Starfist: Wings of Hell by David Sherman & Dan Cragg Page A

Colonel Ramadan made small talk with Sonia Motlaw and he found her a very pleasant, engaging, but thoroughly determined young woman. He admired her for that, her stunning figure aside.
    As they walked along Marines saluted the colonel smartly as they passed by. “Good afternoon, sir!” one would announce. “Good afternoon, Private Wigley,” Colonel Ramadan would reply, returning the salute. After about twenty such engagements with different Marines, Sonia turned to Ramadan and asked, “How do you manage to remember the names of all these men, Colonel?”
    “Well, it’s a talent you develop as a Marine officer, ma’am. When I was an ensign, a platoon commander, oh, many years ago now, I forgot the name of one of my men. It just slipped my mind. My company commander gave me an ass reaming, er, excuse me—”
    “I have one of those, too, Colonel,” Sonia laughed.
    “—so bad that I’ve never forgotten the lesson.”
    Colonel Ramadan found he really enjoyed talking to the bright young lady. He briefly considered taking her the long way around to the Company L orderly room, to remain in her company a bit longer, but aside from the fact that his right arm was getting tired, he was too old and too much a professional to play that game with such a serious and dedicated lady. She didn’t deserve that. He smiled to himself, though. What was beautiful sixty years ago was still beautiful. He left her, somewhat reluctantly, in the care of Captain Conorado and made his way back to the headquarters, shaking his head. “Now what the fuck did Dean get himself into, back there on Wanderjahr?” he asked aloud. He’d have a word or two with several NCOs in Company L, after Sonia was gone, and he’d find out. You can’t keep secrets in the Marine Corps.

CHAPTER FIVE

    Rachman Claypoole woke to the clatter of pots and pans being readied in the kitchen, and smiled. It would have been better to wake up and find Jente in his arms, but having a breakfast specially made by loving hands just for him came in a close second. He got out of bed and went into the head—the bathroom, he corrected himself; he was in Jente’s home, not a military installation—and gave himself a quick wash then padded naked to the kitchen. He leaned on the doorjamb and smiled again as he watched Jente preparing breakfast.
    “Do you want your eggs over medium?” she asked.
    “Sounds delicious.”
    She turned to look at him, smiling. Her smile widened when she saw his nudity, and she struck a pose. “Like what you see?” she asked.
    “I very much like what I see.” Jente wasn’t what anybody would call classically beautiful. A life spent running a farm had taken much of the softness from her curves, roughened her hands, and darkened her skin where it was constantly exposed to the sun. But everything about her was properly shaped and well proportioned.
    “What,” she said with a laugh in her voice, “a woman barefoot, naked, and in the kitchen?”
    The question startled him. If it hadn’t been asked with a smile, it would have offended him. But since Jente had smiled, he came back with “You’re not naked, you’re wearing an apron.”
    She laughed lightly. “Bide your time. And come, sit. Breakfast will be ready in a couple of minutes.”
    Claypoole pushed off from the doorjamb and sat at the table. “I like an eat-in kitchen,” he said. “It’s so homey.”
    Jente smiled at him over her shoulder. A moment later, she dished out the food and placed the plates on the table. She whipped off the apron and struck another pose. “There, now you have your barefoot, naked woman in a kitchen.” She bent over with a hand on his shoulder, kissed him on the mouth, and danced away from his hands. “Not yet, love. Food first. Then fooling around.”
    He grinned at her. “Yes, ma’am.” And dug in. He enjoyed the meal—and the sight of Jente across the table.

    Later, back in bed and sated, Claypoole lay supine with one arm under the pillow