Free Cold Allies by Patricia Anthony Page B

that anymore, was it?
    “They’ll let you come home,” his mother said kindly, “if you’ll read them your book.”
    He slammed the receiver on the hook and stared in horror at the phone.
    Oh, sweet Jesus. The ANA had him and he would never go home. The Arabs had him by the short hairs and all he was allowed to tell them was his name, rank, and serial number, and he could remember only two thirds of that.
    He glanced out the plate glass window of the diner. In the dark sky an F-14 was going down in flames, the blue lights of Woofers around it.
    “Good thinking,” a familiar voice said.
    He whirled. Lieutenant Commander Harding was standing there.
    “Name, rank, and serial number.” The XO nodded. He was dressed in his whites, and there were huge rings of sweat under his arms. It was always hard to stay cool in the desert. “Tell you what, lieutenant,” he said. “You’ve come through this test admirably. Let’s go have a cup of coffee.”
    Harding put his huge hand out. Justin took it. The man’s palm was firm and dry. Light winked on the XO’s balding dome and the embossed anchors of his brass buttons.
    “A test, sir?” Justin asked, afraid not to believe it.
    The XO clapped him on the back. “Sure, kid.” His voice was so gentle that it made Justin want to cry. “Don’t you remember the test? Well, I guess the drugs are still working on you. Let’s have that cup of coffee and wipe the cobwebs out.”
    There weren’t any cobwebs in Justin’s mind. There was only scattershot ice so slick that his thoughts kept sliding.
    Justin sat down on a stool next to a glass container of donuts. The waitress pushed a white cup and saucer in front of him.
    Saucers. He stared at the dish. Something nibbled and fretted at the edges of his memory.
    “You run into many Woofers, son?” the lieutenant commander asked, taking a cautious sip from his steaming cup.
    “Always run into Woofers lately,” Justin answered, pulling his gaze away from the saucer. The waitress was staring at him. Something in her cold eyes, her pulpy face, reminded him of Ann.
    The XO said, “Tell me your story. Everybody’s got a Woofer story, don’t they?”
    The XO’s spoon made a musical, frosty sound against the thick sides of the cup.
    ‘The first time my radio intercept officer saw one in his screen, it scared the shit out of him.” Justin laughed into the sudden, vacuous silence. ‘Then he got where he could identify their fuzzy returns and they didn’t worry himanymore. I’ve seen ’em fly off my wingtip and follow me like a dog, like they were curious or something.”
    “Oh?” the exec asked with a strange, flaccid smile. “Do you think they’re curious?”
    “I guess so, sir. They’re like big, friendly dogs.” Justin’s coffee was strong and hot. The sip he took burned the roof of his mouth. “When we get down, my wingman makes a joke of it. Hey, Justin, he’ll say. You had a blue Woofer sniffing up your tail, a Woofer with a twenty-foot hard-on.”
    Abruptly he had the jarring thought that his wingman was downed over ten minutes ago. Behind him in the pit, Tyler was screaming, “Approaching Woofers!,” but Justin, who was preoccupied by the AAA they’d taken in the port engine a while back, was fighting the stiffness of the stick and the crazed bumpy-road feel of the plane.
    MAYDAY
    MAYDAY
    MAYDAY
    “Eject,” Justin said as he turned, expecting to see his RIO. Lieutenant Commander Harding was there instead.
    “Eject?” the exec asked pleasantly, lifting one eyebrow.
    “I had to punch out. We were losing hydraulics,” Justin said. Or were they? Or was the AAA part of the test, too? He whirled around on the stool to stare out the plate glass window. Over the desert mountains streaked the red dot-dash-dot of tracers. Chaff sparkled in the dark. From a desperate, evading plane hot pink flares fell like garish beads from a broken necklace.
    “Look into your coffee,” the exec said.
    Justin looked. The