U.S.A.F.

When the deuce-and-a-half dropped him at his barracks about eleven that night, he was bone tired, soaked in his own sweat and sore to his interior. He stood under the shower, hot as he could stand it, for nearly an hour, switching gradually to cold, attempting to get cool enough to sleep. He longed for a stiff drink. Despite the length and strength of the shower, despite the use of many ounces of Dr. Broner's Pure Castile Soap with peppermint oil, what stayed with him all night, to some degree, all his remaining life, was the odor or burnt and rotting human flesh which had hung heavily over the day-long search. That horrible stench might have kept him from sleep that night, had not the buxom vision of Lieutenant Caparelli risen to rescue him, in his fevered fantasies, to dominate him.

The next day was long boredom on the lonely road. Jeff had smuggled a book in his box lunch so at least he had Asimov to keep him company. The olfactory memory from the previous day rose frequently to nudge at him. After eating from is box lunch, chicken salad and c-ration peaches, he vomited heavily into the roadside bushes. Otherwise, the earmark of the day was ennui.

The following day, Wednesday of the first week of competition, had passed essentially as had the previous day until about two thirty P.M. By that time Jeff was nearly asleep. Even he was no so stupid as to succumb to the drag of the sandman while on (important) duty, but it was a struggle. Thank god jeff had again smuggled in a book, this time a Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes. Jeff was supposed to be standing, but who could stand for ten hours?

He was sitting on his spread out green poncho, deeply engrossed in Bradbury. The city the carnival of all dreams visits in the book seemed so familiar to Jeff that he had just turned to the mini biography of the author, to discover that Ray Brabury had indeed been born in Waukegan, Illinois, Jeff's home town.

Suddenly the air was filled with the mind-shattering noise of nearby jet engines as a F-104 screamed over head. Jeff leaped to his feat, leaving Ray Bradbury to fend for himself and dashing into the woods at the other side of the road. Again the fighter came screeching in, this time guns blazing.

In seconds Jeff's poncho and Box lunch were destroyed into minor fragments. M61, 22 millimeter cannon shells cannon shells and 50 caliber Gatling gun fire tore the ground and forest around Jeff to smoking rubble. Jeff hunted desperately, crawling on his belly through dense underbrush. "What the hell did I do with the damn damn walkie-talkie." he asked himself. Finally he located the radio, lying among old leaves, moments before he heard the scream of the returning 104. He held down the send button button on the radio, rather than clicking, and shouted as loudly as he could over the terrifying roar of the Jet engine.

"Goddamnit can anyone hear me this is Airman Hunter out on County road 173. Someone call off this fucking plane. He's shooting at em! I repeat Jet fighter, f104 firing on my position county road 173 elp. Tell him to quit shooting. Help can anyone hear me!" Jeff tried desperately to dig a foxhole with hs elbows as the Starfighter came in for a third run, guns blazing. "Dear god," Jeff prayed please don't let him have napalm."

When he released the button, a voice came back. "Please clear this frequency, this is an official US Air force communicatiuons frequency, get off this line at once. "Jeff pressed the send button once again. He could feel the warmth of the 104s trail as it lifted on its tail above him. "Fuck you goddammit, I am not getting off the line. You have got to call off this fucking a ircraft He is shooting at me, repeat, he is shooting at me! Airman Hunter, auxiliary police, on my station on route 173. Then he repeated the whole thing again before releasing the button.

Again the dazed voice returned. "Who is this. Who is on this line? Who is shooting at who?"

By now Jeff was really angry."Goddammit you stupid son of a bitch! Can't you understand English . My name is Airman Hunter, I amstationed at field nine. I am with the Auxiliary AP on my post in the middle of fucking god knows where, somewhere on county road 173 and there is a fucking F104 straffing me. Do you fucking hear me. Are you stupid?"

Once again, Jeff released the button, once again the same voice came back. "Airman Hunter?"

Push. "Yes sir. That's me."Release.

"You say someone is shooting at you?"

Push "Yes sir a 104 I think. Please sir if you could call him off." Release

"Exactly where are you?"

Push. "I wish I fucking knew sir. They never told me. Oh, excuse the fucking language sir. Sir. Listen please. Holding the button down Jeff held the walkie-talkie above his head, as the Starfighter roared in for another pass."

Release. "Holy shit airman, is that us firing at you?"

Push. "Y, y, yes sir p, please make them stop, please sir."

Apparently, whoever was on the other end had left the channel open. Jeff could hear him screaming. "Shit goddam. Cease Fire, General cease fire. Jesus Christ tell everybody to stop shooting. Bring everyone home. For god's sake. Airman. Airman Hunter. Are you still there?'

"Where would I go sir. Did you think I could outrun a Starfighter?"

"Very funny Airman. Is he still coming?"

"I don't know sir."

"Well go look."

"Do I have to sir? I mean. . ." Jeff decided to stall as long as possible.

"Yes Airman, just step out on the road and tell me what you see."

"Now sir?"

"Yes now airman."

"Is that an order sir"

"Yes airman, an order."

"You sound like an officer, but how do I know sir. I mean you could be just some dumb airman like me."

This is Fifth Wing commander Charles Henson. Colonel Charles Henson. Now go ahead. Step out on the road.'

"Yes sir."

Jeff crawled to the road as slowly as he could. He was in no hurry to expose himself to aerial assault. He made it to the road, got shakily to his feet. Urine ran down his legs to his boots, surprising him. He hadn't known his bladder had loosed. "Hell, Hunter," he told himself. Just be glad you didn't shit yourself."

He looked to the sky but could see nothing. Blessedly, he also heard nothing. "Thank you Lord, he prayed," though he wasn't sure who was responsible in the first place. "Did god create junk jockies?" he wondered.

He pressed the button. "Hello, Colonel Henson."

"Yes. Airman Hunter?"

"Yes sir?"

"Is he, is the aircraft gone?"

"Yes sir. Th, th, thank you very much sir. Excuse my language before, sir, I wasn't thinking very straight."

"Taht's perfectlu all right Airman hunter, you did well. "

"Th, th, th, thank you sir.I think i'll go faint now, good bye sir. "

Airman Hunter?"

"Yes sir?"

"Stand by to be picked up at your usual relief time. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir."

"And Airman?"

"Yes sir?"

"You are to say nothing to anyone about this. Do I make myself clear."

"you mean I haft'a stay here. And then go back to the barracks and not tell anyone?"

"Yes airman, that is exactly what I am ordering you to do. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir, but sir shouldn't I. . ."

"Shouldn't you what?"

"Well like go to sick bay or something?"

"Why are you hit, er, wounded?"

No sir, just shaken up, sir."

"Very good. Carry on as ordered,."

"Okay, er, yes sir!"

Jeff returned to his pancho, now a tattered ruin. He searched around for his weapon, lot of good it did him, finally found it about fifteen feet away. He had hoped it had been damaged in the attack so he could maybe explain, but then, they probably would have made him pay for it. Fucking Air Force! How had he ever gotten himself in such a situation. He screamed to the tops of the trees. "I don't belong here!"

He stripped off his uniform pants, hung them on a bush in the hot sun, used some elephant ear fern leaves to dry his crotch and ass, rolled his underwear up in a ball and tossed it into the forest as far as he could. He walked pantsless up and down the road for a few minutes wiping his balls with his hand every few steps. He didn't exactly get dry in the 90 plus humidity, but he managed to air out a bit. In a few more minutes his trousers were dry enough to put back on.

He could do nothing but wait. His Bradbury was trash. He stretched out on the flattened area from his poncho and tried to nap. His right hand kept shaking. His left seemed okay. But his right just wouldn't stop.

Jeff lay in the semi-shade; dappled sunlight played across his face in the way that always brought him close to nirvana, to peace, to a state near holiness. He did not sleep, but went away for a while to a place neither conscious nor unconscious, to blissful state of nothingness.

He was rudely awakened by the raucous repeated bleating of a jeep horn. An AP Airman First, Carter, his name tag said, yelled at him. "Come on Hunter, let's go. Watch is over. Games canceled for today. Let's go, get a move on."

The next day was blessedly boring again, that day, however. Jeff's replacement poncho was rolled up tight and stashed with his box lunch behind a tree. Jeff himself spent the day sitting off to the side of the road, deep I the shadows of a large live oak draped with Spanish Moss.

The exercises were originally scheduled to last for two weeks, but were abruptly canceled the next day, after another accident caused the deaths of several important military and civilian observe

Nearly a year later, again inexplicably, Jeff was called to the AP shack by Colonel Strong, the head of the AP. Set off in one corner of the base, was an area surrounded by a high cyclone fence and razor wire. The colonel told Jeff the area required a crypto security clearance, the highest possible. As such, the APs were responsible for security of this section, which had to do with missiles and 'crypto" whatever that was.

Colonel Strong wanted Jeff to be on a team to test the security coverage of the area. The idea was to see if the area could be penetrated without the proper security clearance. He could do almost anything within the bounds of safety and legality, but the colonel didn't want to know the plan ahead of time. Jeff was to deal directly with Colonel Strong and no one else. If he needed anything, he was to call Strong directly and use the code word "brown dog".

Jeff saluted, left the office and began his task. Completely ignoring whatever ideas the colonel might have, not waiting to be contacted by any other possible team members, disregarding instructions he had not yet received, Jeff decided to act as a lone wolf on this mission. An idea had come to him even before the colonel had finished speaking.

After all, he was a cook. He went to base supply and signed out for two dozen regulation Air Force Blue ball point pens,using Strong's authority. He stopped off at the mess hall to pack twelve "box lunches" of the sort they sent with troops who, for duty reasons, could not come to the mess hall. Often these boxes were considerably tastier than bland Air Force chow.

Back in the barracks, Jeff carefully wrote on and taped thin paper strips around all 24 ball points. The strip read simply "This is a bomb. You have been blown up." He put on fresh clean and starched cooks whites and white "cunt cap", clipping four of the ballpoints in his shirt pocket. Next he put a pen in each of the box lunches. The remaining pen he placed in his trouser pocket. He carried everything carefully out to the trunk of his car. Next, he called Colonel Strong's office. A nasal secretary's voice said, "Colonel Strong's office."

Jeff replied. "This is brown dog and I would like to speak to the colonel."

In a few minutes, the secretary came back on the line. "The Colonel cannot talk right now, but I am instructed to help you in any way I can."

"I need a normal Air Force Jeep without AP markings, delivered to the parking lot behind barracks 23. I need it I fifteen minutes and I need no one there when I pick it up and no questions." Jeff simply hung up, figuring the demands would carry more weight if they were more mysterious.

He drove his car to the lot behind building 24 and waited, checking his watch. In exactly 14 minutes, a nondescript blue Air Force jeep drove up, white star on the side surrounded by USAF. The driver, in AP uniform, got out, looked around briefly, shrugged and walked off toward AP headquarters.

Jeff waited an additional five minutes, then drove to lot 23, parked next to the jeep and quickly transferred the box lunches. He drove the Jeep quickly to the rear of the mess hall and went inside. "Hey Sergeant Mears, I need the big portable urn filled with coffee for the AP shack, they've got some kind of a big deal goin' on down there. Okay if I just take what's in the big Urn? I am in kind of a hurry, so is it okay, just this one time, if I don't refill the urn? Will you please take care of it for me?"

"All right Hunter. I donno about you hangin' around wit dem AP guys."

Well, sarge, it's better than doin' dishes or cleanin' the grease trap."

"Yeah, ya got somethn' dere all right. Go ahead Hunter, I'll fill da urn for ya."

"Thanks Sarge, I'm sure Colonel Strong will appreciate it."

"Hunter, I never could figger it out. How da hell did a guy like you ever end up in dis place?"

"It was easy, Jeff replied, pulling up his sleeve to display his tattoo: an eagle rampant over the globe

holding a banner in its talons, U.S.A.F. See this: Us Sure Are Fucked. That just about says it all."

"Ain't dat right. Jes' so's ya know, Hunter, I ain't doin' this fer no Colonel Strong nor no officer."

"Yeah, yeah sarge, we all know you hate officers. That's why you're still a staff sergeant after ten years."

"An Damn proud of it too! But I don't see you looking like no Zebra neither. Almost two years; ya autta be at least an Airman First by now."

"Yeah well, you know how that goes. There's thirty guys here just like me. You gonna give me a superior rating on my next eval sarge?"

"Always do Hunter, same as I do wit' dem thirty other guys. Har har."

As they chattered, Jeff has been filling the large five gallon urn with coffee so strong one could use it to remove barnacles. "Gotta go Sarge, thanks a lot."

"Yeah, go on, get otta here."

Jeff and sergeant Mears had a unique relationship. Mears had ten years in the Air fore and planned to stay as long as they would let him. Even so, he hated what he called "chickenshit military bullshit" like shined shoes and saluting. Mears, for reasons he never shared, hated officers almost as much as he hated the mess hall. He had taken a liking to Jeff from the beginning, probably because he saw Jeff as a kindred soul, trapped in a world where he didn't fit. Mears was from Chicago's near south side and prided himself in his 'dese', dems', and 'doses', and his love for 'Da Bears'. Jeff, who was from Waukegan, a scant forty five miles north, shared Mears' love for the bears, but not for those perpetual losers, the Cubs.

Loaded with food and coffee, Jeff drove straight over to the Crypto section, which everyone on base called simply, "the missile base" even though no one knew whether the area had anything to do with missiles.

The gate stood open, but at the gate shack, two imposing looking APs stood at parade rest, in front of the wooden arm across the road, weapons at port arms, chrome helmets gleaming. "What's your business here," the bigger one asked. Jeff knew him slightly, probably from the mess hall. If he remembered right his name was Johnson. He knew Johnson recognized him and he thought that a plus. "I came to blow the place up," Jeff said, hoping his laugh did not sound too phony, "I got some box lunches and some coffee. I guess there's some guys in there working through lunch. Don't ask me, I just deliver 'em. Oh, by the way, you guys need coffee in there?" Jeff asked, pointing at the gate shack.

Johnson visibly relaxed. Jeff hoisted the huge thermos out of the back of the Jeep. "Let me help you with that," the Airman First said, setting his rifle inside the gate shack and grabbing one handle of the Jug. Inside Jeff rapidly filled the guards' coffee pot. As Jeff turned to leave the guard house, Johnson said, "hey, wait a sec, you tryin' ta get me in trouble?"

Jeff froze. His balls retreated toward his belly. He was screwed now.

"Ya gotta sign in. Everybody's gotta sign in."

"Sorry," Jeff said, "I've never done this before." Reaching in his pocket he took out one of his 'pen bombs', signed the admittance sheet, A2C John Schmidt, (he was so tempted to add Jacob Jingleheimer), left the pen beside the clipboard, went back to the Jeep and drove into the highly restricted area. He parked outside the administration building and went inside, carrying a box lunch. At the counter, he signed the visitors sheet with another of his special pens, leaving it on the counter. An Airman Second approached the counter. "May I help you?" He looked at Jeff suspiciously.

Jeff could see through the CO's open office door that no one was there. He also saw the captain's name on a plaque on his desk. Yeah, I got a box lunch for Captain Benton," Jeff said, pushing it across the counter. "I got a big urn of coffee on the Jeep, you guys need some?"

The A2, looked around confused for a moment, went in the back, dropped the box lunch on the Captain's desk, grabbed his empty coffee pot and went back to Jeff. Together they went to the back of the Jeep and filled the empty pot. "Thanks a lot," the A2 said.

"No sweat," Jeff answered, stifling his grin. He moved on to the next building, parking in front. He had no idea what the purpose of the building was. Once inside, he was again required to sign in, again by an A2. Again he left the pen. His shirt pocket supply was dwindling, so he reached in his pants pocket and transferred a few. This building, at least this part of it, opened to a large room separated into about 20 cubicles. Half were empty. He went back to the Jeep loaded up his arms with as many of the boxes he could carry. He placed one on each of six empty desks, went back to the Jeep and got four more, found four more empty desks to place them on.

He drove to the next building, hefted the heavy coffee urn, carried it in and filled the first coffee container he saw, left a pen sitting beside the coffee pot and returned to his vehicle. Figuring he had pressed his luck as far as he should, he drove back through the gate waving to Johnson and smiling. He drove straight to Colonel Strong's office and asked to see the colonel. "By the way," he said to the desk clerk, "you guys need some coffee? I got a big pot out in the Jeep."

Since Colonel Strong was not in, Jeff decided to leave him a box lunch. "Make sure the Colonel gets that," he said to the A2, "he specifically said he wanted the chicken." On the way over, Jeff had inserted an additional message and two of the pens in the last remaining box lunch. The message read simply, "mission accomplished".

He filled the office's coffee urn, leaving a pen there, returned to lot 23, got out a cook's cloth and wiped down the entire interior of the Jeep, everything he had touched, front and back, left the keys in the ignition, strode back to lot 24, got in his car and drove back to his own barracks, building 40. Once there, he settled in for a nap, though the damn tree frogs were singing so loudly he slept fitfully.

Jeff waited and waited. One week passed. Two weeks. High ranking Air Policeman who came for chow glared at him. Low ranking A.P.s grinned foolishly. But he never heard a word. Oh he heard rumors. About the Crypto section. About how they had been working twelve on and twelve off for weeks now. About big wigs from The Pentagon visiting. Curiously, nowadays, when he drove past the Missile section on his way off base, the gate was always closed.