Free Air Force Eagles by Walter J. Boyne Page B

this 'ace' thing your daddy asked about?"
    He'd never discussed it with her, and knew he couldn't now. She'd never understand. "Ah, when I went to flying school I told my daddy that I wanted to be an ace, shoot everybody down—just foolish young man's talk. Don't think about it."
    "Your father's not the only one who can tell when you're fibbing."
    He licked her tears, little salt kisses, savoring them. Her big brown eyes had been the first thing that attracted him to her when they'd met at school. Widely spaced, her eyes shimmered with a serene intelligence that had captivated him at once. Just over five feet tall and weighing only a hundred pounds, her energy and imagination belied her doll-like size. She could be formidable when really angry—he'd learned long ago when to back off. And, he confessed to himself, he loved her figure best of all—small, well-formed breasts, a flat stomach that V'd into a wild mound of curly hair that she was ashamed of and a darling rounded bottom that he could never keep his hands from.
    She was tense in his arms, her anxiety causing her to exude a musky scent that excited him. He let his fingers drum on her deliciously soft inner thigh, tapping a little song of love.
    "Stop that." Saundra sat up and turned on the lamp. The light made a halo around her loosened jet-black hair. She tucked the sheet modestly around her.
    "Are we ever going to settle down and live any kind of a normal life? What if I'm pregnant, what happens then? What if I'm pregnant and you get killed?"
    He tugged the sheet down, letting her breasts spill out. "Well, you've still got Banjo to take care of you."
    She tucked the sheet up angrily and snarled, "Damn it, be serious with me."
    He kissed her brow. "I hope you are pregnant. I'll be back before the baby would be born. And I'm not going to get killed, I'm an old pro at this. When I come back, I'll start a little business, a flying school maybe, out in California. There must be lots of guys like me who want to fly."
    She nestled back in his arms. "I'd like that. But how many colored boys would have the money to pay for flying lessons? How many white boys would take lessons from a Negro pilot? If you are going to start a business, do something I can help with. Start a little store, hardware, or maybe even groceries. Something that I can be with you every day." Her voice was earnestly beseeching, sending out an emotional SOS.
    Reaching out, his finger traced the outline of her breasts, circling her nipples as they blossomed beneath the sheet.
    "That's what we'll do. A little store, just you and me," she said.
    He rubbed her nose with his own and said, "Honey, you have to understand. I can't give up flying, not ever. I've been in combat, I've flown rocket planes! Not many men, white or colored, have done that. I'm not going to wind up selling apples from a cart or pushing a broom in a factory!"
    She melted against him, and their mouths met. How funny, he thought. She's so shy in so many ways, but her tongue is so aggressive, as if it has a mind of its own, as if there were fires burning in her that hadn't warmed him yet. He toyed with the idea of telling her about her tongue, then decided not to—it might make her stop. And he didn't want her ever to stop.
    She broke free and whispered, "Put Banjo out of the room and close the door."
    *
    Nashville, Tennessee/April 15, 1948
    The big man sat like an unwashed Buddha, stewing in his own rank heat, brown splotches staining the sweat band of his fedora, sleeves rolled up, folders piled around him. Baker's round face was pockmarked and shady with a day's growth of beard; his small, mean brown eyes had the expectant look of a bird dog with a quail in its mouth, eager to be rewarded but reluctant to give up its trophy.
    McNaughton had hired him as chief of security in 1945, and he hadn't done an honest day's work since. But he'd done many dishonest ones and that was why McNaughton paid him $15,000 a year, more than his best test