Lions of the Sky

by Paco Chierici

  “It doesn’t really matter who dropped what. You both ended up dead.” The stark truth hung in the air.

  She lowered her head, looking at the floor. She fought the urge to stand and punch him square in the nose. She took a breath, collecting herself. “Yes sir, I know. But…” Not now, goddamn it, not now. She couldn’t let them do this to her. She thought back to all she had done to get to this point. All she had sacrificed. All she had left behind. She could afford no vulnerabilities. Any stumble, any weakness was an opportunity for them to shove her back down. But this once, this once she must let it go. There was no option but to own up to this crappy little mistake, this stupid trap they laid to temper the egos of the new Rhino crews. Then she would keep marching forward, upward. She steeled herself, shaping the next sentence carefully before allowing him the chance to pounce on her error.

  And then it happened. The lifeline. The way out. As she was about to raise her head, to admit her lapse in performance, she felt JT touch her shoulder.

  “It’s alright. Take it easy.” His voice sounded rudderless and hesitant. The jackass thought she was crying. He patted her twice, then snatched his hand away as if he’d just pet a crocodile.

  This, she thought, was a course she had never sailed before. You could only go there once. It was reprehensible and she hated herself for how quickly it came to mind. But if not now, then when? “What?” She made as if to wipe her eye, then she looked up at him.

  He was clearly at a loss. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jesus. Almost every crew falls for that one. Just like you said. Just about everyone starts off with a below average, which doesn’t make much sense when you think about it…” His voice trailed off.

  She looked him in the eye then ran her fingers over her ear, tucking her dark hair behind it, exposing her neck to him, like an offering. “Most, but not all?” She fought the urge to vomit. “Can you show me? On the paper?”

  She knew that JT had accumulated nearly 2,000 hours in the Rhino. He’d faced combat and ridden in the back seat during some truly horrendous night carrier approaches. But she also knew he possessed no defense for this kind of battle. He was no ladies’ man, that was obvious. She watched from the corner of her eye as he glanced at the paper, then at her neck. She could feel her feathery pulse in the gentle curve, fluttering beneath the soft skin. She leaned in a little to see his drawing, knowing he felt her presence next to him. He looked at the desk then swallowed, probably aware he had just lost something but not at all sure how to get it back.

  “Look, it’s not super hard. You guys have a contract. You have to be able to rely on each other to stay alive. That’s the lesson here. One person can’t do everything. You’ve got to trust.”

  She turned to look up at him, then sat straight, moving away but holding his eyes. “I get it. It’s just not something I have experience with.”

  He nodded. “I know. You stick monkeys always show up the same way from flight school. Single seat mentality. ‘I can do it all!’ You need to adapt to having two people in the process.”

  She smiled weakly, looking down at her boots again, fighting the taste of bile and guilt.

  “Look, I’ll tell you what.”

  Got him. She raised her head to meet his eyes, locking onto them. She composed her face into an earnest, expectant mask waiting for the words she knew were coming.

  “I needed some help when I first got here,” he continued, shifting in his seat. “Look, everyone who makes it in this biz has a Sea Daddy. A mentor.” He coughed into his hand. “If you want, I could do that for you.”

  She felt a kernel of satisfaction grow—his reaction was right on script—but she narrowed her eyes in feigned suspicion. The deed was done, but she didn’t want to make it look too easy.

  His eyebrows shot up and he held his hands by his shoulders, palms open, almost in surrender. “No! Nothing like that. That’s all I need, believe me. No. I just mean someone to talk to so it’s not all a big mystery. No big deal.”

  She looked down again, giving herself a moment to come to terms with what she’d just done. “You sure?” She raised her head.

  JT nodded.

  “I think I’d like that,” she said, and she rewarded him with a smile.

  Chapter 7

  20 November

  Virginia Beach, Virginia

  Silvers drove to the squadron after lunch because she couldn’t stand being cooped up in her apartment anymore. Her next simulator wasn’t till the following day, but she was going in to study secret shit on the computer—at least that was her excuse. She was dying to know how everybody else was dealing with their first taste of the simulator.

  She made her way into the hangar and ventured upstairs, poking into the squadron’s Ready Room for the first time. Now that they were done with the ground training, this was where their professional and social lives would revolve. Since the day when the first-ever fighter pilot was joined by the second, the Ready Room has been the heart of a fighter squadron, the one space in the hangar or ship where all the aviators could congregate, and the one space they could call their own. She walked into the large room, noting the hundred or more seats arranged before the whiteboard on the far side. Enough for each instructor and student to attend lectures or mass briefs.

  On a day-to-day basis it was the town square, the space where the aircrew came together to drink coffee and shoot the crap. On the long wall opposite the windows overlooking the Gladiator flight line, the imposing Squadron Duty Officer’s desk lorded over the scene, a mission status board on the wall behind him tracking each plane and sortie. Flat panel televisions were tuned to the 24-hour news stations and throughout the day a buzz of activity prevailed. Students and instructors milled about in segregated clumps, sharing a story and a laugh.

  She spotted Dingle in a corner talking animatedly with the fifth pilot in their class, “Bud” Weiser and Bud’s student WSO for the previous day’s exercise, “Busta” McNutt. She hustled over to commiserate with her classmates.

  Dingle was holding court, his drawl accentuated by the plug of dip jammed between his lip and gum. “No, we got shot up, just like y’all did,” he was saying. “But we musta done it better or something.” He grinned as he bent his head to release a slug of tobacco drool into an empty soda can.

  Bud interjected, “Better how? You get a shot off?”

  “Yeah, we bagged one from the West group. I think, maybe. Dusty was real aggressive ’bout taking a cutoff vector. She squeezed that trigger right as the North group came back. It got loud and crazy after that. Tell you the truth, I’m not sure we even got him.”

  Bud looked at Dingle with a questioning shrug. “But still, you got nailed, right?”

  “Yeah. We did.” He unleashed another glob of spit into the can.

  “And you didn’t get any ‘Belows’?” Busta chimed in, sounding impressed. “Well done.”

  She cocked her head at this. Surely she must have heard wrong.

  Dingle shook his head. “Nope. And I think Dusty got an ‘Above.’”

  If she had been drinking a soda she would have sprayed it across Dingle’s face. “What!?” She knew she, Pig, and Moto had all started with poor grades. Looking at Bud, also a pilot, she asked, “What about you?”

  “I got two Belows. Totally clueless,” he said, shaking his head.

  She was no math major, but that was four out of five pilots with Belows. And Dusty with an Above.

  Something from an earlier conversation clicked. She took a half step forward and glared at Dingle. “So let me get this straight, you guys got sucked off on the decoy group, got shot, then died. Right?”

  He backed a step away. “We did. But JT said I could have done a better job supporting her. Hell, I’m just happy to get out of there with an average hop.” She watched him swallow, clearly forgetting his dip can, and gag as the foul tobacco juice trickled down his throat.

  “And did Alpha Whiskey confirm your shot took out a bandit?”

  Dingle quic
kly shook his head. She scanned the room, looking for shoulder-length black hair. “Where’s your pilot?”

  “Dusty? She debriefed last night. I had an early flight physical so I had to come in…”

  She didn’t wait for him to finish. She spun on her heels and practically sprinted from the Ready Room.

  “How’d yours go?” Dingle’s words trailed in her wake, falling unheeded to the carpet.

  She drove to Dusty’s house as fast as she dared in the dense afternoon traffic. She hoped she was wrong. She hoped there was a rational explanation that would dispel her absurd notion.

  Her car skidded to a stop at the sandy curb in front of a single-family house one block removed from the beach, close enough to hear the rhythms of the ocean. It was a windless day and the pale winter sunlight did its best to warm her face as she surveyed the scene. She clenched both hands on the wheel, then released her grip and took three deep, calming breaths. As she climbed out Dusty popped up like a prairie dog, appearing waist-up behind the low wall wrapping the front porch, beer in hand.

  “Keely? Come on up. Join us. We’re catching some November rays.” Dusty smiled invitingly, looking down at the deck beside her indicating another body concealed there.

  She composed herself then walked up the path to the little Outer Banks style cottage attached to the porch. The home was modest yet well cared for. She stepped up the three stairs to the porch and saw, to her relief, that the other person was another girl. “Hey,” she said, giving a small wave to the stranger sporting, like Dusty, a hoodie, jeans, and bare feet. She looked Navy, but not aviator. And she looked familiar. The three of them were all the same age, give or take.

  “Silvers, have you met my roommate Mandy?”

  Silvers shook her head and managed another wave.

  Mandy stood and took the two steps to close the gap, offering her hand. “Hey. Nice to meet you. Dusty’s told me a lot about you.”

  “Nice to meet you too.”

  “Mandy works at the squadron. You’ve probably seen her around,” Dusty said.

  “No flight suit though. Well, not anymore. I didn’t make it past the first month of training,” Mandy offered with a little shrug. She pantomimed a gag, holding her hand on her stomach and sticking her tongue out. “Incurable puker. Instead I get to suffer polyester khakis every day. I’m on the staff.”

  Holy shit, Silvers could not imagine a worse fate. Bounced from flight school yet sentenced to work with aviators. A daily reminder of shattered dreams. She’d rather be water-boarded.

  “Mandy and I were in the same sorority back at school. She was just giving me the dirt on the instructors. Join us for a beer?”

  She shook her head. “No, thanks. Actually, I was hoping to speak to you. In private.”

  Dusty studied her. The welcoming smile disappeared from her face like a blackboard wiped clean. “Sure. Let’s take a walk.” Dusty stepped off the porch and walked briskly down the walkway. Silvers felt like she was giving chase, nipping at her heels a step behind.

  The girls made their way down a sandy path cutting between the line of houses fronting the beach. Tall tufted brown stalks of sea oats swayed gently from the tops of barrier dunes behind them and the Atlantic released wave after crashing wave before them. They both tracked a faraway pair of F-18s in formation, barely more than dots just above the horizon making their way back to home base from the working areas, the faintest roar discernible over the heavy rumbling surf.

  Dusty walked to the edge of the foamy reach of a wave and dug her toes resolutely into the sand, anchoring herself as she pretended to scan for more planes. “So, what’s up?”

  Silvers stood beside Dusty and faced out to sea as well. The afternoon sun was losing what little strength it had been able to muster and the wind was picking up, adding to the creeping chill. She brushed the hair from her face then looked at Dusty’s profile. “I saw Dingle in the Ready Room. What’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean, Dusty. Don’t give me that shit.”

  “I do?” Dusty turned her gaze from the skies and looked at her now, impassive.

  “I saw the simulator lights come on last night. I know you got shot.”

  “It’s not about that, Silvers, it’s about learning the intended lesson. Crew coordination and contracts.” Dusty spoke airily, with a hint of condescension that did nothing to douse the fire smoldering in Silvers’ belly.

  “So how do you get an Above out of that?” Silvers could feel herself getting worked up again. “I thought we were in this together, watching each other’s backs. What kind of game are you playing?”

  “I’m not playing any game, Silvers. I’m dead serious. I am not going to let them drum me out of this program. You go ahead and do what you need to do. I’ve got too much invested to let their boy games get in my way.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means I understood the lesson. JT thought I did a fine job. He thought Dingle…”

  “That’s crap! I saw Dingle. You fucked up. Just like the rest of us. How’d you get out of that?”

  Dusty waited a long time before she answered, and then the words came out like a recitation. Almost like a mantra. “I didn’t fuck anything up.”

  It was Silvers’ turn to stare silently at the sky and the pounding surf. Her mind was a jumble of crisscrossing thoughts. She felt very alone at that moment, cornered and assailed. But then she remembered Moto and Pig and the knot in her stomach eased a bit. Finally she turned her head to look at Dusty. “I think I know what you meant when you said being good wasn’t enough.”

  Dusty turned to face her again, her face clouded, but controlled. “Watch it,” she said softly.

  “You may survive the simulators,” Silvers said, gathering steam, “but the plane doesn’t care whether or not you like the little boy games.”

  “You naive little bitch,” Dusty spat out, anger flaring on her face. “This is the real world. Wake the fuck up. Nobody gives you anything, you have to take it. You think they’re just going to let you fly your jet off into the sunset?”

  “Dusty, listen to me, this isn’t a job on Wall Street. You can’t force it to happen. It’s not like that.”

  Dusty barked a mean little laugh. “You’re more delusional than I thought, Silvers. You, of all people. Look at yourself, woman. You’re trying to be one of them; that’s never going to work. Never. You don’t have the right equipment. They laugh at you behind your back.”

  That stung, but so be it. “I don’t care if they laugh. This is where I’m supposed to be.” She turned to walk away, “And you better not frag me when you go down.”

  Chapter 8

  22 November

  Virginia Beach, Virginia

  Gus, the bartender, walked over to Slammer and JT with two bottles of beer and placed them on the bar without asking.

  “Thanks Gus. Put it on my tab,” Slammer said. Gus waved over his shoulder, walking away. “I mean it,” Slammer implored.

  “He’s still holding out for your mom?” JT asked.

  Slammer nodded as he took a sip. “Yup. Gonna be a long wait.” Gus brought two plates of blackened tuna on a bed of rice and left without a word. “Thanks, Gus. Good talking to you.”

  They were sitting at his neighborhood bar, Rudee’s, idly watching the news on the flat screen. Gus had been there for many years, serving his mom beers when she brought her skinny kid in for a break from catching Atlantic Croaker and Bluefish on the weekends and summer days. Nowadays, more often than he liked to admit, he slipped across the two-lane asphalt to the restaurant overlooking the marina and the Rudee Inlet to let them feed him crab cakes or grilled tuna. It wasn’t fancy but it was good and they knew what he was hungry for before he did.

  “So what do you think?”

  “About what?” JT spoke out of the corner of his overfull mouth, glancing at him.

  “About our class.” He washed the fish down with a swig of beer.
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  “Since when did they become our class?” JT shrugged. “I don’t know. Seem okay.”

  “I saw Silvers launch out of the ready room a couple of days ago looking like she bit a lemon. She was talking to some classmates one minute, then the next she bugged out, severely pissed.”

  JT stopped eating. Then he wagged his fork, poking the air for emphasis as he spoke. “She seems pretty intense. We gotta keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn’t go off the handle.”

  Slammer nodded in agreement; Silvers definitely carried an intense edge. He took another pull from his bottle and glanced at the TV. In any other situation he would really like that edge. Fiery he could work with. “There’s something strange going on with that class. The girls in particular. You getting an unusually high NKR vibe from them, or is it just me?”

  JT took another mouthful and chewed thoughtfully. “No, man. I don’t really have your issues.” He grinned. “They’re pretty normal NKR as far as I’m concerned.”

  Slammer was about to ask how Dusty’s simulator had gone when the TV news broke into a new segment. A big banner scrolled across the bottom of the scene—Massive Oil Discovery in Spratlys—as a reporter spoke from the deck of a windswept ship.

  JT pointed at the screen with his beer bottle. “We’ve been there.”

  Slammer craned his head around Gus as the reporter interviewed a chemical engineer. “…long suspected but now finally confirmed?” The engineer replied, “That’s correct. It is indeed a major discovery. A sweet crude deposit estimated at roughly twice the reserves in Saudi Arabia. It may well be the largest deposit on the planet.”

  Slammer shook his head. “That’s crazy. We’ve flown over those islands dozens of times. There’s nothing out there. Just a bunch of rocks.”

  Gus picked up JT’s plate, wiping down the bar with a rag. “Well there is now. And people gonna follow the money.”

  Chapter 9

  06 January