American Comfort Station, Eastern Europe, 2045 AD: The Alien Wars by Landry Wilson

Author:Landry Wilson [Wilson, Landry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Avril Books
Published: 2019-05-11T20:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6: Battle plans

When I awaken, I see Tricia already standing, in white high heels and white stockings with matching high-waist lace garters holding them up, satin panties underneath, a strapless white, lacy bra pushing up her large cans. She’s shimmying a sleeveless white satin dress over herself; its lacy hem lands about halfway down those full, milky thighs. The dress hugs her well, showing off her healthy cleavage and round ass. She also has on a gold leaf necklace and matching earrings, her long blond hair pulled back behind her ears, her lips painted a soft pink, her blue eyes accentuated by a hint of black mascara, her perfume a jazzy musk.

“How do I look?” she says, posing.

“Fantastic,” I say. “And in those heels, you’ll be taller than me.”

“Does that bother you, Lieutenant?”

“Of course not,” I say. “It’s better, really.”

I dress in my army formals.

“My, Lieutenant, you clean up well, yourself.”

I ask her if she wants to use my phone to call or text her family back in the States to say she’s all right. She shakes her head casually “no.” I tell her I’ll have Central Command send word back for her. “Whatever,” she says.

—

The officers dinner is held upstairs from the former restaurant — which is now a milking room for enlisted men — in a hall that was once used for weddings. It has lots of woodwork, a dance floor, a small bar and a smoking area with several brown leather sofas and loveseats. There aren’t many officers left in Dubrovnik, perhaps 20 or so at this point. Many have left, more have died, and tonight most if not all of them will attend, and let off some steam. A few are in the room now, standing near the bar, and they smile as they see me enter with Tricia arm in arm. We make our introductions. Col. Paul Rodgers, 54, can’t help but check out her wonderful rack as he takes her hand. He’s shorter than her, strongly built and serious, with a shaved head and brown eyes.

Next to him is Capt. Sheila Pantaleone, 33, a brusque brunette with short, cropped hair and freckles, maybe 5-foot-4, 130 pounds of all muscle, a former judo champ. She is in army formals as well, but chose a skirt instead of pants; a bit of a throwback to last century, if you ask me. “Look at you, Caldwell, the one soldier in all of Croatia who finds an American girlfriend,” she says with her husky voice.

“You’re just jealous,” I say.

“So, tell us, Lieutenant, what are your thoughts on what happened in Zadar? You are quite the hero,” says Maj. Jackson M. Whitehall, 52, a tall, rotund man with salt-and-pepper hair and a big beard. “I hear the microwaves worked.”

“Like a charm,” I say. “I also had a corporal with me, Jenkins, who helped a lot. We almost got sidetracked by some sirens.”

“Ha! That’s your weakness right there, Lieutenant!” the short brunette guffaws. A three-person cover band in matching powder blue tuxedos is setting up on the dance floor.

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