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“Everyone decent?” Strand Braxton asks, grinning. He’s in an Air Corps uniform: khaki slacks and a sheep’s-wool-trimmed leather jacket that looks very dashing and is completely wrong for the heat.
Rio at that moment is carefully cleaning and oiling her M1. The pieces are laid out on her cot atop a spread-out towel. She has removed the strap. She has pulled the trigger guard forward and pulled the trigger assembly all the way out. She has separated the stock and has even disassembled the gas cylinder, laying the parts out in a neat, familiar pattern.
With clean rags, brushes, and solvent she has cleaned each and every part. She is now busy using a second clean rag to cover all moving parts with a thin coat of oil.
Her hands are greasy, and she smells of sewing machine oil and kerosene. She is dressed in dungaree trousers and a sweat-stained T-shirt. The army has spent approximately zero time considering the fact that army bras—a device with as many straps and as little sex appeal as a parachute—is only indifferently covered by the T-shirt.
The fact that she is in a shocking state of undress flashes through Rio’s mind, but that does not stop her from yelling, “Strand!”
She sets the traveler (a small, curiously shaped metal piece) down, glances furtively around to see if Jack is there. Then she runs to Strand, throwing her arms around him.
They kiss, but discreetly, a kiss that is more passionate than brother-sister, but more self-conscious than would be the case if Geer, Stick, and Cat were not watching with undisguised interest.
“Huh,” Geer says. “So Richlin is still a girl. I’ll be damned.”
“Strand, this is Stick, the one with the clean new corporal’s stripes, that’s Preeling there, and the asshole is Geer.”
The word asshole is out of Rio’s mouth before she can think it through. She sees Strand wince, then cover it up. Geer doesn’t even pretend to be offended.
“Sorry,” Rio says, genuinely embarrassed. “My language has gone to . . . I mean, well, you know . . .”
“It’s good to meet you all,” Strand says. Then he looks more closely at Rio. “Is that a bruise?”
“What, this?” Rio waves it off. “Just, um . . . I accidentally ran into a pole last week.” She avoids eye contact with her squad members, all of whom maintain what might be called a patently false silence, including Cat, who ostentatiously makes a turning key motion over her mouth.
Just then Jenou enters, spots Strand, and gives him a peck on the cheek. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. What are you doing, Lieutenant Braxton, slumming with lowly enlisted types? Did you remember to salute him, Rio?”
“She gave me a different kind of salute, and I liked it a whole lot better,” Strand says.
“What are you doing here?” Rio asks. She’s holding him by the biceps, keeping him close, enjoying the feel of him. He’s a solid reminder of a different life, and a different Rio. And she quite likes the feel of his lean muscles.
“I volunteered to fly a bird colonel over here. He and his staff were in some big hurry, and we’re stood down for a couple days. So I gassed up my plane, grabbed my copilot and flight engineer, and here I am, at least unt
il tomorrow morning. I don’t suppose you can wrangle a twenty-four-hour pass?”
Jenou laughs, and Rio shoots her a warning look, but of course Jenou ignores that and says, “Well, we had some passes last week, and you see the results.” She aims an accusing finger at Rio’s bruise. Mock-serious she says, “I’m afraid Rio can’t handle her drink.”
“Knock it off, Jen,” Rio says, not quite playfully.
“Why, Rio told me she ran into a pole,” Strand says with a wink. “And I am honor-bound to believe her.”
“You should have been there when that big old Texan boy, the one with the bandaged ear, came after her, thinking she was easy prey, and she pulls out that big knife of hers—”
“Jen!”
“Knife?”
“It’s a keepsake,” Rio says quickly. “You know, a souvenir. I think it’s something the A-rabs carry just for show.”
“‘I will stick this in your guts and push it till the point comes out of your mouth.’ That’s what you said, wasn’t it, Rio?”
Jenou bats her eyes at Rio, who is not interested in being teased, not right then, not when she’s hoping Strand doesn’t notice that she stinks of solvent and oil, not to mention just stinking from the lack of a shower after a sweaty morning spent unloading a truck.
“Let’s get out of here,” Rio says. “Let me just reassemble my rifle.”
She sits back down and looks at the pieces laid out. It’s a complex job, but one she can do blindfolded by now. But having Strand watch with a show of interest makes her self-conscious. Her best time is four minutes and six seconds. If she does it that fast won’t she look like . . . well, like a soldier? But if she slows down the others will spot it immediately and the reaction will not be kind.
“Who’s got a watch with a second hand?” Cat asks, batting her eyes at Rio, obviously perfectly aware of Rio’s dilemma. And that settles it. Rio can only do her best.
