Alex had picked up a little about the 58th’s mission while researching this year’s Badger Bash. She knew the wing was the primary training facility for all Air Force Search and Rescue and Special Ops aircrews. She also knew it had a long and distinguished history dating back to World War II. Ben provided more colorful detail.
“Those are MC-130Js,” he told her as they cruised past a flight line dotted with squat, four-engine aircraft. “They’ve been around since the ’70s,” he added, “but with all her new avionics and engine upgrades, that babe can take off and set down on a dime.”
She suspected he might be exaggerating just a bit. “Is that what you fly?”
“Primarily, although I’m also qualified on the H and W models.”
She eyed the planes. She knew nothing about military transports but these looked bulldog tough.
“So, like, what do you do specifically?”
“Specifically, my crew and I fly Special Ops teams into target or hostile zones, then get them out again. We also keep them supplied with beans and bullets while they’re on the ground. Other 58th crews conduct psyops, and do helicopter and vertical lift air refueling.”
“Oookay,” she said, trying to understand the full scope those activities.
“Our crews have logged thousands of hours flying humanitarian missions, like the ones I told you about.”
“I can’t imagine how you managed to air-drop food and medical supplies in Nepal. I saw the pictures of all the devastation on TV. Hitting the drop zones there must have been tough.”
“It was but, with our dual ring-laser gyroscopes and integrated GPS, we’ve got almost pinpoint accuracy, day or night.”
Alex was impressed and said so.
“Play your cards right,” he told her, “and I’ll wrangle you a ride on one of our spousal orientation flights.”
Feeling more than a little overwhelmed by all she was learning about the man and the organization she’d married into, Alex stored up a cache of vivid impressions. The big, bustling base. The aircraft bristling with antennae and armaments. The sense of energy and purpose that hung over all.
Ben gestured to a building bracketed between two large hangars. “That’s Base Ops. I need to stop there and retrieve my gear.”
Alex wasn’t sure whether she would be allowed inside but Ben flashed his ID again and got her access to the passenger lounge. Several of the uniformed personnel on duty sympathized with his cast and crutches and expressed the hope that he’d be back in the cockpit soon.
Ben thanked them and introduced Alex. The predominant reaction was openmouthed surprise, followed by hasty congratulations. Then a broad-shouldered sergeant volunteered to retrieve the personal items taken off the plane after Ben’s accident.
“Hang loose, sir. I’ll get your gear.”
He disappeared into a controlled area and returned with two large bags, several smaller ones and a bulging backpack. At Alex’s surprised look, Ben explained the assortment.
“Since we were doing an initial crew swap-out, we had to carry most of what we’d need.”
“If you say so,” she said, surveying the collection dubiously.
“The duffel contains my personal items,” Ben explained. “Spare uniforms, extra pair of boots, assorted jeans and T-shirts, workout clothes and so on. The A bag contains our protective gear. Helmet, web belt, body armor, sleeping bag, canteen kit, mess kit. There’s a B bag for cold weather gear, but we weren’t hauling that for this mission.” He toed a lumpy, zippered sack. “This is our D bag, with special chemical warfare protective equipment for flight crews.”
The sheer volume of the equipment he had to carry with him on deployment was astounding...and more than a little scary. That pile of gear also told her she had a lot to learn about being a military wife.
“What about the backpack?” she asked to cover the feeling that her world had taken a sudden, unexpected tilt.
“My laptop, extra socks, MREs, flashlight, insect repellant, a couple of paperbacks, my shaving kit with its emergency stash of...uh...M&M’S.”
Among other things, Alex recalled. She glanced up, caught the wicked gleam in Ben’s eyes, and suspected they’d put those “M&M’S” to good use later tonight. Stupidly excited at the thought, she snagged the backpack. The sergeant hefted the A and D bags. When he reached for the duffel, though, Ben preempted him.
“I’ve got it.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Alex and the sergeant exchanged glances when Ben grabbed the handles of the duffel bag and let the weight rest against the side of his crutch. Neither of them said anything, though, as they followed him out to the car.
Alex got behind the wheel again, reflecting on Ben’s spurt of stubborn independence. Between that and the earlier incident with the Saran Wrap, she was fast getting the impression that her husband had no intention of pandering to his broken foot.
* * *
He confirmed that impression at their next stop. The 58th Operations Group was housed in a low one-story building only a few blocks from Base Ops. As Ben thumped down the hall, military and civilians poured out of open offices to say hello and commiserate on his injury. Again, he took time to introduce his wife. Again, Alex was treated to expressions that ran the gamut from surprise (mostly male) to delight (mostly older female) to barely disguised disappointment (almost every female under fifty.) By the time they reached his boss’s office, she’d solidified another distinct impression. The Special Ops community was tight. Very tight.
When they were shown into the director of operations’ office, it was Alex’s turn to blink in surprise. Lieutenant Colonel Amiée Rochambeaux defied the Special Ops stereotype. The petite brunette sported a molasses-and-magnolias complexion, a Cajun drawl, shiny silver pilot’s wings, and a rack of ribbons that climbed up almost the entire left side of her uniform blouse.
With a quick glance at Ben’s neon orange cast, she rose and came around her desk. “I heard you took a hit, Cowboy. In more ways than one,” she added as she turned both a smile and a frankly assessing gaze on the woman beside him.
“This is Alexis,” he said by way of introduction. “My wife.”
The brunette thrust out a hand. “Good to meet you. And good luck housebreaking this oversize hound dog. Please, have a seat.”
She gestured to a small conference table and joined them there.
“I got the flight surgeon’s report, Cowboy. He indicates you’ll be DNIF for three to four months. Sorry.” She interpreted for Alex, “That’s ‘Duties Not Involving Flying.’”
Alex nodded. After Ben’s reaction to the acronym yesterday morning, she’d more or less figured out the meaning by herself.
“The Personnel Center was making noises about sending you to the 1st Special Operations Wing at Hurlburt after your deployment,” the colonel said, addressing Ben again. “There may be a deputy Director of Operations position opening up.”
Alex’s stomach tightened. Ben had told her he was up for reassignment when he returned from wherever he was supposed to have been going. She had no clue where Hurlburt was but a move now, before the custody hearing, would add another five or six layers to their already complicated situation.
To her relief, he’d obviously been thinking along the same lines. “I talked to the Personnel Center this morning,” he told his boss. “Nothing’s firm yet on Jernigan. They suggest I hunker down here until I’m back on flight status and see what opens up for a follow-on assignment in the meantime. I agreed, since that works best for Alex and me. If you don’t mind me returning to the fold, that is.”
“Actually,” the colonel drawled, “the boss already informed me that he wants you to take over as acting chief of Simulator Operations. Think you can do that with one leg in a cast?”
“One leg and both arms.”
Rochambeaux permitted h
erself a wry smile. “That’s what I told him. You start tomorrow.” She rose and gave Alex a look of exaggerated sympathy. “’Fraid you’ll be stuck with this gorilla clumping around the house for the foreseeable future.”
“It’ll be tough, but I think I’ll survive.”
“I’m sure you will. Just out of curiosity, where did you two meet?”
“In Vegas, two years ago.”
“Ahh! The Badger Bash, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I missed that one. Missed this one, too, dammit. I tried to get back from DC in time but no luck. Next year for sure.”
While the women waited for Ben to get his crutches in position, the colonel eyed the dragon curling over the shoulder of Alex’s amber-colored tank. “Great shirt. Did you get it around here?”
“Actually, I made it.”
“No kidding?”
“I design and manufacture jeweled tanks, Ts and jackets for a living. I sell mostly to retail outlets, but I have some products available for individual order on my website if you’re interested.”
“Definitely.” The colonel leaned in for a closer look, then tipped her chin toward the patch on Ben’s shirt. “Could you do something like that?”
“Sure.”
Alex doubted a Diana the Huntress decked out in gold crystals would appeal to the macho, he-man types in the 58th but she could certainly produce one for this petite and very feminine colonel. Or more than one, she amended when Rochambeaux suggested a T-shirt or tank with the squadron logo would be a hit with the wives and other women assigned to the unit.
“I’ll work up a prototype,” Alex promised.
* * *
Their next planned stop was the storage facility where Ben had left his car and personal belongings. His stomach was rumbling, though, so he suggested a pit stop first.
“Sounds good,” Alex agreed, feeling a little empty herself. Nothing like steamy morning sex to work up an appetite. “Any place special you’d like to go?”
“How about the K&I Diner? It’s close and quick.”
Alex had to smile. The diner held a well-deserved reputation among military and civilians on this side of town for gargantuan servings of their house specialty.
“Think you can handle a Travis?” she teased Ben.
“A half Travis maybe, but I was thinking more along the lines of posole and green chili chicken enchiladas.”
She exited the base at the Gibson Gate, cruised past the airport and turned south on Broadway. A few miles later she made a quick U-turn and pulled into K&I’s jammed parking lot. The popular eatery had begun life as a truck stop but its signature dish of crisp french fries mounded over enchiladas and drenched in chili sauce had gained a huge following. The decor was still no-frills, though, and the service just as efficient.
The server manning the door took one look at Ben’s crutches and waved him to the head of the line. He shook his head. “I can wait.”
The others waiting for tables weren’t having it. They urged him forward, which left him with the choice of appearing ungracious or following the server to a just-emptied table near the entrance.
“Do you think other women and wives in your squadron would really be interested in a specially designed 58th Wing tank?” Alex asked when they’d put in their order.
“I do.” He took a slow, appreciative survey of her amber-colored top. “Especially if they thought they would look as good as you do in it.”
She couldn’t help preening but his next comment sharply refocused her thoughts.
“Why limit your outreach to the 58th, though? Special Ops is a monster community. The air force even bigger. Why not tap into the overall military market?”
“I haven’t actually checked into it but I’ve always heard doing business with the government is a bureaucratic nightmare.”
“It can be, I guess, unless you have help navigating the maze. I could make a few calls if you want. Find out how to get your products into the military exchanges on base.”
The prospect of breaking into that huge market was both daunting and ferociously exciting.
“Let me think about it,” Alex said, her head filled with numbers.
Chapter Seven
After lunch they drove to the storage facility where Ben had left his Tahoe and household goods. At his direction, Alex retrieved two sealed cartons of clothes and uniform items from a small storage unit and loaded them into his midnight-black SUV. The boxes didn’t take up even a third of the cargo area.
“Is that all you need?” she asked.
“I lit out for the oil fields with just the clothes on my back,” he replied, shrugging. “I’m used to traveling light.”
She glanced back at the now almost empty storage unit. All that remained were a pair of snow skis propped in a corner, a half-disassembled universal gym, a box marked “electronics” and another marked “kitchen & bedroom.”
“Doesn’t seem worth it to pay rent on a storage unit for just those few items,” she commented. “Why don’t we have them moved to my shop? I’ve got plenty of room. We could set up your gym there, too, if you want to work out.”
He hesitated. It was just a guess, but Alex wondered if he was reluctant to cut his last link to his carefree bachelor days.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said after a moment. “I’ll get a couple of guys from the squadron to help move the stuff.”
He followed her home. Alex kept checking her rearview mirror but Ben didn’t appear to have any difficulty operating the Tahoe with his uninjured right foot. They reached the casita without incident and hauled his gear bags and the two cartons into the house.
Adding his additional clothing and uniforms to those he’d previously left at the house required some serious closet scrunching. The multiple gear bags they simply stacked in a corner. That done, Alex checked her watch. The idea that she might tap into the military market was still swirling around in her head.
“I’ve got a couple hours before I need to walk Maria home from school. If you’re not too wiped, I could show you my workplace.”
“I’m fine. Let’s go.”
The warehouse that housed AS Designs was just a short distance away. But despite Ben’s assurance that he could handle the walk, Alex insisted they drive over. Her shop was located in a long, low commercial facility. Semis were backed up to several loading docks. Panel trucks sporting logos advertising everything from furniture upholstery to pool cleaning services occupied the parking spaces in between. AS Designs occupied the end unit.
Ben wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he followed Alex through the door of her shop. Stacks of cardboard cartons spilling multicolored T-shirts and denim jackets, maybe. The clack of machines stamping designs on fabric, punctuated by the chatter of women hunched over workstations, up to their elbows in rhinestones. Instead, he found himself in a brightly lit open space with a long table bisecting the front half of the work area. Giant blue plastic storage bins with neat labels showing pictures of their contents lined one wall. The opposite wall displayed artistically arranged samples of finished products in a rainbow of colors and sizes.
Five women sat at the table. Three had black hair and dark eyes that suggested either Hispanic or Native American heritage. The fourth was a twentysomething Goth, complete with a chalk-white complexion, kohl-rimmed eyes and more facial piercings than Ben wanted to count. The fifth was bottle blonde, blue eyed and so heavily pregnant she could barely pull her ergonomic chair up to the table.
The table, Ben saw, had inserts which tilted like a drafting board so each woman could work at her own, comfortable angle. Each worker also had a circular lazy Susan within easy reach. On it was a round container divided into pie-shaped sections filled with crystals and other doodads. The women worked from a stack of neatly folded garments, applying beads and crystals in colorful appliqués. The
ir completed items went into more plastic bins. Red ones this time. The overall impression was one of ruthless efficiency.
The five women ceased all activity the moment Alex and Ben appeared. She must have broken the news of her marriage when she’d come in earlier that morning because five pairs of eyes raked Ben from head to the socked toes sticking out of his cast.
“Hola, Alex,” one of the woman said. “¿Es este tu esposo?”
“Sí.”
She waggled her brows. “Es un trozo.”
Ben’s Spanish was limited but he figured from the grins—and the quick wash of pink in Alex’s cheeks—that he’d just been complimented. Nobly, he refrained from returning the grins while his wife made a general introduction.
“Everyone, this is Ben.”
He thunked his way down the length of the table, shaking hands with the three women on the near side and reaching across to the two on the other side. Alex then introduced him to a sixth woman stationed in the rear half of warehouse space. That was partitioned into several separate areas. One had an unpainted metal rolling door and was obviously used for receiving and shipping. A small glassed-in cubbyhole functioned as an office. The third and largest area, Alex explained with a touch of pride, was where they did their imprinting.
“Most large T-shirt companies use screen printing. They create a stencil of the basic design, then apply layers of different colored ink to re-create it on the product. That produces a vibrant imprint but requires time and significant material costs.”
Ben glanced around the squeaky clean imprint area. There was no odor of ink, no color-filled pans or rollers. Instead, two sturdy worktables supported oversize printers with wide feeder trays.
“Luckily,” Alex continued, “I got into this business just as digital printing was coming into its own. Basically, I do the designs on my computer, either here or at home. Then I upload them to one of these laser printers, which transfers the design directly onto the fabric. The color’s not as dramatic as in screen printing but what we lack in vibrancy we make up in precise detail.”
Marry Me, Major Page 9