you'd be smothered in pelvic bones.'“
Kazaklis erupted into volcanic laughter. “Pelvic bones!” he roared.
“You know something, Kazaklis?” Halupalai continued quietly. “She laughed as hard as you just did.”
Kazaklis stared at the floor and frowned. His lips puckered outward and his face took on that flagrantly fraudulent double image of little-boy pout and pool-hall hustle that Halupalai had seen so many times it no longer was fraudulent.
“She still walks around here like she's got cramps twenty-eight days a month,” Kazaklis grumped without looking up. “You think you can trust somebody with nukes if they're on the rag?”
Halupalai went quiet, wishing he had not told Kazaklis the story.
“You old fart,” Kazaklis said after a moment, his twinkling brown eyes lifting off the floor and out of their pout. “I think you're in love.”
Halupalai said nothing. Not true, he thought sadly. He felt his stomach, once taut and flat, bulging against his flight suit. He felt his bronzed face tighten into furrows that never quite disappeared now. He felt old and he felt Kazaklis sensing it, too. Their moods changed simultaneously.
“Why don't you get out of this shit, Halupalai?” Kazaklis said abruptly. “How old are you? Forty-three? Forty-four? Been through Nam. Been in these airplanes for twenty years. Why don't you just retire and lay in the sun on those islands of yours? This is such bullshit. Sitting here in this godawful overheated bomb shelter waiting for something that will never happen and if it does we couldn't handle. Get out of it, man.”
Suddenly Halupalai didn't like this at all. He could handle Kazaklis when he was deadly efficient or wildly, excessively escaping. He could handle the double image and the con. But he looked at Kazaklis now as if he had never seen him before. He was certain Kazaklis didn't even believe what he had said about bomb shelters and wars. That wasn't the subject. It was far more serious than that. It was personal and threatening. Halupalai sucked his stomach in hard. He forced his face to relax, flattening the furrows.
“Why do you stay, Halupalai?”
“Why else, captain, sir?” Halupalai grinned, forcing the smile and forcing the lighthearted sarcasm into his voice. “To keep this world safe from godless communism, captain, sir!”
And then the siren wailed.
Halupalai bolted out of his chair, started his scatback dash past the picture-window vista, and pivoted sharply under the howling klaxon. In the hallway he opened up his long-yardage sprint and collided with the terror-struck Vietnamese counter boy, sending him sprawling back into the darkened cafeteria from which he had been emerging. Halupalai did not pause. The clock was on him now. He had no illusions, no fears, about anything else. This was a drill. That was fear enough. Someone somewhere had a stopwatch on him. So he raced against it, against the others, against the unseen evaluators, against the looming end of his own usefulness.
In the shriek of the siren, Kazaklis heard World War Three. He always did, despite his words to Halupalai, and he wanted it that way. Some always heard drill, to keep their sanity. A few always heard more, to keep the adrenaline pulsing, to keep their speed at optimum. Kazaklis always heard more, and as he wheeled into the hallway, he trailed Halupalai only slightly. He knew Halupalai had to be first. He understood the Hawaiian's need. Still, he would not give him an inch, not lag a quarter-stride now to serve that need. If Halupalai got there before Kazaklis , it would be because Halupalai beat Kazaklis .
Moreau, lying on her bunk in a sleepy reverie, landed on her feet before her brain fully changed gears. Her roommate moved simultaneously, the reflexes automatic, and the two women wedged in the door before Moreau elbowed out first, ripping the chastity belt in the scuffle. Halupalai shot past. Moreau slipped in front of Kazaklis and broke into long, strong strides.
Kazaklis erupted into volcanic laughter. “Pelvic bones!” he roared.
“You know something, Kazaklis?” Halupalai continued quietly. “She laughed as hard as you just did.”
Kazaklis stared at the floor and frowned. His lips puckered outward and his face took on that flagrantly fraudulent double image of little-boy pout and pool-hall hustle that Halupalai had seen so many times it no longer was fraudulent.
“She still walks around here like she's got cramps twenty-eight days a month,” Kazaklis grumped without looking up. “You think you can trust somebody with nukes if they're on the rag?”
Halupalai went quiet, wishing he had not told Kazaklis the story.
“You old fart,” Kazaklis said after a moment, his twinkling brown eyes lifting off the floor and out of their pout. “I think you're in love.”
Halupalai said nothing. Not true, he thought sadly. He felt his stomach, once taut and flat, bulging against his flight suit. He felt his bronzed face tighten into furrows that never quite disappeared now. He felt old and he felt Kazaklis sensing it, too. Their moods changed simultaneously.
“Why don't you get out of this shit, Halupalai?” Kazaklis said abruptly. “How old are you? Forty-three? Forty-four? Been through Nam. Been in these airplanes for twenty years. Why don't you just retire and lay in the sun on those islands of yours? This is such bullshit. Sitting here in this godawful overheated bomb shelter waiting for something that will never happen and if it does we couldn't handle. Get out of it, man.”
Suddenly Halupalai didn't like this at all. He could handle Kazaklis when he was deadly efficient or wildly, excessively escaping. He could handle the double image and the con. But he looked at Kazaklis now as if he had never seen him before. He was certain Kazaklis didn't even believe what he had said about bomb shelters and wars. That wasn't the subject. It was far more serious than that. It was personal and threatening. Halupalai sucked his stomach in hard. He forced his face to relax, flattening the furrows.
“Why do you stay, Halupalai?”
“Why else, captain, sir?” Halupalai grinned, forcing the smile and forcing the lighthearted sarcasm into his voice. “To keep this world safe from godless communism, captain, sir!”
And then the siren wailed.
Halupalai bolted out of his chair, started his scatback dash past the picture-window vista, and pivoted sharply under the howling klaxon. In the hallway he opened up his long-yardage sprint and collided with the terror-struck Vietnamese counter boy, sending him sprawling back into the darkened cafeteria from which he had been emerging. Halupalai did not pause. The clock was on him now. He had no illusions, no fears, about anything else. This was a drill. That was fear enough. Someone somewhere had a stopwatch on him. So he raced against it, against the others, against the unseen evaluators, against the looming end of his own usefulness.
In the shriek of the siren, Kazaklis heard World War Three. He always did, despite his words to Halupalai, and he wanted it that way. Some always heard drill, to keep their sanity. A few always heard more, to keep the adrenaline pulsing, to keep their speed at optimum. Kazaklis always heard more, and as he wheeled into the hallway, he trailed Halupalai only slightly. He knew Halupalai had to be first. He understood the Hawaiian's need. Still, he would not give him an inch, not lag a quarter-stride now to serve that need. If Halupalai got there before Kazaklis , it would be because Halupalai beat Kazaklis .
Moreau, lying on her bunk in a sleepy reverie, landed on her feet before her brain fully changed gears. Her roommate moved simultaneously, the reflexes automatic, and the two women wedged in the door before Moreau elbowed out first, ripping the chastity belt in the scuffle. Halupalai shot past. Moreau slipped in front of Kazaklis and broke into long, strong strides.
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