Flash Point by James W. Huston Read Free Book Online Page B

chairs to the large coffee urn. Removing his cup from the pegboard, he filled it with coffee. On the television the brief continued uninterrupted. Woods watched out of the corner of his eye.
    “You’re the new guy,” he said.
    “Yes, sir. Ensign Charlene Pritchard,” she answered, extending her hand to Woods, checking him out. She had already heard about him and saw that his looks matched what she had heard. He was about six one, and had very dark brown hair, short but still unruly somehow. She was sure he wanted it to look that way. His eyes were an intense, dark gray and she noticed a faded hole in his ear from where it had been pierced.
    “You don’t have to call me sir, really,” Woods said, shaking her hand. “I know you’re supposed to, but we tend to ignore a lot of that kind of stuff around here.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    He continued, not noticing. “Your name’s Charlene?” She was of average height and thin, and had the curse of looking five years younger than she was. Her brown hair was in a French braid and her face had a clean, freshly scrubbed look to it. She carried herself with a confidence that Woods didn’t expect in someone without wings.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “That won’t work.”
    “What?”
    “The name.”
    “Won’t work for what?”
    “For being in a fighter squadron. Can’t go around with a name like Charlene. You’ve got to have a call sign.”
    She couldn’t tell if he was pulling her leg or not. She thought only aviators got call signs. “Why doesn’t it work?”
    “Not strong enough.”
    “You mean
masculine
enough?”
    Her comment surprised him. “Did I say masculine?”
    “Not in so many words—”
    “Right. I said
strong
enough.”
    “It has always worked for me. What woman’s name
is
strong enough?” she asked pointedly.
    Woods thought for a moment. “I don’t know, maybe . . . Ethel. Or Betty. Something like that. Not Char
lene
. That won’t do at all,” Woods said. “I’ll have to give it some thought.”
    “Right.” She drew some coffee from the urn into her Styrofoam cup. An idea occurred to her, a way to head off the problem. “A lot of people have called me Charlie in the past.”
    He studied her with a glint in his eyes. “No, Charlie doesn’t work either. Too . . .” He struggled for the right word. “. . . Masculine.” He looked at her again. “We’ll just go with your name.”
    “Charlene?” she said, pleased.
    “No, your last name.”
    “Pritchard?”
    “Part of it. Pritch. I think that will work.”
    “It rhymes with—”
    “Niche. Exactly. Which is what you have here — intelligence. By the way, you need to get a squadron cup. Can’t drink out of Styrofoam. Bad for the environment.”
    “Yes, sir,” she said. She looked more closely at him. “Did you used to have your ear pierced?”
    “What?” he asked.
    “High school, I’d bet?”
    “When I was young and impetuous.”
    “You still wear an earring on liberty?”
    “You gotta be kidding me,” he replied.
    “Do you think we’ll be able to go to Israel?”
    “Already worried about port calls?”
    “I’ve always wanted to go to Israel.”
    “Never been?”
    “No. Have you?”
    He drank from the heavy white porcelain cup that had the Jolly Rogers insignia on it — the skull and crossbones — and gold pilot wings and his call sign, “Trey,” on the other side. “Once. Another cruise. I don’t know if they’ll still let us go. Last time we went, there was a terrorist bomb in Jerusalem. They delayed our visit by a month, but we went. We may be far enough out that the Gaza thing won’t matter at all. Plus it wasn’t really in Israel. I think we’ll be okay.” He looked at the Intelligence Officer on the television completing his section of the brief. “Why don’t you join us in the brief so you can see how it’s done?”
    “Thanks,” she said as they walked slowly toward the chairs. She leaned over to Woods. “Who’s the other pilot