Outlaw

Colt took a sip and looked over his shoulder. Part of him was envious that the COD crews were able to spend much of their deployment living at home in Iwakuni or in five-star accommodations in various locations around the Pacific while washing down resort food with cold beer. But the fighter pilot in him still longed for his flat-top home in the middle of the ocean.

“They do a good imitation of a One-Eyed Jack,” Colt said, tossing his napkin onto the empty plate.

“What’s that?”

Colt turned and studied the younger pilot with something close to incredulity. “What’s a One-Eyed Jack?”

Andy nodded.

“A Barney Clark?”

He shrugged.

“How much time would you say you’ve spent on a carrier?”

Andy took another sip of beer to delay answering. “A few nights here and there.”

Colt pointed to the crumbs on his plate and said, “That was a One-Eyed Jack.” When it was apparent Andy still didn’t quite grasp his meaning, he added, “It’s a slider topped with a fried egg.”

“What’s a Barney Clark?”

Colt laughed. “Also a slider topped with a fried egg.”

“Why’s it called a Barney Clark?”

“Because it has so much cholesterol, you’ll probably need an artificial heart like the one ol’ Barney Clark received.”

Andy thought about it for a moment, then shrugged, apparently uninterested in a history lesson on the Jarvik 7 or the slang unique to carrier aviators. Like Colt, he had eaten the burger made from eight ounces of spicy seasoned beef, topped with bacon, fried garlic, cheese, and egg.

Colt’s eyes sagged, and he glanced at his watch. “I should probably try and get some sleep. I haven’t seen the air plan yet, but I’m assuming it’s going to be a god-awful early recovery.”

“Hold on a second,” Andy said, fishing his cell phone from his pocket. “I think I have it in my email.”

Colt tipped back his beer and took another pull while he waited for the Greyhound pilot to tell him just how little sleep he was going to get before strapping back into his jet and flying out to the ship. He already knew he was well within the twelve-hour limit of “bottle to throttle,” but he wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity for free beer — his shipmates still on the boat would have demanded nothing less.

“Yeah, here you go,” he said, handing Colt the phone. “Looks like you’ve got a zero seven hundred Charlie time.”

Colt groaned. That was a little less than six hours away and didn’t account for the transit or time needed to brief. Even clouded by fatigue and several bottles of beer, Colt knew he could count the hours of sleep he would get on one hand and still have a few fingers left over. “I need to get some shut-eye.”

“Yeah, me too,” Andy said. “My girlfriend just left, and a few of us are going to head up to Hiroshima in the morning.”

Colt slid off the stool and gave the COD pilot a sideways glance. “You do know this is a deployment, right?”

Almost as if he didn’t get the gibe, Andy brushed him off. “Yeah. I’ll be back out in two days.”

“To bring me my mail.”

“And food and other supplies,” he added.

Colt took a hesitant step away from the bar, somewhat surprised to find he could still maintain his balance. The Marine pilots shot him a questioning look, and Colt couldn’t help but wonder if they were talking about what had happened to him on the Abraham Lincoln. He shook it off and followed Andy on the short walk from the Officer’s Club to the Kintai Inn. Though there had been some truth to his barbs, Colt knew the Greyhound crews provided a vital link to the carrier and were an asset to the team.

Even if they treated deployment like a vacation.

* * *

At the air station’s main gate, a panel van passed between a pair of flags and an FA-18C Hornet on display and came to a stop underneath the guard shack’s arched white awning. The Japanese driver reached for the clipboard resting on the center console and lowered the window to wait for the Marine sentry to approach.

“Konbanwa,” Hiro Yamada said, beaming his trademark smile.

“Back again?”

He switched to heavily accented English. “Apparently somebody really likes seafood.”

The guard smiled back and leaned against the door. “Gotta see your paperwork.”

“Yeah, I know.” Hiro lifted the clipboard and handed it to the guard.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time with that,” Hiro hollered after him. “I could use the break.”

“You and me both,” the lance corporal yelled back, then disappeared inside the building.

Hiro shifted the lever into park and leaned back into the worn vinyl seat. Normally, vehicle traffic entering and exiting the base would have necessitated he pull off onto the wide shoulder while security personnel verified he had the required documentation to enter the base. But in the middle of the night, there was nobody waiting behind him in queue, so he was content sitting in the idling van and listening to the wind furling and snapping the American and Japanese flags over his shoulder.