Post by lordroel on Oct 22, 2024 15:30:57 GMT
Posted with permission of Matt Wiser over at HPCA: Range Therapy
Range Therapy
13 February 1988
Sheppard AFB, Wichita Falls, TX
Major Kathy Barzanian caught up with Erica near MAG-11 headquarters. “How’d your hop go?”
“I’ll tell you later, after my stomach stops spinning.”
“I remember my aerobatics fam in a Tweet. Trust me, this will help. Walk with me, just look where you’re going, and try not to move your head quickly.”
Erica walked with Kathy for a few minutes, keeping her head level and aimed to the front, and her stomach settled down. “How’d you know that trick?”
“My pilot for aerobatics fam threw that Tweet around trying to get me to lose my breakfast. A master sergeant told me to do that, and miracle of miracles, I was able to walk without falling.”
“Tweet?”
“The T-37 is a basic jet trainer. Known as the Tweet--the engines have a screechy high pitch--or “The Converter,” because all it really does is convert jet fuel into noise. I knew I didn’t want to fly to begin with--my rabbi wanted me for intelligence, and that’s where I wanted to go.”
“Rabbi?”
“That’s what we call a mentor in the Air Force. The Navy and Marines say, ‘sea daddy.’ Someone who shows you the ropes, gives you tough assignments to give you a chance to succeed or fail, and advises you on what assignments are good for your career goals, et cetera. So, what’s next?”
“Well, I have an interview later on this afternoon with Ms. Wendt. Until then, not much.”
“Join me for some range therapy?”
“Range therapy?”
“We head over to the small arms range and do some shooting. It’s relaxing. Just you, the target, and your rifle or pistol.”
* * *
They got out of the Humvee and donned hearing protection and safety glasses. Kathy hauled her weapons hardcase out of the back.
Erica slung her AKM, and they walked to the firing line. A few people were shooting pistols, carbines, and rifles. Kathy returned the range officer’s salute, gestured to the far right end of the firing line, and got a nod in response.
“It’s a live range right now, do not step forward of the firing line, ladies. Listen for the cease fire call, keep your weapon pointed safely down range, and y’all have a good time.”
Kathy set her hardcase down on one of the range tables and opened it up. “Something for every occasion.”
Erica looked at the weapons nestled into the foam. “I recognized the High Standard target pistol . . . but that’s an awfully long barrel.”
Kathy smiled. “Integral suppressor. Knocks the sound down by about 20 decibels. It’s chambered for .22 Long Rifle.”
“What do you use it for?”
“Buzz and bang work, mostly.”
Erica looked at Kathy and asked, “What’s that?”
“Well, you ring the doorbell, put a dewy-eyed expression on your face, and when the target opens the door, you bring the pistol up and give him the bad news.”
“You’ve done that?”
Kathy said, “Yes, I have. This is total war. Never fight fair.”
Erica nodded. “Damn straight.”
They took up positions at the firing line, and Erica brought her .45 to ‘raise pistol.’ She released the safety, cocked the hammer, and felt the change in her mindset as she reminded herself she was holding a live weapon.
She took up an isosceles stance, acquired her target, and squeezed the trigger.
Kathy said, “Nice! A shade above the edge of the X-Ring. Close enough for government work.”
Kathy brought up the High Standard and squeezed off a round.
Erica chuckled. “Polite little gun. Probably could fire it in the reference stacks without getting stink eye from the librarian.”
Kathy smiled. “Legend has it that the founder of the OSS fired it in the Oval Office while FDR was talking, and nobody noticed.”
“Get out of here!”
“It’s a legend. Might be true, might not. It was a different time, that’s for sure. Now anyone approaching the Presidential residence gets checked through a magnetometer, X-ray scanner, you name it. The Secret Service is determined to not lose another President.”
They fired off a couple of magazines apiece, then Kathy said, “Hang on. Got a toy you might like.”
Kathy reached into her hardcase and produced a pistol. A foregrip folded down from in front of the elongated trigger guard, and the barrel was ported. “Beretta 93R. Can fire either single shots or three-round bursts.” She smiled at Erica. “Want to give it a try?”
Erica took hold of the weapon and found a stance somewhere between isosceles and Weaver. Her left hand held the foregrip, and Kathy showed her how to hook her left thumb through the front of the trigger guard.
She fired off a few single shots, then fired a burst.
“Is there a stock for this?”
“Yes, but you can’t get a proper stock weld with it, it’s more like a simple shoulder brace. I like the stance you’re using better.”
A man’s voice--Colonel Brady’s. “How did you acquire that, Major?”
Kathy stood to attention, and Brady said, “At ease! Range safety is more important than customs and courtesies.” He stepped to the firing line, drew his Beretta, and started doing slow fire. Next to him, Guru Wiser and Goalie Eichhorn were setting up to shoot long guns--Goalie had a CAR-15, and Guru had an HK53 like Barzanian’s own.
Erica snapped off another burst.
Kathy said, “Well, sir, I got it off of a member of the Red Brigades who didn’t need it.”
Brady fired another round and asked, “Dozier?”
“That was before my time, sir. When Dozier got kidnapped, I was a senior at San Diego State, and I was the decoys for the effort to give the BYU mascot costume a red and black mohawk.”
Brady chuckled. Guru asked, “Decoys, plural?”
Barzanian laughed lightly as she dug out her own HK53. “I wore a bikini top and Daisy Duke cutoffs.”
Goalie said, “Decoys, gotcha. So, how did you get the Beretta?”
“Like I said, got if off a Red Brigade guy who didn’t need it anymore. Unfortunately, I wasn’t allowed to keep his Ferrari.”
Brady sighed. “If it was an Italian local model, it would fail smog testing her in America, anyway.”
Erica finished shooting the 93R, removed the empty magazine, and made sure the chamber was clear. “Nice. It stays on target. I didn’t quite expect that.”
“Beretta did well with those.” She stowed it back in the hardcase. “Some long gun work?”
Erica nodded. “Sounds good.” She picked up her AKM.
Barzanian brought her HK53 up and said, “By the way, Major, excellent taste in carbines. Tactically acquired?”
Guru shook his head. “No, that's the AKMS on my office wall. The Heckler and Koch? Midnight requisitioning. My maintenance chief gets offended if you try to pretty it up. He diverted a few meant for some Army rotorheads. How’d you get yours, anyway?”
“The old-fashioned way. The team I was on facilitated some strategic investments in various ordnance officers’ retirement funds around the world, all on behalf of Uncle Sam.”
Goalie asked, “What’s with the big hole in side of the magazine well?”
“First thing we did when we got them, we drilled out the serial numbers and the factory markings. No need to embarrass our generous benefactors.”
Goalie nodded. “I suppose that’s kind of important.”
Kathy locked a magazine in place and racked the charging handle, then started shooting.
Brady asked, “Ever hear ‘sappers in the wire’ get called?”
“Once or twice.” Barzanian went from the standard offhand stance to instinct shooting, sighting just above the axis of the barrel and allowing her natural pointing instinct to guide her aim, and fired quickly at a series of steel plates against the backstop.
Brady smiled. “A fan of Quick Kill, I see.”
Barzanian said, “Well, sir, we sometimes work at close quarters and high speed. Worst I ever dealt with was a walk-in recruitment suddenly trying to stab me, turned out he was a dangle from the DGI. I turned sideways and shot him with a cross-draw that was barely clear of the holster. Ruined a nice jacket, too.”
Brady winced. “Give me an F/A-18 and a full can of 20 millimeter any day of the week. Shooting someone in the middle of a conversation's way too close for my taste.
* * *
13 February 1988
335th Fighter Squadron Headquarters
There was a knock on the door. Guru called, “Show yourself and come on in!”
A tall, slender brunette wearing Marine warrant officer’s bars stepped into the office. “Major Wiser? I’m Warrant Officer Diane Sallquist, H&MS-11 Aviation Supply. I think we need to have a talk, and maybe Chief Ross needs to sit in.”
A few moments later, Chief Ross arrived.
Sallquist said, “As I understand the rules on midnight requisitioning, the first one is ‘no felony arrests,’ correct?”
Guru nodded. “That’s the big one.”
Sallquist handed Guru and Chief Ross a folder apiece.
“Sir . . . you guys came within a shallow breath of breaking that rule. Engines are controlled at the Big Air Force level. Been that way ever since 1977, when my old squadron on Okinawa built a seventh OV-10 Bronco out of spare parts left over from Vietnam. The Secretary of Defense was not happy about that--Congress buys airplanes, we’re not supposed to bolt together our own. So, Uncle Harold in the E Ring made us put critical items--such as engines--into centrally managed pools with 100% accountability. The Air Force is worse than Naval Aviation, we only need to talk to COMNAVAIRPAC in Coronado, not OPNAV in Philly.”
Guru read the file quickly; the message traffic was, to put it mildly, blistering. “I see. Unfortunately, the aircraft in question was the only BOLO II loss. If you want, I have the RF-4C photos of the crash site.”
“That’s pretty much what started this whole mess, sir; the logbooks got closed out and sent to Hill. Now, I’ve cleaned things up, but it was touch and go for a while. I understand the supply system isn’t as responsive as it needs to be, and Tenth Air Force Ops isn’t as understanding about availability and tasking as they should be. All I’m asking is for you to help me help you. I can get a lot more done with a lot less heartbreak if you bring me in up front instead of leaving me and my people to backdate paperwork after the fact and pray that we didn’t miss something. We’re pretty good at the midnight requisitioning game ourselves. Working together, we can clean some of the clutter out of our Aviation Supply Point, and the other parties to the deals will give us alibis.”
Guru nodded. “Gunner, I understand. But at the same time, I still have a squadron to run, missions to fly, and that means I need airplanes that can fly. The Air Force has too many bureaucrats stuck in peacetime mode. Sundown Cunningham's efforts notwithstanding.”
Sallquist nodded. “Same with the Marines, sir. The group armorer’s been trying to get Quantico to cough up a Barrett for the EOD team. It’s much safer to plink UXO from 500 yards away than to get up close and personal with it. But Quantico’s sitting on their stock. Nobody’s getting the damn things right now. I’m just saying, there’s the right way, and there’s the wrong way. I’m here to get you what you need.”
Guru nodded. “Fair enough. If you need to be creative with the paperwork, let us know what we need to do to get it looking right up front. That’s how we got the extra ejection seats and Pave Tack--”
Sallquist grinned, covered her ears and said, “LALALALA I CAN’T HEAR YOU, SIR!”
Guru smiled. “I see we understand each other.”
13 February 1988
Officers’ Club Tent
Sheppard AFB, Wichita Falls, TX
Barzanian stepped into the club tent and saw Diane Sallquist bringing a couple of Sam Adams to the 335th's table, where she laid them in front of Guru and Goalie. She made her way over.
“Hey, Gunner, how’s it going?”
“Just fine, ma’am. Doing a little diplomacy on behalf of Aviation Supply.” She looked over Barzanian’s shoulder and smiled. “And my date’s here.”
Barzanian turned and saw the petite redhead Sallquist had been hanging with. She turned back and raised an eyebrow.
“Just had to get my head on straight. She’s good people.”
Barzanian smiled. “Best of luck to you two.”
Sallquist smiled back. “Thanks.”
Barzanian saw an invitation on the face of one of the WSOs, and sat down next to him.
Buddy promptly leaped onto her lap and slobbered on her face.
The table froze in nervous anticipation.
Barzanian put a mock-stern expression on her face.
She wagged her finger at Buddy. “I see somebody slept through the last round of sexual harassment training.”
There were some chuckles . . . which turned into gales of laughter when Buddy looked embarrassed.
Barzanian scratched behind Buddy’s ears. “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy? Yes, you are!”
The WSO said, “Buddy likes you, and in these parts, that’s a testament to good character. I’m Judd Brewster, call sign Brainiac.”
“Kathy Barzanian.”
She put a bit of flirtatiousness into her smile. Brainiac seemed a decent sort--she figured anyone who liked dogs and had that liking reciprocated was a decent sort, and it hadn’t steered her wrong yet.
Guru said, “I waived the training for Buddy. CO’s prerogative.”
“Fair enough.”
Barzanian got a glass of white wine, a plate of food (chicken, mixed vegetables, and apple cobbler), and chatted with Brainiac. About twenty minutes in, she decided she was going to let him talk her into an evening in one of the trailers.
The evening news came on.
Walter Cronkite was resolutely trying to keep a straight face--and not entirely succeeding. “And in Kuala Lumpur, a suspected KGB officer died in what is either a bizarre accident or an even more bizarre murder. The victim, identified as Yevgeniy Rychenko, was leaving an office building when an anvil fell on him, killing him instantly--”
Kara Thrace said, “Better luck than the Coyote had.”
Barzanian said, “ACME is debarred from federal contracting due to known performance issues with their products.”
The table erupted into laughter.
Conversation continued over another round of drinks. Guru mentioned that the Marines had supply problems, and that the EOD detachment wanted a Barrett rifle, but the supply point at Quantico kept saying no dice.
Barzanian wrote herself a quick note in her wheelbook. Brainiac looked at her curiously.
"I'm going to ask around folks I know, maybe one of them can help. We may be different branches, but we all salute the same flag."
"I'll drink to that."
Brainiac lifted his beer, and Barzanian clinked her wineglass against the bottle.
Looking good, she decided.
Range Therapy
13 February 1988
Sheppard AFB, Wichita Falls, TX
Major Kathy Barzanian caught up with Erica near MAG-11 headquarters. “How’d your hop go?”
“I’ll tell you later, after my stomach stops spinning.”
“I remember my aerobatics fam in a Tweet. Trust me, this will help. Walk with me, just look where you’re going, and try not to move your head quickly.”
Erica walked with Kathy for a few minutes, keeping her head level and aimed to the front, and her stomach settled down. “How’d you know that trick?”
“My pilot for aerobatics fam threw that Tweet around trying to get me to lose my breakfast. A master sergeant told me to do that, and miracle of miracles, I was able to walk without falling.”
“Tweet?”
“The T-37 is a basic jet trainer. Known as the Tweet--the engines have a screechy high pitch--or “The Converter,” because all it really does is convert jet fuel into noise. I knew I didn’t want to fly to begin with--my rabbi wanted me for intelligence, and that’s where I wanted to go.”
“Rabbi?”
“That’s what we call a mentor in the Air Force. The Navy and Marines say, ‘sea daddy.’ Someone who shows you the ropes, gives you tough assignments to give you a chance to succeed or fail, and advises you on what assignments are good for your career goals, et cetera. So, what’s next?”
“Well, I have an interview later on this afternoon with Ms. Wendt. Until then, not much.”
“Join me for some range therapy?”
“Range therapy?”
“We head over to the small arms range and do some shooting. It’s relaxing. Just you, the target, and your rifle or pistol.”
* * *
They got out of the Humvee and donned hearing protection and safety glasses. Kathy hauled her weapons hardcase out of the back.
Erica slung her AKM, and they walked to the firing line. A few people were shooting pistols, carbines, and rifles. Kathy returned the range officer’s salute, gestured to the far right end of the firing line, and got a nod in response.
“It’s a live range right now, do not step forward of the firing line, ladies. Listen for the cease fire call, keep your weapon pointed safely down range, and y’all have a good time.”
Kathy set her hardcase down on one of the range tables and opened it up. “Something for every occasion.”
Erica looked at the weapons nestled into the foam. “I recognized the High Standard target pistol . . . but that’s an awfully long barrel.”
Kathy smiled. “Integral suppressor. Knocks the sound down by about 20 decibels. It’s chambered for .22 Long Rifle.”
“What do you use it for?”
“Buzz and bang work, mostly.”
Erica looked at Kathy and asked, “What’s that?”
“Well, you ring the doorbell, put a dewy-eyed expression on your face, and when the target opens the door, you bring the pistol up and give him the bad news.”
“You’ve done that?”
Kathy said, “Yes, I have. This is total war. Never fight fair.”
Erica nodded. “Damn straight.”
They took up positions at the firing line, and Erica brought her .45 to ‘raise pistol.’ She released the safety, cocked the hammer, and felt the change in her mindset as she reminded herself she was holding a live weapon.
She took up an isosceles stance, acquired her target, and squeezed the trigger.
Kathy said, “Nice! A shade above the edge of the X-Ring. Close enough for government work.”
Kathy brought up the High Standard and squeezed off a round.
Erica chuckled. “Polite little gun. Probably could fire it in the reference stacks without getting stink eye from the librarian.”
Kathy smiled. “Legend has it that the founder of the OSS fired it in the Oval Office while FDR was talking, and nobody noticed.”
“Get out of here!”
“It’s a legend. Might be true, might not. It was a different time, that’s for sure. Now anyone approaching the Presidential residence gets checked through a magnetometer, X-ray scanner, you name it. The Secret Service is determined to not lose another President.”
They fired off a couple of magazines apiece, then Kathy said, “Hang on. Got a toy you might like.”
Kathy reached into her hardcase and produced a pistol. A foregrip folded down from in front of the elongated trigger guard, and the barrel was ported. “Beretta 93R. Can fire either single shots or three-round bursts.” She smiled at Erica. “Want to give it a try?”
Erica took hold of the weapon and found a stance somewhere between isosceles and Weaver. Her left hand held the foregrip, and Kathy showed her how to hook her left thumb through the front of the trigger guard.
She fired off a few single shots, then fired a burst.
“Is there a stock for this?”
“Yes, but you can’t get a proper stock weld with it, it’s more like a simple shoulder brace. I like the stance you’re using better.”
A man’s voice--Colonel Brady’s. “How did you acquire that, Major?”
Kathy stood to attention, and Brady said, “At ease! Range safety is more important than customs and courtesies.” He stepped to the firing line, drew his Beretta, and started doing slow fire. Next to him, Guru Wiser and Goalie Eichhorn were setting up to shoot long guns--Goalie had a CAR-15, and Guru had an HK53 like Barzanian’s own.
Erica snapped off another burst.
Kathy said, “Well, sir, I got it off of a member of the Red Brigades who didn’t need it.”
Brady fired another round and asked, “Dozier?”
“That was before my time, sir. When Dozier got kidnapped, I was a senior at San Diego State, and I was the decoys for the effort to give the BYU mascot costume a red and black mohawk.”
Brady chuckled. Guru asked, “Decoys, plural?”
Barzanian laughed lightly as she dug out her own HK53. “I wore a bikini top and Daisy Duke cutoffs.”
Goalie said, “Decoys, gotcha. So, how did you get the Beretta?”
“Like I said, got if off a Red Brigade guy who didn’t need it anymore. Unfortunately, I wasn’t allowed to keep his Ferrari.”
Brady sighed. “If it was an Italian local model, it would fail smog testing her in America, anyway.”
Erica finished shooting the 93R, removed the empty magazine, and made sure the chamber was clear. “Nice. It stays on target. I didn’t quite expect that.”
“Beretta did well with those.” She stowed it back in the hardcase. “Some long gun work?”
Erica nodded. “Sounds good.” She picked up her AKM.
Barzanian brought her HK53 up and said, “By the way, Major, excellent taste in carbines. Tactically acquired?”
Guru shook his head. “No, that's the AKMS on my office wall. The Heckler and Koch? Midnight requisitioning. My maintenance chief gets offended if you try to pretty it up. He diverted a few meant for some Army rotorheads. How’d you get yours, anyway?”
“The old-fashioned way. The team I was on facilitated some strategic investments in various ordnance officers’ retirement funds around the world, all on behalf of Uncle Sam.”
Goalie asked, “What’s with the big hole in side of the magazine well?”
“First thing we did when we got them, we drilled out the serial numbers and the factory markings. No need to embarrass our generous benefactors.”
Goalie nodded. “I suppose that’s kind of important.”
Kathy locked a magazine in place and racked the charging handle, then started shooting.
Brady asked, “Ever hear ‘sappers in the wire’ get called?”
“Once or twice.” Barzanian went from the standard offhand stance to instinct shooting, sighting just above the axis of the barrel and allowing her natural pointing instinct to guide her aim, and fired quickly at a series of steel plates against the backstop.
Brady smiled. “A fan of Quick Kill, I see.”
Barzanian said, “Well, sir, we sometimes work at close quarters and high speed. Worst I ever dealt with was a walk-in recruitment suddenly trying to stab me, turned out he was a dangle from the DGI. I turned sideways and shot him with a cross-draw that was barely clear of the holster. Ruined a nice jacket, too.”
Brady winced. “Give me an F/A-18 and a full can of 20 millimeter any day of the week. Shooting someone in the middle of a conversation's way too close for my taste.
* * *
13 February 1988
335th Fighter Squadron Headquarters
There was a knock on the door. Guru called, “Show yourself and come on in!”
A tall, slender brunette wearing Marine warrant officer’s bars stepped into the office. “Major Wiser? I’m Warrant Officer Diane Sallquist, H&MS-11 Aviation Supply. I think we need to have a talk, and maybe Chief Ross needs to sit in.”
A few moments later, Chief Ross arrived.
Sallquist said, “As I understand the rules on midnight requisitioning, the first one is ‘no felony arrests,’ correct?”
Guru nodded. “That’s the big one.”
Sallquist handed Guru and Chief Ross a folder apiece.
“Sir . . . you guys came within a shallow breath of breaking that rule. Engines are controlled at the Big Air Force level. Been that way ever since 1977, when my old squadron on Okinawa built a seventh OV-10 Bronco out of spare parts left over from Vietnam. The Secretary of Defense was not happy about that--Congress buys airplanes, we’re not supposed to bolt together our own. So, Uncle Harold in the E Ring made us put critical items--such as engines--into centrally managed pools with 100% accountability. The Air Force is worse than Naval Aviation, we only need to talk to COMNAVAIRPAC in Coronado, not OPNAV in Philly.”
Guru read the file quickly; the message traffic was, to put it mildly, blistering. “I see. Unfortunately, the aircraft in question was the only BOLO II loss. If you want, I have the RF-4C photos of the crash site.”
“That’s pretty much what started this whole mess, sir; the logbooks got closed out and sent to Hill. Now, I’ve cleaned things up, but it was touch and go for a while. I understand the supply system isn’t as responsive as it needs to be, and Tenth Air Force Ops isn’t as understanding about availability and tasking as they should be. All I’m asking is for you to help me help you. I can get a lot more done with a lot less heartbreak if you bring me in up front instead of leaving me and my people to backdate paperwork after the fact and pray that we didn’t miss something. We’re pretty good at the midnight requisitioning game ourselves. Working together, we can clean some of the clutter out of our Aviation Supply Point, and the other parties to the deals will give us alibis.”
Guru nodded. “Gunner, I understand. But at the same time, I still have a squadron to run, missions to fly, and that means I need airplanes that can fly. The Air Force has too many bureaucrats stuck in peacetime mode. Sundown Cunningham's efforts notwithstanding.”
Sallquist nodded. “Same with the Marines, sir. The group armorer’s been trying to get Quantico to cough up a Barrett for the EOD team. It’s much safer to plink UXO from 500 yards away than to get up close and personal with it. But Quantico’s sitting on their stock. Nobody’s getting the damn things right now. I’m just saying, there’s the right way, and there’s the wrong way. I’m here to get you what you need.”
Guru nodded. “Fair enough. If you need to be creative with the paperwork, let us know what we need to do to get it looking right up front. That’s how we got the extra ejection seats and Pave Tack--”
Sallquist grinned, covered her ears and said, “LALALALA I CAN’T HEAR YOU, SIR!”
Guru smiled. “I see we understand each other.”
13 February 1988
Officers’ Club Tent
Sheppard AFB, Wichita Falls, TX
Barzanian stepped into the club tent and saw Diane Sallquist bringing a couple of Sam Adams to the 335th's table, where she laid them in front of Guru and Goalie. She made her way over.
“Hey, Gunner, how’s it going?”
“Just fine, ma’am. Doing a little diplomacy on behalf of Aviation Supply.” She looked over Barzanian’s shoulder and smiled. “And my date’s here.”
Barzanian turned and saw the petite redhead Sallquist had been hanging with. She turned back and raised an eyebrow.
“Just had to get my head on straight. She’s good people.”
Barzanian smiled. “Best of luck to you two.”
Sallquist smiled back. “Thanks.”
Barzanian saw an invitation on the face of one of the WSOs, and sat down next to him.
Buddy promptly leaped onto her lap and slobbered on her face.
The table froze in nervous anticipation.
Barzanian put a mock-stern expression on her face.
She wagged her finger at Buddy. “I see somebody slept through the last round of sexual harassment training.”
There were some chuckles . . . which turned into gales of laughter when Buddy looked embarrassed.
Barzanian scratched behind Buddy’s ears. “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy? Yes, you are!”
The WSO said, “Buddy likes you, and in these parts, that’s a testament to good character. I’m Judd Brewster, call sign Brainiac.”
“Kathy Barzanian.”
She put a bit of flirtatiousness into her smile. Brainiac seemed a decent sort--she figured anyone who liked dogs and had that liking reciprocated was a decent sort, and it hadn’t steered her wrong yet.
Guru said, “I waived the training for Buddy. CO’s prerogative.”
“Fair enough.”
Barzanian got a glass of white wine, a plate of food (chicken, mixed vegetables, and apple cobbler), and chatted with Brainiac. About twenty minutes in, she decided she was going to let him talk her into an evening in one of the trailers.
The evening news came on.
Walter Cronkite was resolutely trying to keep a straight face--and not entirely succeeding. “And in Kuala Lumpur, a suspected KGB officer died in what is either a bizarre accident or an even more bizarre murder. The victim, identified as Yevgeniy Rychenko, was leaving an office building when an anvil fell on him, killing him instantly--”
Kara Thrace said, “Better luck than the Coyote had.”
Barzanian said, “ACME is debarred from federal contracting due to known performance issues with their products.”
The table erupted into laughter.
Conversation continued over another round of drinks. Guru mentioned that the Marines had supply problems, and that the EOD detachment wanted a Barrett rifle, but the supply point at Quantico kept saying no dice.
Barzanian wrote herself a quick note in her wheelbook. Brainiac looked at her curiously.
"I'm going to ask around folks I know, maybe one of them can help. We may be different branches, but we all salute the same flag."
"I'll drink to that."
Brainiac lifted his beer, and Barzanian clinked her wineglass against the bottle.
Looking good, she decided.