“That’s because the Moldavian Army is kicking the hell out of the Russians,” someone else said. “If they’d just leave the Russians alone, there wouldn’t be any fighting.”
“That’s ‘Moldovan’ Army, not ‘Moldavian’ Army,” Larry Tobias interjected. “Get it straight, son.”
“Gee, Dad,” the other crewmember quipped. “I didn’t know class was in session.”
“Hey, Larry, my WSO has forgotten more than you’ll ever know,” Kelly said in defense of his weapon system officer. “But as long as you’re the expert here, Larry, tell us: What is all this shit about? The rumor is NATO might get involved, which means us. Is that right?”
“Because it is the beginning of the Russians’ land grab,” Larry Tobias replied. “There are less than one hundred thousand Russians in Moldova, but ten Russians or a million — Russia would still be involved. Russia wants Moldova back. They care about only one thing — secure borders, a secure homeland,” Tobias said. “You people may not remember this, but over the past forty years, all of the Russian leaders have fought for the same thing. It is not enough to have massive standing armed forces — they want to put a buffer zone between Mother Russia and all foreign territory, especially those countries with foreign troops stationed on them. A lot of Russian leaders fought in World War Two, and every family in Russia lost relatives in the war. The Russians discovered in World War Two that alliances don’t always mean security — occupying and holding land is the key to security for them.”
“But why do we give a damn if Russia invades the Ukraine or Moldova?” one of the crew chiefs asked. “Who cares? Hell, most people don’t know where Moldova, or Romania, or the Ukraine are on the map. I remember the press had to tell thirty percent of all Americans where Kuwait was before we went to war there.”
“We care because Russia is involved,” Tobias replied, taking a deep swig of his beer. “Ever since the first Slavic Neanderthal ventured out of his cave, he not only cared about what his neighbor was doing — he wanted to control what he was doing. Russia doesn’t want the Ukraine to go Ukrainian, or Moldova to go Romanian, or Georgia to go Turkish. They sure don’t want any of them to go Islamic, and they sure as hell don’t want any of them to go democratic. That’s probably the worst. Russia will fight to make sure the peripheral republics go nowhere. It’s as simple as that.”
“It doesn’t make any sense.”
“It makes perfect sense — just not to you and me.” Tobias burped happily, glancing at a large wall clock on one wall. A sign on the clock had a 715th Tactical Squadron patch, the words Drop Dead, and an arrow pointing at the 7 on the clock, indicating the twelve-hour alcohol limit for those flying the next morning. “We still got fifteen minutes,” Tobias said. He turned to Furness. “Buy you a beer, boss? No, wait, you’re into red wine, right?”
“Sure, Larry,” Furness replied. “Barkeep, last round for the Black Knights over here.” They searched for a waitress, but none were in sight. “Yo, anybody awake over there?” She spotted a blond guy, good-looking, carrying two large soda and carbonated gas tanks from behind the bar to the back room. “Hey, guy, how about taking our order?”
“I’m not a waiter.”
“You can remember a few drinks, can’t you? C’mon, take a chance.” The man put the tanks down next to the bar, wiped his hands on his apron, then hesitantly walked over. He was tall and a little weathered, but in good shape, with piercing green eyes. Furness noticed his GI haircut right away — obviously military, a Reservist most likely, a crew chief or clerk, having to pull down a night job to help make ends meet. She knew the tune to that song, all right. “Thatta boy, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“I’ll get your waitress,” he said.
“Forget the waitress, guy, you got the job,” Furness said. “Got a pencil?”
The man rolled his eyes, losing patience, but he shrugged his shoulders, sighed, and replied, “I can remember.”
“You can, huh? Very impressive.” Furness gave a sly smile to the rest of the crewdogs seated at the table — they had a little game they liked to play on the new waitpersons at Afterburners. After a little nod to make sure everyone was ready, she said, “Okayyy … make mine a 1989 Eagle Falls cabby estate.”
Just then, Furness and the other five people at the table got up and, in a mad scramble, changed seats with someone else. The barman couldn’t believe what he was watching — it was a mini-Chinese fire drill at the table.
When they were finally seated again, someone else blurted out, “Stoli up with a twist,” and they changed seats again.
“Glenfiddish neat with a Fosters chaser …” Another seat change.
“Crazy Billy, no lime, tall …” They weren’t sitting down this time, only changing seats every time another drink order was fired off.
“Bowmore and water, Islay pre-1980 …”
“Dos Equis with a lime …”
The melee had attracted a lot of attention by this time. The barman waited patiently until they were seated again. Furness asked with a smile, “Okay, sport, you got all that? Or do you want to go get that pencil now?”
Without batting an eye, the barman pointed to her and recited, “Eagle Falls cabernet sauvignon, 1989 estate.” To the next person, he said, “Crazy Billy, no lime, in a tall glass. You want salt?”
“N-no …”
“Fine. Bowmore scotch and water …” He recited them all, perfectly, without a hitch. “Separate checks or all together? You want popcorn, too, lady?” Furness and the others were too shocked to respond, so the man just gave them a smug grin and stepped away. The onlookers applauded, and even a few of the stunned crewdogs at the table had to clap for him.
“He’s pretty amazing,” someone offered.
“He looks GI,” Furness decided. “Anybody know him?” No one did. “Whoever he is, I’d love to have him on my crew.”
“Or would you just love to have him, Becky?” someone teased.
Furness gave a sly grin, which made the others at the table give her a knowing “Ahhhh …” But she added, “Nah, I don’t know where’s he’s been. He could have the whole viral history of Plattsburgh State College’s coeds implanted on his snake for all I know. Anyway, he’s got more brains than Fogman could ever hope for.”
Just then, the man returned … with a tray of six tall beers. “Six Buds, six bucks,” he said.
Tobias started chuckling, but Kelly blurted, “What is this? This isn’t what we ordered.”
Furness was surprised at first, then pissed. “Take this back and bring us what we ordered.”
“You’ll pay me six bucks and drink your beers or you can all get on your fucking knees and kiss my ass,” the man snapped, glaring at each and every one of them, including Furness. “I told you I wasn’t your waiter, but I played your shitty little game, and now you got your drinks. You can pay up, shut up, drink up, and get back to the base, or we can take it outside to the alley and I’ll make you wish you never came here tonight. What’s it going to be, children?”
The group was too stunned to reply. Furness considered going to the manager, but Tobias wisely reached into his pocket, pulled out a ten, and gave it to him. The man withdrew his wallet to make change, but Tobias waved it off.
“Have a nice evening,” Lieutenant Colonel Daren Mace said, then walked away, picked up his tanks, and carried them into the back room. They didn’t notice the cellular telephone stuck in his back pocket, the one that all military personnel knew as belonging to a Wing staff officer.
“Whew,” Furness said finally, after a long, stunned pause. “I …
I think I’d like to get to know that guy better.” Everyone at the table knew they had just been told off by one of the best.
“I’m married with two kids,” Frank Kelly said, “and I’d like to get to know him better.”
Everyone laughed.