had been looking forward to a long chat catching up on all the news about mutual friends from the academy. Charlie stayed in touch with everyone on Facebook and knew all the latest gossip. She changed her mind after she let him kiss her goodnight. A friendly embrace just seemed like a courtesy, a natural extension of their close friendship but Libby hadn’t anticipated her own reaction. Charlie’s was more predictable. She felt so warm and safe in his arms, and as for the kiss itself, it wasn’t quite the friendly buss on the lips she had expected. It left her surprised and flustered. When she pulled away, Charlie laughed.
“The night is young, Captain Comerford,” he murmured seductively. He wasn’t easy to ignore but she did her best, fumbling around in her purse for the key to the door with trembling hands.
Charles McKay was six feet four inches tall — the maximum height for an F-16 pilot — with the classic, muscular physique of a dedicated athlete, a square, freckled face and sandy blonde hair. He had always looked young for his age, despite his size. The freckles and infectious grin made him look like a perpetual adolescent. But his looks had matured, the contours of his face were leaner and more defined, making him much more attractive. Libby turned the key in the lock and opened the door.
“It’s been a long day, Charlie.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he protested.
“I have my Japanese lesson first thing in the morning.”
“You’re mad, Libby; Japanese is impossible. It’s easy to get around without knowing any of the language. Most of the people speak a little English. They have to study it in school.”
“Goodnight, Charlie. And thank you for a lovely evening.”
“Goodnight, Libby-san, sweet dreams,” he said as he turned on his heel and sauntered down the hall.
Libby did not go to bed immediately, despite her fatigue. She sat up thinking about Charlie, and their conversation in the restaurant about intimacy and love. Maybe he was right, as much as she hated admitting it. Perhaps she had gone overboard trying to protect her reputation. There was no use kidding herself. She had liked it when he kissed her. Her body felt depleted and empty when she pulled away.
Charlie. Perhaps she had been naïve in assuming the past wouldn’t intrude on the present, to believe that she and Charlie could safely ignore their history. Libby thought one of the hallmarks of an adult was objectivity. But to her dismay, she found it impossible to be completely objective about Charlie. Sex muddied the waters. Memories resurfaced — some better than others — of awkward encounters between two inexperienced cadets, eager to shed the trappings of their sheltered childhood. At the time, sleeping with Charlie had seemed like the thing to do. She regretted it now.
Libby wandered into the bedroom to examine herself in the mirror. She looked very smart, expensive green blazer, silk blouse, and tailored slacks, but hardly very feminine or exciting. Her only concession to jewelry was a pair of pearl earrings, and a gold cartouche she had bought at a bazaar in Bagdad. She proceeded to undress, discarding her clothes in a pile on the bed, until she had scaled down to just her panties and bra.
Libby was not ashamed of her body but she was embarrassed by it. Her figure was an accident of nature that she had always looked upon as a liability. Especially in the business she was in. She wanted to be taken seriously but some people never got past her bra size or blonde hair. They didn’t think you could be beautiful or sexy and want to fly fighters.
Libby liked to think she had grown up and been educated with a generation of young men who looked upon her as an equal, who judged her performance on intelligence and skill. But she knew that sometimes those same men had difficulty contending with her female persona. They didn’t know whether to ignore it completely or to try to come onto her when the opportunity arose. Sometimes, she had trouble dealing with it herself.
At the squadron she was, first and foremost, a pilot; but afterhours, at the officers’ club or at parties, there was always that inevitable divide that separated the sexes and left her stranded in no-man’s land. She got along with the wives, but she had more in common with their husbands. Anyway, some of the wives resented her presence in the squadron and were jealous of her stunning looks.
By concentrating on her job at the expense of her personal life, Libby had managed to successfully walk that fine line. But at a cost no one appreciated. For she deliberately down-played her looks, eschewed make-up, kept her hair short, and wore subdued colors and tailored clothes. No one could ever accuse Libby Comerford of flaunting her figure or trying to capitalize on her beautiful face.
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Libby glided her hands over her body, exploring the smooth, firm contours of her breasts, her hips. Her skin was warm and responsive. She longed to be stroked, to be held tenderly in someone’s arms.
The next morning Libby awoke more determined than ever to avoid any entanglements while stationed at Misawa. It was the kind of place where things could just happen, things one might regret later on, because people were stranded together in a foreign country, on an isolated base, with a lot of time on their hands. She was not going to get involved with someone just because she was lonely or bored. Not even with Charlie, as tempting as that might be.
AH! Why does love distract my thoughts,
Disordering my will!
I’m like the p
attern on the cloth
Of Michinoku hill —
All in confusion still.
Kawara No Sadaijin
Chapter Two
Libby went to her Japanese lesson once a week, at the home of Hironobu Nakane, an elderly Japanese professor of western languages. He lived with his wife, a sprightly woman half his age, in an old, traditional-style home on a narrow unpaved street on the outskirts of Misawa. More modern structures of cement and corrugated steel had encroached on either side of the wooden house but once inside the sparsely furnished rooms, the clamor and ugliness of the present was immediately forgotten. The sensei — honored teacher — and his wife, surrounded by their beloved books, antique porcelain, and tranquil garden, embodied what Libby loved best about Japan, and she looked forward to the peaceful interlude she spent each week in their home.
She was an apt pupil who had endeared herself to her teachers, not only for her enthusiasm but also for her perseverance. Out of the five people who had begun the class in early summer, she was the only one in attendance in September. So it was only natural that their lessons had become more informal and friendly as time went on. And often Libby was invited to stay for lunch when they would sit around the low table and discuss everything from the war in Iraq to the sensei’s favorite author, Shusako Endo.
“When you live in Japan, you must learn to look at the world through Japanese eyes and see beauty in unexpected places, in small things. Foreigners often fail to understand the Japanese, because they are distracted by the noise and the gaudy neon lights and the crowds, but you are very sensitive and discerning, and I believe, open to new things.”
“Are you sure about that?” Libby laughed. “There is so much I admire about your country, but as an outsider, I often feel … ”
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