Sea Strike

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Moondog 505 cruised at 20,000 feet, a geometric crossbreed of shark and manta ray skimming effortlessly over a misty seafloor of gray starlit clouds. Under the canopy of the big F/A-22 Sea Raptor, her pilot and systems operator slouched in their ejector seats in matching postures of slack-muscled semialertness. The night’s mission was a milk run, one that left them both with plenty of brainpower to spare, enough to allow them to take a bookmark out of an old topic of discussion.

“Daggone it! You’re a woman, you ought to be able to give me some kind of a handle on this thing.”

“Dig, indeed I am a woman. I am also a rational adult human being. Your wife, on the other hand, is a certifiable dingdong with the mentality of a five-year-old.”

“That’s cutting it a bit thick, Bub.”

“Hey, I’m not the one driving you crazy. Coming up on Waypoint Echo in ten seconds. Come left to zero one zero true on my mark. Three … two … one … Mark.”

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