Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

Trench liked being the center of attention. With good looks chiseled by nature and a body cut by daily workouts in the foc’sle, he was olive skinned and wore his wavy black hair longer than most and unlike most kept it moist with mousse. He could easily pass for a cast member of the reality show Jersey Shore , using that to his advantage in a never ending quest to bed as many women as he could. He seldom lacked volunteers.

Trench was obsessed with the score. Having earned his call sign from his large stash of porn magazines, he was not about to squander his current target-rich environment — a tropical beach adjacent to several resort properties. The women of Carrier Air Wing SIX knew to give him a wide berth — some unfortunately learned too late and became figurative kill markings on the fuselage of his Hornet . It mattered not to Trench. Once he got to the beach, his eyes were in track-while-scan mode as he searched for the talent he had spied on the sand that afternoon. Fellow lieutenants Coach and “Ghost” Rutledge were “flying wing” on him to pick up any leftovers.

Trench and his wingmen stopped at the bonfire and popped open a Red Stripe. The moon, now halfway up the eastern sky, bathed the point and the cay behind it in a warm glow. Paradise. Nugget pilots Conner “Irish” Davis and Joe “Jumpin” Kessler were already there stoking the flames, beer bottles in hand.

“Bro! Check out the biscuit, nine o’clock long,” Ghost volunteered. They all eyed a tall, buxom blonde as she joined what appeared to be a group of giggling college coeds on holiday. Each of them held a jar of Long Island Iced Tea from the cabana bar, and they were well on their way to losing their inhibitions.

Trench snapped his eyes to the left. “ Hoo, baby! ” he said. “Look at the milk jugs on that bitch!”

Just as he uttered those words, the mood of the group took on a noticeable chill. When Trench did not get the reaction he expected from the guys, he turned to see Nugget pilot Lieutenant Junior Grade Tiffany “Macho” Rourke glaring at him.

Macho Rourke was his nemesis. Barely five-foot-three, she had a round face and wore her hair in a Navy-regulation bob. The most junior of the three female Firebird pilots, she was outspoken and coarse as she endeavored to rule the nugget pilot roost. Because she always bristled at Trench’s sexually suggestive innuendo, he knew to keep his distance from her. As a protected minority, a woman, Macho had demanded respect from day one before she had earned any, and silently chafed under the derisive meaning of her call sign. Sadly for the male Firebird pilots and luckily for Macho, Battle Axe was already taken.

“Oh, sorry, dudes! Thought it was just us bros here. Where were we? Oh yeah, Irish, you were going to lead us in the next song. I’m a little teapot—”

As the men laughed, Trench reveled in the attention. Smiling at Macho, he sipped on his beer, daring her.

“Go ahead, men , undress those little girls with your eyes,” Macho responded. “At least slip them a twenty for bouncing around in their bikinis for you.”

“Darn, I left my wallet in the room,” Trench shot back. “Besides, they look like classy college girls, probably Southeastern Conference types. Maybe I should — dare I say it — walk over there and introduce myself. ”

Coach jumped in. “Bro, let me introduce you. ‘Ladies, may I present Lieutenant Hugh Jardon? ’”

“Thank you, Lieutenant John Mehoff . Girls, you can call him ‘ Jack .’” Trench said, playing along, with more chuckling from the guys.

“Those children aren’t going to give you the time of day,” Macho interjected, not afraid to be on her own defending the sisterhood, despite the fact the college girls were oblivious to the pilots talking about them from over 50 feet away. Trench picked up the gauntlet.

“Yes, Macho, you are so right. We don’t have a chance. We have zero game here on this tropical paradise with these girls on the prowl who are what, six, seven years younger than us, and about twenty years younger than you.”

The guys roared as Trench waited for Macho’s comeback. He didn’t have to wait long.

“You guys know that hitting on those students is child abuse, if not pedophilia. And… both you guys have girlfriends back home.” Macho folded her arms in smug superiority.

A hush came over the group, with Trench and Coach giving her a hard look. Trench spoke first.

“ Abuse is staying here arguing with Little Miss Can’t-Be-Wrong on a moonlit beach in St. Thomas. Come on, Coach, you lecherous cad , let’s go make some new and attractive friends.”

The two senior pilots trudged over the sand to the coeds, who watched them approach with excited smiles. Ghost joined them, and within minutes the men had their new friends laughing and giggling, the night full of anticipation.

Irish and Jumpin stared into the dying fire as Macho stared out to sea in haughty defiance.

“What a great team bonding experience,” Jumpin muttered.

Irish pulled on his beer and added, “Yep, our first liberty port and the JOs are divided into the cool kids and the snot-nosed nuggets.”

“Go ahead and join them,” Macho snorted. “Nobody is stopping you,”

Jumpin replied, “Macho, you are such a frickin’ Debbie Downer. You are the one who ruined this night for us .”

Pointing at Trench, she exploded. “ He shouldn’t be talking about girls’ body parts in front of me! He’s always making snide comments under his breath about the talent aboard ship, and that’s total bullshit. Damn frickin’ right my antenna are up for a hostile work environment, because I hear it. I dealt with it all through flight school, and—”

“ Bullshit, Macho,” Irish snarled. “I was with you in flight school, and all of us had to walk on eggshells around you , especially the instructors. We’d be happy with two above averages on a hop, but you’d be pissed and mutter under your breath about sexism. The airplane doesn’t give a fuck if you’re a man or a woman. And it will kill us if we let it, so don’t fuckin’ let it.”

Absorbing the blast, Macho turned away and folded her arms again. Jumpin spoke first.

“It’s up to you, Macho. You can be a dude with hair and one of us, or you can be Gloria Steinem looking for trouble. You weren’t here when Trench started checking her out, and besides, Trench is probably going to die alone.”

Irish added, “Just give him a look next time. Girls — I mean women , sorry — know how to do that. And knock off the 24/7 sexual assault crap. If he directs his comments to you or the other squadron women, then I’ll back you, but it’s not always about you.” The night ruined, he shook his head. “I’m outta here.”

“Me, too,” Jumpin agreed. “Let’s douse this fire.”

Macho took a step to pick up a plastic pail, but Irish snatched it up first. “No, no, I’ve got it! Not asking you to do anything menial. We can do it.” He headed to the gently lapping water to fill the pail.

Before she spun on her heels and headed to the room, Macho’s eyes met Jumpin’s. Humiliated, she hoped the darkness hid the tears running down her face. You stupid bitch! she berated herself as she slogged across the sand with arms folded.

The sound of female laughter wafted over the tropical beach.

Macho woke up early after a fitful night of sleep on the couch, her male counterparts sprawled about in chairs and on the floor. Olive was sacked out in a lounge chair on the balcony. As Macho gazed through the window past the uninhabited green cay to the blue Atlantic, she could tell paradise was going to offer them another gorgeous day.