crawling around inside a bird, I want to be comfortable.
You can tell a lot about a squadron by how they maintain their hangars. Nellis is known for their crack outfits, it is the home of the Thunderbirds after all, and it shows. Even though the hangar floor is concrete, it glows like polished marble. As I stride in, I can see Captain Ronald “French” Frye talking to another man.
French met me on the flight line along with Airman Cotter yesterday. I assume the other man must be my other pilot, Captain Daniel Anderson. There are no such things as ugly fighter jocks. These two men are no exception. All pilots, but especially fighter pilots, possess a swaggering self-confidence that gives them a catnip like appeal to women. Indecision in the cockpit only serves to get pilots killed, so men who are not self-assured wash out early. Fighting heavy g-forces in modern aircrafts require them to stay fit. As a result, they are all slender and well-built.
French is a good looking guy; but, Captain Anderson…oh my God! Slap his picture on an Air Force recruiting poster with the words Come Fly with Me underneath and half the women in America will be in line the next day.
French and Anderson are talking with their hands, fighting some future or past air battle. They both have big grins on their face as I walk up. “Good morning, Captains,” I say, as I tuck my flight cap into my belt.
The two men turn to face me. French’s smile gets even wider, while Anderson’s slowly fades. “Major Cameron, allow me to introduce Captain Daniel “Boomer” Anderson. Boomer, Major Eliza Cameron,” French says, making the introductions.
I hold out my hand. Captain Anderson takes it and shakes it firmly. “Nice to meet you, Major Cameron,” he says. He is perfectly polite and respectful, but the warmth I saw in his face when he was talking to French is gone.
“As you Captain,” I say. “But, please, call me Eliza. How’d you get tagged with Boomer?” I ask. I love pilot call signs. There’s a story behind every one of them. It’s usually a good way to break the ice.
“Yeah. I, uh, broke some windows once.”
I know there has to be more to the story than that, so I look to French to see if he will fill me in.
“Some windows?” French asks with a grin. “Boomer gets a little carried away sometimes. He, uh, forgot , the Rules of Engagement once and blew out the windows on a bunch of gawkers at Red Flag.”
That would have been a big no-no during an exercise. In fact, if he blew out windows going supersonic at too low an altitude, I’m surprised he’s not flying a desk somewhere. I file that bit of information away. “Gawkers? I’m not familiar with that term,” I say.
“Every year a bunch of people show up in RVs and camp in the desert just outside of the Red Flag playground. They come to watch the jets mix it up,” he responds, sheepishly. “But I got the bastard.”
I begin to laugh in delight, as does Teddy.
“You find something funny, Airman Cotter?” Boomer barks at her, looking past me.
“No, sir!” she responds crisply, snapping to attention. Her smile instantly disappears.
I wonder what Boomer’s problem is. “At ease, Captain,” I say gently. “It’s a great story. How long ago was this?” I ask, pulling his attention away from the poor airman.
“About five years,” French says when Boomer doesn’t answer.
“If you will excuse me, Major. I have to get ready to fly,” Boomer says.
“Dismissed,” I say, when he doesn’t turn on his own. So, he’s another one of those, is he? Another man who doesn’t think women should be in the military. Well, he can kiss my ass. Just like my parents. I have worked hard to get where I am. I am proud of what I have accomplished. I’m not quite forty and I’m already bucking for Lieutenant Colonel. If Captain Anderson has a problem with that, he can just suck it
You can tell a lot about a squadron by how they maintain their hangars. Nellis is known for their crack outfits, it is the home of the Thunderbirds after all, and it shows. Even though the hangar floor is concrete, it glows like polished marble. As I stride in, I can see Captain Ronald “French” Frye talking to another man.
French met me on the flight line along with Airman Cotter yesterday. I assume the other man must be my other pilot, Captain Daniel Anderson. There are no such things as ugly fighter jocks. These two men are no exception. All pilots, but especially fighter pilots, possess a swaggering self-confidence that gives them a catnip like appeal to women. Indecision in the cockpit only serves to get pilots killed, so men who are not self-assured wash out early. Fighting heavy g-forces in modern aircrafts require them to stay fit. As a result, they are all slender and well-built.
French is a good looking guy; but, Captain Anderson…oh my God! Slap his picture on an Air Force recruiting poster with the words Come Fly with Me underneath and half the women in America will be in line the next day.
French and Anderson are talking with their hands, fighting some future or past air battle. They both have big grins on their face as I walk up. “Good morning, Captains,” I say, as I tuck my flight cap into my belt.
The two men turn to face me. French’s smile gets even wider, while Anderson’s slowly fades. “Major Cameron, allow me to introduce Captain Daniel “Boomer” Anderson. Boomer, Major Eliza Cameron,” French says, making the introductions.
I hold out my hand. Captain Anderson takes it and shakes it firmly. “Nice to meet you, Major Cameron,” he says. He is perfectly polite and respectful, but the warmth I saw in his face when he was talking to French is gone.
“As you Captain,” I say. “But, please, call me Eliza. How’d you get tagged with Boomer?” I ask. I love pilot call signs. There’s a story behind every one of them. It’s usually a good way to break the ice.
“Yeah. I, uh, broke some windows once.”
I know there has to be more to the story than that, so I look to French to see if he will fill me in.
“Some windows?” French asks with a grin. “Boomer gets a little carried away sometimes. He, uh, forgot , the Rules of Engagement once and blew out the windows on a bunch of gawkers at Red Flag.”
That would have been a big no-no during an exercise. In fact, if he blew out windows going supersonic at too low an altitude, I’m surprised he’s not flying a desk somewhere. I file that bit of information away. “Gawkers? I’m not familiar with that term,” I say.
“Every year a bunch of people show up in RVs and camp in the desert just outside of the Red Flag playground. They come to watch the jets mix it up,” he responds, sheepishly. “But I got the bastard.”
I begin to laugh in delight, as does Teddy.
“You find something funny, Airman Cotter?” Boomer barks at her, looking past me.
“No, sir!” she responds crisply, snapping to attention. Her smile instantly disappears.
I wonder what Boomer’s problem is. “At ease, Captain,” I say gently. “It’s a great story. How long ago was this?” I ask, pulling his attention away from the poor airman.
“About five years,” French says when Boomer doesn’t answer.
“If you will excuse me, Major. I have to get ready to fly,” Boomer says.
“Dismissed,” I say, when he doesn’t turn on his own. So, he’s another one of those, is he? Another man who doesn’t think women should be in the military. Well, he can kiss my ass. Just like my parents. I have worked hard to get where I am. I am proud of what I have accomplished. I’m not quite forty and I’m already bucking for Lieutenant Colonel. If Captain Anderson has a problem with that, he can just suck it
Similar Books
