Squalls Along the Flight Line

"Yeah; damned if I don't think that white man can be trusted."

"You better. You's learnin'."

"So's he." And up and out the door.

Off the phone, Mitch heard the shower. That was not an encouraging noise. Caroline could use it to get steamed-up for a squall. He walked into the kitchen and put a pinch of garlic into a puckered handful of green soap, and then eased into the shower and began to knead her lower back.

"You took long enough."

"I'm still your lustful Naval aviator and -"

She spun around breasts bobbing, and knocked his hands away. She was at Beaufort Force Five and blowing. He remembered the advice of an old flight instructor. "Don't fight a storm. Get yourself up over it or around it." But there was no up here and not a hell of a lot of around here."

"You know I had to do that."

She was out of the shower now, wrapping herself chaste in a rug towel.

"I want a say in where we are goin'."

Now he was hot too, flicked two handfuls of steamy water in her face. "You've known that all along. We's just finally getting' there."

"Yeah, so shit. Maybe I ain't so sure I want to be there."

"You go down there and ring some doorbells with Lette and you'll change your mind."

"Mister!" She turned and threw bar of soap. "Mister Commander, I ain't ringin' no doorbells till we get this straight."

He stepped out, pushed her aside and got into his duty khakis using his underwear as a towel.

"Well, if doorbells are too much for you at least call Cat's wife and tell her he's comin' home early."

She threw another bar of soap that caught him on the neck as he opened the door. He started for the car, thought better of it and started to walk over to the flight tower.

-- My God, she's getting' pretty good with that stuff.

And he began to laugh.

Caroline was crying. She went over to the cupboard where they kept the booze, then turned away. She saw him out the window, all five-ten and 165 pounds of him rolling along on the balls of his feet going to do his damn duty as he saw it. She kept on crying but kind of half lifted her hand in a wave. She made herself a cup of very strong Cuban coffee.

-- I taught him to drink this instead of booze when he had to go out again after the subs. In a little while I'll call Susan.

Commander Wilbur Mitchell Taylor out of Wisconsin via The Naval Academy and various medals for distinguished anti-submarine warfare in that flying bathtub known as a PB-Y banged through the door into the company of the Operations Officer of the Day.

"Jack, I want the Hot Shots back from Sin City as soon as possible. Now."

The middle-aged Lt. Commander Bates flipped off his microphone. He was tired. Serving time. But no slouch. He had been a dive bomber who survived Midway, and after that got another ribbon for taking out some guns on Okinawa. He would fly anyplace with Mitch without a chute, and agreed that the Hot Shots were indeed Hot Shots. He knew enough to squelch a microphone.

He flipped back through the log. "The layover time is not up till 14:15, Mitch. They're scheduled for Sunday anyway."

Mitch looked up at the big clock. It read 12:47, Saturday.

-- By the time they get off I'll be clear on ground time. "I'll hold the bag, Jack."

Table of Contents

• Introduction

1. Maggie and Mr. Hank
2. The Reverend
3. Squalls Along the Flight Line
4. Flying Home to Church
5. A Visit with The Judge
6. Communion
7. Afterthoughts
8. Monday Morning With The Admiral
9. Into the Dining Room
10. On Toward Walking the Streets
11. Glimpses of An Election
12. The Dream and The Reality of Violence
13. The Admiral Loses More Than a Few Good Men
14. Down That Lonesome Road

• Cast of Characters
• Credits and Acknowledgements