Chapter 8

“They’re changing our mission profile.”

“And that means what, exactly?”

“We’re going to start doing strikes. Today, they delivered bombs to the base.”

“Not what we were meant to do. We’re fighter pilots. Not strike pilots.”

She took the second shot. Then put her hand on my cheek. I gave her a smile. Leaned into the hand. I carried a cheery façade, but inside, I grew sad. That was a bit of intel that Regan would love to learn. Lately, I’ve become reluctant to share intel.

The rest of the squadron had a different attitude about their changing mission profile. Most were indifferent to the changing mission. Some were even excited to mix things up and for the opportunity to get closer to the action. There was a heated debate among them about the merits of conducting strike missions. Nephele, of course, argued that the pinnacle of fighting planes was in dogfighting, and since they were the premier fighter squadron, that’s what they should be doing. Another pilot shot back,

“That’s such a snobby thing to say, and exactly why fighter pilots get a bad rap. We shouldn’t be above supporting our troops on the ground.”

She shrugged off the call-out.

That night, Bat sat at the bar more sullen than usual, which was hard to tell with the stoic stillness he kept painted on his face. But I could tell through his eyes that a weight became heavy to bear. The deaths were taking their toll on him. I put in front of him his favorite scotch. The 15-year scotch he had brought with him from Donavia and had me open on the occasion of the first death.

Nephele was playing the piano. She played a sad song appropriate for the moody atmosphere. It was a nocturne that Nephele once mentioned that Chopin had composed in honor of his sister, Emilia, who died at the age of fourteen. A beautiful, haunting melody.

As we listened to her play, Bat recalled a story. One that I suspect not many people have heard.

“She wasn’t meant to be a fighter pilot at first. But she was always meant to play the piano. I remember when she was little and had to sit on books to reach the keys. She played beautifully even then. It was a natural talent, and I was so sure she’d make something of herself playing the piano. Damn, was she good. Still is.”

“She seems good at whatever she does,” I answered.

Bat chuckled, turned to me, and said,

“To tell you the truth, she really sucked at flying when she first started. Honestly didn’t think she’d make it through flight school. There are times when I thought she shouldn’t have. Maybe it would have put her back on the musical track. It would’ve made her dad happy, that’s for sure. But what she lacked in flying talent, she made up for in sheer grit. She had a more singular focus on flying than anyone I had ever met. Destiny would eventually and inevitably test her. She not only passed that test but crushed it.”

“She became the Widowmaker,” I responded.

Bat nodded and answered, “She became the Widowmaker.”

“So why did she choose to fly? Why didn’t she stick with music, like you said she should have?”

“Has she ever told you the story behind her callsign?”

I shook my head. So, Bat leaned in and whispered his story as if it were a secret.

“Her dad and I flew together. We were wingmen. Best friends. Anyways, when she was a kid, he always dragged her to the squadron bar. She loved hanging out with the guys at that bar. And she always wanted to ‘drink’ like they did, so the bartender would always make her a Shirley Temple. And she would sit on her dad’s lap at the bar and drink that Shirley Temple like it was a highball whiskey soda. That’s why she’s Shirley.”

“Does her dad still fly?”

Bat shook his head. His face saddened.

“He was shot down a few years back. During the Unification War.”

A crowd had edged in around the piano. They watched her play with deferential silence. There were pilots in that crowd, but there were many civilian patrons there too. Many had returned to my bar despite its association with the enemy. Many of them had served in the war and lost someone close to the war. Yet, they listened alongside the pilots that were once and likely still their enemy. They had returned to the bar because they had heard that someone had taken to playing the piano again. Listening to a piano at a bar is about as good a thing as anything in a war-torn city.

When Nephele finished, they clapped. She swiveled around on the bench, caught my gaze, and smiled at me. She had a beautiful smile.

That night, after closing, Regan walked right into my bar. I was still cleaning up. His unannounced appearance not only surprised me but also frightened me. It had been many months since I’d seen him in person. To be here now meant nothing nice.

The bar was lit with candles on account of a scheduled blackout. Regan stood at the edge of the shadows of the flickering candlelight. He wore a rain-splattered khaki trench coat and a fedora pulled tightly over his eyes.

“You a private dick now, Regan? Awfully risky of you to break curfew.”

“To see you again after so long, it’s worth the risk,” he replied.

He pulled a chair down from atop a table and sat in it and lit a cigarette. He had a look of absolute smugness on his face. I put an ashtray in front of him.

“What do you want, Regan?”

“Been a while since we’ve heard from you. I’ve been getting worried.”

“Haven’t had too much to report.”

“A little birdie told me otherwise.”

His words made me wince.

I thought immediately of Noah. I had mentioned to him what Neph told me about the bombs going to the base. He must have passed the intel to Regan behind my back.

I leaned against the bar counter and stared deadpan right at him.

“I was going to make the drop first thing tomorrow morning. Like I always do.”

Regan pursed his lips, sniffed loudly. He replied,

“War’s heating up. The Allies have started their offensive. So, we gotta be on our A-game. Are you on your A-game, Faye?”

“Good. The tide of war is finally changing. Thanks, in no small part, to you. So, why don’t we have ourselves a little celebration? How about pouring us that 15-year on the top shelf? Been a while since I had a decent whiskey.”

“I’m sure they won’t notice a few drops missing.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. He bit into his cigarette and smiled. He wasn’t going to leave until he had his whiskey. So, I poured him a glass. I didn’t pour one for myself.

He took a long, slow sip and breathed a soft satisfaction. He sucked his teeth when he was done with the sip.

“God damn, that’s good shit. Your girlfriend’s got good taste in alcohol.”

That nonchalant utterance of the word ‘girlfriend’ made my heart skip a beat. He knew about Nephele and me. I thought to feign ignorance, but I knew he’d see right through the bullshit. I only looked down at the floor. I felt my cheeks start to burn red.

“Oh yes, I know about you and the good Major, Faye. I know very well everything you’ve been up to. Hah! Who would’ve thought? Eli’s widow, fucking the Widowmaker. Helluva thing. I know I wouldn’t be able to stomach it. But I suppose it’s helping the cause. Would she have told you about the bombs otherwise? Probably not.”

He took another sip and swirled the glass as he held it up to his eyes. In the shadow of his fedora’s brim, his eyes were black as onyx, except for the glimmer of candlelight.

“You sure you don’t want one, Faye? You used to be fond of whiskey.”

“Have a drink. I insist.”

I wanted to refuse. But I was too afraid to, knowing what Regan was capable of. So, I poured myself a glass. One for me, another for him, then after sliding his scotch to him, I said,

“Now, unless you have any other business, I suggest you leave before the military police swing by. They don’t take too kindly to those violating curfew. Might find yourself hanging by the neck in the town square if you’re not careful.”

He smiled. Threw back the scotch. Sucked his teeth again and stood.

“Alright, I can take the hint. I’ll leave. But just one more thing. I need to know that when the Allies come, I can count on you.”

“You mean if you can trust me.”

“She killed Eli, Faye. Remember that.”

He growled when he spoke, festering anger coming out. Anger that suggested he knew plenty more about my dealings with Nephele. Fear and shame both traveled down my spine. Fear that he may not hesitate to do to me the sort of things I have witnessed him unhesitatingly do to others he suspected of disloyalty. Shame that he could ever use Eli as a lever.

“Yes, you can count on me,” I replied meekly.

“Very good,” he said. He touched the tip of his fedora and walked out into the pouring rain.

“Be well, Faye,” he said. He spoke those words as a threat.

When I woke the following day, I put the news on the TV above the bar and made coffee. A regular morning ritual. But something was different about the news. Different, yet altogether unfortunately familiar.

An image flashed across the screen of black smoke billowing from the airfield. Scores of firefighters trying to put out what looked like hellfire. The reporter on the screen spoke of a terrorist attack at the air base. Immediately, Regan and the Black Roses came to mind. Then came the terrifying thought of the things he said to me last night. About whether he could trust me.

“Shit,” I muttered and lowered the coffee mug from my lips.

The reporter went on:

“…There are reports of serious injuries among the crew and pilot of the…”

I bolted out the door. The airfield was only half a mile from the bar, down by the wheat fields at the edge of town. I immediately spotted the billowing smoke rising into the heavens. Police and media helicopters hung overhead.

I was panting when I arrived at the sentry point. No one guarded the gate, so I pressed on in a sprint. Spotted the firetrucks among the jets on the runway. Arcs of water sprayed toward the blazing fire in a skeletal hangar. Giant craters in the ground without any indication of what was there before. Please be ok, please be ok, I repeatedly whispered to myself.

I spotted people. I scanned the crowd frantically. I saw pilots. Tiny, I saw immediately. He stood head and shoulder above the others. He spotted me and waved me over.

“Hey, Faye, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Nephele! Is she ok?”

He looked over his shoulder. She was sitting on the ambulance’s tailgate. I pushed back Tiny to her. She stood, and I hugged her. The other pilots were around. They must have been perplexed by the act. At this point, I didn’t care who knew what. I was overwhelmed with relief that she wasn’t hurt.

“You’re alright!” I breathed.

She held me at arms’ length. Like the others, she was surprised to see me. A crooked smile on her face. Her face was blackened with ash. Her hair was strewn across her eyes and matted with sweat. I brushed it aside so I could see in her eyes that she was fine.

“Some of the guys had to go to the Emergency Room. The ones that were here on the night shift. Bat got hit by shrapnel. Just a cut leg. The guards were killed in the attack, though. It was the Black Roses. They attacked early this morning. They destroyed our ammunition depot. They destroyed all our bombs.”

I choked up. Began hyperventilating. Nephele sat me down on the ambulance tailgate. She sat beside me and put her hands on my lap. A bottle of water appeared in my hand. A concerned look grew on her face. I couldn’t bear to see it. I looked away. So, she pulled my face back towards her. And there, I saw that her eyes were full of worry.

“Faye… you didn’t have anything to do with this, did you?”

I said nothing. I froze. The worry in her eyes grew.

But I didn’t have time to respond. She didn’t have time to pull an answer from me.

A shrill alarm sounded then a voice over the announcing circuit boomed,

“Scramble! Scramble! Scramble!”

Nephele jumped off the tailgate.

“Now that’s shit timing.”

I then noticed her helmet that sat on the ambulance tailgate. She grabbed it. She had on her flight suit, too. She was all geared up to fly.

“I’m on alert. Means I gotta go up.”

She pointed to the sky.

Then I saw Bat jogging out from the hangar. He jogged with a limp.

“Oh, like hell you’re going, Bat! Your jet is in no condition. Neither are you.”

“It ain’t that bad. Besides, ours are the only two ready. Let’s roll, Shirley.”

Nephele grimaced and mouthed, ‘fuck’.

He was right. And there was nothing she could say to convince him otherwise.

She turned to me, whispered in my ear, “I’ll be back soon. We’ll talk after, alright?” then hugged me tightly and kissed me on the cheek.

As she ran to her jet, I called out after her,

“Be careful up there!”

I looked on, through the haze the smoke made and the spray of water, as Nephele and Bat jumped into their cockpits, put on their helmets, and started their jets. In no time, they were roaring down the shimmering black runway and up into the silver sky. Worryingly, a light grey smoke issued from Bat’s right engine. That was where the damage was.