Chapter Three
“Helluva bash, Swish.”
Captain Suzanne Hall, call sign Swish, acknowledged the compliment from her former squadron mate by raising the dew-streaked bottle that had come as a “beer-in-a-bag.” She’d never tried this Dutch import before. Then again, that was the whole point of the mystery bag.
“Thanks, Dingo.”
The ex-military cop tipped his beer to hers while keeping an arm looped around the shoulders of the woman next to him. Personally, Swish thought the hold was more possessive than cozy. With good reason. The moment Dingo had walked in with the long-legged, extremely well-endowed showgirl, every male in the place had locked onto her like a heat-seeking missile.
To her credit, Chelsea Howard had ignored the goggle-eyed stares and only occasionally put up a hand to twirl a strand of her rainbow-hued hair. “I’ve never been to a place like this,” she commented as her gaze roamed the fun-and-games indoor-outdoor restaurant.
Neither had Swish. Lively, laughing groups sat elbow-to-elbow at picnic tables or clustered around fire pits or swapped after-work horror stories with coworkers at high tops arranged in conversational squares. Others conducted raucous battles at miniature golf or bean-bag bingo or darts or skeeball. A four-piece band thumped out country-western crossover, carrying over the clink of cutlery and buzz of conversation. In a separate section well away from the happy-hour crowd, families enjoyed the same fun atmosphere. There was a third section, a glass-enclosed, sit-down, linen-on-the-table restaurant for those more serious about eating than fun and games.
What made the whole complex so amazing, though, was the menu! Swish had almost drooled over the pictures online. Appetizers included pretzels and provolone fondue. Homemade chips with a deservedly world-famous onion dip. Cheddar and potato pierogis. BBQ pork belly nachos. Thai chili chicken wings. The dinner menu was equally exotic, but even without the rave reviews from previous guests, Swish had decided The Culinary Dropout was the perfect spot for this year’s Badger Bash.
The annual Bash took place whenever two or more troops who’d served under Colonel Mike Dolan, call sign Badger, happened to be in the same general vicinity at the same time. Since Swish and two additional Badger protégées were currently stationed at Luke Air Force Base, located some miles to the west of Phoenix, they’d opted to hold the reunion here. Eight more of their former squadron mates had flown or driven in from other locales.
And since the once stag-only Bash had expanded to include spouses and/or dates, Swish had insisted on adding some couth to the event. Or, at least, ramping it up from previous years’ venues. Like the New Orleans “gentlemen’s” club where the performers all turned out to be drag queens. And the wolf-and moose-head decorated bar in Minot, North Dakota, that they’d had to shovel their way out of after a late May blizzard. And the off-off-the-Strip Vegas lounge featuring really bad Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra wannabes. Then there was last year’s gathering at the Cactus Café, a smoke-filled dive on Albuquerque’s old Route 66.
Although...even reeking of spilled beer and stale sweat, the Cactus Café had produced at least one unexpectedly happy surprise in the person of the brown-eyed blonde currently sitting across the table from Swish. At last year’s Bash, Alexis Scott had walked smack up to Major Ben Kincaid, call sign Cowboy, and offered him a fat wad of cash to marry her. Ben had turned down the money but accepted the proposal. And damned if he didn’t now act even more stupid about his wife than Dingo did about his showgirl. Of course, the fact that Alex was pregnant might have something to do with Ben’s goofy grin.
“Where do you suppose they came up with the name Culinary Dropout?” Alex mused as she sipped her club soda and soaked up the ambiance.
“No idea.” Swish speared a chunk of lobster from another appetizer, this one served in an old-fashioned glass canning jar. “Maybe the genius who created these succulent delights decided he didn’t need culinary instructors to unleash his artistry.”
“If that’s the case, I agree with him!”
“Yo, Dingo!” The call came from a sandy-haired communications officer seated near the middle of their long table. “You think you can still hit a target?”
“Blindfolded and backwards,” the former military cop turned electronics engineer drawled.
“With a bean bag?”
“Blindfolded and...”
“Ha!” His challenger clambered off his stool. “You’re on!”
Chelsea went with Dingo to cheer him on. Hips rolling, her lithe body a symphony of long-legged grace, she once again popped half the eyes in the place out of their sockets.
Alex noted her best friend’s impact on the crowd with a wry smile. Cowboy with unfeigned admiration. Swish with a sigh.
“I wish I could believe it was the hair,” she murmured.
“Trust me,” Alex answered with a laugh. “It’s not the hair. Or the legs or the boobs or that wicked smile. I roomed with the woman for two years before I left Vegas for Albuquerque. Chelsea is...”
She circled a hand in the air a few times. Grinning, her husband supplied the answer.
“Chelsea.”
“Exactly. And now I have to pee,” she announced, easing off the high-backed stool. “Again. Good thing I didn’t go
