Chapter 1

1

The radio startled him. The voices garbled, mixed with static, Pad strained to hear the pilot talk to the tower as the C-130 announced its approach for landing. Pad looked at his watch, then lowered the volume. He grabbed his gym bag by the foot of his chair, stood, double-timed it out the door, after making sure to put the “Out to Lunch” Post-it on his computer.

As he stepped out of the beige Quonset hut, the light blasted his eyes. The scorching sun enveloped everything here in the desert. Steeling himself for the humidity caused by the proximity to the Persian Gulf, Pad stepped out in the heat.

“Hey, Pad,” yelled Alberto. Pad turned to face him. Alberto squinted, scratching his dark hair before putting his cap back on. “You joining us for lunch?” he asked as he headed over to where a couple of guys from the squadron waited by the beat up 4 x 4 pickup truck loaned out by the Saudi government.

“No.” Pad held the bag, which contained his goggles and trunks, high. “Swimming on the lunch break.”

“Sure you are, Senior Airman Padrick McLaughlin,” Alberto said. “It’s not because the lieutenant’s scheduled to swim there too, right?”

Pad caught the upturned lip that Alberto gave him and responded to the smirk by flipping him a bird.

“Fuck you,” Pad whispered. As he cursed, he jerked the collar off his neck, as the humidity walloped him, he felt the trickle of sweat on his nape. Except for the months of December and January, when the weather was somewhat tolerable, Dhahran was not the most hospitable place. Yet Pad whistled as he turned away from Alberto, happy because he had a couple of weeks before he out-processed and returned home to Tampa.

He grabbed the bike outside his door and pedaled to the pool a few blocks away. Since stealing in this country could result in an arm or two being amputated, he never worried about leaving his bicycle unlocked outside the office. None of the guys from his area would take it either since they thought it was crazy to bike. Pad did it anyway, believing that it gave him freedom to go when and where he wanted. In this case, he knew he would be rewarded if he timed it right.

The radio chatter earlier gave him the heads up he needed. He wanted to reach the pool before Lieutenant Ransom James Davis, his supervisor, arrived. He didn’t mind sweating since the pool’s blue waters would cool him, and he got to see his boss.

Shit! You’ve got a serious man crush on a straight guy.

As Pad arrived at the pool, a few blocks away, one of the security guards waved and cleared him through the gate. Even though the American military had privileges on this compound, many of the facilities had to follow Saudi rules, especially since the Kingdom owned the base, and the collection of compounds were run through royal Saudi authority. The pool designated for Americans was secured with high concrete walls so prying Arabic eyes wouldn’t see the immorality of half-naked men and women lounging or swimming together. In reality, though, the only time both sexes were at the pool occurred during the weekends when families gathered to hang out to escape the heat

Pad paused by the sign near the pool exit that warned about showing public displays of affection and wearing improper clothes when leaving the area.

Pad wiped the sweat from his brow then grabbed a towel from the stack near the entrance and headed for the only shade. As he reached the tree-lined corner, he checked the pool area, saw no one, so he stripped to his boxer shorts and put the towel around his waist. He switched to his board shorts just in time because Ransom James Davis—RJ—appeared at the other end of the pool.

Pad’s heart beat faster.

Like clockwork, the lieutenant stripped, unzipping his flight suit easily, taking off his T-shirt, socks and boots, revealing that he had on colored, high-rise briefs. Today, he had blue briefs that showed the ever-present prominent bulge. RJ put on his goggles and then began laps. From the shade near the tree, Pad watched, fascinated as he had been the last few months with his supervisor, a trained C-130 pilot, and executive officer of the squadron. Everyone noticed RJ. His light-brownish wavy hair, violet-blue eyes, lean six-pack torso, and Hollywood idol looks, stuck out in this desolate sand dune of a country.

RJ arrived eight months before, and as the admin and personnel specialist, Pad completed the paperwork to process him into the flight squadron. He found out RJ was four years older than Pad, attended Ohio State, and after completing college he attended officer training school, followed by pilot training.