Lions of the Sky

by Paco Chierici

  Dusty shook her head emphatically, collecting herself. “Wait.”

  Quick stopped, but her mind was made up.

  “You remember the crud game at Oceana, Quick? Sit back down and let me tell you something about that girl.” Reluctantly, Quick sank into the chair. Whatever Dusty had to say was the last thing she wanted to hear, but Quick owed her that much.

  Chapter 5

  05 August

  USS Bush (CVN-77)

  Slammer’s Stateroom

  Slammer sat at his desk clicking the top of his pen at machine-gun pace. He put it down, remembering that the annoying habit had bothered the shit out of JT. Then he picked it up again. He had so many conflicting feelings about JT swirling around in his head that he didn’t know where to start. He loved that man like a brother. They had shared more fun and survived more danger than anyone had a right to.

  But he was so angry. Angry JT had let himself get killed that way, stupid shit. Furious that JT had let Dusty drag him down. What the hell was he trying to achieve? Where the fuck did he think it was going to end, marriage? A house and kids? Why, why, why, hadn’t he confided in Slammer? He would have let the dumbass know he was being led by the nose.

  He spat JT’s words back at him. You don’t know until you know, eh brother? Well, I guess you know now, you dead motherfucker. He laughed out loud, a quick bark. It sounded dark and desperate as it echoed around the empty stateroom. Enough. He had to stow this crap for now. The clock was ticking and he had work to take care of.

  He picked up his pen and shuffled the papers on his desk. He’d scribbled the beginnings of a training plan for the next few days, but he hadn’t been able to focus. All of the pilots aboard Bush had flown two more missions since the memorial service. It was clear, however, that the Blacklions’ hearts weren’t in it. The flights were rote and perfunctory, with few lessons learned. Nobody took any chances, there were no failures to highlight and build from in the listless debriefs. They were just going through the motions.

  More troubling than the lackluster flying, however, was what was taking place just beneath the surface. Slammer could feel the tension escalating whenever he walked into the Ready Room. People were pissed at JT—he wasn’t the only one—and Slammer had been JT’s best friend and confidante. Something had been going on between JT and Dusty, they were saying, and Slammer must have known about it. There were also sideways glances from the pilots of the other squadrons whenever he, HOB, Tumor, and Quick—especially Quick—walked to their jets. The rumor mill was churning in full force and it was clear it had found some juicy bullshit to kick around.

  When it came to the Lions, he was worried not just about the proficiency of the thirty aviators in the squadron, but for its very fabric. It was an ephemeral thing, the esprit de corps that was the hallmark of all successful squadrons. A bond that extended beyond blood, knitted into something stronger by common experiences and pride. He could sense the whispers fraying that bond, tugging the Lions apart into various factions just when they should be most united.

  He didn’t have JT to bounce his thoughts off anymore. Another reason to be pissed at the horse’s ass. JT, with his laser-sharp bullshit detector—except, apparently, where Dusty was involved—would have had some ideas about how to stop the rumors and get things back on track. And JT would have had some ideas about what to do about Quick. As stunned as the rest of the Lions were, Slammer could see she was rocked to the core. The normal steep and humbling learning curve of a nugget carrier pilot had run into a brick wall. On top of that, she was dealing with issues not directly related to landing on the ship or aerial combat. Dusty’s crimes had somehow become Quick’s, too. To a certain degree, she’d been found guilty by virtue of gender association.

  It wasn’t unheard of for a pilot to lose confidence so completely that they turned in their own wings. What they did, the way they flew, it was all a trick of the mind. No sane person would willingly fling themselves at a tiny ship, rocking and bouncing in the middle of an unforgiving ocean, night after night. They survived by meeting the expectations of their delusions of grandeur, tricking and deceiving themselves on a daily basis.

  At this stage of the game, Quick’s crisis was 100 mental. She had already proved she possessed the physical skills, proved she could do the job. But could she handle the pressure? Like a veteran pro golfer who shanks one off the tee and suffers the yips for the rest of his career, she was looking at familiar things in an unfamiliar manner, and letting her mind get in the way. She was teetering and if she went much further, she would never come back. It was probably best to just nip this shit in the bud. There was no room in his world for fence-sitters.

  He had promised JT two weeks though, and he was a man of his word. If he counted from when the ship left Norfolk, she only had a couple of days left. By then they’d be past Singapore.

  JT’s stupid words kept invading his thoughts: ‘You don’t know until you know. And then you just hope you do the right thing.’ The right thing. What the fuck was that, dead guy? If he hadn’t spent so much time philosophizing, he’d still be alive.

  Just then the ship’s captain’s voice came over the PA, “On the Bush, good evening, this is the Captain. I’d like to quickly update you on what our next few days will look like. There is a typhoon moving through the South China Sea toward Hong Kong. A pretty normal occurrence at this time of year and for once, we are happy for it. We are going to take advantage of the foul weather and pull into Singapore for a couple of days. We’ve all been pedaling super hard to get Bush and the air wing on station. The world and our nation need us out there to do our job. But there’s no use rounding the corner of Malaysia and dropping anchor while we wait for the storm to pass. We’ll hit Singapore tomorrow, take on some supplies, and make the push to our Op Area in a couple of days. Have a good time, don’t get in trouble, don’t let your buddies miss ship’s movement. Captain, out.”

  He jumped to his feet and hurried down two levels then knocked on Clam’s door. When he heard the CO’s command to enter, he opened the door and said, “Skipper, I’ve got an idea.”

  Chapter 6

  07 August

  Singapore

  Slammer had always loved Singapore. This visit, though, was different. Every sight and smell and sound reminded him of JT. Reminded him, in fact, that this was his first liberty-port ever, anywhere, without JT by his side. He caught himself forming comments to share with a ghost. He thirsted for a drink; that’s what they’d always done as soon as their feet hit dry land, head for a bar and drop a couple of quick ones. He was mired in ambivalence as he inserted himself into the tide of sailors and aviators streaming ashore, having ditched their uniforms for party garb. He yearned to cut loose, but he felt burdened by his memories, and his plans.

  Sailors had been spilling into foreign ports since the invention of the boat, and it was never a dull affair. The safest places were usually bingo parlors, libraries, museums, churches, or any establishment with the slightest hint of propriety or sophistication. If you were looking for excitement and color, you leaned more toward any structure with a beer tap and a dance floor. Especially if it had a pole in the middle of it. He subscribed to the general philosophy that port calls were not an opportunity to enjoy the cultural offerings of exotic lands. They were, instead, a purging respite from the ceaseless grind of the 24/7 work cycle at sea. And as the saying goes, work hard, play hard. The thousands of men and women aboard Bush had been working extremely hard for weeks.

  He, and the hundred and fifty aviators in the air wing, appreciated the port call through an additional filter. It was an opportunity to flush the accumulated stress from their system before heading back into a distinctly more challenging phase of their deployment. It wasn’t exactly doctor prescribed, but beer and spirits were perfectly suited to this purpose, at least in the short term. No one knew for sure how long they would be at sea this time. It might be months before the next port. JT’s death was proof that the Bush had needed a break, and th
e storm was a convenient excuse. They could have pressed on, skirting the typhoon safely. This unscheduled port visit had occurred only because of a tragedy, no matter what the Captain had said. A tragedy that reminded each and every aviator that there was no guarantee for a tomorrow. Today was all that was promised. Or really, he thought, just this very moment. So, fuck it, let the Bacchanalia begin.

  Squadrons generally partied within their own group and the Lions were no exception. There were natural leaders for all types of circumstances and when it came to revelry in port, Lips was the Lions go-to guy, leading his mates from one packed bar to the next en masse. It was a Friday evening and the night was warm and humid with a touch of spice in the air. Singapore, sparkling in her finest, was ready to party along with the Lions. Young people from all over the world mingled and meshed with them as they bounced joyously on the dance floor. The Lions glowed with a manic, inviting, insouciant happiness, infectious to the land lubbers.

  Slammer sat on a barstool grooving gently with the driving beat, one hand cradling a glass. On the dance floor in front of him a hundred people ground and shook in a sweaty mass. Arms thrown in the air swayed with the music like a kelp forest surging with ocean currents. His Lions were all in there, intertwined with beautiful girls sporting big smiles and tiny skirts. All his Lions but one.

  Quick appeared in front of him. Weeks had passed since he’d seen her in anything other than a flight suit and he had to force himself not to stare. He’d forgotten how stunning she was. Her blond hair, which she normally reined into a no-nonsense ponytail, was cascading to her shoulders. She was wearing a simple dark blue summer dress littered with white polka dots, like stars thrown against the night sky. He resisted the pull and instead focused on the strobes flashing into his ice cubes before taking a sip.

  “Vodka?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “The Brits knew how to deal with this heat and humidity. Gin and tonic. Want one?”

  “Sure.” She scooted next to him leaning her backside against the bar, facing the dance floor. “They’re having a good time.”

  He ordered the drink then turned around to watch as well. “You should get out there, too. I haven’t seen you dance since my boat party. You definitely know how to move.” Shit. Before the words were out of his mouth he wanted to bite them back.

  She turned to pick up her drink and flashed him a little smile, a shadow of the old twinkle in her eyes. “Didn’t know you were watching, sir.” She put the straw between her lips and took a draw. Looking back to the gang on the floor she nodded in their direction. “They don’t seem super comfortable with me right now. And I’d feel stupid dancing with some strange dude in front of them.”

  She turned her head his way, one hand on the glass, the other holding the straw to her lips. He noticed she was wearing the rose-pink nail polish again. He turned back to face the floor as a hint of her perfume ticked his nose. “What about you? Why aren’t you out there?”

  He shook his head. “Someday, I promise. But not now.”

  He turned to order another drink for himself when a big guy walked up. “Hey mate, you all from the Bush?” There were only a few of these warships in the world and it was always big news when they came to town.

  He smiled and nodded at the Aussie. “Yup.”

  The guy looked harmless enough. Shaggy dirty blond hair. Tall and lean with a drink-enhanced Aussie smirk. “You a pilot?” he asked, looking at Slammer.

  “We both are,” he answered with a head nod over to Quick.

  “Fuck off! Hey listen then. We’re all in the same business. I’m a fuggin bush pilot myself.” The Aussie stuck his big hand out for Quick to shake. “Vic Bongiorno, Bush Pilots Australia, chief pilot and local legend. No dry creek bed or salt flat is safe from my assault.”

  Vic wore a broad guileless smile on his sun-kissed, handsome face. Quick grabbed Vic’s hand and shook it, returning the grin. “Keely Silvers. Nice to meet you.”

  “What are you flying?”

  Slammer watched with a twinge of envy as she seemed to morph into a different person. “Super Hornets,” she answered, trying to come off casual.

  “Fantastic. Bet that’s almost as difficult as landing my one-eighty-two at Bathurst Harbor on a typical shit Tasmania day.”

  She laughed. “I’ve got about five-hundred hours in that puppy. One-eighty-two’s the first plane I ever landed on a dirt runway.”

  “Runway? I haven’t used a runway in years darlin’. The bush is my runway.”

  “Mine too!” Quick said, laughing. Slammer saw an ember of lightness on her face.

  Vic guffawed. “THE Bush. Excellent.” He looked down at her cork platforms. “Those your dancing shoes?”

  She grabbed his hand. “Let’s find out.”

  He watched them melt into the bobbing mass on the dance floor with a tinge of relief and regret. The words of his mother and JT rattled around his brainpan, smashing against each other in riotous conflict. As the big Aussie pulled her in close Slammer’s gut twisted into a knot. If he got shot down before his chance to dance with her, he was going to be pretty pissed. Or, more likely, he wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore.

  He was feeling no pain when they left the last bar around 4 am. They were clumped in small groups, couples linking arms and heads leaning in close. As usual, he brought up the rear. He watched Quick and the bush pilot strolling slowly together, lagging behind the rest. The first few Lions reached a taxi stand and HOB started shoving the guys into cabs. There were quick kisses and email exchanges as the aviators were ripped from their dance partners and spirited away to the hotel. HOB was trying to manhandle him into a cab when he noticed Quick and Vic leaning against each other half in the shadows. He hesitated for a moment, then he saw Lips walk up and nudge her on the elbow. She peeled herself away, their fingers locked till the last moment as she followed Lips into the cab Slammer was waiting in.

  He sat in the front, watching the street lights flash by as he listened to Quick and Lips chatting in the back seat. She sounded as carefree as he’d heard her in a long time. “No, he was cool. He said he’d show me some crazy stuff if I ever made it to the bush.”

  “I’ll bet he did,” Lips laughed, holding up his hand for a high-five.

  Quick smacked his hand hard, thinking maybe Lips wasn’t as much of an asshole as he’d seemed that first day aboard the Bush. She was just tipsy enough to forget the boat and the Navy for a few hours. Almost. She looked up at Slammer in the front seat, wondering what was going through his head as it leaned against the window watching the world though half-open eyes. She was tempted to reach around the headrest and run her fingernails across the short hairs on the back of his neck. Maybe ask him how his night had turned out. But instead she listened to Lips drone on about the smokin’ hot Malaysian girl he’d danced all night with. She nodded automatically with every detail.

  It would all be over after tonight. She rolled herself in the moment like a big, comfortable blanket. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

  Slammer drifted through the opulent lobby of the Mandarin Oriental with the pride of Lions. In accordance with age-old tradition, they had each chipped in a few hundred bucks and gotten the nicest suite in town for the night. The suite served as a rendezvous spot for the after-hours party as well as a swanky crash pad. Beds were first come, first served. But the Presidential Suite offered plenty of couches and lots of lushly carpeted floor space.

  He sat atop the mahogany dining table facing the living room, his feet perched on a chair. He swirled the single cube in his glass of Scotch, surveying the room. A few lights were on and quiet music was filtering from the very fancy stereo. As he’d hoped and expected, the Lions had burned through their manic energy. They were tired and raw, clumped in small groups bitching about the things that really bothered them. All except for Tiny, who having escaped with his life after the collision in Skids’ back seat, relinquished all rights to bitch. He dozed peacefully on the couch in the middle of the room.


  The rest sat in tight little groups sipping beers and talking low while strands of their conversations wafted his way. “I heard she fucked her way through flight school…” “JT was an idiot…” “She was an accident waiting to happen. What was he thinking?” “My buddy’s an instructor in the RAG. He says Slammer’s got a thing for Quick.” “She’s not impressing the shit out of me either.”

  He took another sip. The amber liquid burned in a really good way. He held it in the front of his mouth, letting it numb his tongue before it seared its way down his throat.

  He glanced over at Quick who was near a larger group now listening to Skids recount his harrowing story with great theater, recreating the final moments with his hands. Skids punctuated the climax with a loud clap, making the audience lean back, shaking their heads. Quick sat absorbed, frowning, on the periphery.

  Earlier that day, Skipper Clam had told him she’d asked to escort Dusty back home. Slammer had spotted her stuffing sea bags in a closet in the suite before they all headed out for the night. She was packed and wanted to go. She was done.

  He thought back to all that Dusty had told him and Clam in the infirmary. At first he had wanted to wrap his hands around her neck and finish the job. But then he was horrified. JT’s fucking voice needled him from the grave, pestering him into action.

  He picked the ice cube from his glass and chucked it at Lips, closest to the stereo, motioning him to turn down the music.

  “Listen up, Lions,” he said, his voice scratchy and tired. “I’ve got a story.” The conversations stopped and the curious faces turned toward him. “Believe it or not, when I first got to the Fleet, I was a little bit of a wild child.” They all laughed and he smirked. His exploits as a nugget were well known.

  “I checked into my first squadron and there was this guy, Dewey. We were all in awe of him. He was the fighter pilot we aspired to be. Good looking dude with a hot wife and two cute kids. Smartest guy in the room without trying. Best stick and rudder man I’ve ever seen. He could make a Rhino dance like no other. Absolutely lethal dogfighter. We all knew the fights were over before the first merge. And to cap it off, the best behind the boat in the entire air wing. I shit you not, Dewey was the Golden Boy.”