Maybe We Don't

The heavy Afghan heat pressed down on Forward Operating Base Pasab like a physical weight, thick with the sharp tang of burning trash and the omnipresent scent of aviation fuel. Jeffrey Reynolds slipped behind the towering concrete T-walls, his uniform damp with sweat from a high-tempo rotation. A seasoned, prior-enlisted pilot with the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, he enforced the rules with conviction — his own compliance being, at best, situational. Right now, his only regulation was five minutes of absolute silence and the slightly melted pack of M&Ms he’d been hoarding all week.

But someone else was in his secret spot when he got there.

She was adjusting a lens on a heavy DSLR camera, a media badge catching the harsh 2012 sunlight. He recognized her instantly, one of the high-profile reporters the brass had cleared to document female service members on the FOB.

“You don’t have the clearance to be here, sweetheart,” his voice broke her concentration. Olivia Murphy looked up blocking the sun with her hand. She saw him standing there, his side against the rough, dusty concrete.

She didn’t flinch. “I do, actually,” she said, pulling a folded printout from her pocket to show him. “Got permission to roam free on the flight line for my photos — for today.”

Jeff reached out, unfolded the sheet, scanning the text with his precision-oriented pilot eye. He shook his head. “No, princess,” he said, tapping the paper. “This area is not part of the tarmac. You need to be five feet over.”

She yanked the piece of paper back, her eyes narrowing instantly. “Don’t call me that. And I’m not your sweetheart, either.”

“Ha. You should be so lucky.” He pulled out his M&Ms, sinking down into the dirt a little away from her. He cracked open the yellow wrapper, a dark smirk tugging at his mouth beneath his thick deployment mustache.

She went back to reviewing the photos on her camera.

“Any good ones of me in there?” He popped a red M&M in his mouth.

“My brief didn’t ask to feature pornstaches so no,” she replied, her eyes fixed on the display screen.

“This is a pornstache?” Jeff smiled, thoroughly amused. “What kind of porn are you watching? If it’s turning you on, just say so.”

She glared at him, though the skin along her neck grew noticeably warm with a sudden flush of embarrassment.

Before she could fire back, a piercing, electronic shriek tore through the air, drowning out his voice. The base loudspeaker clicked on, the audio distorting under the sudden, violent volume of the ‘Big Voice.’

“Launch Arrowhead. Launch Arrowhead. Category Alpha. Grid…”

Jeff’s pupils dilated as pure adrenaline flooded his system.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, jumping to his feet. “Can’t even have candy in peace.”

He shoved the open pack of M&Ms directly into her hands, his tone completely stripped of sarcasm. “Finish ’em. Don’t let them go to waste, will you?”

He scooped up his water bottle, stepping past her. “And move five feet to the right. If someone spots you when we go up, they’ll make your life difficult.”

She didn’t have time to respond. He turned and sprinted towards the flight line, his heavy combat boots kicking up plumes of gray dust.

Liv stood alone, moving to the right as instructed. She watched the tarmac explode into chaotic motion. Pilots, crew chiefs sprinting into choppers.

The deafening, rhythmic whump-whump-whump of rotor blades vibrated through her boots as the dark silhouettes of Black Hawks bladed up.

Through her zoom lens, she tracked the birds taking off. Until she spotted a familiar mustache behind his flipped-up helmet visor in the cockpit of one. Through the plexiglass, it seemed, for a single beat, the pilot had looked up from his screens and directly at her. She lowered the camera and watched his chopper climb higher, turn and fly away into the hazy desert sky, leaving her holding a warm pack of candy.

He walked back to his CHU (Containerized Housing Unit), boots heavy, carrying the smell of hot metal and sweat with him, when he noticed a large white envelope at his door. He picked it up.

Jeff smiled, peering into it at the contents. He slipped into his room and pulled out a half eaten pack of M&Ms sealed with a binder clip, and beneath it a photo. It was him, that morning, looking commanding yet kind, briefing a few of the guys. A shot taken at exactly the right fraction of a second, as if the person taking it knew exactly what they were doing. There was a note at the back.

Accidentally ended up on my camera roll. Thought you might like it —O.

Olivia opened her door the next morning ready to start the day and was greeted by an anonymous bouquet at her door. A small bunch of yellow wildflowers, tied together with fraying paracord. She gave a little head shake as she picked it up to put it in her room.

They crossed paths shortly after. He was headed to the shower after a morning run.

“The flowers were cute,” she said when she got within earshot.

“What flowers?”

Without breaking stride, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a couple of crumpled yellow wildflowers, and casually tossed them aside as he walked off.

Olivia rolled her eyes, a faint smile spreading on her face as she headed off to get coffee.

The days passed, both of them focused on work, though that focus had a way of slipping when the other was nearby.

That Friday was Surf-and-Turf Friday, the biggest social event of the week, and the Dining Facility (DFAC) was a chaotic sea of identical camouflage uniforms, vibrating with the roar of massive industrial fans.

Olivia balanced her plastic tray with one hand, navigating the crowded chaos. She spotted Abby at a corner table. Sitting across from her was Jeff, his green flight suit unzipped to the waist to reveal a sweat-stained brown undershirt, resting his forearms on the table, loosely holding a bottle of water.

As Olivia approached, he spotted her.

He stood up immediately, sliding the metal folding chair out with an easy, practiced grin.

“Keeping it warm for ya,” Jeff said.

Olivia slid onto the chair, setting her tray down. “Good. Because heat is in such short supply around here this summer.”

Abby didn’t look up from her notepad, tapping her pen against the paper. “I was just clearing up some details Mr Reynolds here gave me about a female medic he worked with,” she said, nodding toward the pilot.

“And trying to figure out how to make the Chief’s quote usable for all audiences.”

Olivia reached for her fork. “What’s the quote?”

“I’m agnostic now,” Abby exhaled, looking up with a look of profound exhaustion. “But my Catholic school background won’t let me read this out loud without washing my mouth out with soap later.”

She spun her notebook across the plastic tabletop, tapping a finger against the page.

Olivia leaned in. Written in Abby’s messy shorthand was a direct transcript:

Man, woman, dick, no dick, ten dicks, I don’t give a shit as long as you’re not a pussy and get the job done. And don’t get people killed acting like a motherfucking asshole.

Olivia stared at the page, a slow smile creeping onto her face. “Those are…words.”

“Call me Shakespeare,” Jeff said, screwing the cap on his bottle of water.

Olivia looked up at him, then looked back at the notebook. She tapped the chin of her pen against her lips, translating the military grit into public relations. “How about: ‘Man or woman, as long as they aren’t reckless and get the job done, I’m happy to work with them.’”

Jeff blinked, acting innocent. “Isn’t that what I said?”

“Ladies,” he tipped his head and did a two finger salute as a goodbye. He walked off but not before saying, “Huh, that might be the first time I said that to actual ladies.”

Liv shook her head with a crooked smile as she popped a carrot in her mouth.