A hush came over the group, with Trench and Coach giving her a hard look. Trench spoke first.
“Abuse is staying here arguing with Little Miss Can’t-Be-Wrong on a moonlit beach in St. Thomas. Come on, Coach, you lecherous cad, let’s go make some new and attractive friends.”
The two senior pilots trudged over the sand to the coeds, who watched them approach with excited smiles. Ghost joined them, and within minutes the men had their new friends laughing and giggling, the night full of anticipation.
Irish and Jumpin stared into the dying fire as Macho stared out to sea in haughty defiance.
“What a great team bonding experience,” Jumpin muttered.
Irish pulled on his beer and added, “Yep, our first liberty port and the JOs are divided into the cool kids and the snot-nosed nuggets.”
“Go ahead and join them,” Macho snorted. “Nobody is stopping you,”
Jumpin replied, “Macho, you are such a frickin’ Debbie Downer. You are the one who ruined this night for us.”
Pointing at Trench, she exploded. “He shouldn’t be talking about girls’ body parts in front of me! He’s always making snide comments under his breath about the talent aboard ship, and that’s total bullshit. Damn frickin’ right my antenna are up for a hostile work environment, because I hear it. I dealt with it all through flight school, and—”
“Bullshit, Macho,” Irish snarled. “I was with you in flight school, and all of us had to walk on eggshells around you, especially the instructors. We’d be happy with two above averages on a hop, but you’d be pissed and mutter under your breath about sexism. The airplane doesn’t give a fuck if you’re a man or a woman. And it will kill us if we let it, so don’t fuckin’ let it.”
Absorbing the blast, Macho turned away and folded her arms again. Jumpin spoke first.
“It’s up to you, Macho. You can be a dude with hair and one of us, or you can be Gloria Steinem looking for trouble. You weren’t here when Trench started checking her out, and besides, Trench is probably going to die alone.”
Irish added, “Just give him a look next time. Girls — I mean women, sorry — know how to do that. And knock off the 24/7 sexual assault crap. If he directs his comments to you or the other squadron women, then I’ll back you, but it’s not always about you.” The night ruined, he shook his head. “I’m outta here.”
“Me, too,” Jumpin agreed. “Let’s douse this fire.”
Macho took a step to pick up a plastic pail, but Irish snatched it up first. “No, no, I’ve got it! Not asking you to do anything menial. We can do it.” He headed to the gently lapping water to fill the pail.
Before she spun on her heels and headed to the room, Macho’s eyes met Jumpin’s. Humiliated, she hoped the darkness hid the tears running down her face. You stupid bitch! she berated herself as she slogged across the sand with arms folded.
The sound of female laughter wafted over the tropical beach.
Macho woke up early after a fitful night of sleep on the couch, her male counterparts sprawled about in chairs and on the floor. Olive was sacked out in a lounge chair on the balcony. As Macho gazed through the window past the uninhabited green cay to the blue Atlantic, she could tell paradise was going to offer them another gorgeous day.
Today was her turn to be on duty as the Admin Queen. One of her most important responsibilities was to make sure the snacks and beer were well stocked. Another duty was to go to the airport and pick up the new guy. Ensign Shane Duncan was reporting to the Firebirds as the new squadron Intelligence Officer.
She looked around but didn’t see Trench, her archenemy. She figured he spent the night in an orgy with the college girls and shivered at the thought.
To not disturb her squadronmates — and incur even more ill will than she had last night — she carefully stepped around the sleeping pilots and into the kitchen. Just then the front door opened; Skipper Wilson returning from an early morning run.
“Hey, Macho,” Wilson whispered.
“Hi, Skipper. How was the run?”
Wilson reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a bottled water. “Good. Going to the café for a cup of coffee. Want to come?”
“No thanks, sir. I need to police this place and then pick up the new guy at the airport.”
“Okay. You guys have fun last night?”
“Yes, sir!” Macho lied.
“Great. See you later. Bring the FNG down to the beach when you get here.”
“Yes, sir.”
After Wilson left, Macho changed her outfit, pinned her hair, and covered it in a ball cap. She then grabbed the keys to the rental car and slipped out of the still quiet admin.
CHAPTER 5
Macho set out for the airport on a two-lane road that bisected the island. Off to get the new guy… he’ll no doubt be easy to spot. Macho knew the type: slight, withdrawn, a pimply faced geek right out of college. First time out of the states, his mouth full of ma’ams and sirs. She shook her head. She hated the thought of delivering fresh hazing meat to Trench and his fellow frat-boy abusers.
As she climbed the lush mountainside to Skyline Drive, she became lost in her thoughts. She began to enjoy the day and the spectacular view of the Caribbean — until she noticed Coral Sea anchored in the roadstead.
Screw them, she thought. Trench and the other cliquish senior lieutenants were dividing the squadron, not her. After all, she was in the right; they were not allowed to say things that made her uncomfortable. And, despite the fact that VFA-16 had a female XO and Department Head, Macho was clearly in the minority. And minorities needed to be protected. Hadn’t Trench gotten the memo? Women were commanding squadrons, air wings, ships, and even strike groups. Treating women like pieces of meat and was going to stop in VFA-16. And Lieutenant Junior Grade Tiffany Rourke would lead the way in getting rid of this boy’s club unprofessionalism. The hell with Irish and Jumpin, too, she thought. They are just worried about fitting in with those bastards.
As Macho wended her way through downtown Charlotte Amalie, she spied pockets of Coral Sea sailors mixed in with middle-aged tourists on the sidewalks, both carrying packages of cheap jewelry and other souvenirs. She turned west to the airport. She had just parked the car when she heard the roar of an airliner rolling out with engines in reverse thrust. She saw that the 757 was from the correct airline and on time. Ensign Duncan, arriving.
She waited in the airy terminal as passengers from the Miami-originated flight filed past. Macho saw families on holiday, sunglassed businessmen in loud shirts, with blazers added to keep it real, Rastafarian locals, college kids, and European twenty and thirty-somethings seeking work at the resorts. She searched for a typical Navy intel weenie, one with a clueless and bewildered look of apprehension, eyes searching for someone, anyone, to help.
Among the crowd of arriving passengers, she spied a tall, female ensign in a summer white uniform. In her left hand she carried a small bag and held her combination cover against her body and under her arm. Macho watched her approach, her big eyeglass-covered eyes searching for a friendly face. With her dark hair pulled back into a regulation bun, her white pumps added three inches to her statuesque height, and she wore a skirt.