Chapter 10: Pacific Exhibition

As the linebacker-shaped two-metre-tall Marine officer announced that yes, this was indeed an extraction, Harry hauled out his cell phone. No luck – no signal.

"Razor, keep control over the men. I'm going to talk to one of those Marines."

"Sir," Razor acknowledged with a smart salute. No joking, not now – things were too chaotic, the need for sober minds too acute.

Harry marched up to a man in a green uniform with some sort of American-style officer's rank insignia on the shoulders. Uncertain as to the man's actual rank and deciding the situation dictated he act as if the man were a superior officer, he saluted.

"Sir?"

"Yes?" the Confederacy Marine looked at Harry's plastic name badge. "Ah, Captain Arsenault. We're sorry that we can't extract you or any of your men yet."

"I know, Sir. Not for another eleven months and twenty-three days I'm told. However, we're more concerned about the rest of the Squadron. They're still over the Pacific, inbound."

The Marine's eyes grew faraway for a moment. It was something Harry had witnessed with the Confederacy Marine and naval officers at the Cape Perry Cruise Missile Test Range. "Not to fear, Captain," the officer assured him as his eyes resumed focusing on Harry's lanky form. "We also have control over the tower, and are guiding them in. They'll arrive in about an hour, when we should have wrapped this shindig up."

"Is there anything we can do to speed things along, Sir?" Harry asked politely. "Aside from staying out of the way, that is."

The tall hulk pondered for a brief moment, then asked, "Babysitting? Lots of concubine candidates have their kids with them, and don't want the wee ones witnessing their test drives."

Around the two of them, Harry could see a number of "test drives" were under way: sponsors trying out the merchandise before deciding to buy. It was as if a slave market had melded with a car dealership. One comely young lass was bent over and enthusiastically taking it doggy-style, while at a nearby table a couple of cooks from a fast-food concession had delivered platters of butter. One pair was already slathering some of the all-natural lubricant onto her undoubtedly cute butt.

Harry glanced a worried look at the men he was responsible for. Some had already doffed their uniform jackets. "I don't think I should let my children see this either," he advised the tall Marine officer, nodding at the excited airmen. "That restaurant over there looks good. We'll use that."

The officer grunted approval, and as Harry returned to his men, made an announcement about the RCAF looking after the kids.

"As you heard," Harry advised his men, who were at least still in three ranks, "because we're ineligible for extraction, we've been voluntold to look after the participants' rug rats. Sergeant, put two responsible airmen on the door. The rest of us, let's stack the tables up along the front wall to give the kids some space to play. Paaaarade ... Attention! DisMISSED! Let's GO!"

Some of the restaurant staff were poking their noses nervously out the front door of their restaurant as the terminal building turned into the site of a huge bacchanalia worthy of any fresco from an ancient Roman brothel. It was the work of a few moments for the blue-uniformed men of No. 468 Squadron to move all the tables to the front, providing a bit of a screen between the decidedly adult activities outside and the children soon to be inside. Before heading out himself to take his chances at getting his own sponsor, the restaurateur pointed out the refrigerated juices to Razor and suggested they use them to feed the kids while they waited for their moms and dads.

A stream of youngsters, some steered by elder siblings who were likewise too young to participate, were soon trooping off to the restaurant's dining room.

Razor took Harry aside, muttering, "Aren't you glad Cyn isn't here?"

"Mixed feelings. On the one hand, yes. To me, she's still the snot-nosed little brat I helped raise after our parents died. On the other hand, she's eligible for extraction."

"No, she's not," Razor protested. "Reg Force can't go!"

"She's. Not. Reg. Force." Harry glared at his fellow captain. "She's an AIR CADET. They're not even considered reserve. And she has the score to volunteer."

"Oh, so she'd be drawn there like a moth to a flame." Razor swept his hand at the orgy, his eyes focusing briefly on a not-quite-young couple killing rats cowgirl style. The woman's breasts were swinging wildly as she bounced atop the man. It was only with difficulty that Razor was able to resume thinking with his big head.

"More like a berserker to a battlefield," Harry corrected glumly.

Razor knew well that "berserker" meant "bare-shirted" or shirtless, and that Viking berserkers fought without shirts to show their contempt for danger. He had a brief mental image of Cynthia Arsenault running through a field, bare B-cup breasts bouncing, horned Viking helmet on her head and a battle-axe in her hand. It did have a certain demented sexual appeal to it. He fought to keep down a snicker.

A completely nude woman strode up to the re-purposed restaurant at that time. A streak of suspiciously white-coloured fluid dribbled down her right inner thigh. "Janie! John!" she yelled happily into the dining room. "C'mon, we're going to the stars!"

There were cries of "Yay!" and two forms, one a girl of eight the other a boy of ten or so, dashed past the two RCAF officers to join their mother.

As the trio walked away to join a knot of people standing by a Confederacy Marine standing guard over a glowing green disk, Harry and Razor watched the woman's very attractive butt. With each stride, it bounced alluringly.

"Um, eleven months and HOW many days, again?" Harry asked, trying to ignore the tent in his uniform trousers.

In front of them, the extremely public display of frantic mating continued.

In northern Alberta at that same time, two teen girls sat in an air station's sergeants' mess, writing away on sheets of foolscap as they tried to prove that they knew their subjects well enough to graduate from high school.

A different type of exam was under way for the brave men of the First Squad of the Second Platoon, Third Company, RCAF Regiment.

Lieutenant Solway brought the binoculars to his face, but couldn't see very far. He was standing just inside the wire on the station's perimeter, near the eastern end of the runway. One of the men in the nearest guard tower had seen movement there, but the trees were too thick for someone at ground level to make out much beyond a few metres beyond the open ground that surrounded the base.

"Are you sure it's not Bullfrog activity?" he heard the voice of his senior non-commissioned officer, acting Master Corporal Charles Boucherville, over the radio.