Declared Hostile - страница 15
Trench liked being the center of attention. With good looks chiseled by nature and a body cut by daily workouts in the foc’sle, he was olive skinned and wore his wavy black hair longer than most and unlike most kept it moist with mousse. He could easily pass for a cast member of the reality show Jersey Shore, using that to his advantage in a never ending quest to bed as many women as he could. He seldom lacked volunteers.
Trench was obsessed with the score. Having earned his call sign from his large stash of porn magazines, he was not about to squander his current target-rich environment — a tropical beach adjacent to several resort properties. The women of Carrier Air Wing SIX knew to give him a wide berth — some unfortunately learned too late and became figurative kill markings on the fuselage of his Hornet. It mattered not to Trench. Once he got to the beach, his eyes were in track-while-scan mode as he searched for the talent he had spied on the sand that afternoon. Fellow lieutenants Coach and “Ghost” Rutledge were “flying wing” on him to pick up any leftovers.
Trench and his wingmen stopped at the bonfire and popped open a Red Stripe. The moon, now halfway up the eastern sky, bathed the point and the cay behind it in a warm glow. Paradise. Nugget pilots Conner “Irish” Davis and Joe “Jumpin” Kessler were already there stoking the flames, beer bottles in hand.
“Bro! Check out the biscuit, nine o’clock long,” Ghost volunteered. They all eyed a tall, buxom blonde as she joined what appeared to be a group of giggling college coeds on holiday. Each of them held a jar of Long Island Iced Tea from the cabana bar, and they were well on their way to losing their inhibitions.
Trench snapped his eyes to the left. “Hoo, baby!” he said. “Look at the milk jugs on that bitch!”
Just as he uttered those words, the mood of the group took on a noticeable chill. When Trench did not get the reaction he expected from the guys, he turned to see Nugget pilot Lieutenant Junior Grade Tiffany “Macho” Rourke glaring at him.
Macho Rourke was his nemesis. Barely five-foot-three, she had a round face and wore her hair in a Navy-regulation bob. The most junior of the three female Firebird pilots, she was outspoken and coarse as she endeavored to rule the nugget pilot roost. Because she always bristled at Trench’s sexually suggestive innuendo, he knew to keep his distance from her. As a protected minority, a woman, Macho had demanded respect from day one before she had earned any, and silently chafed under the derisive meaning of her call sign. Sadly for the male Firebird pilots and luckily for Macho, Battle Axe was already taken.
“Oh, sorry, dudes! Thought it was just us bros here. Where were we? Oh yeah, Irish, you were going to lead us in the next song. I’m a little teapot—”
As the men laughed, Trench reveled in the attention. Smiling at Macho, he sipped on his beer, daring her.
“Go ahead, men, undress those little girls with your eyes,” Macho responded. “At least slip them a twenty for bouncing around in their bikinis for you.”
“Darn, I left my wallet in the room,” Trench shot back. “Besides, they look like classy college girls, probably Southeastern Conference types. Maybe I should — dare I say it — walk over there and introduce myself.”
Coach jumped in. “Bro, let me introduce you. ‘Ladies, may I present Lieutenant Hugh Jardon?’”
“Thank you, Lieutenant John Mehoff. Girls, you can call him ‘Jack.’” Trench said, playing along, with more chuckling from the guys.
“Those children aren’t going to give you the time of day,” Macho interjected, not afraid to be on her own defending the sisterhood, despite the fact the college girls were oblivious to the pilots talking about them from over 50 feet away. Trench picked up the gauntlet.
