Free The Fly Boys by T. E. Cruise Page B

They froze in front
     of their lockers in their various states of undress, staring back at Steve as he stood with his hands on his hips, glaring
     into the room. One wall was taken up with a bank of narrow dark green metal lockers and long wooden benches, where the pilots
     could change into their flying gear. The other side of the room had folding wooden chairs haphazardly arranged in front of
     a low, raised platform. Attached to the wall behind the platform were a large rectangular blackboard, a duty roster, and a
     set of roll-down maps. The squadron’s ops officer had his desk and file cabinets next to the podium. Next to him was where
     the radio operator sat in front of his equipment. In the hut’s far corner a bar had been set up for the use of the officers.
    “Detkin!” Steve roared.
    “Take it easy, Steve. That’s an order,” Captain Crawford said as he stowed his gear.
    Steve, pissed off, ignored him, despite the fact that he was a superior officer. When Cappy wasn’t around, Crawford or any
     of the other three captains in the squadron were in charge, but a guy who pulled his weight in a combat unit could get away
     with a certain amount of insubordination. Anyway, Steve disliked schoolteachers telling him what to do.
    “Detkin!” he repeated. “You in here? Or are you too chickenshit to show yourself?”
    “I’m Detkin,” a pilot Steve’s age, or maybe a couple of years older, replied softly, stepping away from the others. He was
     barefoot and wearing just his boxer shorts. He was about five feet ten inches tall. Like all the pilots, he was built thick
     through his shoulders and arms, thanks to the effort it took to work a fighter plane’s controls at high speed. “You ought
     to know your squadron mates by now,” he mocked.
    “I’ll know you from now on,” Steve said. He stripped off his Mae West and shoulder holster, threw his gear into his locker,
     and advanced on Detkin.
    “Lieutenant Gold,” Crawford was sputtering, “I swear to God, I’ll have you up on charges if you don’t cool off.”
    “Don’t worry about it, Captain,” Detkin said. “I can handle this
putz
okay by myself.”
    “You think so?” Steve demanded.
    “I know so,” Detkin replied.
    “Your tricks can’t help you now,” Steve said.
    “Face to face I don’t need tricks.” Detkin had stepped in close to spit the words into Steve’s face.
    He was swarthy, one of those guys who always looked like they needed a shave. He had heavy-lidded brown eyes that gave him
     a sleepy look, a broad, flat nose, and a strong jawline. He wore his glossy black hair cut short in the back and on the sides,
     but in thick tousled curls on top.
    Steve knew that Detkin had to be a good pilot and an ace or else he wouldn’t be in the squadron, but beyond that he drew a
     blank, although he had been able to connect the man with his name as soon as he’d identified himself. During the time the
     squadron had been together, Detkin had been flying as a wingman in one of the other flight formations.
    “I believe you think you have a score to settle with me?” Detkin was smiling.
    “Goddman right I do,” Steve said. “You stole my kill by using one of the lowest tricks in the book.”
    Detkin shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?”
    “Sure it worked!”
    “So what’s your problem, pal?” Detkin chuckled. “Come on, it was just a joke. Are you pissed at me for fooling you? Or are
     you pissed at yourself for being fooled?”
    The other pilots were smiling in agreement, Steve noticed. That made him angrier. “Detkin, I consider you the lowest of the
     low.”
    Detkin stopped smiling. “I couldn’t care less what you consider. Number one”—he poked Steve’s chest with a rigid forefinger—“
don’t
come crying to me because you fell for a sucker play. Number two”—he poked Steve a second time—“
don’t
call me an asshole. And number three—”
    He tried to poke Steve’s chest again, but this time Steve