Free Hover by Anne A. Wilson Page A

it’s not a big deal, it sort of is. He’s done it for me several times in the space of twenty-four hours, which just happens to be several times more than anyone else combined since I first donned a uniform eight years ago.
    Nobody opens doors for me anymore. But I don’t expect them to. I mean, I can open my own doors. It used to happen for me, when I was younger, in high school. But it was one of those things that became ancient history the instant I stepped foot in the Naval Academy. In that moment, I surrendered my “getting treated like a lady” card and was given the “you’re in the military now so you can do it yourself” card. And I’ve always thought I wouldn’t have it any other way.
    So two things shock me here. One, he’s holding doors open for me, and two, I like that he’s doing so. I shouldn’t like it, but I do.
    My eyes shift discreetly to Captain Plank, who commands attention merely by his stillness. He sits ramrod straight at his conspicuously clean desk, pulling his eyes from his computer monitor only briefly to glance at us before swiveling in his chair. He leans over, punching in the key code to a safe located in the corner.
    In the meantime, Eric and I stand next to each other at attention, the captain not having put us at ease. Every captain is different, some stricter than others, but on a bad weather day like today, it would be quite helpful to be able to stand normally for balance rather than legs and feet locked together.
    Technically, if you’re standing at attention, you’re supposed to look straight ahead, not meeting the eyes of the superior who put you there. But since Captain Plank’s back is turned, I have a moment to focus on the only item, save his computer screen, that holds real estate on his desk—his Beretta M9 pistol. Distinct due to its custom wood grip, the sidearm that he wore at his waist yesterday now rests in an elegantly carved, hardwood display stand, shiny with a furniture-grade satin finish.
    My time for scrutiny is cut short as he swivels back to us, holding what looks like a large bank deposit pouch, colored dark blue and unmarked. From inside, he removes a smaller brown envelope, the words TOP SECRET printed across the front. He opens the envelope and hands the one-sheet message to Eric without comment or emotion.
    He’s giving a Top Secret message to a lieutenant … which means Eric would only be allowed to read it if he held a Top Secret clearance. It’s not unheard of for a lieutenant to have one, depending on the job, but strange that a pilot in his capacity would. Strange, too, that Captain Plank would have had me come in with Eric if this was to be the nature of their meeting.
    I take a chance, shifting my eyes to the left, watching as Eric scans the contents of the message. His face tightens as he reads.
    â€œThe Australians?” Eric asks, looking up. “Is this a done deal then, sir?”
    â€œIt is,” Captain Plank states.
    Eric exhales, a long exhale.
    Each stares, unblinking, into the other’s eyes as something is silently communicated between them. “Sir—”
    â€œYour reservations are noted,” Captain Plank says, acutely blunt.
    He shifts his laser-sharp gaze to me. I can’t see it directly, but I feel it. Like a missile that’s acquired its target and locks on, his focus remains here for several long, uncomfortable seconds before he speaks.
    â€œThat is all,” he says finally, issuing our dismissal.
    Eric and I execute an about face and a crisp exit. Once outside, Eric puts his hands on his hips and stares down the passageway, firmly setting his jaw. He breathes in well, his chest rising, holding here for a long moment before finally exhaling. The passageway is empty, but something in his mind’s eye holds his undivided attention.
    â€œEric?” I ask.
    He drops his eyes to me, his expression serious, worried,