Parking Lot Outside Terminal
Pope Air Force Base
North Carolina, United States of America
10 December, 1989, Sunday
0530 Hours

It was warmer in North Carolina than it had been in North Dakota, hotter and muggier than we were used to. I'm sure it was cold to the goddamn dirt dart faggots that were supposed to show up and pick us up, but we were all used to Alfenwehr and Western Germany, so the temperature didn't mean shit to us.

We were getting angry. We'd taken off from Blackbriar at 2000 Hours, arrived at Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina and disembarked the C-130 at 0100, changed into BDU's and loaded the Linebackers onto trucks by 0300, and finally had been thrown out of the terminal to stand out in the goddamn cold like animals at 0400.

Our baggage, two dufflebags, a rucksack, and a uniform bag for each of us, were on the sidewalk beside the terminal. The Air Force MP's had told us we couldn't hang out in front of the terminal doors, but hey, they were nice enough to let us throw all our shit onto the bench in the bus stop kiosk by the street.

They drove by us every thirty minutes, staring at us like they expected us to rob the place.

I was really starting to get tempted to just pull them out of their shitty little greyish-beige jeep and just downright straight out carjack their fucking asses.

"This is bullshit," Bomber snarled as the MP's drove by again.

I gave them the finger. "They stop, I'm kicking the shit out of them and stealing their jeep."

They didn't stop.

Air Force faggots.

I shook my head. I had about had enough of this bullshit.

"Ma'am," I snapped, turning an about face and facing Captain Dawson.

"Sergeant?" She asked. We were all in uniform, all of wearing our battle rattle. We weren't under arms, weren't packing our weapons for you civvies, but we had everything else right down to Kevlar vest and helmet.

"Permission to handle this shit?" I asked her.

"Sergeant, I called twice, they said they were trying to make arrangements," she said. Her voice was clipped, that soft Tennessee accent showing through due to her irritation.

"And the third time they hung up on you," Groom told her, clenching her fists. "We knew they'd pull this fucking shit on us."

Captain Dawson nodded. She looked at me for a long moment. "All right, Sergeant. What's your plan?"

"I might know someone. I'd have to call and check," I said, waving at the pay phone. "Gimme all your change."

"Do it," Dawson said.

Everyone dug in their pockets. Grand total of two dollars and thirty cents.

"Gimme your ones," I said.

Six dollars in one dollar bills that weren't too crumpled or torn.

"Be right back," I told them. I walked over to the soda machine. Thirty cents a can. I used the six dollar bills, bought six sodas, giving me another four dollars and twenty cents. I walked back, handed out the sodas, and headed to the phone booth.

At least the phone book was still there. No Marine had wandered by an eaten it. I looked up the unit real quick, made a phone call and hung up. Ten minutes later the phone rang and I answered it. A quick conversation and I walked back to our little group.

"Well?" Cromwell asked, rubbing her stomach. I knew that patch of scars on her belly probably hurt. An X across her navel and a jagged line across her stomach just above her hip bone.

"We're good," I grinned.

Bomber looked at me, frowning, then his face lit up in a smile. "Nicaragua?"

I nodded and everyone nodded.

"How long?" Groom asked, shivering and rubbing her arms.

"Toughen up, dyke," Stokes said, punching the smaller woman in the shoulder.

"Eat me, Amazon, I'm fucking cold," Groom said, her teeth chattering.

"Get your field jacket," Captain Dawson said.

"An hour or so," I told them. Groom snorted in disgust and opened her rucksack, digging out her field jacket and putting it on.

"All of you, field jackets on, we got a long wait," Captain Dawson said.

We all followed orders, and suddenly I was sweating in the cold morning air.

We hung around, smoking cigarettes and bitching about the cold and having to wait to one another for almost an hour, flipping off the MP's every time they drove by. Finally we saw lights and heard the distinctive sound of a 5-ton truck.

"That them, Sergeant?" Dawson asked.

"Hopefully," I said. "Smokes out," I told them and followed my own example, field stripping my cigarette and toeing out the cherry. I stepped out of the small shelter provided by the bus stop and waved one arm when they got about a hundred feet away.

The 5-ton slowed to stop, pulling into the oncoming lane and stopping in front of us. The driver rolled down the window and poked his head out.

"You Stillwater?" He asked me.

"Yeah," I yelled over the 5-ton's engine.

"Hop in," He said, jerking his thumb at the back of the vehicle. "We'll take you back to the barracks."

"You heard him, mount up," Captain Dawson said.

We grabbed out gear. Rucksacks on our back, clothing bag hanging from the top of the frame, a dufflebag in each hand. Groom tossed her bags in, climbed in first, and we passed her our bags. Once we'd loaded our gear she held her hand out and helped each of us climb up over the tailgate. Once we were in I kicked the back of cab twice. The driver honked the horn twice and we started moving.

I sat down on the bench between Dawson and Bomber. She scooted on the bench seat a little closer to me as she dug out her cigarettes.

We all lit one, everyone but Aine, as the vehicle rumbled through the pre-dawn darkness.

"How'd you arrange this, Sergeant?" She asked me, her voice just loud enough for me to hear.

I leaned toward her. "Operation Golden Pheasant, invasion of Nicaragua in 88. Contrary to the news, we got in some nasty ground combat with the Sandanistas and the rest. I figure there might be someone I worked with is still in Alpha Company, First of the Five-oh-Four," I told her. "Called Alpha, went through a few names, their XO is still there."

"Good job, Sergeant," She said. She leaned forward, her lips touching my ear. "You are so getting your dick sucked tonight if you got me a bed to sleep in, lover," she sighed, her breath barely tickling the hairs in my ear.

I knew I was blushing. Bomber gave me a look, then turned away, snickering quietly to himself and looking out the back of the truck, putting one hand on the tailgate. I felt my cock harden right up as she sighed slowly and hotly into my ear, her little tongue, which I knew was bright pink, darting into my ear for a quick lick before she leaned back with a wicked chuckle and took a drag off her cigarette.

Bomber nudged me after a moment and I looked at him. He leaned over and whispered in my ear. "It's about goddamn time, you two have been dancing around it like two virgins at the County Fair. You good?"

I flushed and nodded.

"Good," he whispered. "You've been alone too goddamn long, since you and Cromwell got stuck up on the mountain together you've only been banging random chicks at the Goose. It's about time you got something steady."

I just nodded and he leaned back, going back to stare at the road.

We stopped at the gate to Pope AFB and waited till the guys at the gate climbed up on the tailgate, shined their flashlights at us and around the back of the 5-ton, then nodded and climbed down.

We hit the highway and I put my arm around Captain Dawson, pulling her close to me. I glared around the back of the truck but nobody said anything. Cromwell nodded, smiling, her eyes a dull luminous purple in the darkness. Aine just gave me a big grin and kissed Foster, her arm already around her husband's waist.

Nancy looked away, frowning.

For the first time, since I'd come back after that fateful sober morning, it didn't hurt.

We hit the gate to Bragg, and again the gate-guards searched the truck. Unlike the AF guys, the Bragg gate guards had two privates climb in the back, check our gear to make sure nothing was hidden under it. Captain Dawson handed them our orders, they handed it down to the Sergeant of the Guard, who disappeared with them.

I knew he was entering it into the log. All our names, our last four of our SSN's, our ranks, and the authorization code on our orders.

After about five minutes he came back, holding up the orders, and Bomber took them, handed them to Captain Dawson, and gave the guys at the gate the thumbs up as we rolled through. After that, we stopped fifteen minutes later, out in front of a barracks. The cargo truck whined as the driver threw it into park.

After a moment the driver appeared, climbing up on the tailgate.

"You guys head in, Sergeant Martins is waiting at the CQ desk," he said. He was a Corporal, I could see the rank on the lapels of his field jacket, but I couldn't see his name. He looked into the back then waved. "Hey, Cromwell. Still dig those eyes."

"Hey, Glendale," she said. "Looking good. Leg all right?"

"Aches on nights like tonight, but I still have it," he answered. He slapped the tailgate. "I'll be back after  a bit, I gotta drop this beast off at the motor pool and drive the CUC-V back."

"You heard him, Actual, dismount," Captain Dawson said.

We climbed down, Groom handing our bags down to us. Me and Bomber held onto her two dufflebags while she climbed down, then handed them to her. Corporal Glendale, I could see his nametag now even though Cromwell had ID'd him by sight, got back into the truck and pulled away as we walked toward the barracks entrance.

The barracks was one of the new designs, a cross design, eight stories high, with balconies for each room. It looked more like a damned hotel than a barracks.

The warmth was like a glove, wrapping around me as I walked into the barracks building. Unlike 2/19th and most of the barracks buildings in Germany the walls were painted a pale mint color, a stark contrast to the baby-shit yellow of Germany.

The CQ Area was just an intersection, the main hallway that ran the length of the barracks going ahead and off to our right and left, the short hallway from the door to the CQ desk lined with plagues, pictures of the Chain of Command on both sides. I could see two sets of stairs leading up on either side of the CQ desk.

A big burly black guy stood at the desk, dressed in PT sweats, smiling at me as I walked toward him.

"Goddamn if it isn't you, Stillwater," He grinned. "Holy shit, that's one scarred up ugly mug, ya one eyed goat fuck."

I just grinned at him. "You still blow ass when the light goes green, ya fucking ballsweat huffing dirt dart?" I asked him.

That just made him laugh and offer his hand.

When I reached him he snatched his hand up with a "too slow" and then stepped around me, grabbing Cromwell and lifting her up in a hug. Cromwell laughed, squealing at him to put her down.

"Goddamn, you're still as buff as ever, you purple eyed weirdo," he laughed. "What was wrong with your human body, girl?"

"Put me down, dammit," Cromwell squealed. The big black guy set her down, letting her go and turning to look at all of us.

"Captain Dawson, OIC of Echo-Five-Actual," She said, stepping forward with her hand held out.

McIntyre shook her hand, not bothering to salute. "Sergeant First Class McIntyre, Alpha Company, First of the Five-Oh-Four," he said. He turned to me after letting go of Captain Dawson's hand. "You owe me a favor, you one-eyed thug. Letting you park here while Division pulls its head out of its ass ain't not small thing. You all owe me big time."

"Call it in any time," I told him. "We're good for it."

That got mutters of agreement from everyone.

"You guys still living in that hovel in Germany?" McIntyre asked. I nodded and he grinned, holding up a key ring. "You guys ain't seen decent Stateside barracks in a while, have you?"

"No," I half-lied. Blackbriar didn't really count.

"Welp, come on. We got some rooms up on the sixth floor for visiting troops," He said. "They built this place back in '85, but it's still pretty nice even if a bunch of infantry bullet catchers have been squatting in it," He waved his hand, "Follow me, and don't drop your shit."

We headed up the stairs and I noticed that unlike 2/19th the stairs didn't shake under our boots.