Valkyrie 14

Captain Donna Domenitzo was going over details for the next day’s training mission with the squadron operations officer in the small operations office at the flight line when the phone range.  The Major excused himself and talked for a few minutes on the phone and then turned to the Captain, “New pilot is inbound.  Landing in five minutes.”

“He’s flying his own aircraft in?” asked Captain Domenitzo.  Normal procedure was that pilots just arrived like other personnel and then were assigned an aircraft.

“She,” said the Major.

“She?” asked the Captain. 

“Mmhmmm.”

She wondered how many female pilots were being assigned to the 1^st Strike Fighter Squadron.  There were already at least six among the twenty-four pilots including the unit commander, Lieutenant Colonel Carol Danvers.  That was an unusually high number.  Now there would be seven, and as far as she knew there weren’t any pilot openings in the unit.  Donna joined the other off-duty pilots and operations personal leaving the building to watch the landing.

Captain Domenitzo joined the several dozen unit members on the tarmac outside of the operations office and scanned the horizon at the end of the long shimmering runway for the tiny speck that would be the first sign of an arriving aircraft.

Someone looked at their watch and commented, “Its five minutes and I don’t see anything.” The others continued to squint at the sky in the bright mid-day sun.

Suddenly a huge turbine engine roar accompanied by the familiar chop chop of rotor blades and a blast of down rushing air rolled over the crowd from behind sending hats flying as the group instinctively crouched and turned toward the source.

Deftly, a small olive green OH-6 “Little Bird” helicopter gently touched down in the space between the crowd and the operations building.  The roar of the engine quickly throttled down to a purr and as the skids settled on the concrete the engine shut down leaving only the quiet gear noise of the rotors gently spinning to a stop.

“What the fuck?” someone in the crowd articulated what everyone was thinking.  They watched as the pilot turned off switches and then unbuckled her harness and stepped from the small aircraft.  She raised the visor on her large flight helmet revealing piercing dark brown eyes on a pretty and intelligent face. Removing her helmet she shook out her short chin length dark brunette hair as she walked toward the group of gawking Air Force personnel.

“Hi.  Can anyone point me toward the 1^st Strike Fighter Squadron?” she asked in a voice that carried a distinct northeast accent.  Donna immediately recognized it as New Jersey.

“But … You’re Army,”  another anonymous voice in the crowded sputtered, as if  the word “Army” was some kind of exotic and deadly disease.

The short pretty brunette smiled and her very strong Jersey accent came through loud and clear. “I sure the Fuck am Zoomie.  Captain Brenda Connolly, US Fucking Cavalry, reporting for duty.”

She grinned at the crowd but the smile didn’t quite soften the steel in her eyes.

“Oh.  By the way.  My call sign is “Mistress.”