Wingmen (9781310207280) Read Online Free Page A

into the BOQ near the air station and got a small but
well-furnished room for two with a view of Pearl Harbor—if you
leaned far enough out the window. It was just after four and nobody
was around, so Fred went out for a walk in the hot sunshine, happy
to have the good fortune of a few hours to himself. The little air
base was smaller than the Kaneohe station but large enough to have
its own base exchange. His last liquor ration had been wasted on
people he hadn’t felt like drinking with, but now that he was a
member of VF-20 he had another ration to enjoy. Thanking his lucky
stars for this precipitous turn of events, he bought two bottles of
overpriced Scotch and headed back to the BOQ, having been out for
about an hour. There, he found that a party was underway in the
room next to his. He considered the alternatives and decided to
take the plunge.
    Feeling very
much like an intruder, Fred pushed open the door and stepped
inside. Twelve sweaty faces turned to look and silence fell with
unnatural swiftness. “Good afternoon,” said Fred. He pulled the two
bottles of Scotch from the paper bag and held them up. “I’m the new
kid from down the block and I brought something for the party.” A
roar of approval went up and a boozy, reeling pilot with a beefy
face staggered over to Fred and threw an arm around his
shoulders.
    “Name’s Fred
Trusteau,” said Fred.
    “Fuck the
introductions,” said the drunken pilot, “let’s crack them bottles.”
The bottles disappeared into the crowd, and Fred was given a place
to sit on a bunk between a gangly man with a big nose and a stocky,
black-haired man with small features and tufts of black hair
peeking out the top of his T-shirt. When Fred was seated, the
stocky man shoved a half-filled water glass into his hands and
said, “That was such a nice thing to do, I could just kiss you,”
and he gave Fred a scratchy peck on the cheek. Fred decided the
pilot was juiced beyond rational thinking—no small accomplishment
for less than an hour’s drinking.
    “I’m Frank
Hammerstein,” said the thin man. “Looks like you made a hit with
the squadron.”
    “Fred Trusteau.
But will they still love me tomorrow?”
    Frank laughed
and raised his glass in a salute, and they drank together.
    Looking around
the room, Fred could see several lieutenants, a bunch of j.g.’s,
and the usual collection of ensigns. The experienced pilots mixed
easily with the new ones, and Fred decided he would like flying
with this group. They were certainly friendly enough after
hours.
    “In case you’re
wondering,” said Frank Hammerstein, talking loudly to override the
babble of voices, “this is our Saturday afternoon strategy
conference.”
    “Conference?”
    “We do this
every Saturday night, while we try to decide on what we’re going to
do the rest of the weekend.”
    “You mean on
Sunday.”
    “Yeah, but
sometimes we get too far along and end up right here all Saturday
night.”
    “Sounds like
fun.” Fred emptied his glass. “How do you get a refill?” he
asked.
    “Just wait,”
said Frank. “A bottle’ll be around in a minute.” A moment later a
bottle of gin appeared in Frank’s hands. He poured both of them a
few fingers and passed the bottle to the stocky man with the hairy
neck, who raised it to his lips, chugged a few swallows, and fell
back into the bunk. The bottle continued to the left and
disappeared into the haze of cigarette smoke and the crowd of brown
khaki uniforms.
    “Hope you like
gin,” said Frank.
    “I never refuse
a drink from a friend,” said Fred. The gin was not particularly
good, but Fred drank it anyway. He was nearly finished with it when
the door burst open and a j.g. staggered in, dragging a girl with
him.
    “Hey, fellas,”
he said, “I’ve got something to show you. You won’t believe this
when you see it.” The hot smoky air of the room visibly affected
him, and he leaned on the girl. Fred looked at his watch. It was
only 5:20. The j.g.