Schmidt raised an eyebrow. “You know… ‘Oh, Schmidt!’… sounds like…”
Lucy smiled, finally getting it, air-toasting with her fruity drink. “Do you guys fly together?”
“Sometimes,” Schmidt said.
“How do you keep from running into each other in the air?”
He leaned over so they were forehead to forehead. She smelled good, like Dentyne spearmint and Red Door perfume. “That is some secret shit,” he said. “I’m not supposed to be talking about my plane.”
She grimaced. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to get you in trouble. You think anyone heard?” She turned to Skeet. “How about you,” she asked. “You’re a pilot, too?”
Skeet nodded. “I am,” he said, all cool and Gary Cooper — like. The bastard.
“Fighters?” she asked.
Skeet drained the last of his beer and set the glass on the bar, pretending he didn’t hear her over the din of the crowd. He caught Schmidt’s eye when he turned around. “Remember that time in Misawa?”
Schmidt shook his head, though he knew exactly what Skeet was talking about. They’d come home from training to find uninvited guests had been smoking in their apartments. The sheets were crumpled like someone had been sitting at the end of Skeet’s bed. Schmidt’s was always unmade, so it was impossible to tell on his. Files were rifled. Drawers were opened. A turd was left floating in Schmidt’s toilet. It was as if they wanted the aviators to know they were being watched. Psych-ops — mind games meant to trip them up. Neighbors reported seeing two Chinese men hanging around the complex. NCIS had impounded the turd — for DNA samples of known Chinese spies. It had turned out to be from a dog, but you had to hand it to those NCIS guys for trying.
Schmidt glanced at gap-toothed Lucy Liu. Her chest heaved, like it wanted to escape from the white T-shirt. Schmidt looked back at Skeet.
“No? Seriously, you think?”
Skeet nodded. “Afraid so.”
“You guys want to get a room?” the girl blurted out, sticking the tip of her tongue through the gap in her teeth. “The Sheraton is just a couple of blocks from here. We could all go.”
Schmidt shrugged, playing it cool. He raised his finger, as if to chide her. “You promise you’re not a spy?”
She stared at him straight-faced until they both broke into laughter.
“Of course you’re not a spy,” Schmidt said, slapping his leg, sloshing a little of his Jack and Coke. “Your English is too good.”
A wry smile spread across her lips. “So, you want to?”
“As much as I’d like to take you up on that…”
She turned immediately to Skeet. “How about you?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. He could have said he had an early day, but that would have been passing on intel — and Skeet Black was too wily for that.
Even so, with this incident, Schmidt knew their day was now going to start a hell of a lot earlier.
Five hours later, Major Schmidt stirred to the sound of someone banging on his door. He lay back on his couch, staring up at the ceiling, dressed in a freshly pressed woodland Marine Corps combat utility uniform, or MCCUU. Dead tired and dry-mouthed, it killed him that two Jack and Cokes could give him a hangover. He groaned and dragged himself to the door. This was getting old as hell. As he suspected, Skeet Black stood there, looking way too chipper, like he’d had a full eight hours and a big breakfast of oatmeal and almond milk. He was also in woodland MCCUU, the sleeves rolled up to his biceps, but his were just a little crisper.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Skeet said, looking around at the dirty dishes and pile of laundry on the end of the couch. “Guess you never got around to reading
Schmidt rolled his eyes. “I forgot what a hoot you are at parties,” he said, grabbing his hat and locking the apartment door. “Anyway, that’s a Navy book. You know, if you hadn’t said anything, the Chicoms would have paid for our dates last night.”
“And you and I would have a big black mark on our PRP.”
The Personnel Reliability Program was DoD’s way of ensuring the trustworthiness of people in sensitive positions. You pretty much signed your privacy away — especially if you flew with nukes — which both men periodically did.
“For your information,” Schmidt said, “I figured out they were spies right before you did. The one with the gap in her teeth used my nickname — which I never told her. She’d done a background on me. Not very smart for a spy.”
“I think they just counted on us being dumb,” Skeet said.
“Or numb. Interesting that you were targeted. The Chinese have hacked into U.S. government personnel records so many times they’ve got data on all of us. Good we’re making a report.”
“Even so.” Schmidt groaned again. “The old man is going to have my ass.”
“We were both there,” Skeet said. “
“He’ll still be pissed,” Schmidt said. “But I’m a single guy, and no money changed hands.”
