Goddess of the Sea by P. C. Cast

appearance. Its opened tail end was facing her, and she could glimpse enough of the inside of the thing to see that it was crammed full of huge, plastic-draped pallets of cargo. CC mentally shook her head in disgust. It looked like some horrible bug that was getting ready to poop. The metallic sound of hydraulics being engaged clicked on, and CC watched the tail section begin to close.
    The master sergeant motioned at her to catch up with him. “Don’t worry about the butt end being closed. You can board through the door in the front.”
    He pointed to a tall, narrow open area in front of and below the left wing. Stairs were pulled down from somewhere within the plane, and it was just a few short steps up into the aircraft. CC walked a wide circle around the silent, evil-looking set of propellers that were on that side of the plane, all the while sending them nervous glances.
    The master sergeant noticed her discomfort and laughed. “Hell, they can’t hurt you when they’re not turned on.”
    â€œBut they are getting ready to be turned on, aren’t they?” she responded.
    â€œRight you are, Sarg. So you better get aboard.” He took her elbow to steady her on the steps. “Watch your head,” he added.
    â€œOuch!” Too late, CC thought, grabbing her forehead where she had smacked it into a ledge of low-hanging equipment that protruded from the ceiling just inside the entrance.
    Rubbing her head, she turned to the right and stepped up into the cargo/passenger area of the plane. Her eyes were watering with pain, and she could already feel a knot swelling under her fingers. She sincerely wished she was better at cussing; this was certainly the proper time to let loose with several choice words.
    â€œWell, that’s a darn stupid place to put a—” CC stopped and blushed furiously.
    Six male faces were turned in her direction. They belonged to men clad in traditional sand-colored desert-issue flight suits. Each man wore the same distinctive patches and wings that clearly identified him as an F-16 Viper pilot.
    â€œHey, Sleeping Beauty,” called out one of the pilots, a young lieutenant with a face that looked like it should have been on the cover of an air force recruiting poster. “Nice of you to wake up and join us.”
    CC felt her blush deepen. She was exhausted. Her face was greasy. She had sleep-head hair, and she was wearing desert cammos that on the best of days made her look about twelve years old. Needless to say, that moment was far from the best of days. Her eyes were bloodshot and her breath had to smell like the bottom of a birdcage. And she had just walked into a whole group of handsome fighter pilots after smacking herself on the head like an idiot right in front of them. Not to mention she was inside of a plane that was getting ready to take off.
    She was probably in hell.
    â€œIgnore him Sergeant . . .” said a colonel with just enough gray in his thick hair to make him look dignified. He hesitated as he read her nametag. “. . . Sergeant Canady. He’s just pissed because he doesn’t look as cute as you do when he sleeps.”
    â€œYeah,” a lanky-looking captain added. “He drools.”
    That got a laugh from the group, and CC hurried into the cargo bay, settling into the first seat that was available. She stowed her carry-on under her feet and busied herself with securely fastening her seat belt, which was the same red color as her fold-down seat and the meshed webbing that served as a backrest. CC wondered, as she did each time she flew in a C-130, why the seats and webbing were all bright red, when everything else about the plane was either military green or metallic gray. It made her feel vaguely uncomfortable, as did the open view of aircraft equipment and pipes and wires and such. At least civilian airplanes had all the “stuff” covered by smooth, white walls. Here the guts of the plane were