He now ran a finger down her perfect back, hooked a thumb into her armpit and turned her to look at him. He pulled her to him, tucking her leg over his and slid his hand down her back. “You had better get a handle on this, soon, or the Old Man will turn you to paste.” He gently caressed her inner thigh then slid his hand upward.
She made a hissed inhalation and arched her back. “I know,” she said with a little gasp. She paused for a moment then went on, panting slightly. “I just cannot get a handle on…” She paused again, making little inhalations through her nose. The nostrils fluttered in and out prettily.
“On?” asked Pappas, waiting for her to try to answer.
“On… uhm…” she said as he moved his hand slightly to the side. She stopped trying to talk.
“Are you listening?” he asked, backing away slightly then sliding forward. Docking was abrupt and perfect.
“Umm-hmm,” she murmured. “Definitely.” She slid her leg up to hook over his hip.
“Stop fighting with Stewart and listen to him. He’s better at this than anyone else in the company besides the Old Man.”
“Okay,” she squeaked, starting to rock back and forth.
“I’m serious,” said Pappas, giving a little gasp of his own as well-trained muscles clamped. He was on the losing side of the battle now.
“I’ll make up to the shrimp,” she said pushing his shoulder to roll him over on his back. She grabbed his short thick black hair in both hands. “Now hang on.”
Duncan popped the top off the unlabeled beer bottle with a K-bar combat knife and wordlessly handed it to Stewart. The younger NCO was staring unseeingly at the wall of his tiny room. He took a swig without looking at the product, then stopped and stared at the bottle.
“Damn,” he said, looking up at the recently arrived staff sergeant. “I thought I had balls. Raiding the Old Man’s home brew is a capital offense.” Beer was getting harder and harder to find. Materials such as barley and hops were strictly controlled under emergency rationing and storage plans. The easy accessibility of the materials to the company commander was a closely held secret of the company.
“He’d understand,” said Duncan, slipping a pack of Marlboro Reds out and lighting one. “He’s good people.” He took a deep drag on the butt and blew smoke at the ceiling.
“Unlike certain unnamed stuck-up bitches,” snarled the younger NCO and clenched both hands. His arms were shaking in anger.
“Who is currently getting her ass fucked off by Top,” noted Duncan, with a wry smile.
Stewart shook his head. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Well, he’s a good-looking guy…” said Duncan.
“No,” interrupted Stewart with a grimace. “I was talking about Top fucking her, not the other way around. I mean, damn, the Gunny was always such a straight arrow!” Only then did he realize that the other NCO was jerking his chain.
“Well,” mused Duncan with another puff on the cancer stick, “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating crackers.”
Stewart snorted. “Yeah, neither would I. Gotta admit it. Great set of knockers. Prime slice any way you cut it.”
“So,” asked Duncan with a smile. “Is your anger with Gunny Pappas because he is fucking your Public Enemy Number One, or because he’s getting some and you’re not?”
“Who says I’m not getting any?” snapped Stewart, machismo aroused.
“Well, I know you’re not getting any from Nightingale, although the way you two fight…”
“Oh, fuck you,” said Stewart, trying not to laugh.
“And Arnold has already nailed up Lieutenant Slight, so she’s right out.”
“No!” gasped Stewart, starting to double up in laughter. “Jesus! Arnold and Slight? Are you sure?”
“Well, I suppose he could have been demonstrating mouth to mouth…”
“Oh, shit!” laughed Stewart, finally letting go of the tension of the argument with the XO. “So when are you and Boggle gonna do the dirty deed?”
Duncan’s face took on a look of deepest sorrow. “I fear never,” he said, placing a hand on his chest in simulated despair. “Methinks that Sergeant Boggle pines for Lieutenant Fallon!”
Stewart laughed so hard that nut-brown ale spurted out of his nose and he started gasping. The battles between the Second platoon leader and his female platoon sergeant were as legendary as his own with the XO. The image of “Boggle” Bogdanovich and the West Pointer wrapped up in Eros’s embrace was as implausible as… the XO and Top.
“Jesus,” he swore again, after regaining control of himself. “You don’t think?”
“Well, not yet,” said Duncan, leaning forward and taking the home brew for a swig. “If you’re just going to waste this blowing it out your nose…”
“So,” said Stewart with a smile as he wiped beer off his chair, “who are you planning on getting a leg over with?”
“Oh,” commented Duncan, handing the bottle back and waiting for Stewart to take another slug, “I was thinking about… Summerhour.”
Beer blasted across the room again. Summerhour was a nearly seven-foot, not particularly bright, fairly ugly, male, heavy weapons private. Since Stewart was fairly sure Duncan was straight, the choice could not have been more unlikely.
Stewart finally wiped up the mess, wiped his eyes and gave up on drinking. “You think the Old Man knows?” he asked soberly.
Duncan shook his head. “Everybody thinks I’m some sort of expert on Captain O’Neal. I was only with him for a couple of days. You guys have been training with him for over a year. You answer the question.”
Stewart thought about it. “Probably. I’ve never seen anything surprise him.”
“I have,” admitted Duncan. “But only when the enemy pisses all over his battle plans. He gets really angry then. Really angry.” He shook his head and finished the brew to the yeasty dregs. “You don’t want to see him when he’s angry.”
CHAPTER 23
No-Name-Key, FL, United States of America, Sol III
1440 EDT October 2nd, 2004 ad
Mike was trying very hard not to get angry. “Sir, I understand that you’re out of the hotel business. I can even understand you being unhappy with tourists. But I’ve got my wife and daughter with me and we need someplace to put our heads down.”
The man behind the counter was in his fifties, his long graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. He stared down his nose at the short, massively built soldier and wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Look, buddy, you’re right. I’m out of the hotel business. There ain’t any tourists anymore. How the hell did you get leave when everybody else is locked up on a base or working their ass off?”
Mike threw his hands up in despair. “I pulled every string in the book. Is that what you wanted to hear?” In fact, every string in the book had been pulled behind his back. But that would take more explanation than it was worth.
The proprietor’s face worked. “Look…”
“Harry,” said a female voice from the office at the rear. “Calm down.”
The No-Name-Key Fish Camp consisted of eight ancient, wooden bungalows bleached gray by a half century of sun, a few rickety docks surrounding a small but deep embayment, a brand new cinder-block icehouse about thirty yards long and the office, a single-story wooden building protruding over the small harbor. The buildings all surrounded an oyster-shell parking lot. The parking lot had a motley assortment of vehicles, mostly pickup trucks, parked at every angle. Most of the trucks appeared to have been abandoned where they sat, palm fronds and dirt encrusting their hoods. The racket of a large diesel generator sounded from somewhere behind the icehouse and an overwhelming scent of fish and rotting weeds was being carried away on the strong southwest wind.