Free Molon Labe! by Boston T. Party, Kenneth W. Royce Page B

still has That Look on her face. Driving away she smiles brilliantly and pantomimes Call me!
    He smiles, nods, waves, standing there watching her taillights vanish in the dark. He can still smell her perfume wafting in the crisp night air. His feet, never touching pavement, hovercraft him back to his Suburban.
    He does not recall the drive home.
    James Wayne Preston is a Wyomingite in every sense of the word, an independent outdoorsman and lover of horses. Politically conservative, he is best described as a "libertarian Republican." His grandfather had made his first fortune in cattle and his second in oil. James now co-managed the ranch and family business interests with his father, Benjamin Preston.
    A studious and disciplined only child, James was thin as a boy and didn't really begin to fill out until he was nearly eighteen. Adventuresome and nice looking with dark brown hair and eyes, he was nonetheless a bit shy with girls in high school. Not until his junior year did he have a girlfriend, but it was a tempestuous relationship which he ended badly. He got turned down for dates for weeks afterward. Although a solid personality shielded him from most peer pressure, seventeen is seventeen.
    His favorite grandmother had some advice which changed his life. Jimmy, a woman will walk over, around, or through any man better looking or more wealthy if you know how to dance . He knew it was true; Davis Bettencourt was no football star, but could he ever move a girl around on the dance floor. He was rarely without some lovely lass on his arm, including one formerly of the first-string quarterback.
    So, James snuck off after school three days a week for dancing lessons across town. He even enrolled under an alias, Fred Rogers. If his dance teacher understood the pun, she never let on. James had his mother's natural rhythm and learned quickly. After just three months he could Swing, Salsa, C&W, and even Waltz. At the homecoming ball he astonished the entire school with his graceful moves. Girls all but stood in line for the next dance with him. Overnight his confidence and reputation skyrocketed. His prom was with the school's prettiest girl. His senior year ended up a huge success, academically and socially.
    He planned on a military career beginning at Annapolis. Graduating fifth in his class, he proudly took on the "butter bars" of a Marine Corps second lieutenant and went off to helicopter flight school. He soon distinguished himself in the Bell AH-1W SuperCobra, and flew the sleek gunship in dozens of sorties during Desert Storm. His last had been the most interesting.
    While attacking, without support, two Iraqi SA-6 "Gainful" SAM batteries he got caught in the radar of a deadly ZSU-23-4 self-propelled AA gun. The 4-barreled turreted system spewed a devastating 50-round burst of 23mm cannon shells, wounding both him and his gunner/copilot, and severely damaging his helo. Captain Preston barely limped back to base before the tail rotor sheared off. He was released from hospital nine days later on medical leave from flight duty. Desert Storm ended before he could fly again. He was happy to learn that he and his copilot had taken out two of the last SAM batteries of the war. For him it was a happy conclusion to his part of the fighting.
    After the Gulf War he was offered a promotion to major if he "reupped" and switched to the MV-22 Osprey, a controversial tilt-rotor/fixed-wing assault transport. Preston seriously considered it but came to call the Osprey a "twitchy beast" and didn't much care for the hybrid craft, though he thought the tilt-rotor concept fascinating. After the MV-22's first crash in 1991 he felt his suspicions vindicated. While Preston loved being a Marine, he decided that he was too independent for military life, especially during peacetime. He left active duty as a captain with 169 combat hours. A week and an hour he liked to joke. He would miss the twin 1,725 horsepower GE turboshafts and the incredible