“Here,” Psycho said as she pulled her coat up and wrapped it around herself and Olive. “Guys see two women huddling under a coat in front of a Middle Eastern nightspot, and they don’t give it a second thought.”
Once the men disappeared inside, they entered and Olive took the lead, moving fast to another hiding spot near the stage, not making eye contact with any of the Americans there. A favorite watering hole for Brit expats and American sailors on liberty, the Highlander boasted wood paneling, velvet seating, Fosters beer and flashing lights. A disco ball hung over the stage. A Filipino ensemble, three young men with guitars and a keyboard accompanied by two women singing and swaying in tube tops, performed a remarkably accurate “Dancing Queen” on the cramped stage.
Dozens of Happy Valley aviators, identified by their clean-cut appearance and American denim, dominated the tables and dance floor. Most of them nursed a Fosters bottle. None, however, were dressed as glamorously as Olive was. If she did not stay out of sight, she would be noticed before she wanted to be, but not as Olive. No one would think that the Amazon with wild, dark locks in the black minidress was Lieutenant “Olive” Teel from VFA-64.
Still hiding near the stage, Olive and Psycho surveyed the crowd. “Tally-ho on Crusher, left eleven,” Psycho said. “Good, there’s slut-bitch working a gaggle of Rickshaws over there.”
Olive then spotted a group of Ravens: Sponge Bob, Little Nicky, Blade and Crusher were talking with some marines. Suddenly, a group of three tall young women entered, flowing blonde hair, sleek outfits… they were clearly not from the ship. The air wing guys locked on immediately. This was big game.
“Oh, oh. Brit flight attendants. Or Aussies,” Olive surmised. Turning to Psycho she briefed her wingman.” Okay, wing-girl. Get over to Crusher and keep his attention away from those flying baristas while I get on stage. After I’m done, meet me back here. We will then bolt to a pub I know downtown, one with leather, scotch, and Brit guys.”
“Why? This is…”
“Never leave your wingman, girlie. Besides, I want to leave him wanting more, and I’m not going to be pawed and ogled by the rest of these assholes all night. Trust me on this one.”
“Okay, fine, I’ve got your 6 o’clock,” Psycho said. She inspected Olive. “Hey, you look incredible and your legs go on forever!”
“Let’s hope he’s a leg guy,” Olive deadpanned as she nervously assessed the performers on stage.
“They all will be after they see you.” Touching Olive’s arm, Psycho added, “Have fun with this, Okay?”
“Okay, now go.” As Olive shooed Psycho away, she took a moment to get into full combat mode. She had planned this “coming out” for months: the outfit, the song, the Highlander, the right moment on the stage. Now, even though she tottered a bit on her fresh-out-of-the-box stilettos, she was ready. And despite the pounding adrenalin, she felt a calm confidence spread through her.
She did look good. If only Camille could see this… The thought of her mother reminded Olive of Camille’s recital stage coaching tips: One foot in front of the other, suck in your tummy, shoulders back, chin up. Never forgetting she was an officer 24/7/365, Olive checked her outfit again and was satisfied it did not cross the line of too much.
After speaking to a stagehand, Olive went back to observing the crowd. Three JOs from the Spartans took the stage to perform a Black Eyed Peas favorite. By playing with her hair and laughing at whatever he said, Psycho had successfully cornered Crusher. The flight attendants were completely surrounded by air wing JOs and were not a factor. Perfect.
After a momentary lull, the DJ’s Filipino accent boomed over the speakers. “An’ now, ladies and gem’men, please welcome, Miss Kristin!”
Smile! Olive thought again of her mother as she took the first step.
Olive walked up and tried to gauge the hushed crowd but could not with the blinding and hot spotlight on her, hearing the whispers as the air wing tried to figure out who this creature was. Unfazed, she grabbed the microphone.
CHAPTER 32
The following day Wilson and the others who had remained behind for duty departed the ship and headed to the rented squadron hotel room, the admin, which the first wave of Raven officers had set up the day before. Wilson enjoyed Dubai, but even with this first Gulf port call of the deployment, he’d been there and done that. Dubai would be here for several more nights before they got underway again, and, no doubt, for several more visits this cruise.
Once off the bus, he and Dutch took a cab to the hotel, admired two Asian women employees in fashionable business suits in the lobby, took an elevator to the 15th floor and found their way to the admin. This room, which they had each chipped in for during the port visit, served as a base from which the officers could relax, explore Dubai and, in many cases, spend the night after an evening on the town. When they entered the room, a familiar sight, no matter where the Ravens set up shop, met their eyes.
Sleeping bodies were sprawled across couches and chairs. Some still wore clothes from the night before; one, with his head back and mouth agape, slept on a chair wearing nothing but boxers; and yet another had rolled up in a ball under the desk and covered himself with a sheet stripped from the bed. At first, Wilson couldn’t place the sheet-covered body but soon identified him as Blade.
Empty Fosters beer cans littered the room. Pieces of open luggage and other detritus from the previous night’s activity were strewn about or heaped up on the floor. Room service items cluttered every furniture surface. The curtain to the sliding glass door was open, and sunlight streamed into all corners of the room except into the brains of the “dead bodies” sleeping it off. The squadron drinking flag with the Raven emblem was still flying in proud defiance above them, despite being held aloft by only two of three rings.
Wilson and Dutch walked into the adjoining bedroom. Wilson identified five bodies in the darkened room, two each on the double beds and one on the floor under a blanket. Everything smelled of beer. One of Wilson’s sleeping squadronmates stirred to see who was there. It was Sponge Bob. “Hi, OPSO,” he croaked.
Dutch was quick to roll in on his hungover LSO trainee. “Sponge, did we get a little large last night?”
“Yeeesssss…” he groaned.
“And your impression of Dubai?”
“Needs more water,” Sponge said, rolling over and hoping Dutch would go away.
“No, you need more water. Did you take your aspirin?”
“Noooo.”
“Man, I told you to take a preemptive aspirin and hydrate. You never listen.”
“Yes, Dad,” came the muffled reply from Sponge, face down in his pillow.
One of the “dead bodies” spoke up from the other bed. “Dutch, shut the fuck up or leave, or both.” It was Stretch.
“Paddles, is that you?” Dutch replied, feigning hurt. “I’m a brother, know the secret handshake, two mike clicks on the ball and all that.” Dutch relished any attention, and, despite his low tone, his voice boomed throughout the suite.
“But today you’re a dick,” Stretch answered.
Sponge added, “Today he’s a dick?”