Ian Slater - World in Flames

“So be alert,” said the instructor, “when we’re going through PALFIR — which is?” He was pointing at Melissa. Rick Stacy was watching her.

“Prearming,” she replied. “Arming, launching, firing, releasing,” she added smartly.

“Very good! Okay, that wraps it up for today. Remember, tomorrow you’re on solo, which may or may not include a problem with the blast valve. Three ways to clear?” He looked about the room, using a stick of chalk as a pointer. “Johnson?”

“Ah—”

The instructor laughed. “Unfair question. Tomorrow, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Zipping up his parka before going out in the thirty-below “icy hell,” as Rick Stacy called it with what he thought was a fine piece of irony, he complimented Melissa on her PALFIR answer. “Right on the button, Lissa. Very impressive!”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

“What?”

“Lissa.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s right with it? My name’s Melissa.”

“Sorreeeee.”

In the pickup van, there was a lot of loud talk as the class members unwound. No one spoke of estimating warhead yield, launch reliability factors, or reentry penetration. Only when it was suggested that the PX might have run out of Coors did one of the silo cadets, a tall youth from Louisiana, drawl that if the PX manager hadn’t ordered in enough beer, the manager’s TKP — terminal kill probability — would be 1.0—absolutely certain.

Melissa ignored the small talk, thinking instead about the bungalow she and another woman trainee shared. The bungalow had developed a leak in the roof. It would be all right for the time being, but once there was any melting, it’d be like a waterfall. “Be spring,” Rick said sulkily, “before there’s any melting around here.”

“You might be right,” she said, “but I thought you didn’t like my place looking unkempt — the ceiling’s stained.”

“I don’t.”

“Well then?”

“Melissa, I have better things to do right now than to mend roofs. We go solo tomorrow, remember?”

“I remember,” she said tartly.

“What’s gotten into you?” he asked brusquely.

“Nothing.”

“Well, if you want it fixed that badly, call Base Repairs. They’ll send someone over.”

“I thought you liked doing that kind of stuff.”

“I would if I had the time. Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll get Base Repairs.”

“Right.”

The van suddenly slid on black ice. There was a chorus of “whoa”s as it slithered further, then righted itself. It was all very funny, but for a second Melissa felt they were going to go right off the road and smash into the ice-hardened ditch. Life was too short — full of hazard.

As David Brentwood left Brussels headquarters, stepping out onto the wet, black pavement, his mood was one of brooding self-condemnation — about Melissa’s letter, the interview board — everything. His dejection wasn’t helped any by the ceiling of overcast, drizzling gray clouds so low, they obscured the ornate spires of the Grand Place, or by the British military police sergeant waiting for him under a dark canvas awning. The last thing he needed was the Brit’s nonstop patter, full of empty homilies and pubic jokes.

“What ho! Here comes our hero!” the sergeant said. Until then, David hadn’t seen Lili with him. The rosy-faced girl smiled with such transparent pleasure at seeing David that momentarily his attention shifted from thoughts of Melissa, whose letter lay like a poison against his chest. So powerful was the effect of the letter that for a moment during the interview, he had petulantly thought of agreeing to join the joint British/American commandos out of pure pique. He’d show her — the bitch. But then the fear of sudden death had prevailed — and now he was glad. Lili’s smile beneath the Flemish bonnet was so radiant and open that despite himself, he was smiling, too.

“You have forgotten,” she said.

He looked blank.

“Well — are you ready?” she added, full of enthusiasm.

“Oh-oh — that’s a leading question,” guffawed the sergeant. David wished the MP would evaporate. Lili ignored the Englishman.

“You do not remember,” she said, but it was uttered without rancor, almost alluringly. “I promised I would be your, ah—” She couldn’t think of the English word, her hands gesticulating impatiently, but even this was done with an infectious eagerness, full of life, of the kind of spirit that David felt had deserted him, what the French call joie de vivre.

“My guide?” he proffered.

“Oui —yes. My guide.”

“Lucky you!” said the sergeant. “Can I come along, too?”

“No.” Lili said it with such unequivocal authority, given her age, that David found himself laughing. The sergeant, unamused, mumbled something ending with “bitch,” adding officiously, “We’re leaving Brussels at sixteen hundred hours. By rights I should accompany you — you being a big hero and all. You’re my charge, you might say.”

David wasn’t listening. He was still watching Lili.

“Hey!” bellowed the sergeant.

“I’m a big boy, Sarge,” said David. “You’ve done your duty directing me to HQ. I can find my way back to the station, thanks.”

“Oh — all fit again, are we?”

“Fit enough,” said David.

“Ah!” quipped the sergeant. “You signed up then?”

David stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, Yank,” the sergeant said derisively. “The bloody commandos. Beret boys. They asked you to sign on the dotted line. Right?”

“You’re in violation of secrecy,” said David, looking anxiously around. “You’re an MP. You should know—”

“Oh, pardon me, Sir Galahad,” retorted the sergeant, buttoning up his greatcoat, one of the blackened brass buttons hanging by a thread. “I didn’t realize you’d taken holy orders. And don’t tell me my fucking job.” He glared at Lili. “Anyway — common bloody knowledge, isn’t it?”

“What?” said David, hard-eyed. He felt Lili’s arm slip through his protectively, and for a second her perfume of roses washed over him and he was transported to a summer with Melissa, a warm breeze bending and teasing the young grass, Melissa’s breasts warm and pliant beneath him. A surge of arousal outstripped his anger and he decided there wasn’t any point in pursuing the question of security with the sergeant. The Brit was a little off the deep end anyway. Lili snuggled closer to David in the rain as the sergeant mockingly answered Brentwood’s question by repeating it.

“What’s common knowledge? For Christ’s sake, Brentwood, anyone with half a brain knows HQ’s recruiting. Fucking Arabs are threatening the Yids, right? Iraq’s going to drop a few CBs on ‘em. Right? So we’re going to send in some of our heros to the rescue. Right? Or aren’t you going?”

Brentwood saw the mad look in the sergeant’s eyes again, remembering the first time he’d seen him bellowing down the canal bank. This time Lili’s grip on David’s arm was one of alarm.

“You’re nuts,” said David before he could stop himself.

“Hey, hey, Yank. Button your beak!” the sergeant hissed. Lili moved in closer against David, holding him in tighter still.

“All right, old buddy,” said David placatingly.

“All right then, eh — eh?” The MP was getting out of control.

“David,” said Lili quietly, “please—”

As they walked off, Lili’s free arm stretching high above her in an effort to bring her floral umbrella over him, the rain was drumming on the canvas canopy of the HQ building, rivulets pouring over the edge, the rain so heavy, it was pitting the snow that still lay in dirty mounds by the sidewalk. The sergeant was shouting after them. “Better come by fifteen-thirty, mate. Or you’ll be fucking AWOL. Understand?”