Kevin Miller - Raven One

“Hardly.”

Psycho pulled a handful of Olive’s hair into the curling iron. “Who are you going for tonight?”

Olive thought for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe Crusher, if he’s there.”

“Ohh, I’d love those big Marine Corps arms around me! Look, I’m going to find him and keep him occupied before you come out so that hobitch from the Knights doesn’t get close to him. Don’t even need a reason to kick her in her balls.”

“He can have her.”

“No! Listen, fighter-goddess , you told me to never give up in a guns situation. You haven’t even turned at the merge, and you offer your throat to that skank. Here’s what we do… I sweep the bandits ahead of you and then you schwoopenhousen in for the kill. That dress, those shoes, those legs … you have a full weapons load out, and I want to see them expended!”

“Thanks, wingee.”

“And this voice of yours… it’s the siren song. You want me to spend the night in the lobby?”

“No!” Olive turned her head in protest. “ Oww! ” she then cried as Psycho’s grasp pulled on her hair clamped to the iron.

“ Relax! I know you are a nice southern girl. How are you going to snag him?”

“I don’t know. We’ll see what happens.”

“Just unbutton an extra button and laugh at their stupid jokes. Works every time.”

“That’s not me, and I need every button I can.”

“For once , Olive, can you not be an officer and a gentlewoman? Look, right now, there is no wash-khaki material within miles of us. You’ve got silk and lace tonight, and if you don’t know how to use them with these guys 5,000 miles away from the Oceana groupie-sluts, you are never gonna get laid.”

Olive stared ahead and said nothing in an awkward silence.

“I’m sorry,” Psycho muttered. Unspoken between them was what they both knew. Olive was plain , and while the makeup and clothes helped at the margins, they had their limits. And her businesslike personality didn’t help matters.

“It’s okay. I’m going out of my comfort zone for tonight. I’m glad you are here to help me.”

“Me, too!”

The officers turned some heads as they clicked through the hotel lobby. Psycho stuffed wads of dirhams into the hand of every bellman who held a door open for them. The bellmen figured the tall woman in the short dark dress was a famous movie star accompanied by her personal assistant. After the women stepped into a waiting cab, the bellmen argued among themselves in Hindi as to who she was.

It was a cool but pleasant evening in Dubai as the cab departed the hotel and entered the wide boulevard. “The Highlander my good man! How many doo-dahs?” Psycho asked the driver.

“Thirty-five dirham,” the Pakistani driver replied.

“Thirty-five!” Psycho exploded. “No, no, twenty.”

“No, no! Thirty-five, but for pretty ladies, thirty.”

“Thank you, but do you know who this is? Ms. Jolie is going to be upset and may not make her next movie here. Twenty-five,” Psycho said as she playfully flinched from Olive’s jab to her side.

The driver inspected Olive through the rearview mirror as he navigated the traffic through the canyon of tall buildings. His dark eyes burned a hole in hers before she turned away.

“Twenty-five and Ms. Jolie gives a big tip if you get us there in 10 minutes.” Psycho could not be stopped, and was picking up the bargaining thing quite well. Olive rolled her eyes.

“Okay, okay. Twenty-five and big tip, I get you there safe and fast.”

“Thank you, sir,” Psycho replied. She then turned to Olive and added, “Ms. Jolie, everything will be fine ma’am, and you won’t have to worry your pretty little citizen-of-the-world head.” Psycho was having too much fun to stop.

“Would you shut up?” Olive muttered as she suppressed a smile.

“I have been to the United States,” the driver said suddenly. The women froze.

“Where?” Olive asked, sensing the jig was up and attempting to salvage what little dignity she could.

“Orlando. Disney World. I took my wife and son. Very nice place.”

The women did not know what to say. Olive wondered how a third-world cabbie could afford that, and even converse with them in English. Maybe he was pulling their legs.

“Disney World is very nice,” Olive volunteered.

“I’ve never been,” Psycho added wistfully.

Minutes later they pulled up to the Highlander nightclub and Psycho put two 20 dirham bills in the driver’s hand, the promised big tip for their Ugly American conduct. When she turned toward the entrance, Olive spotted some air wing guys walking up to the door.

“Hide me!” she ordered Psycho under her breath.

“Here,” Psycho said as she pulled her coat up and wrapped it around herself and Olive. “Guys see two women huddling under a coat in front of a Middle Eastern nightspot, and they don’t give it a second thought.”

Once the men disappeared inside, they entered and Olive took the lead, moving fast to another hiding spot near the stage, not making eye contact with any of the Americans there. A favorite watering hole for Brit expats and American sailors on liberty, the Highlander boasted wood paneling, velvet seating, Fosters beer and flashing lights. A disco ball hung over the stage. A Filipino ensemble, three young men with guitars and a keyboard accompanied by two women singing and swaying in tube tops, performed a remarkably accurate “Dancing Queen” on the cramped stage.

Dozens of Happy Valley aviators, identified by their clean-cut appearance and American denim, dominated the tables and dance floor. Most of them nursed a Fosters bottle. None, however, were dressed as glamorously as Olive was. If she did not stay out of sight, she would be noticed before she wanted to be, but not as Olive. No one would think that the Amazon with wild, dark locks in the black minidress was Lieutenant “Olive” Teel from VFA-64.

Still hiding near the stage, Olive and Psycho surveyed the crowd. “Tally-ho on Crusher, left eleven,” Psycho said. “Good, there’s slut-bitch working a gaggle of Rickshaws over there.”

Olive then spotted a group of Ravens : Sponge Bob, Little Nicky, Blade and Crusher were talking with some marines. Suddenly, a group of three tall young women entered, flowing blonde hair, sleek outfits… they were clearly not from the ship. The air wing guys locked on immediately. This was big game.

“Oh, oh. Brit flight attendants. Or Aussies,” Olive surmised. Turning to Psycho she briefed her wingman.” Okay, wing-girl . Get over to Crusher and keep his attention away from those flying baristas while I get on stage. After I’m done, meet me back here. We will then bolt to a pub I know downtown, one with leather, scotch, and Brit guys.”

“Why? This is…”

“Never leave your wingman, girlie. Besides, I want to leave him wanting more, and I’m not going to be pawed and ogled by the rest of these assholes all night. Trust me on this one.”

“Okay, fine, I’ve got your 6 o’clock,” Psycho said. She inspected Olive. “Hey, you look incredible and your legs go on forever !”

“Let’s hope he’s a leg guy,” Olive deadpanned as she nervously assessed the performers on stage.

“They all will be after they see you.” Touching Olive’s arm, Psycho added, “Have fun with this, Okay?”

“Okay, now go.” As Olive shooed Psycho away, she took a moment to get into full combat mode. She had planned this “coming out” for months: the outfit, the song, the Highlander, the right moment on the stage. Now, even though she tottered a bit on her fresh-out-of-the-box stilettos, she was ready. And despite the pounding adrenalin, she felt a calm confidence spread through her.