The young aviator looked down into the woman’s upward turned eyes, saw her tremble a bit in the winter moonlight despite the fact that she was wearing his heavy motorcycle jacket, thick cowhide over a quilted lining. Too large for her slender frame, but still carrying his own body heat – he’d only just passed it over to her. He would have liked to take her somewhere inside, to see if the trembling went away. Or if it didn’t. But there wasn’t any inside space that they could communally share – it was just the way things were. They remained outside on the quiet street, their breathing sending out little puffs of fog that rose up to join the thin cirrus clouds scudding overhead.
A line of tension ran between them, something with a familiar shape that could not yet be named. They had only just met. She did not know him well. He believed she wanted to.
“What do you want,” she asked him. “Most of all.”
He turned away, looked up into the moon, the light blanching his face as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. His pupils narrowing. A young man still, despite the crow’s feet just beginning to show at the corners of his eyes. Too many hours squinting into the sun or into the gloom, trying to pierce the distance, gain that first tally-ho. To have an advantage at the merge.
He blew out another soft breath, the fog swirling, rising, fading. The moment stretched as he considered her question, and his answer. Most of them women he had met in his life would never have understood his response and the desperate desire behind it, but she too was a fighter pilot. He could tell her what he really wanted, and not what he presumed that she wanted to hear.
He could see it in his mind’s eye, it played out like an old cinema reel he had seen a dozen times: He had just come off target, leading a two ship, the other man one he knew and trusted. Over his headset he would hear the voice of the E-2 mission commander calling a pop-up threat, too close to evade – a short range commit. The order quickly given and immediately obeyed, his formation snapping towards the threat like hounds coursing a hare, fingers racing through practiced maneuvers on the throttle and stick: Air-to-air radar mode selected, short-range radar sets commanded, the glittering sweeps of the electronic eye lancing through the diminishing space. The other strikers coming off target behind him. The voice of the anxious Hawkeye NFO in his headset, a hundred of miles back but in the thick of the fight: “Kill, bandits 340, 12, single group. Heavy.”
With a scattering of targets on his radar display, was it three, four? More? He’d call his wingman to join him in the low search block, “Meld 338, 10, low, sort azimuth.” The passing of an impatient moment. Another.
“Two sorted.”
And then the missiles would fling themselves downrange almost of their own accord, thin wisps of smoke trailing the burning rocket motors, pointing the way to the inescapable fight. The miles clicking down like seconds. A fireball, two. Tally one survivor! Were the others? How many? Where? Eyeballs out, auto-acquisition modes commanded on the radar. Heads darting about wildly, eyes squinting.
Left to left close aboard with the survivor, now up and turning hard to the left, nose high, the sun wheeling through the sky in crazy arcs, the g-forces clawing at his head and arms, the wingman’s call – “Tally two more, right three low – break right!”
And then he was back in the now, aware of her curious gaze, joining it, focusing for a moment on her curiously hazel eyes flecked with moonlight. Her lips had tasted of beer and cigarettes. He looked away self-consciously, the cool air clearing his muddled head.
“More than anything else?” He paused. Continued. “What I want more than anything else is to be in the middle of a desperate fight, with everything on the line, the odds stacked against me and the outcome in doubt. To not know how it will end.”
He looked back into her face searchingly. Saw the wry smile settle there.
“Be careful what you wish for,” she said. “It might come true.”
He nodded his head, remembering the PowerPoint presentation he had seen as a student at the Fighter Weapons School. A series of grainy black and white photographs spread themselves across the viewing screen, a four-ship of F-105 streaking through the skies, carrying heavy ordnance. Another shot of a similar formation in a dive bombing attack. A narrator’s voice ran in the background, monotonously describing a routine strike mission. Then a picture of a wheel of MiGs wearing the NVAF yellow star on a red bar on their tails. They were capping down low, a jungle canopy immediately below them. Frescoes probably. He had never been particularly good at identifying the older fighters.
The narrative changed, suddenly: Radio comm. Fighter comm. The sound of an excited voice. “Yippee, look at all the MiGs!”
The narrator again, explaining how dash-two had left the finger-four formation without permission, breaking fight discipline. Diving down on the MiGs swirling 15,000 feet below his swiftly disengaging wingmen.
Dash two’s voice again, “They’re everywhere boys, come on down!” A moment passed. Another. “Come on down and get some fellahs,” the voice beginning to show signs of strain, “Come on!” more a supplication than an invitation. More moments passing in radio silence. Finally:
“Starting to take some hits here guys. Getting hit pretty hard.”
And then the voice on the radio went silent. The narrator taking up the tale again, weary. Sad. “Thud two was observed impacting a mountain ridge while trying to evade three MiG-17s that had gained a tactical advantage by maneuvering to his six o’clock. There was a large explosion, no ejection was observed.”
A cautionary tale, the young man remembered thinking, asking himself not for the first time whether the Thud pilot had died happy.
Or had he merely died?
He looked back at the young woman by his side, then back up at the moon. “I guess I’d better get back now.”
He turned to walk away, looked back over his shoulder, saw an unreadable expression on her face. Hesitated for a moment before shrugging to himself. “Keep the jacket,” he said.
Buck Fever, eh?
Would that be the title or the hero?
I can smell a series in the making…..
Aw1Tim/
Now, was that “Buck Fever” or “Bucky Beaver?” I mean, isn’t the main characteristic of “Bucky Beavers” is that they get “Buck Fever” all the time?
Sometimes when your subject matter has been mostly politics/news for awhile, I forget how extraordinary a writer you are when it comes to sketching characters and telling stories that transcend their settings.
Thanks for the reminder.
Hmm…nice surprise.
So that’s why aviators get flight pay? In order to afford to give their jackets away? Sheesh.
My exact initial thought after completing the read, Curtis. I was never as free with my garments, most especially expensive leather. And when it comes to leather jackets there is NO other kind.
That said: Kudos, Lex. A fine piece of microfiction.
Capt…You are the best…thanks for a really really hot bedtime story : ))
“It was a dark and stormy night…..”
And Lex had his Clancy on….(join in here, readers!)
But has he sold the screenplay yet?
Sounds like you, every story is to a degree autobiographical. I hope you can enjoy it as much as we do.
Nicely done. Which begs the question: where is the book? Edited? Got a publisher? Due date? As the supermarket tabloid says “Inquiring minds want to know”.
Lex: Time to write the book.
Dave;
He’s already behind that power curve….such talent…all bottled up….
such talent…all bottled up
Ain’t that the truth! I recall after Rhythms was complete that he protested he didn’t have time to write a book. I believe I said something about cutting him some slack until he retired… shortly after which I would then begin to nag him until the book appeared. I think it’s nagging time.
Very good. Alot of times those things we think we want most wind up being very unpleasant surprises.
Dare we hope this the start of a new serial effort? Publishers are missing the boat not signing you up for an advance.
A little early in the relationship for that level of honesty, fighter pilot or no, eh? Think it, yeah, actually say it? Or maybe he gives her the expected answer and she calls BS to get the real one?
Lex,
You ever read James Salter? The Hunters, Cassada, Gods of Tin? I think you’d like him if you haven’t read him already. He’s a hell of a writer. A writer’s writer. The latter part of this piece especially reminds me of him.
Could it be? Have you grown weary of commenting on the news, as I have? Are we looking at the beginning of a new serialized story?
Very nice.
Is this Part I, or a stand-alone? Good either way. Thanks.
There are old pilots and there are bold pilots…
And as usual, Lex leaves us wanting more. Much more – do we get another chapter of this story or a fresh one, leaving us to ponder the future of these people.
Ah, that was just a one-off. I’m trying to get the creative juices flowing again so I can get back to giving “Rhythms” another hack, add character development, plot and all the rest of those tired and shopworn conventions.
So tired of looking at the thing that I can scarcely bear it. So I don’t. Plus, I am rather tired of the political game. I was always better at fighting for something rather than against.
A complilation of Rhythms with a few comments or addendi would be an extraordinary book. The muse was most definitely with you during those years. Exceptional content, writing and very enjoyable reading. I still go back on occasion and read a random entry.
V/R
I am rather tired of the political game. I was always better at fighting for something rather than against.
All evidence to the contrary.
Next time, don’t forget the heaving alabaster bosoms. Sorry, Lex, this doesn’t have what Rhythms has. Toss this aside and try again.
Zane/
Beat ya to it. Look up-post, that was what my “dark and stormy night” bit was about. Too subtle, I guess..
You guys crack me up…I too thought, after reading the first soap operatic line…Sweet Jesus whats next ?…parted lips…heaving bosoms…quivering thighs…not quite…but he didn’t disappoint… there was some body heat…a soft breath…lines of tension and the babe was, miracle of miracles, a fighter pilot… happens all the time…verdad ?…but enough of the critisim…Lex is big boy and has been around long enough to know that when you paint a big enough target on your back…the usual suspects , we know who we are, are unable to resist taking a shot…
…so Lex, cheep shots notwithstsnding, I strongly suggest that you re-visit Rhythms…punch up the characterization and get on with it…and remember there was no mention of heaving bosoms or quivering thighs in ” The Bridges at Toko-Ri”. Best
I have to admit I was wondering after that first paragraph, too. Reminded me of an infantry friend of mine who dreams of publishing his romance novel–no lie!
Snake, Zane, et al/
We just HAVE to enter this latest missive of Lex’s in the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest for really bad writing! (“where www means wretched writers welcome”) If you will remember it is based on that really hokey novel by the Victorian writer of the same name that had every trite and hackneyed phrase known to man that started out: “It was a dark….” Remember the many times Schultz’s “Peanuts” used to feature Snoopy sitting on top of his dog-house pounding away at his typewriter writing “the great novel” using that phrase as a beginning (only spelling night “Knight”?)
The contest, which is a hoot, was started by the English Dept at San Jose State, and has now grown into a serious Int. contest that writers unabashedly compete in for the title for annual “honors.” May be found @
http://www.bulwer-lytton.com
BTW, Wiki gives a great send-up of the whole history of the contest, etc,. to include a list of movies, tv shows, etc, in which the by-now (in)famous 1st opening line has been parodied.
I like it very well indeed.
although….
“but she too was a fighter pilot. ” but she couldn’t afford quilted leather jackets? she kept them as trophies hung along one wall of her closet?
I think she was a transport pilot and just a fair liar with joystick envy and hole in her heart…..
Is that the hook for the rest of the story?
I dunno, I kind of have to agree with Zane here.
I frowned through the whole thing because something in my head kept whispering that this just wasn’t Lex. Maybe it was trying to say it wasn’t like Rhythms. Or any of the other real sea stories you have graced us with.
Some might say that all the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players. Except for those of us who are critics of course and we’re about a dime a dozen, I think.
Lex,
I enjoyed the short story and once I quit wondering what I was reading, became the critic. My conclusion is that you have a bright future in fiction. Many, many readers do and will enjoy your work.
There are times when I have to write for business, mostly technical and customer oriented articles. Even so, I need to tell a story and get my audience to nod their head in agreement while they come to the conclusion I have been asking them to think about with facts, descriptive explanations, persuasive arguments supporting positive features and the benefits of doing business with me and my company.
I also read Steve Coonts advice here http://www.coonts.com/tips_for_writers.htm
Good luck, I will be first in line to buy the book if your story is about airplanes, pilots and air combat.
Airmail,
Thanks for the link to Coonts. I’ve enjoyed many of his books but had never thought to look him up. His advice strikes me as reasonable for those who would like to write, and the remainder of the site is interesting for those of us who simply like to read.
Many thanks.
I checked all 70 entries in the EAA authors corner. There must be some mistake as I couldn’t find Lex on the list! (Next year?). I decided to still attend EAA Airventure despite this oversight.
Any other Lex fans heading to Oshkosh this year?
Do I count?
Then again, I definitely am a Lex fan so … yeah, me!
Absolutely you count. I’ll be looking for a “Canada Eh” T- shirt.
I’ll be easy to recognize. I’m the Brad Pitt look alike.
or is it Bad Pete?
That’s kind of funny because I actually am wearing a “Canada Eh? T shirt at this moment. But in my defence, yesterday was Canada Day so I decided to give it one more go. I will keep my eyes open for
Brad PittBad Pete though.I have to admit, I am quite excited. I’ve never been to more than a mini air show before, let alone Osh Kosh (B’Gosh)!
Pshaw, Cap’n. Fergit books … go where the money is. Channel Spig Wead.
It was a nice way to start the morning, reading that…
So we all have had these “day-dreams” then? Different airplane (Tomcat / Rhino) but in the same vein.
Pretty much the last check in the block I would have like to get, but then we all did… and winning mega-millions lottery had better odds, right?
Happy 4th everyone.
Is it the “lightness” or is it the romantic nature of Lex?
I can hear the music from Topgun in the background.
I could never even think of something like that. Remembering my single years and faced with that question-in the moonlight- on/off a bike with a hint o’perfume in my nostrils…. Nope. My immediate response woulda been more oriented to the lady and the situation. Compartmentalize the situation like everything else. Seeing the perfect loft and big ol’dams and oil refineries burning/smoking came only when around the bubbas. I’m simple that way.
“…I was always better at fighting for something rather than against.”
Well said. Me too, Lex. Tiring times.
b2