To not disturb her squadronmates — and incur even more ill will than she had last night — she carefully stepped around the sleeping pilots and into the kitchen. Just then the front door opened; Skipper Wilson returning from an early morning run.
“Hey, Macho,” Wilson whispered.
“Hi, Skipper. How was the run?”
Wilson reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a bottled water. “Good. Going to the café for a cup of coffee. Want to come?”
“No thanks, sir. I need to police this place and then pick up the new guy at the airport.”
“Okay. You guys have fun last night?”
“Yes, sir!” Macho lied.
“Great. See you later. Bring the FNG down to the beach when you get here.”
“Yes, sir.”
After Wilson left, Macho changed her outfit, pinned her hair, and covered it in a ball cap. She then grabbed the keys to the rental car and slipped out of the still quiet admin.
(St. Thomas, V.I.)
Macho set out for the airport on a two-lane road that bisected the island. Off to get the new guy… he’ll no doubt be easy to spot. Macho knew the type: slight, withdrawn, a pimply faced geek right out of college. First time out of the states, his mouth full of ma’ams and sirs. She shook her head. She hated the thought of delivering fresh hazing meat to Trench and his fellow frat-boy abusers.
As she climbed the lush mountainside to Skyline Drive, she became lost in her thoughts. She began to enjoy the day and the spectacular view of the Caribbean — until she noticed Coral Sea anchored in the roadstead.
Screw them, she thought. Trench and the other cliquish senior lieutenants were dividing the squadron, not her. After all, she was in the right; they were not allowed to say things that made her uncomfortable. And, despite the fact that VFA-16 had a female XO and Department Head, Macho was clearly in the minority. And minorities needed to be protected. Hadn’t Trench gotten the memo? Women were commanding squadrons, air wings, ships, and even strike groups. Treating women like pieces of meat and was going to stop in VFA-16. And Lieutenant Junior Grade Tiffany Rourke would lead the way in getting rid of this boy’s club unprofessionalism. The hell with Irish and Jumpin, too, she thought. They are just worried about fitting in with those bastards.
As Macho wended her way through downtown Charlotte Amalie, she spied pockets of Coral Sea sailors mixed in with middle-aged tourists on the sidewalks, both carrying packages of cheap jewelry and other souvenirs. She turned west to the airport. She had just parked the car when she heard the roar of an airliner rolling out with engines in reverse thrust. She saw that the 757 was from the correct airline and on time. Ensign Duncan, arriving.
She waited in the airy terminal as passengers from the Miami-originated flight filed past. Macho saw families on holiday, sunglassed businessmen in loud shirts, with blazers added to keep it real, Rastafarian locals, college kids, and European twenty and thirty-somethings seeking work at the resorts. She searched for a typical Navy intel weenie, one with a clueless and bewildered look of apprehension, eyes searching for someone, anyone, to help.
Among the crowd of arriving passengers, she spied a tall, female ensign in a summer white uniform. In her left hand she carried a small bag and held her combination cover against her body and under her arm. Macho watched her approach, her big eyeglass-covered eyes searching for a friendly face. With her dark hair pulled back into a regulation bun, her white pumps added three inches to her statuesque height, and she wore a skirt.
I hate skirts, Macho thought, wondering if this was Ensign Shane Duncan. As she drew closer, Macho could read, with her 20/17 vision, the black nametag over the right uniform pocket above the ensign’s full bosom: DUNCAN.
Oh, no, Macho thought, before she walked up and extended her hand. “Ensign Duncan, hi, I’m Lieutenant Jay Gee Tiffany Roark. Welcome to the Firebirds of VFA-16.”
Startled by Macho’s informal appearance, Duncan stopped and returned her handshake. “Hi! I’m Shane Duncan! Nice to meet you, ma’am!”
