Nephele and Faye

She did not look like she believed me. So, I added,

"But if it were, you're forgiven."

She shot me a weak smile, then took out a cigarette from her pack and lit it.

"I had no idea you smoked," I said.

"I don't. Noah gave me the pack."

She offered one to me. I took it.

"I didn't know Noah smoked," I said.

She smiled. I put the cigarette between my lips and craned my neck for the light.

"Guess that's something you'll have to chat with him about," she replied.

We watched the sun climb out of the water, turning the pink sky golden. The water shimmered with its light.

"Doesn't look too good," she said.

"What? My new hairstyle?"

"The war."

"It looks good for some people."

"I guess you're right. Not for me. We're leaving today. I have to take the squadron back to Donavia."

"You're not going to fight?"

"No. Apparently, we're too valuable to fight. We're heading back to defend Donavian air space instead."

"I see. How long do you think this war will last?"

Nephele shrugged. "Fuck if I know."

"I heard there's supposed to be a peace talk once the Allies take Estea back."

"I hope so."

"Do you?"

Nephele gave me a funny look.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I?"

"Do you know how to do anything besides fight?"

"I know how to play the piano."

"But you'll miss the war."

"Maybe. But I'll miss you, for sure."

"I hope you don't. I've been fucking terrible to you."

"I'll still miss you."

She took a long drag on her cigarette, then looked me in the eyes, showing off their wonderful hazel colors in this morning light. Her hand with the cigarette in it curled around the back of my head and pulled my face towards hers. With our lips a breath apart, she whispered,

"I just can't get over kissing you."

Then we kissed again. We kissed like it was the last time. More than likely, it was.

Lotus One

A van soon came by, and the driver shouted for her to come with him. The duty officer needed her urgently. She said only a curt goodbye to me, perhaps hoping it would not be the last goodbye. I went back to the bar and turned on the news. The invasion was already over. Images of it flashed on the news.

Footage of hundreds of cruise missiles flying off ships on the distant horizon, drawing white-hot streaks as they left, shrieking into the black sky like claws. Footage of them hitting their targets. The cruise missiles targeted the coast's anti-aircraft and surface radar sites and control centers. The attack drew minimal casualties -- they sent out warning messages an hour before the attack to give the radar and SAM operators time to evacuate.

Then the fighter bombers from the aircraft carriers came in. Sortie after sortie to soften the beachhead. Glowing tracers filled the sky impossibly. Brilliant, explosive fireballs on the ground flashed with lightning quickness, indicating when bunker busters met their targets.

After the bunker busters, the sun's light shone over the horizon, revealing a beach filled with smoking debris. The hovercrafts and the amphibious vehicles came next, firing their heavy cannons and grenades at the beach defenses, lobbing white smokescreens before crawling up onto the sand. Tracer rounds responded from the machine gun nests that survived the barrage. Their response was in vain. They should have known it was in vain, yet they fought anyway. There were always some who did.

The Allied marines came out of the vehicles. They marched up the beachhead. The Donavian soldiers that manned the machine guns retreated through the salt marshes on the other side of the sand bar and into the forest. There was a small but important port city near the invasion point. The Donavian Information Minister swore it would be protected at all costs, and the Allies would be crushed. Either that was a lie, or the Donavian generals revolted. The troops retreated en masse on the superhighway that connected that side of the island, the south side, to the north. Like a long dark green python, the convoy of armored personnel carriers, supply trucks, and tanks stretched into the distance. Two hundred thousand troops that had been staged to defend the southern coast in full retreat, capitulating against a vastly superior force. They were escaping to Alexandria, where they hoped to be able to catch a troop transport across the strait back home.

But the Allies weren't going to let that happen.

A squadron of attack jets, called 'tank killers' by the reporter, split off, one section to attack the tail end of the convoy, and the other raced along the length of the convoy to attack the front. They dropped cluster bombs, destroying large vehicles to block the highway, grinding the convoy to a halt, and trapping the convoy on the highway. Confusion and fear among the troops in the middle, who didn't know what was happening.

I immediately realized that the impending air strike on the convoy was why Nephele had to go back to the base urgently. Panic struck my heart. My gut told me she wasn't going to evacuate her squadron. She was going to fight.

I flew out through the doors of the bar, jumped in my car drove out like a mad woman to the airport.

On the airfield, the crew members ran like mad between the jets, getting the jets ready. Twelve jets in two neat rows flush with missiles beneath their wings.

I sprinted between the jets and weaved between the frantic aircrew. They paid me no attention. They were mission focused. I knew what that meant. I knew full well what the missiles meant, too. My fear was becoming realized. They weren't getting the fighters ready to fly back home. They were gearing up for combat.

I sprinted past Nephele's Lotus fighter. Out of my periphery, the lotuses looked like white flames. Crew members were hoisting a missile up into a pylon beneath a wing. Another was filling the jet with fuel. The smell was explosively sweet and intoxicating, filling me with a sense of urgency. The air pressure was high, and a biting wind came through. Thunderheads rumbled in the distance. Blue storm clouds were coming.

I ran into the main terminal building. Empty hallways. Papers spilled out of rooms, scattered on the floor chaotically, signs of a rushed escape. At the end of the hallway, there was a makeshift briefing theater. In the semi-frosted double glass doors, I could see dull silhouettes of sitting people.

I ran to it and burst it open. The Skybreakers were there. All geared up. Their helmets on the school desks. They sat with morose expressions, some fidgeting and tapping their feet with clear anxiousness. There was a TV in the top corner of the room. It was turned on to the news but turned down so low that the reporter's voice came out a muffled noise. The sound of the TV was strangely calming, though it threw flashes of war. They turned to stare at me.

"Where's Nephele?" I asked.

Trigger pointed to a closed door at the front of the room.

"She's talking to the boss."

I marched towards it.

"Hey, you really shouldn't -"

Too late, I was already in the room.

Nephele was leaning over a speakerphone. A surprise on her face when she looked up to find me standing there.

Tiny, leaning against the wall, straightened up when he saw me.

"Faye?" said Nephele. I was huffing from running. I cleared my throat.

"Don't do it," I said.

"Can we talk after this?"

A voice crackled from the speakerphone.

"Who the hell are you talking to, Major?"

Nephele winced.

"A friend. Sir."

The voice crackled again. There was snarling anger in it.

"Let's get back on topic. As I was saying, your orders are to bring your squadron back. You are NOT authorized for this mission. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal, sir. But who's going to give our guys covers?"

"That's not your concern, Major. I will relieve you of your command if your squadron doesn't touch ground here by noon."

"It'll be a fucking turkey shoot, sir!"

"Not going to say another word about it. Get your ass home."

There was a slamming click, then a dial tone. Nephele glared at the speakerphone. Then, in a bout of rage that I've never seen from her, she picked up the disc and threw it against the wall, causing the thing to shatter into bits of plastic shards. Tiny flinched. He also seemed to be unaccustomed to this bout of rage.

"Fuck you!" she screamed and stuck a middle finger at the broken phone.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Only the sound of Nephele's angered breathing. Tiny and I exchanged a nervous glance. I offered to broach the silence.

"So, you're going back to Donavia then?"

She crossed her arms. Her face was flushed red, hot. She turned to look out the window. Through the window were the jets. All lined up. All nearing ready to fly. The fuel truck was now filling the last jet in the row. Most of the other aircrew were walking back towards the hangar, wiping their brows and hands of grease and lube oil.

She sighed. Turned to face me and said with a calm look of resolve on her face,

"No."

Tiny nodded in kind and picked up his helmet as if to pick up a sword.

"You're not fighting them," I demanded.

"I am."

She walked past me, opened the door, and stepped into the briefing room.

Tiny put a hand on my shoulder and gave me a weak, consoling smile. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn't find the words to say to me, so his face went stone cold again, and he followed Nephele to the briefing room to be by her side before the others.

Nephele stepped out in front of the Skybreakers. She put her hands on her hips and spoke with unerring confidence.

"It's been confirmed that there are five carrier air wings off the coast, sending every available fighter into the sky to strike a death blow to the Third Army. A direct contravention of international laws of war. Our squadron is the only one available to provide air cover. However, we have orders to go home. Officially, I am hereby ordering you to take your jets home. You are to land no later than noon. But I do not intend to go home. I intend to disobey those orders and intercept the hostile fighters before they reach our troops. Anyone who wants to join me may do so. But know that you will be subject to court-martial if you do."

She gave no one time to respond. Instead, she walked through the center aisle between the desks and out the door behind them, putting on her helmet. Tiny followed her.

I tore after them.

Outside, a biting rain had started to come down in needle bursts. She began jogging towards her jet, ignoring my shouts for her to stop. I caught up to her and jogged alongside her.

"Neph, please don't do it."

"I have to, Faye."

"Why do you have to? No one wants you to do it."

"I want to do it."

"Why? To rack up more kills?"

"It doesn't matter why."

We reached her jet. The crew chief awaited her. He gave her a crisp salute. She saluted back and hopped onto the ladder. I grabbed her wrist and yanked her off. Instinctively, she pushed me away but pulled me back in and embraced me tightly.

She took a step back and took one last good look at me. Then something behind me caught her attention. I looked over my shoulders and saw the other pilots jogging out to their jets. They were not geared up to fly home. They were geared up for combat. Even I could see that.

I turned back to Nephele. She offered me a smile. I could see in her eyes that there was nothing I could say or do to convince her not to go. So, I gave her back a smile. Tears welled up in my eyes. I wiped them away with my sleeve.

She pulled out a handkerchief inside her flight suit. The handkerchief that I had given to her the day that Bat died.

"Forgot to give this back to you."

"Keep it. It's for good luck," I said.

She nodded and stuffed it back into her flight suit.

"Thanks."

She started to climb the ladder. I stopped her again. I grabbed her wrist again. Only this time, I didn't yank her down. I only looked up at her and said,

"Promise me you'll stay alive."

"I promise," she answered.

She put her hand in mine, squeezed it, and climbed into the cockpit. The crew chief climbed up the ladder after her to assist her, and when he was done, he hopped down and took the ladder from the jet. The engines whined on. The cockpit canopy came down. Nephele slid her visor down so that the only visible part of her face was her cheeks and lips.

The crew chief tapped my shoulder and pointed back towards the hangar.

I followed him, and we joined the crew that stood in a neat line at the mouth of the hangar to watch the jets.

The crew chief offered me a cigarette. I refused. He lit it, smoked it himself, and said to me, in reference to my shaved head,

"Hope they treat you kindly when they come."

The planes taxied to the runway in pairs and took off with a tremendous roaring sound that I could feel on my skin and lungs.

As each pair of jets rose into the sky, they banked left in the same way, turning towards the southern sky. In short order, all twelve were reunited in the air, growing small until they looked like nothing more than a flock of geese converging into a concrete grey horizon.

A Piano's Last Song

I waited hours for Nephele's return. I had parked my car at the top of the hill plane-spotters once used to watch planes take off and land. With my arms wrapped around my legs and chin propped against my knees, I constantly scanned the horizon.

It was silent, save for the chirping crickets, the whispers of the wind, and the tall grass rustling. The sun fell behind a long stretch of distant anvil clouds. Below the clouds, the sky was a dark red, and above them, a darkening blue. The first stars appeared in a clearing between the clouds to the east.

I scanned the direction in which the squadron disappeared when they flew off towards the fight, squinting hard to spot any minuscule dot that might be one of their planes. Every now and again, I'd see something that would excite me, but it would turn out to be a seabird or just my mind playing tricks.

When the last daylight faded into twilight, I heard a distant thunder rumble. When the thunder didn't fade but grew louder, echoing across the valley, I knew it was the returning squadron. My heart leaped. I jumped to my feet on the hood of the car, held my hand to my brow to block the glinting light of the remaining sun, and scanned desperately for the source of the loudening thunder.

Then came dots, enlarging into shimmering, wavy silhouettes of jets against the dimming sunlight. Green and red lights blinking. Wheels lowered. They came down on the runways in pairs. Tires screeched. Puffs of tire smoke went up. Engines roared down.

I watched each intently. Heart thumping hard against my chest as I looked for the white lotuses on the twin tailfins.

They had really taken a beating. Hardly one without bullet holes strafed across the entire side of the fuselage. Stabilizers cut into ribbons. One spewed black smoke from its jet nozzles.

Eight returned so far, taxiing to the side of the runway, lining up into neat rows. Scores of crew members, firefighters, and medics rushed out to support the dogged pilots. None of the jets had white lotuses.

A few minutes later, the roaring sound of jet engines again. I spotted them coming in from the same direction. Three dots on the horizon in a triangle formation. Only three. Surely, she was among then.

The first landed, then the last two. No lotuses. No Nephele. I sat back down onto the hood of the car, distraught. Twelve had taken off. Eleven had returned. And roars no longer echoed off the mountains. The only sounds were the chirping crickets and the rustling grass.

How could it be possible that the best among them was the only one to not return? I couldn't believe it. I refused to believe it. I continued waiting. I waited for an hour. Then two. I waited even as the pilots and the crew members -- ants from this far away -- petered back into the hangar until no one was left on the runway and the blue runway lights turned off. Then the lights from the control tower. Then the hangar lights. Without the lights, the airport became a lifeless husk. Its opened hangars the pitted eyes of a skull. The accompanying sound of silence, a deafening heartbreak. She would not be coming back.

I did not cry for Eli when he did not return. It was the same now with Nephele. Once I feared something was wrong with me that prevented that would not allow me to cry. But now I knew it was only my body naïvely clinging to hope. I let it cling.

I climbed into the driver's seat. Turned the key, turned the headlights on, put the car into gear, and drove back to the bar. I had to go back. I had to open the bar because, after a big mission, the pilots congregated there. I did it thoughtlessly. Like it was breathing.

***

Surprisingly, they showed up shortly after I opened. The first of the pilots filtered in a half-hour after I opened. I poured them beers. They greeted me with a sullen nod, took their beers gratefully, and sat and drank silently.

Tiny was the last one in. His eyes were swollen, and red. Dried streams shone on his cheeks. He drank an entire pint in a few gulps and handed me back the glass for a refill. He was bursting at the seams, close to coming undone.

"I'm sorry," he said.

He shuddered, then he went to say, "No one saw her... She didn't...."

His voice faltered.

"I know," I interrupted softly.

He nodded.

"Who's in charge now?" I asked.

"That would be me."

"What's going to happen to the squadron?"

I handed him the refilled pint. He took a large gulp, then wiped his mouth of the foam.

"There's nothing much else to do. We're headed home right after this. But the troops will be alright. The other squadrons heard about us going up. They joined the fight. A mass mutiny. We were able to stop the Allies. At least for today. It'll buy them enough time to evacuate, I think."

"And Neph? Will there be a funeral?"

He let out a shuddering sigh. "Yeah. I suppose there will be one."

"That's good."

"Wish you could --"

"It's fine."

He watched me with pitying eyes. His hand went to mine. He squeezed it. I squeezed back and gave him an appreciative smile.

"I guess I needa give a speech to the guys," Tiny said.

He turned to face the men looking his way and cleared his throat. I knew that Tiny, despite his imposing stature, was a wimp when it came to public speaking, even to the guys. To do so at the tail end of the death of one of his closest friends was a lot to ask of him.

His shoulders slumped. He shook his head at the floor. Trigger went up beside him and patted his back in consolation. He tried with all his heart to muster the strength to speak while the men all watched with patience borne from the same tragedy. He looked up at the ceiling with wet eyes for a long moment, breathed out then said,

"You know, she wasn't the best pilot for the reasons you might think. Or. At least, I thought. I once thought that she succeeded because she took too many risks and she always needed to go first. I thought she was selfish. But then I got to fly with her in combat. And it was then that I realized I was completely wrong. She didn't go first because she was selfish. She didn't go first because she wanted the kill more than she cared for her own life. She went first because for every bandit that tagged her six, that was one less on her wingmen. You all know Shirley disobeyed a direct order by taking us out there. She disobeyed the order because it wasn't in her nature to turn tail and run when there were guys out that needed our protection. She'd have gone up by herself if she had to. But she didn't have to. Every single one of you chose to go with her, so for that, I'm damn proud to be able to call you all my wingmen. Someday, you will all look back at this war and think about how fucking crazy we were to fight it. When that day comes, don't remember our momentary triumphs. Instead, remember the gentle heroes that died so that others may live."