Red Sky Dawn
Copyright© 2026 by Pete Fox
Chapter 1
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Guadalcanal. In a muddy slit trench, Airman Kathy Wilkins watched delta-winged drones falling from the blood-red sky, as they dove with their explosive payloads, while cruise missiles streaked overhead. The ground shook with each hit. She held the other airman in her arms; both were hurt. They kissed. Wilkins was supposed to be going home today. Was this war? A Stinger missile streaked into the air. Two Chapter short story. Illustrated.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Fiction War Big Breasts Illustrated
Forty-Eight Hours Earlier
December 6th – Det 1 Barracks Pods
Kathy fisted her friend’s dark hair as the intense tingling feelings built on her sensitive clit. “Oh, oh,” Kathy gasped. Mai’s familiar tongue on target, lips hovering over her once neatly trimmed pubes. Like a lightning bolt, white heat, the first orgasm hit, and she bit her lower lip, her free left hand pinching her nipples, pain, arousal, her hips rising to meet Mai’s naughty mouth, wanting more.
Senior Airman (E-4) Mai Smith lifted her beautiful face, a mix of her mom’s Thai heritage and her dad’s Nordic roots, a lovely combination to Kathy’s eyes. We smiled, and I let go of the fistful of brown hair I held as the alarm on my phone went off, the sounds of Fortunate Son, her wakeup song. Fuck, she lost it, her orgasm.
“Off,” Kathy said, the song dying.
The habitat pod, basically a big PVC pipe with a floor, environmental controls – heavy-duty a/c unit, and a basic tech setup, had space for four beds, storage, and an ensuite toilet/sink. Through the one tinted 2’x 4’ plexiglass window on the east end of the pod, Kathy could see the orange glow of sunrise peeking out over Iron Bottom Sound. No one else shared their pod; there being space for a surge in personnel, they had been in luck.
Kathy saw the time 0515. She had to start her shift at 0630 in the base meteorology office.
Mai, her roommate, lay back. “Let’s shower, then go to chow,” she said.
Yes, communal showers were good for that, showering together. Mai was a tech (AFSC 1C8X3) on the over the horizon radar thing that was tucked into the jungle around the airfield. Airman First Class (E-3) Kathy Wilkins enlisted after a semester of college to be a meteorologist (AFSC 1W0X1) and was finishing her 90-day TDY to Guadalcanal in a matter of days. Her first overseas deployment.
Kathy and Mai grabbed their microfiber towels and toiletry bags and slid open the door to the passageway that ran the length of 6 pods to the shower unit.
As Kathy and Mai, naked, padded down the industrial carpet in their flip-flops, a pod door slid open. “Hey, you two want company?” a male voice asked. Nick, one of the Navy tech guys, had stuck his head out the door with a sleepy grin on his face.
“You couldn’t handle us, Nick,” Mai said, pausing just long enough to show him her tits, which were a nice handful. After nearly three months with the same people in the tropical heat, working in close quarters for long hours, few bothered with fake modesty in the Generation Z military.
In the showers, they tossed their toiletries on the sink, a guy singing in one of the four shower stalls, the privacy curtain only partially drawn as he badly sang some old country music song. Kathy was a little miffed, they barely got a glance from Pete, her Tech Sergeant (E-6), as they stood naked getting ready to shower.
“Hey, Wilkins, no screwing off. I know you’re a short timer, a couple of days, and a wakeup. We got a tasker for an updated weather forecast from PACAF AOC, marked priority. Time sensitive,” he said, pulling back the curtain, drying his back, as his dark eyes traveled up and down their bodies, no smart comment, nothing he hadn’t seen before.
TSgt Everson wasn’t tall, maybe 5’8”, but he had a nice long cock, tripod some called him, to his face. “Got it. We’ll make it quick,” Kathy said, smirking as she watched him towel dry.
Mai got in his face, she didn’t work for him, “I’ll wash her back, she’ll be there, Pete, don’t get your panties in a bunch. It’s all quiet on the radar side, no (Chinese) PLA in sight, as of last night,” Mai said, turning on the water.
Kathy heard a snap and felt a sting on her white ass. “Ouch!” she said as her boss threatened to flick his wet towel at her ass again. He’d been a good, quick fuck 80 days ago, before she got with Mai. They still flirted; she hoped to get selected early below-the-zone for her E-4 promotion next year, so she needed a good performance eval. Not that she wasn’t great at her job.
Under the warm water, Mai ran soap over Kathy’s breasts and ass, using a luffa and her hands. Kathy stuck her face under the spray; her blonde hair would stay damp for most of the morning. She took the luff and soft soap, a hand diving between Mai’s thighs.
Everson pulled back their shower curtain, “Take your replacement with you. I sent Woods to wait in the chow hall. Make it quick,” Pete said, his towel draped around his shoulders, “And grab me a breakfast burrito,” he said as he slid the shower pod door closed.
What was the hurry? Nothing had happened; the Chinese had cooled things recently because of the upcoming holidays. When the US Coast Guard HC-130J returned in a couple of days, Kathy was heading to Pearl Harbor, via Guam, where she’d meet her parents who were flying out from North Carolina to visit her. Her dad, a Special Forces Warrant Officer in the National Guard, had said he was jealous that the Air Force sent her to such a historic place. He’d bought her eBooks like Guadalcanal Diary, Neptune’s Inferno, The Cactus Air Force, and an old classic novel, Helmet for My Pillow. She’d read parts of each, usually while under a bug net on the beach.
At her bunk, Mai gave her space as she dressed. She wore bikini bottoms under her improved hot weather OCP (Operational Camouflage Pattern) trousers, not going “Commando – no underwear” like the men. Her “dog tags”, two metal disks on a chain, dangled between her tits. Like most of the women who spent any time here, she’d discarded her bra and pulled a green t-shirt made of sweat-wicking material over her head, covering her boobs, full, round mounds that caught a man’s eye but not over the top, before buttoning her muted green and brown uniform blouse. Jungle boots zipped on, daypack, floppy jungle hat, and lastly strapping on her lady size G-Shock watch to her left wrist, a gift from her dad. Mai took her time dressing, watching Kathy put her uniform on, they’d miss each other.
Outside, the jungle was alive with noise, all those gosh-damn bugs and critters that made being outside without good bug juice miserable. The blood red sun was rising out of the mist to the east over the Sound. Kathy paused to watch, Mai suddenly wrapping her arms around her waist in the doorway as she read the sky, like any half-decent meteorologist. Rain and heat, she knew that much. Such a pretty, red dawn, they kissed, then went to work.
The agent watched for two months, mapping the daily life, layout, and weak points of the small American military detachment’s perimeter, with its long runway, and sophisticated over-the-horizon radar hidden under nets satellites couldn’t see through. She took hikes in the jungle on the north coast near Koli Point with a trusted local guide, photographing fauna, animals, and old historical sites, along with pictures of the base from all angles. She encouraged the Melanesian family of one of her best Mandarin language students to set up a small café near the entry gate. On the café roof, she installed a small, camouflaged HD camera, connected to her tablet by Bluetooth. She recorded and watched until she was told to execute the plan by her superiors in Beijing.
For a year after university, she was trained by the Ministry of State Security (MSS) in the art of espionage - spying. She had studied English and economics at Stanford University in California for four years. When she graduated, instead of pursuing a master’s degree, she was told to go home; her student visa had been cancelled. Fang had learned enough.
Guadalcanal was hot, wet, smelled of rot, full of dangerous creatures, and ugly, ignorant people. Working for the Chinese cultural ministry was good cover for her mission. The Solomon Islands government was playing all sides against each other. She sipped her tea and waited for the encrypted message from MSS.
“Fang, we’re here,” a child’s voice said in English. She smiled and went outside; she liked teaching the local kids badminton. It was a very Chinese sport.
Qinzheng Hall, Zhongnanhai, PRC – December 2028
The seven members of the Politburo Standing Committee, six men and one woman in dark wool suits, the CCP’s most powerful body, sat around the long, polished oak table. Tablets and water glasses stood before them; eyes fixed on maps and intelligence slides projected on the floor-to-ceiling screen at the west end of the hall.
General Zhang Zeng, the only man in uniform, wore the dark olive-green dress tunic of a General, three gold stars of his rank gleaming on his shoulder boards. As Vice Chairman of the Central Military Commission, he outlined the limited reunification operation they had gathered to approve. Rapid amphibious landings on Taiwan Island’s west coast, seizure of Taipei within fourteen days, and full maritime-air blockade to force the capitulation of the separatist authorities, returning the treasured province to the Motherland. The ongoing three-month partial blockade would transition seamlessly into total isolation, while PLA forces surge through the First Island Chain defenses in the Philippine Sea with surface action groups and long-range fighters to suppress interference from Japan and the Philippines.
“The United States Navy is currently overextended,” General Zhang continued. “Much of their fleet is in maintenance or refit; new construction, Columbia-class submarines, destroyers, and the cancellation of Constellation-class frigates in 2025 mean the American fleet will not reach peak operational capability until 2029 or later. This is our window. Electronic jamming has been ongoing at low levels to mask our preparations; we will ramp it up sharply on satellite and GPS bands during the assault. They will not notice the increase until it is too late to respond effectively.”
He nodded toward the serious-looking man with slicked-back hair, wearing an impeccably tailored Italian black suit and red silk tie. Chairman Li Weiqiang, General Secretary of the Party and President of the People’s Republic, as well as Chairman of the Central Military Commission.
Chairman Li spoke, voice calm but resolute. “I concur. The incoming American president has openly pledged to recognize Taiwan Island as a sovereign nation, a grave and unacceptable threat. We cannot permit further delay. Our forces are at peak readiness. Capturing the semiconductor industry on Taiwan Island intact will secure irreversible leverage while the United States remains years from meaningful onshoring. If we wait, the balance shifts against us.”
He turned to the committee secretary. She nodded.
“All in favor?” she said, starting the vote. A pair of stenographers quietly recorded the meeting.
Six hands rose in steady succession. Chairman Li raised his last.
“Proceed,” he said, pushing back from the table. “Taiwan Island returns to China.”
General Zhang allowed himself a thin smile. “Operation Thunderbolt Reunification commences December 8, Comrade Chairman. December 7 across the dateline in America. They will not see us coming.”
Morning - Det 1 Weather Flight
D-2
It was only 0715, and her t-shirt was wet with sweat as she and Woods prepared to launch the weather balloon.
“Wilkins, status on getting the balloon up?” the Motorola portable radio clipped to her belt chirped with TSgt Everson’s voice.
Kathy looked up from the rugged tactical laptop that sat on the folding table in the weak shade provided by the camouflage netting that covered the GP Medium tent that was the Weather Flight’s office on the edge of the runway. Overnight satellite weather feeds throughout the western Pacific had gone dark—hacked or jammed; it had happened before, usually coming back online after a few hours.
“Rinna, how long?” she said to the newbie who wore her uniform top, sleeves down. “You might want to take your blouse off before you pass out,” she said, watching the redheaded Airman attach the radiosonde sensor package to the gray balloon. The fully inflated balloon was about 5 feet in diameter, the size of an inflatable snowman her other dad, Nathan, put in the front yard at Christmas growing up in North Carolina.
“Uh, just double-checking the coaxial,” Rinna said, kneeling on the dirt.
Kathy confirmed the sensor package was online, data feeding to the laptop screen, ready. She unclipped the radio. “Launching in 5 mikes,” she said, watching Woods open the valve on the helium tank to complete the inflation of the balloon that would shortly sail into the heavens—not really, but high enough, 32 to 35 kilometers in the tropics, until it burst.
Airman Woods and Kathy watched the gray balloon begin its ascent. Kathy reassured herself that the data being sent back by radio was being received: pressure at altitudes, temperature, relative humidity, wind speed and direction, dew point, geopotential height, and the balloon’s GPS position updating every 1–2 seconds. Combined with the flight’s AN/TMQ-53 Tactical Meteorological Observing System (TMQ-53), they’d have what they needed for their small team to create a weather report and forecast.
Rinna unbuttoned her blouse while watching the balloon disappear in the distance. She wore a bra, probably a heavy underwire one, based on the generous round mounds under her shirt, Kathy observed as she drank a cold blueberry Gatorade from an ice chest.
The data was updating on the screen. “Keep wearing that bra, and you’ll have a rash in a couple of days,” Kathy said, trying to help the newbie. “Where are you from?” she asked, handing Rinna a cherry Gatorade. Hydrate or die, her dad often said when she was growing up.
Woods took the drink after draping her blouse over the back of a camp chair. Her tight green t-shirt was dark from sweat front and back, like Kathy’s.
“Idaho. Sandpoint, up north close to Canada,” she said. “I’m not used to this heat.”
“Northern Idaho, yeah, you’re a cold-blooded girl. No one gets used to the heat here,” Kathy said. From the ice chest, she took two cold, wet bandanas, handing one to Rinna, then rubbed the back of her neck, the cold feeling a momentary relief as she tied the camouflage material around her neck.
Rinna watched the jungle, drinking Gatorade, as they tracked people moving about the airfield, logistics, airfield ops, and a security forces big, boxy Light Tactical Vehicle (JLTV) patrolling. A helicopter’s blades whopping in the distance. “Okay, can we go in the tent?” Rinna said, standing.
They stepped up into the cool, dark interior of the GP Medium tent, which was on a cinder block and a wooden frame built by Navy Seabees with metal mesh decking for a floor. It rained a lot here; everything that could be elevated off the ground was.
Rinna turned her back to Kathy, who folded her arms, she’d learn. There was no privacy here, and everyone knew your business. She pulled her wet shirt over her head, revealing a skinny, pale back and a narrow waist, the heavy green band of her sports bra biting into her skin.
“Can I help?” Kathy said as the younger girl stood there motionless. They didn’t have much privacy in basic training either.
Rinna nodded her head; she had a short, bobbed haircut, good for this weather. Kathy unhooked the soaking wet bra and took it from her. Damn, 32DD the tag said, larger than her own 32D bras now in the bottom of her footlocker. She turned to face Kathy, hands on her tits, then let them drop. Wow, big, wide pink nipples, her round mounds barely sagged, firm, eighteen, and tight.
“The guys are going to love you. You brought a swimsuit, I hope,” she said, thinking of afternoons spent on the beach, snorkeling, swimming, and, when they could, diving. She’d earned her open water PADI certificate while here.
“Yes, I did. It was on the packing list,” Woods said, blushing, or was it the heat, as she pulled the wet shirt over her head, then tied the wet bandana around her neck, copying Kathy.
“Wilkins, how’s the data look? The network is down. I need you two to bring me the laptop when finished,” Everson said over the radio, which sat on the table.
“Good. I’ll take you to my spot on the beach where we can go topless,” she said, testing the new girl.
“Uh, okay,” Rinna said as they sat back in the camp chairs. The balloon would be up for an hour and a half to two, depending.
Kathy took a small bottle out of her cargo pocket, “DEET, the good stuff to keep the mosquitoes off, you don’t want malaria or dengue,” she said, spraying her own arms, then neck, anything exposed. “And you’re pale, so get some sunblock from Supply,” she handed the spray bottle to Rinna. Kathy religiously took the malaria pill Tafenoquine once a week as ordered. Half a dozen miserably sick people had been medevacked out with tropical diseases since she’d been here.
Shit, TSgt Everson, she grabbed the radio and keyed talk, “We copy, the data is good. Any idea what the problem is with the satellite feed?” she asked, it had already been longer than the last interruption.
On her phone, she selected a news podcast she’d downloaded for them to listen to, Bongino, one of her dad’s favorites. They watched the blue-gray Air Force HH-60 Pave Hawk helicopter float down the runway, then land by a small warehouse on the north side.
“Wilkins, no update on the satellite feed on this end. We work with what we have, Charlie Mike,” he added, Continue the Mission, Charlie Mike.
Two nights and a wakeup. What a backwater shithole, she’d volunteered for. The head of the detachment, Lieutenant Colonel (0-5) Hayes, said they were part of the third line of defense, here on Guadalcanal, just in case, watching with the radar. In case of what? That would mean the first two lines had to break or fall if they were needed. Right?
Canberra, Australia – US Embassy Chancery
Chief of Station Monica Wilkins watched the peaceful scene below in the Canberra suburb of Yarralumla. The leafy front yards and old-school architecture hark back to a different era. The rowboaters on Lake Burley Griffin, people casually strolling on the avenues. The US Embassy is located near Parliament House, the neighborhood home to dozens of diplomatic missions, including the Chinese Embassy, which she could see in the distance.
She sipped her third coffee of the morning, ironically from a fine China cup, glancing at the time on her Rolex—just past noon on Dec 6th, the watch a gift from her husband on their tenth wedding anniversary. Monica waited as Chargé d’Affaires Samuel N. Rowe, a career diplomat with the cuffs of his white dress shirt rolled up, read the eyes-only cable marked Top Secret. The codeword stamped on the document meant it was from a special access program.
From the HUMINT side, the situation in China was not good. Over the last two weeks, according to her counterpart in Beijing, multiple key agents in mainland China had failed to respond or missed scheduled communication windows. Personal meetings with assets are rare these days, especially those with access to the highest levels of government and military. The risk of exposure wasn’t worth it to the source or the case officer.
After nearly thirty years with the Agency, her gut was screaming that something bad—worse than the PRC blockade of Taiwan—was coming. The intelligence community had been tracking near-9/11 levels of chatter for months since the blockade began, and then it suddenly dropped off. Satellite imagery told a story of troop and ship movements, but nothing out of the ordinary with the blockade in place. Now the jamming and electronic warfare has continued unabated for the last twelve hours—unlike the past three months, when it lasted only a few hours at a time. They’d lost some satellite coverage in the western Pacific and around Taiwan. Add in the comms loss with our highest-placed assets going dark right when we needed them most, plus all the other pieces of information—it told her to be wary. Her superiors at Langley were distracted; the National Security Council was in transition, not wanting to make matters worse by confronting the Chinese right now, not believing that China would invade Taiwan. They said nothing, focused on a smooth handover. China was saying all the right words, soothing fears.
“Monica, this is troubling,” Sam said, sipping coffee. “Unfortunately, with the Secretary of State having resigned and our Ambassador on home leave and expected to tender her resignation soon, it’s tough to get anyone’s attention right now.”
She looked at the clear blue sky, picturing the western Pacific. Her son Brian’s ship, the USS John Paul Jones, was out there. His first cruise after graduating from Annapolis. She worried just like any other mom who had a child in uniform. Except she knew what most didn’t, it would not take much for the situation to get dramatically worse. If it did, the resulting conflict would be on par with or worse than the war fought between Ukraine and Russia that claimed over a million casualties.
The USS John Paul Jones was the oldest destroyer in the fleet at 35 years. The Navy, with only 284 ships, was stretched thin by deployments and maintenance demands. Add in ageing ships, the Arctic arms race, the Iranian civil war, and the ongoing crisis around Taiwan, to name a few of the ship-heavy demands, gave her concern, the Navy couldn’t be everywhere.
Her brother Bob and his daughter Kristy were scheduled to visit Australia after visiting their daughter in Hawaii.
“I know, Sam. You were in the Marines before State,” she said. “I just want you to know we might have to move fast if the Chinese kick things off over Taiwan.”
“Monica, thank you for bringing me this,” Sam said, pushing back from his chair and handing her back the report.
Was it her imagination, or did the blue sky suddenly look darker? A glance at her watch showed that it was lunchtime. After lunch, she would write a cable stating her concerns to Langley, again.
“Sam, you feel like Lamshed’s? I could use a stiff drink with my salad,” she said, naming an upscale restaurant near the Embassy.
“Good idea. Let’s walk,” Sam said, grabbing his suit coat.
The blue sky was indeed darkening to the north of them.
Late morning - Det 1 Weather Flight
D-2
Wearing their uniform blouses again, Wilkins and Woods made their way through the cramped containerized space that was the Detachment 1 operations hub. A series of six air portable metal containers connected in a row end to end; from the sky, it looked like a poorly camouflaged train located at the midpoint of the runway on the south side.
Portable tables, folding ergonomic chairs, laptops, printers, and HD monitors hung from the ceiling and walls, as cool air was pumped in via portable air-conditioning units. Despite the metal walls and attempts at insulation, the loud hum of diesel generators and a/c units provided a steady beat to the tense conversations taking place within.
The commander of Det 1, Lt Col Hayes, was having a tense, loud discussion with First Sergeant (E-8) Lopez at the far end, the boss was not happy.
Kathy nodded at Nick, a Petty Officer 3rd Class (E-4) with the Navy component who worked with underwater ROVs out in Iron Bottom Sound. After Mai, she considered Nick her best friend out here, sharing a love of old Manga books and exploring the rugged jungle coastline in their downtime.
She introduced Nick to Rinna. Instead of a smart ass comment, he looked worried.
“See you at the beach this afternoon?” he asked. “Got something to show you,” he said, giving her a serious look.
“Yes, we are, I’m showing Rinna our spot,” she said, and they kept going until they found TSgt Everson at the Weather Flight desk staring at a blank weather report form on a laptop. An empty coffee mug, neglected at his elbows.
Above Everson’s head, a large HD monitor showed their current forecasts for the region, while the box in the lower right of the screen that normally showed the satellite feed was blank.
Kathy set the Toughbook on the desk, sliding it into the workstation.
“We got everything, the balloon popped at 31km,” she said, before unbuttoning her damp blouse and draping it over a chair. Rinna followed Kathy’s lead, unbuttoning her blouse but holding onto it.
“Good work. The NOAA and other commercial weather satellites covering the western Pacific are down, along with other military surveillance platforms we routinely use. Plus, our Enterprise email is down, along with our local network. Our IT guys say it’s a system-wide problem, but SIPRNet, our classified email, is still working, for now,” Everson said, frustration in his voice.
Woods stood behind Kathy, “Satellite phone working?” she asked.
Everson glanced up. “Yes, get comfortable, Woods, you’ll work with me on the report,” he said.
Rinna looked at Kathy. Everson was sweating in his t-shirt despite the cool air blowing on them, propelled by strategically placed fans.
Kathy felt her nipples harden as the cool air hit her chest. She knew what people were seeing, little pea-sized bumps on her chest, and didn’t care. She watched the new Airman’s face.
Everson spun his chair and gave Kat a knowing look as he sized up Rinna’s generous tits under her damp shirt, her nipples growing hard, big diamond points imprinting the cotton-polyester blend. He grinned, then got professional again.
“Go check with your buddy Smith, see what she knows about our communication issues, then grab lunch. We’ll go eat when you get back,” he ordered.
Rinna was blushing as she sat down next to Tripod.
Welcome to Det 1 Guadalcanal, Rinna, she laughed to herself as she headed to the tech shop out by the radar control station, closer to the jungle.
Fang, the MSS Agent, sat at her bungalow’s small kitchen table using her smartphone to program the two devices in front of her. Each was the size of two cigarette packs stacked; they were jet black with a magnetic base and an extendable Bluetooth antenna. Each contained ~40 grams of Semtex-H—enough high explosive to maim or kill her if mishandled.
Earlier, she had received an end-to-end encrypted message. The innocuous text from “Uncle” used prearranged code phrases telling her to prepare to execute her mission within the next 24 hours. She was instructed to wait for a final go order.
She’d felt her pulse quicken, thoughts and plans racing around inside her head. She was ready; she knew what she was supposed to do and how. Fang had a good plan. When the blockade of Taiwan Island started, she’d been undercover at a university in Hong Kong observing dissident students. In response, the Americans began deploying small detachments to islands in the central Pacific. Fang was selected to watch the Americans on Guadalcanal and act if called to do so.
Fang felt ready, honored, to do her part in bringing Taiwan back to China and strike back at the arrogant Americans.
The Beach – Det 1
It was ironic in a way that the bug huts they lay under on the small beach were made in China. A simple frame and lightweight mesh netting to keep the mosquitoes and other flying critters out, but allow the ocean breeze to pass through, cooling their bodies.
Kathy lay on a towel on top of a rattan beach mat that covered the white sandy beach their bug hut was on. Their spot is a small strip of sand below the north shore of Koli Point. Iron Bottom Sounds blue green waters in front of them, dozens of sunken ships from the fighting here in 1942 and ‘43, along with planes and other debris of war, littered the bottom of ‘the slot’ as it had been called back then. Behind them, mangroves and jungle vegetation through which a path had been worn, meandered down to the recreation area used by most of the Detachment.
She was lost in her thoughts, the breeze on her chest felt good, and enjoying the quiet companionship, she thought about leaving and going back to her duty station in Hawaii in a couple of days. Would she miss this place? Kathy had joined the Air Force after a semester at the University of North Carolina. Over the summer, after graduating from high school, she’d secretly signed the contract, not telling her parents. She had to wait for her tech school start date, so she did a semester and was glad she had the comparison. To say her family was complicated was an understatement.
Kathy sat up, she’d heard voices. Next to her, Rinna lay topless, her breasts, white mounds capped with big pink tips, her body slick with sweat and bug spray. Rinna had been reluctant at first, watching Kathy take her top off; Wilkins wore a conservative dark blue two-piece, and the younger airman followed her lead taking off her top. A paperback book folded over her face, she dozed. Kathy understood, jet lag, heat, her first day at a new job, it was all exhausting.
“Hey, we’re here,” Mai said, dropping out of the mangroves onto the sand with Nick behind her carrying backpacks, a cooler, and another bug hut.
“Come on in, we’ll make room,” Kathy said.
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