THIS WEBPAGE CONTAINS ADULT MATERIAL. RESTRICTED TO 18 YEARS OF AGE AND OLDER
eBooks by Genre
Lovers Middle-Aged or Older
"HOTTTT DAMNNNN!!! WE'VE HAD IT NOWWW!!!"
I'm too young to die! I thought…until the pilot pulled out of the spin…and headed back the way we came. Gaining altitude, he turned us back on course.
"Tricky currents over these passes." He tried to sound nonchalant, but his voice had gone up an octave, and he turned his head away from me to wipe his brow.
Hire is my name…and wire is my game. That's right. Captain Jerold O. Hire, United States Air Force, a non-flying wire officer. So what am I doing in the co-pilot's seat of an Air Force liaison plane that is lurching all over, and under, the sky above the Montana countryside?
Well, mainly, I'm hanging on…TIGHT! I'm just a passenger, not a pilot, and I'm also beginning to have my doubts about the guy in the left seat. I mean, how often can you run out of air? Ughhh! We did it again. The old De Havilland "Beaver" dropped like a homesick rock for what seemed like a couple of eons, and then sprang up as if its tail had been stepped on.
"Bit turbulent down here," shouted Colonel Kolun, the pilot. "Should smooth out when we get to altitude."
We bounced again. My stomach is an unwilling basketball being dribbled from heel to heel, and shot at my ears. "Sir," I shouted back, "I don't think there's enough air in all Montana."
"Beats driving. Glad I had a few minutes to check out in this prop job…the only thing that'll get into East Layover. Be there in twenty minutes, if we could jet."
"Sir, just what is the big rush? Thirty-six hours ago I was a happy, carefree maintenance officer at the San Berdoo barbed wire repair depot. Now I'm in a motorized kite headed for a place I never heard of…and for no reason that I know of."
Colonel Kolun smiled with the nearest half of his mouth. We dropped off on a wing. "Patience, young man. Soon as we're straight and level I'll give you a capsule briefing."
At this rate, we'd be there before I knew why. On the night before last, my boss at the depot, Major Sharp, had phoned my fast little pad in Redland and said, "Pack."
"Pack? I know…a load carried by mules."
"Only if the mule is a lucky young Captain. One who has just received permanent-change-of-station orders to a classified location in Montana."
Loud silence before the light dawned. "P.C.S.? You got to be kidding!"
"No, I'm not." I knew he wasn't. I could see Sharp's happy face on the other end of the line. He was thinking of the very redhead who at the same moment was sitting on my lap with her fingers in my fly.
"Come on, Major. People don't just get immediate orders like that. What's the score?"
I knew I'd have to drag it out of him, and that he'd enjoy every moment of it. Ever since I scored with this little nurse that he'd bird-dogged for weeks, we'd never exactly been chums. I slapped her hand…playfully, mind you. Not to be distracted, Rima freed the stallion, and I whitewashed her tonsils.
After Rima had done that on our second date, I told her to stand up. Then I pulled her skirt off and slowly slid her panties down. That put me eyeball to her darling slit. Automatically, I tenderly darted my tongue into the top of that tender groove and licked her clit. Rima shivered. "Ohhhh…you mustn't…" I laid her down on the rug and resumed licking. With my hands under her cheeks, while engaged with my face in her pussy, I licked and licked Rima's sweet clit . She trembled and moaned again and again, until she twisted, wildly shuddered, and came in a long, long orgasm. She murmured, "Jerry…get in me…"
I had to obey. I spread her lips, and with safeguard in place, sank my erection deep into her vagina. Ohhh, wow, this is heaven… Such a sweet pussy. While Rima reveled in the power of her orgasm, I took my time to prolong the feel of my cock in her sweet body. After screwing her until I came in a prolonged squirt, I held her in my arms until she recovered.
"Hire, are you listening? Now concentrate - a priority message just came in. You've been reassigned to Project Odin."
"That's a lotta help. Never heard of it. What's it all about?"
"Doesn't say. Must be classified."
"Great. What's with Montana? Where do I go if the location is classified, too?"
"Grand Eclipse Air Force Base. For further instructions, and transportation to an operating location, report there not later than 0800 hours day after tomorrow. A Colonel Kolun is your contact. Got it, Buddy?"
"Aw, come on, sir. There must be some mistake. Maybe they got the wrong Hire. Besides, I can't possibly get up there by day after tomorrow."
"Oh, no, there's not… Oh, no, they didn't… And oh, yes, you can." Joy in his voice. "The charge-of-quarters is arranging your tickets. All you have to do is pack."
Sharp must have arranged the tickets himself. Surely there's quicker ways to get from San Bernadino, CA. to Grand Eclipse AFB, Montana, than by way of every named gulch in the eleven western states. When I landed at Grand Eclipse, it was 0801 hours, and a staff car rushed me from the terminal right to Kolun's plane. It was already warming up. Someone sure had faith.
After introductions I said, "Nice of you to wait, Colonel." Seems he was the Project Odin Public Relations Officer. He was on temporary duty from Headquarters Strategic Air Command (SAC). "Don't often have a full-bull for a chauffeur."
Kolun ha-ha'd without smiling and said, "Save the humor, Captain. You'll need it."
I wanted him to elaborate, but he goosed the old Beaver and taxied out for take-off. It wasn't until he throttled back at 9000 feet, and set the propeller pitch for cruising, that he would tell me anything, or I could hear much, for that matter.
"First of all," he said, "Project Odin is classified 'Ultra Top Secret.' Since you have only an interim clearance, I'll fill you in as much as I can."
Heck. As a wire officer, my clearance is so low I could throw it under a snake without tickling him. My buddy Sharp must have really hustled to get me even an interim clearance.
"Anyway," Kolun continued, "Odin is the code name for an Air Force anti-ballistic missile system, with which we hope to steal the thunder away from the Army Safeguard program. A prototype system is under final construction in the northern part of the state that will protect Colorado Springs from missile routes over the pole."
"Yes. Eventually Odin will be turned over to NORAD, and naturally the headquarters has to be protected."
"But…it's already under a mountain!"
"True…but be realistic. We can't have anything happen to the Broadmoor Golf Course or the Air Force Academy."
"That makes sense, sir." If a nuclear war occurred, the wheels at the top of the paper mill would need somewhere to relax, and without the Academy, football would be abandoned to the Army and Navy.
"Of course," Kolun said, "I can't emphasize the importance of this project enough. Not only is our national survival at stake, but there's a lot of politics involved too. L.B.J. himself authorized it. Congressman Hichaire is behind us all the way, except that he has powerful enemies. Jack Anderson is complaining because the site is in Hichaire's district, and his wife and brother own better than fifty-one percent of FlyBy Dynamics, the prime contractor."
"I've never heard of them before."
Kolun sighed. "Neither has anyone else, but they were the low bidder on the contract. They've really handed Uncle Sam a bucket of worms."
"The system doesn't work?"
"If only we knew. They haven't turned the facility over to the Air Force yet. During the final checkout we should have a crew of maintenance men there. All we've got so far are a few support types."
"Why? Is the contractor being uncooperative?"
"Oh, no. And surprisingly, as near as we can tell, they seem to be doing a halfway decent job on the construction. They made one simple mistake at the beginning, which is causing all the problems."
"I know, sir. They've put in a hole upside down!"
Kolun turned and looked at me. His look said I-don't-think- you're-funny-Captain. Oh well, can't win 'em all. Some people have no sense of humor.
"Better they had," Kolun said, "instead of building the damn thing right smack dab in the middle of a field of sacred peyote on an Indian reservation."
"Wow! Landscape littered with lawsuits."
"Huh. If it were only that simple. Half the young bucks in the Black Hand tribe are ready to go on the warpath. The peaceful ones are only picketing the site. Department of Defense has curtailed all military activity until negotiations with the tribe are settled. Construction has continued, not without a certain amount of harassment."
"Sounds like fun. I take it we're on the way there now, but I don't understand. Just where do I fit into this picture?"
"That's right, you don't know anything yet, do you? We1l, young Captain, I'm on my way, as Project Odin Public Relations Officer, to a conference with the Black Hand tribal council, where I will introduce you as our site commander."
"Commander! Of a classified missile site?" My voice rose towards a terrible squeak, "On a hostile Indian reservation?"
"Yup. I had to get special dispensation from Washington, and only with the concurrence of the tribal council. With your record, there shouldn't be any problem."
"M-m-my record?" I didn't know what he was talking about. I couldn't think of anything I'd done, good or bad, that would warrant this assignment. Kolun became engrossed in fighting the bucking Beaver again, and I was left to my own thoughts. Sharp didn't have enough influence with anyone to have managed this transfer. He could have swung a shipment to Thule, or Turkey, or even, heaven forbid, North Dakota, but this one didn't make sense. Surely they didn't have a wire problem so great on a missile site that they needed a wire officer for the commander. Oh, no, my Missile Badge! I fingered the silver oblong pinned to my left breast pocket. Could there be some mistake because of it?
"We're coming up on Cougar Valley now - your new home," were Kolun's next words. We'd dropped down to about two thousand feet, and he swung the plane in a circle over a fenced compound that contained one large building, several smaller ones, a couple of small sheds, and a forest of antennas.
"Those are the housekeeping and support facilities. The contractor is using some of them now. The Command Post is buried underneath. The missile silos are spread out around the countryside."
We flew over the nearest one, which was about a half a mile from the compound. It looked like nothing more than a concrete slab lying on top of a low, terraced mound.
"It reminds me of some ancient sacrificial altar." I hoped I wouldn't be its victim. "No fence, either. Is it secure that way?"
"Oh, sure. Only way the silo can be opened is on coded electronic signal from the Command Post. The silo is electronically and electromagnetically scanned for unwanted intruders. If any are detected, an alarm goes off in the C.P., and Security Police are dispatched out here.
"By the way, Captain, what missile systems were you trained on? Atlas?"
By now my stomach had quit bouncing, and, having disintegrated into little strings of liquid lead, it had just seeped into my feet. "Sir, I hate to tell you this, but there's been some mistake. This is the first damned missile site I ever saw in my life."
"Come now, Captain. You were personally selected for this assignment by the Military Personnel Center's computer."
"Well, sir, then how come a wire officer has been assigned as a missile site commander?"
"Wire Officer? Don't you mean Communications Officer?"
"No sir! Wire officer. I'd like to work up to being a comm officer, though."
Colonel Kolun gave me a fishy-eyed look. His thin mustache twitched at one corner. "Captain, I don't know what you're talking about. Comm officers are the lowest dregs of the Air Force; forever screwing up the phone system. How could you work up to that?"
"It'll take a lot of effort. I don't have all the qualifications, but I'll persevere."
"Qualifications! Any damn fool can be a comm officer!"
"Yes, sir, but to be a successful one, you gotta be able to read minds, and that isn't easy."
Colonel Kolun just looked at me. His mouth hung open. The airplane flew rather erratically. When he didn't say anything, I continued, "That's right, sir. Air Force Manual 36-1, Change Y, page 30-8, paragraph 3e(2) states: To successfully perform his duties at the fully qualified level, and anticipate the instantly required, and previously unthought-of electronics needs of his commander and other staffs, it is mandatory that the communications officer be capable of mental telepathy. Other forms of extrasensory perception, such as precognition, are desirable, but not mandatory."
Finally Kolun spoke. "I never heard of that before, but it makes sense." He still seemed puzzled. "Just what does a wire officer do?" I don't think he really wanted to ask.
"Well, I work with all the non-conducting type wires, like fences, baling wire, hairpins, and things like that, but my most important duties concern paperclips and staples."
Colonel Kolun stalled the old Beaver again. "That's preposterous!" he shouted. "I never heard of anything like this before!" He pulled out of the stall and set the plane back on course.
"Oh, we work behind the scenes mostly, but our wires are just as important, if not more so, than electric wires. What would the Air Force do, if it didn't have a dynamic, aggressive staple and clip program? I'll tell you! There'd be mountains of loose paper all over the world! You'd never be able to keep things together that were important. We'd have an Army - or Air Force - full of people doing nothing but trying to keep track of related but unfastened, papers!"
"And that constitutes your full-time duties?"
"Oh, yes, sir! And overtime, too. I put in a tour at the Pentagon under General Fangsong."
"And just who the hell is General Fangsong?"
"Why, just the Chief, Programs and Requirements Branch, in the Operations and Plans Directorate of the Systems Integration Division in the Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff for Paperclips and Staples!"
Colonel Kolun gave me a searching look. His head twitched slowly from side to side as though he was mentally saying, No. No. No.
Unfazed, I continued. "That's where I was awarded the Silver Clip Medal of Commendation…" - I pointed to a device fixed just above my row of ribbons - "with Bronze Staple Cluster."
"This is fantastic!" Kolun looked, but shook his head in disbelief. "How did you earn a missile badge, then?"
"Oh, that was at the Pentagon, too. I did the staff work for General Fangsong when he decided on an integrated system of staples for the Minuteman Program."
"And for that you were awarded a missile badge?"
"Yes, sir! But it wasn't really such a big deal. After all the leg…er…paperwork I did, proving that silver staples would be just as efficient and less costly, General Fangsong still decided on gold staples."
"Why was that?"
"Golden staples matched the reflection in his eye."
The Beaver stalled and nearly spun again before Kolun could right it. Surely he wasn't silently weeping?
"So you can see, Colonel, that my past experience with missiles hardly qua1ifies me to be a site commander."
Evidently deciding he had to regain control of the situation, Kolun put on his best Colonel straightening-out-a-junior-officer look by tilting up his chin and looking down his nose at me. "I assure you, Captain, the Military Personnel Center never makes mistakes. There is obviously a very good reason for this action. We just don't have the big picture! Perhaps you're destined for greater things." He sounded doubtful. "Besides, you're only the initial commander. As the site builds up, you'll be replaced."
I sank back in my seat and decided to say as little as possible from then on. Obviously, the man was a sugar-coated, dry-cereal enthusiast.
When Kolun finally found what passed for an airport at the teaming metropolis of East Layover, Montana, he released his inhibitions by handling the Beaver like a stunt plane, and then proceeded to land downwind and nearly run through a fence at the end of the pasture.
I tried to leap from my seat, but got hung up in the safety belt. Once out on the ground, I discovered that my knees were shaky, so I draped myself over the wing strut. When Kolun stepped out, trying to sound nonchalant, I said, "This is an airport?"
"There's a regular paved strip near the site," Kolun replied. "It belongs to the Black Hand, though. I didn't want to use it 'till we've reconnoitered the situation. I don't want any arrows sticking out of Old Paint, here." He chuckled at his own joke.
"No government vehicles at the site yet. The Sheriff said he'd arrange transportation." As Kolun spoke, a battered pickup careened up, skidded to a stop, and sprayed us with dust.
A middle-aged man poked his head out of the window and spoke in an odd drawl, "Y'all must be them Army guys that wants a ride to the Injun village. Hop in an' Ah'll give yo' a lift."
"In this? Surely the Sheriff doesn't expect a SAC representative to ride to an important meeting in a truck?" Kolun was beginning to steam through his mask of dust.
"Sack representative? Ya'll coulda fooled me. Got any samples? Muh wife could use a new dress."
Colonel Kolun stared at the driver as though he just wasn't possible. His mouth worked involuntarily. Not sure if the driver was serious or not, I stepped up to the truck.
"You gotta be kiddin,' Buddy. Look, we're…ah…Air Force Officers." I resisted the temptation to spell it out. "And we gotta get out to see the Black Hand Tribal Council. Much as we appreciate your offer, the Colonel can hardly ride there in a pickup truck. Isn't there a taxi or rent-a-car service around here?"
"Nope. Maybe ya' can rent a cayuse, though, stranger. Haw, haw!"
"Try harder, Buddy." Taking a clue to the driver's attitude from his calling me 'stranger,' I forced a big smile and stuck out my hand. "By the way, I'm Jerry Hire. It won't be long before I'm a neighbor of yours, down at the missile site."
His grip nearly rearranged my fingers. "Wal'll, Ah'm pleased ta meetcha, neighbor. Ah'm Clem Clodhopper…an' welcome!" His handshake made Kolun wonder aloud if he'd have the use of his fingers before he had to pass his next flying physical.
"Want a lim-o-zine, huh?" continued Clem. "Maybe Ah can help yo.' Hop in, an' we'll mosey inta the big city."
East Layover proved to be an ancient cow town that would have disappeared with the tumbleweeds, had it not been for the railroad spur that shunted south to the oil fields, and the Black Hand reservation. As it was, the center of town consisted of a large square on which stood the only hotel, bank, saloon, stock brokerage/brothel, grocery store and tobacco plantation in all of Malburo County.
Sheriff Sundown apologized for sending the pickup, but said that Clem's truck was the only thing available. "Hain't but one commercial vehicle in town right now that's not in use," he said.
"We'll take it," Kolun said. "We're on an important mission and under the circumstances, expense is no problem."
"Well, Ah don' know, but at least you'll get there."
Half an hour later, a smoldering Kolun, an exuberant Clem, and a doubtful me, careened south in a 1929 Pierce Arrow hearse. "Yo' sure are lucky," remarked Clem, who was driving. "Most people only get to ride in these things once."
"Seems to me the luck is all on their side," I said. Being wedged between Clem and Kolun kept me from swaying sideways, but it did nothing about anchoring my stomach, which floated up to slap my Adam's apple every time the hearse leaped over a dip in the road. Evidently the old wreck had never before been driven with such total disregard for speed laws, road conditions, wandering livestock, and proper driving technique. I had the distinct impression that the hearse was on a last fling before it went, and I just hoped it didn't take us all with it.
Secretly, I admired Kolun's aplomb. Maybe it was his long experience as a pilot, but I didn't see how anyone could remain calm while Clem discoursed at length on sundry matters, and only occasionally glanced at the road. Passing a gas station/country store, he honked the horn and waved wildly, while nearly running off the road.
"Ol' Gramps Harness, muh father-in-law," he said. I just hoped that the old man's daughter didn't become a widow before the end of our ride.
We slowed down only at the gate to the reservation: an edifice that would have done credit to any ancient military post. Mortised rock walls extended for several yards on either side of the road. A gatehouse of the same material stood in the center of the road. On top of it an enormous black hand was extended in welcome. Inside, on the right, was a large parking lot and visitor's information center. We didn't stop, so I assumed Clem knew where to go. The road spread into three lanes.
"Hot dog!" Clem said. "Now Ah'll show you what this ol' can'll do!" I didn't really want to know. As soon as we were out of sight of the gatehouse, Clem ignored the posted speed limit of fifty-five and poured the coal to our ancient barge. We must have been doing all of fifty-six when we topped the next rise and he hit the brakes.
I thought we were in another time.
Strung out along either side of the road was a file of armed horsemen traveling in the same direction as we. They wore little other than breechcloth and leggings, and carried rifles, lances or bows. Up ahead about a hundred feet in the middle of the highway rode a solitary Indian. They ignored us completely.
Except for our engine, we continued along silently. We'd crept up to within a few yards of the loner when, without warning, he galloped ahead and up a small rise. He reined his horse back towards us, raised a bow to the sky, and let out a blood-curdling scream.
My God! Now I know how some of those early settlers must have felt. The two files of riders took up the scream and put their own horses to the gallop. Clem started to speed up, but the file on our right moved ahead and now cut across the road in front of us. Those on the left abruptly reined back and raced around behind us. Clem didn't stop, but as the riders formed a wide, loose, moving circle around us; he was forced to slow to a crawl.
Abruptly, and apparently without signal, they reined up and stood facing us from all directions. Clem stopped a few yards from the horseman facing us in the center of the road. From the design painted on his arms, I surmised it was the same leader who'd previously shown us his back. Still no one spoke. No one volunteered to get out of the hearse and ask directions, either.
Again the scream, and this time the leader's horse leaped forward directly at us. At the last possible moment to keep from having a pinto come through the windshield, the horse swerved to our right. Rushing close to the car, the rider tapped Kolun's arm with his feathered coup stick. Immediately, the other riders followed their leader. Kolun's window shot up so fast, I thought it was jet operated.
Now they circled us as tight as they could get without running into one another, screaming, shooting off their guns, and lobbing lances and arrows in front of the hearse.
Kolun found his voice first. "Good God, the missile crisis has come to a head! It's an uprising!"
The flesh crawled right up my back as I remembered stories from my youth of Indian torture. Oh, why hadn't I volunteered for Vietnam?