Chapter 15

After a while Max stirred under my hands. "I've got an idea, beloved."

"Such as?"

"I do want to go out for that beer and something to eat, but I'd like to drop into the Officers' Club first, and have a soda and a snack."

My reaction was automatic. "I'm an enlisted man, Max."

"Not for long." She chuckled. "As much as it hurts to know that we can't be together without this sacrifice, as much as it hurts that you're having to give up your career, I am very happy that we can be together. And I honestly want to show you off a bit. I'll take you as my guest – and not as Airman Alba, but as my fiancé, Derek Alba."

"I'm not sure about this, honey."

"You're going to be married to an officer, Derek. You might as well get used to the social obligations. By the time I'm in command of a wing you'll be 'the colonel's lady, ' instead of 'Mary O'Grady.'"

"Okay, you've lost me."

"You haven't heard the rhyme?" She turned her head and tried to look back at me, but leaning on my chest it didn't work. "It actually makes a point you'd agree with. It says, 'The colonel's lady and Mary O'Grady are sisters under the skin.' Okay, so it doesn't rhyme." She smiled at that realization – with the way she was holding her head I could just see the corner of her mouth rise. "I'm not sure, but I think it comes out of the British Army back in the 18^th century or something like that, when 'the colonel's lady would be an English woman with some social prominence while the maid who cleaned up after the colonel and his family would likely be Irish."

"Okay, I get the point," I said with a chuckle. "You're telling me that by marrying an officer, I'm not going to be a grunt, but the spouse of someone who – if she were a man – would by virtue of her commission be a gentleman. I hadn't thought of that. I'm not very interested in social occasions."

"Neither am I, beloved. I'm more at home on top of a horse, or on a tractor, and definitely in the cockpit of an Eagle, than I am in an evening gown. But as I rise in rank and responsibility I'll drive Eagles less and do social stuff more, and you'll probably find yourself escorting me to a general's house some day, me in that gown and you in black tie."

I made a face, but of course Max couldn't see it. "Okay, baby, you've made your point. Let's go to the O Club, and I'll try not to embarrass you."

She leaned forward, finally letting my hands slip from her stomach. She turned to look at me, and put her hand on my cheek. "Derek, I will never be ashamed of you. You possibly will do or say things at times which aren't quite what people would expect of an officer's husband, but I'm marrying the man I love, not an ornament for my rank. What you need to learn I'm sure you'll learn, and if you never become the perfectly polished officer's spouse, I'll love you anyway."

"Your love I'll never doubt. It would be about as likely that I'll turn into an orangutan as that you'll not love me." I stood up and pulled her up to stand with me. "And I love you too, and I always will." I kissed her. "Now if we're going to show me off, let's hit the road."

We went in via the Wyoming gate. Max had proposed taking me on base as her guest, but I was still officially in the Air Force and it seemed to me that following Max's plan would be dishonest. So I flashed my military ID, and she showed hers, and the SP on the gate waved us through.

At the Officers' Club, though, I kept my military ID in my wallet, and showed my driver's license for identification. That struck me not as dishonest, but as simply the easiest way to accommodate Max's purpose, which was to take me in as her guest. Perhaps I was double-minded, but it didn't seem so to me, nor to Max.

It was early enough that the place wasn't full yet. For that matter I didn't know whether the O Club ever got as full and rowdy as the NCO Club did. I'd have plenty of time to learn, I figured, for I didn't anticipate a short marriage. I was in this for life.

We found a table easily, and ordered – Mountain Dew for me, Pepsi for Max, and chips and dip for both of us. The jukebox was playing something I didn't recognize, a country song I thought, though it sounded sort of like the original lineup of the Eagles. I asked Max about it.

"That's 'new country, '" she said. "It plays on country stations and comes out on country labels, and the artists get their awards from the CMA." She must have seen the puzzled expression on my face, for she explained. "That's the Country Music Association. Anyway, they call it country, but as far as I'm concerned it's not country anymore than Metallica is country, or Hank Williams was hip-hop. You're looking lost again."

"Yeah. I know Metallica, though I'm into softer rock, but who's Hank Williams?"

"Derek, I ought to strike you dead for that blasphemy." She was smiling, so I knew she wasn't upset. "He was one of the greatest country singers in history – maybe the greatest of all time. But if what Hank did was country, then what Keith Urban and Rascal Flatts and Montgomery Gentry and a bunch of others do can't be country, and vice versa. There just isn't any similarity at all."

"Hmmm ... I don't know who that is on the jukebox, but it sure sounds like the Eagles."

"Yes, it does. I ought to know the group – I've heard the song before – but I can't remember. But you're right. It's soft rock, not country, but out of three country stations in this town, two of them will play that song and more like it instead of Hank or George Strait or Johnny Cash or Loretta Lynn or Porter Waggoner."

"Max, I only recognized one of those names."

"Johnny?"

"Yes."

"I thought so." She took a drink of her Pepsi, tilting her head back so that I got a look at her strong smooth throat. "Everyone's heard of Johnny Cash."

"I suppose so. And everyone's heard of Zeppelin, even people who don't listen to rock."

"Yep." She looked at her watch. "I've enjoyed being here, and though no one's come over, I've seen a few people looking our way. There are three pilots over there who have been discussing something and from their glances in our direction I can guess what." She was smiling. "Why don't we go get that beer?"

I nodded and finished off my Mountain Dew. We'd already finished the chips. I stood, and hurried around the table to help her on with her parka. She smiled at me and allowed me to do it, and then waited while I got into my own jacket. I took her hand and walked her to the door. Out in the parking lot I said, "Turn around and let me get a better look at that thing."

She did, turning her head over her shoulder and smiling at me. The parka's coppery fabric looked faintly metallic in the light, and there was a red and green and gold dragon embroidered there, coiling across the back of the jacket. Above the dragon were the words 8^th Fighter Wing, and underneath the legend, Kunsan AB, ROK. "That's spectacular, Max."

"It's a common thing in the ROK. And this is warm – they know how to make warm clothing over there, because it's mighty cold in the winter."

"It's not something I'd have expected from such an elegant and sweet woman, but having seen it I realize that you've got this wild streak that the dragon fits perfectly."

"Fighter pilots have to have a wild streak. We're professionals – you saw how much paperwork goes into a single flight, how much paperwork I had to deal with just to start the engines." She was right – flying is a matter of manuals and checklists, and I knew that every checklist she used had boldface items, items printed in heavy type which she had to be able to recite verbatim. "But when it gets exciting, we're tossing our planes around the sky like wild people. If you want to see someone without rules, just ride with a pilot who's hassling. Yes, we have to learn various maneuvers, and how to fly the plane through those maneuvers, but by the time we're at Red Flag we don't think about that, we just do it. And it can get very loose up there."

"I'll take your word for it, Max." We'd come to her car while she'd been giving me her explanation, but she hadn't unlocked it yet. "Meanwhile, were you planning to walk?"

She laughed loudly. "No, but I don't seem to have been planning to drive either." She fished out her keys and opened the door, and hit the button to unlock mine. "Hop in, beloved. You owe me a beer."

She'd been joking, but actually I did owe her a beer, and by the time we were at a table along the wall in the place where we'd first shared drinks and food, I'd convinced her of it. I'd asked her out, no matter who was driving, and so I was buying. I wasn't rich, but this time at least it was on me.

We sat at our table, in a bar which wasn't very busy just then, in the early afternoon. I had a Tecate, and she had one of her German beers – Beck's was the brand. We'd asked for glasses, and I'd poured some of mine for her and she'd poured some of hers for me. I found that I liked both of them. The German beer I'd had the week before wasn't even a memory – I couldn't even remember the brand. I'd been so distracted when I'd drank it that I hadn't tasted it at all, or at least hadn't noticed the taste.

I'd ordered a pastrami on kaiser, and had slathered on mustard. She had honey ham and Swiss on pumpernickel, and I sort of wished that I'd chosen that dark bread. Black bread isn't something that comes from Portugal, but my family had been in New England long enough that we were Portuguese by heritage more than by culture – though I did have relatives who kept as much Portuguese culture as they could. I'd liked black bread since I was a child, and while the bread my sandwich was on was good, I kept looking at Max's sandwich.

She caught me at it. "Jealous, beloved?" she asked, and then took a bite.