Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

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.

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 Macho knew the type: slight, withdrawn, a pimply faced geek right out of college.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.

I hate skirts , Macho thought, wondering if this was Ensign Shane Duncan. As she drew closer, Macho could read, with her 20/17 vision, the black nametag over the right uniform pocket above the ensign’s full bosom: DUNCAN.

Oh, no , Macho thought, before she walked up and extended her hand. “Ensign Duncan, hi, I’m Lieutenant Jay Gee Tiffany Roark. Welcome to the Firebirds of VFA-16.”

Startled by Macho’s informal appearance, Duncan stopped and returned her handshake. “Hi! I’m Shane Duncan! Nice to meet you, ma’am!”

Macho cringed, and quickly corrected her. “Look, it’s Tiffany— Macho —and cut the ma’am thing. Lieutenants and below are all JOs, all first-name basis. Even the hinge-heads go by call signs, but it’s smart to throw a sir or a ma’am in there once in a while.”

“I’m sorry, please forgive me… and I’m sorry but what is a hinge-head?” Shane asked, looking crushed as if she had blown her only chance for a good first impression.

“ Relax , for crying out loud. You’re the Fung , and you have a lot to learn. Six months ago I was the Fung, and someone showed me the ropes. Hinge-heads are the department head lieutenant commanders who nod up and down enthusiastically at anything the CO says.”

“Fung?” Shane asked.

Macho realized this “kid” really was wet behind the ears. However, she looked like an Amazon goddess, and should have exuded confidence, but she was more like little Bambi than Wonder Woman. That’s it, she thought, we have Wonder Woman!

“F-N-G. Frickin’ New Guy. That’s you until we get you a call sign.”

“Oh,” Shane replied uncomfortably, not sure she liked the F in FNG.

They got her luggage off the carousel, and Macho was impressed Shane could lug her sea bag as well as any guy. Hell, she was bigger than her fellow pilot, Ghost. Walking to the car, Macho asked, “Where you from?”

“Pocatello, Idaho. Graduated from the University of Idaho last spring with my commission, and I came here straight from Intel School. I’m really excited to be in a strike squadron!”

“Strike Fighter squadron, dearie.” Does this chick know anything? Macho wondered.

Macho pulled onto the main road while Shane sat in the passenger seat. Fascinated by the flora and fauna of St. Thomas, she commented with excitement about everything she saw. As they climbed the narrow switchback roads above the city, Macho stole glances at her new squadronmate. Shane sat demurely with hands folded on her lap, a faint smile on her lips as she marveled at the sights. The understated makeup on her peaches-and-cream complexion highlighted her deep blue eyes, almost hidden by big glasses. Her brunette hair was professionally pinned in place according to uniform regulation. Shane was a big girl, and she was built . Simply put, the newest addition to VFA-16 was a bombshell , even in her summer white uniform. And Macho didn’t see any rings on her fingers.

Macho did not fear female competition from Shane. After six months in the squadron, Trench and his sidekick, Coach, had established themselves as near mortal enemies, but her fellow nuggets were like kid brothers. None of the junior officers in Carrier Air Wing SIX was of interest to her, but she instinctively knew any attention she had hoped to receive from them would now be superseded by the arrival of Wonder Woman . Then it dawned on her — the squadron thinks Ensign Shane Duncan is a guy, a geeky intel guy they can abuse. Were they ever in for a surprise.