Intrigued by her cousin’s story, Wilson ignored her overtures and asked, “What was his name?”
“Rocky. Rocky Roberts. He was a Staff Sergeant.” Wilson was impressed Mary Martha knew that about her cousin. Most civilians would leave it at sergeant.
“How was he lost?” Even as he asked the question, Wilson couldn’t help but notice how the trades gently moved wisps of her hair about her face and shoulders.
Her face became pensive as she considered her answer. “He ran into the open to help some of his men and was gunned down in some filthy-ass raghead street. That’s all I know. Killed my aunt. Rocky was her pride and joy, and he had a wife and baby boy. Kyle is almost ten now.”
They both realized the conversation had taken a turn for the worse. Wilson glanced over her shoulder and saw that Billy and the others were sending amused looks in his direction. Oh great. He then locked eyes with Marvin, still in the middle of the group of men, and received a tight-lipped frown in return.
“Mary Martha, it has been a pleasure to meet you.”
“Where you going? The night is young,” Mary Martha purred, unloading a full broadside of sexual energy.
“I’m sure there are others you’d like to talk to.”
She shifted her body toward him. “I’m not interested in talking to them. I’m interested in talking to you.”
Wilson now knew he was in trouble. Get over here, Billy.
“Are you staying here tonight, or on that awful boat?”
“Neither. We’re going to the other side of the island.”
“You sure you don’t want to stay here? Daddy Warbucks is going to take me out of here soon so he can go beddy-by. Then I can come back out to play.”
Wilson gave her a slight smile. “My apologies, Mary Martha—”
Now spurned, her eyes flashed as she cut him off. “Okay, darlin’ Jim. Wifey should be proud of you.” She then quickly softened her tone.
“If you change your mind, I’ll be here tomorrow morning, sunning myself, wearing three band-aids and some fishin’ line… You need to get a good look. Everyone else does. Bye.” She turned and walked slowly across the pool deck to Marvin, who, along with the other men, watched her approach with approval. Billy appeared next to Wilson, and the two of them witnessed the beaming middle-aged men envelop Mysty within seconds.
“Wow. That is a bundle of fun. And you were talking to her.”
“Yep.”
“Now that you are returning to earth, care to hobnob with the heavies? But before we do, can I buy you a drink? After that performance you’ve earned it.”
Wilson nodded. “Yep. The night is young.”
When the reception began to wind down, and before the heavies left, the aviators jumped in a rental car and headed to the squadron admin at Breezy Cay, a thirty-minute drive through the darkened two-lane roads. Several of the squadrons had admins nearby. They served as bases of operations as the squadron officers explored Saint Thomas. A portion of each squadron also had officers standing duty aboard Coral Maru. They would get a chance at liberty tomorrow when the first wave returned back to the ship to relieve them.
Wilson sat in the back seat with Billy and the CO of the Rustlers, one of the helicopter squadrons. Looking across the water at the shadowy island of Saint John, Wilson’s mind wandered. Once this port visit ended they would get underway for the western Caribbean, south of Cuba and east of Belize. Belize? A nuclear-powered aircraft carrier was going to conduct exercises with Central American navies from Honduras and Belize, which consisted of little more than harbor patrol boats and Jet Ranger helicopters? Carriers hadn’t operated in these waters since the mid-80s when Nicaragua was a communist base that fomented revolution throughout the region. Then, later in the decade, Panama under the Noriega regime had drawn U.S. interest for a while. But, when the fleet could no longer train at Vieques, there was no reason to come to the Caribbean at all. Carriers were needed in the Indian Ocean, and Afghanistan combat was where the action was. But that was all changing, and the Navy was signaling that new deployment cycles to “new” locations were in the offing. Coral Sea was the first of many more planned carrier deployments here.
As they drove through Red Hook, Wilson’s mind continued to wander as he watched the locals gather in restaurants and walk along the road, enjoying the warm evening. To the east a gibbous moon burst out of the Caribbean, illuminating the clouds and lush islands. He thought again of Mary Martha’s smoldering sexuality and her lonely existence, then of his own Mary. They passed a lighted billboard for Red Stripe beer. Yes, a Red Stripe on the balcony overlooking the Caribbean would be good right now.
Ten minutes later they pulled up to the Breezy Cay resort, where the advance party of Firebird JOs had set up “shop” in one of the suites. One of his senior lieutenants, Mike “Dusty” Rhodes, clad in shorts and a tank top, beer in hand, happened to pass by as Wilson got out of the car with his overnight bag.
“Hey, Skipper! Welcome to paradise!” Dusty greeted him.
“Yeah, I’ll say. You guys broken in the admin to an acceptable degree?”
“Yes, sir, we are fully qualified — since about noon today! Cold beer, warm water, island tunes. Fully qualled, sir!”
Wilson smiled as Dusty led him up a series of concrete steps. Their suite, located in a complex of buildings, was situated along a hill and surrounded by island flora. The moon had risen higher into the night, above the soft cumulus build-ups that floated over the island. A beautiful scene that Wilson wished “his” Mary could experience.
Thumping club music grew louder and louder as Wilson followed Dusty down a breezeway to a door at the far end. On the door was a VFA-16 sticker, a “zapper” to indicate this room belonged to the Firebirds of VFA-16. “Welcome aboard, sir,” Dusty said as he opened the door for his CO.
Wilson was met with the blast of an Outkast favorite, a gaggle of his pilots in swim trunks and sandals, all with a beer in hand and big smiles on their faces. Teetering on a chair next to the balcony railing was Lieutenant Mark “Trench” James. He wielded a 3-wood and was about to propel a golf ball placed on another chair into the Caribbean night — either that or ricochet it off the railing and back into the living room at high speed.
“Skipper!” a drunken Trench exclaimed as Wilson entered. “Watch this!”
“No!” Wilson warned as he raised his hand and shook his head smiling, knowing how this story was going to end.
“Oh, c’mon, Skipper! Coach bet I couldn’t hit the ocean from here, but I can. I mean, it’s right there! I don’t even need a driver!”
“Now, Trench,” Wilson, still dressed in his white uniform, admonished him as he good-naturedly approached him through the laughing JOs. “If you put the club down and get off that chair, we won’t have to convene a mishap board tonight.”