The Marine Corporal took refuge on the floor in front of the one operating cool air-vent.
Annoyed, he scowled around the airplane hanger’s version of a Soda Mess. The “mess” included an off-white rust-spotted monstrosity of a refrigerator, which buzzed almost louder than the aircraft outside, an old Amana brand “Radar Range” oven, a leaking sink; a rusted stove top.
He shook his head, you’d think a supposed “elite” fighting-machine like the Marines of MWSS whateverthe “f”-its would at least be provided with microwaves. That thing is left from before the first Macs were produced…
Note: what Corporal Double-Oh-Seven did next was strictly classified, and absolutely illegal, but involved insulated wire-cutters, electrical-tape, a mother-board, an external hard-drive, 40 feet of PVC pipe wrapped in mysterious, pliable plastic, a hack saw, lots of copper wire, several wire screens, and a Lance Corporal on look-out named ‘Bubba.’ The result—achieved with unbelievable speed— an amplification of the hanger’s ancient cooling system by means of the batteries located somewhere in the nether regions of an F-18’s “main” gear.
Satisfied, Double-Oh-Seven resumed his position near the wall, but he no longer sat on the floor. Instead, he tilted a straight-backed chair onto its two rear legs, and propped his huge feet onto a table some unfortunate Private First Class had been foolish enough to believe was in the pervue of anyone other than a Non-Commissioned Officer. He flipped open his ultra-light, warp-speed, super-duper laptop with the expandable, life-like monitor screen and hyper-interactive capabilities.
Moments later, he was multi-tasking through his favorite “external hard-drive” movies, downloading new members-only porn, writing his fifth political bestseller, and waiting for his “temporary” connection to the government computer-network to function. Illegal from his computer, of course, but he didn’t care. I’m shipping out tomorrow, and I don’t want to come back. Not ever.
He checked his e-mail, and found a note from a friend. It was about the weather; it mentioned snow…she misses snow…he thought to himself—so do I…The temperature outside on the airfield? 103 degrees, with a heat index of over 120. In just over one day, he was scheduled to fly home to see his girlfriend. There wouldn’t be any snow now, of course, but still, it made him long for home even more. Yeah, snow, we could have fun with that in Alaska, damn, why do I have to think about snow now?
Sighing, he closed his eyes, and pictured flying over the steep hills of Wyoming, roaring snow behind, and nothing under his feet but speed. He’d like to write and ski at the same time. Maybe possible, with the right technology someday.
He sat up; his rest finished, and began to hit the computer’s keyboard rapidly. Among other things, he answered his friend’s e-mail and described his own desire for snow, a desire having nothing to do with skiing. Or writing.
Damn. One more day.
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