The music is too loud.
It all sort of reminds him of a middle school dance – segregated groups of males and females and someone singing about pick-up trucks and whiskey. It's too loud to carry on a conversation. He and his buddies have to keep yelling to hear each other. Mostly they're just talking about how much they want to bang Taylor Swift (or in Clark's case how he has a better chance with her than the rest of them), as if somehow her physical proximity has turned that fantasy into a real possibility. It's like being surrounded by Justin Bieber fans if Justin Bieber fans were aggressively horny, camo-clad men. Tim snorts to himself. Lena would appreciate the description. He finds himself thinking that a lot: Lena would think that's funny. Lena would like that. Lena would…
Yesterday he found himself thinking about Lena while sitting on the helicopter that ferried them back to base after a mission. They'd caught some heat on the way out, and the gunner had laid down a few hundred rounds of cover spray while everyone jumped in. He'd imagined teasing Lena about her skills as a shooter, that even if she can't hit a target, she'd be good enough for spray-and-pray. She'd have rolled her eyes, elbowed him in the side, and said something scathing all while calling him 'sir.' In his imagination, instead of moving back to her seat she'd stay pressed against his side after elbowing him.
Tim lets his eyes drift sideways. Lena's standing with Clarence near the 'bar', the bar being a small counter with many large coolers stocked with soda and water. They're talking to some guy in civvies with a clipboard dangling at his side. Clipboard dude keeps leaning in to speak, and Lena keeps leaning back, as if the guy needs a mint. The last thing Tim ate was chicken fettuccini and garlic bread from the DFAC. He turns his attention back to the rest of the crowd.
No one really dances, but everyone taps a foot or sways slowly side to side, hypnotized by the glamor and voice of the blond on stage. Ms. Swift has gone for a girl-next-door look. Her managers probably told her to ditch the skimpy outfits, and the blingy jeans and tight t-shirt make her look more like something from home instead of a Hollywood distraction. They might talk a big game, but soldiers are the most sentimental fucks. Everyone bitches about their wife or girlfriend, but god help you if you interrupt a phone call or the letter they're reading. And the moment they're home, she'll say jump and it's 'how high you want me to, baby?' Somewhere in Tim's second stage of basic training, his platoon had been cleaning their barracks with the radio going in the background. 'Traveling Soldier' by the Dixie Chicks had come on. Every single man had stopped what he was doing, and stayed dead silent the whole song.
"Oy," the back of a hand hits Tim's arm, "your girlfriend's makin' eyes at you."
Tim rolls his eyes.
"No, I'm serious." Carter, who has no compunction against openly staring, gives him another nudge. Tim looks, hoping that cooperating will make his friend fuck off. Now this really reminds him of a middle school dance. All that's left is for everything to get shut down early because someone got caught smoking weed in the bathroom.
Carter's right; she is looking at him. But there's no coy glancing over and then away. This is a solid, unblinking stare. Lena holds a bottle in one hand, letting the other rest at her side. The hand not holding a bottle is discreetly but urgently waving him over.
With a nod to Carter, who gives him an I-told-you-so look, Tim goes to investigate.
When he's a couple feet away, Lena's face lights up in exaggerated surprise and she launches herself towards him.
"Tim! Hey!" Her arms stay locked around his shoulders and her body presses against his, thigh to chest.
What the fuck? "Hey." He hovers an arm a moment before setting it on her back.
She yells in his ear, just loud enough to be heard over the music, "Play along. Iwilldoliterallyanythingforyoujustgetmeoutofthis."
Tim says a quick 'yup' and lets go.
"Justin," Lena turns to clipboard guy, smiling, all teeth and no sincerity. "This is Sergeant Gutterson. He's special operations."
"Actually –" The smile stays glued in place, but there's a soft pressure on his toes.
"Oh," Lena interrupts, feigning guilt, "I'm really not supposed to say that kind of thing." She puts her fingers over her mouth and winces at Tim. "Oops."
She takes her foot off his but not before giving one last warning press. Play along dammit.
"I thought you special operations guys were all six five and looked like lumberjacks."
Tim looks Clipboard Douche up and down. He's taller than Tim by a couple inches, wearing a leather jacket and a pair of 'combat boots' that, judging by the shiny red color, came from Rodeo drive rather than a BX. The overgrown beard he's sporting looks more hipster than lumberjack though.
Tim gives him another meaningful once over and says flatly, "Yeah, that's a fantasy a lot of people have."
The Douche's mouth tightens. Tim doesn't have the patience for a dick measuring contest.
"Hey Lena, the Colonel wanted to see you." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder in emphasis.
"Oh shit! I'm so sorry I forgot!" Lena turns to Clipboard Douche. "I'm late, but I hope you have fun while you're here!" She scurries off towards the exit, and Tim follows.
"You know, you could have just told him you had a meeting," Tim says when they're outside. "You didn't need me for that."
"Yeah, Clarence already used that excuse," she snaps. Lena hadn't looked to be in a good mood before, but the sharp anger is a surprise. "Besides, he was one of those…some guys just make a scene if you don't want to talk to them."
"Well who gives a shit if there's a scene? Just tell him to fuck off. All of them are gone tomorrow." Tim doesn't really understand. The whole thing was incredibly simple.
"Look, you're a guy. This is how it is for the rest of us. He wouldn't shut up." Her delivery is rote, like a well-worn speech. "He just kept going on and on about his job and where he went to school – Standford by the way – like I ought to be impressed. Like Stanford's so effing great. Everyone knows those little bastards have two chances at every class and cheat rampantly on just about everything. And did you see him?" Lena screws up her face and drops her voice an octave, "'Look at me, I'm Mr. Music Producer and I shit rainbows and girls should want to suck my cock.' Guys like that don't shut up for you; they shut up for another guy." She lets out a huff. "So thanks for being that guy."
"You bitched out an officer in the middle of a debriefing, and you can't tell some asshole to shove it?"
Lena opens her mouth, closes it, thinks, opens it again, and this time when she speaks her voice is flat and her expression neutral. "You know what? You're right. I guess I wasn't thinking. But thanks. I owe you one. Have a good evening Sergeant." Lena turns and walks away without waiting for a reply.
Tim knows better than to follow, but he stays in the road, watching as long as he can until she disappears into the bunkers.
o.O.o
"You. Jackhole." Lena slams the door behind her. "And get your feet off my desk."
Clarence just grins beatifically, not a shred of remorse.
"You abandoned me."
"The plan was that we leave separately. Besides, time was a'wasting." He swivels and stands, striding over to hand her a bag. "Here, these are for the phones," he pats the large pocket on his thigh, "and the tracking program for the computers."
Lena continues to eye him. "Abandoned me, Clarence. I mean ew. What normal adult doesn't get the hint that if someone backs up when you're talking to them that the appropriate response is not to keep getting closer to their face?!"
Clarence shrugs. "Well you could have just told him you had to go."
"No, Clarence, no I couldn't. Because the point was that we both had to just fade out, not make it obvious that we were leaving. And the way that man latched onto people, like a leech from a…like a leech…" Lena shudders at the memory. Lord, his beard was just so nasty. Dark, thick, wiry hair follicles sprouting fish-belly pale skin. "And when I just said 'sorry gotta go' he pretended not to understand and kept pestering me. 'Simply' leaving would have caused a scene." And tonight a scene was not an option. Slimy sack of shit.
The USO is the perfect cover for sneaking around base without being noticed. No one, man or woman, fan or not, is going to miss seeing Taylor Swift. There for the show, the socializing, or a new fantasy for the spank bank, everyone who isn't on some sort of essential duty is in the hangar with the makeshift stage. She and Clarence had both worn the tan t-shirts and camouflage cargo pants that everyone else there was wearing. The key was to be seen, gain an alibi just in case, but not be missed once they left. If someone can't find them, then it will be assumed that they're somewhere in the tan-shirt-camo-crowd. Of course that part only worked as long as they didn't draw attention to themselves.
Years ago, when Lena was in college and working a retail job to pay tuition, she'd had to put up with creepers who didn't understand or flat out ignored social norms governing personal space. She'd originally chosen a lingerie boutique because she thought most of the clientele would be women. Unfortunately, there'd been too many men who were 'out shopping for their wives.' And to keep her job she'd been forced to smile and play nice and accept or pretend not to understand the comments she so often got from customers. The fact that it was expected that she would put up with that sort of behavior had been galling. Every day a man walked through the front door an instant lump of hot hatred would appear in her stomach. Once she left that job she'd sworn to herself that she'd never put up with it again, even if it meant getting fired.
And yet, because she didn't want to make a scene – and somehow that smarmy bag of dicks had sensed it, or maybe he just thought all personnel were supposed to 'behave' – she'd had to put up with another creeper invading her personal space and making borderline lewd comments. But it was her mission she had to protect, and therefore she had no one to blame but herself for putting up with it.
Before leaving Lena's bunker, they each don a jacket and hat to match the pants. Lena throws her hair into a bun, coats her hair liberally with hairspray, and tucks it under her hat. They each shove a couple pairs of latex gloves in their pockets. To anyone who runs into them they'll just look like the poor bastards who had to work tonight, not the government employees skulking around where they shouldn't. She gives Clarence one last withering glare, turns on her heel, and goes back out the way she came. She doesn't hold the door for him and takes some small satisfaction when it closes in his face. Jackass.
Clarence and Lena are still careful as they make their way through the offices. Luckily the plan is sound and, as predicted, everywhere is empty. The cluster of containers that housed the offices of GenCorp are marked with a small sign. 'Elite soldiers, Loyal protectors' was printed just under the company name. Lena snorts at the second part. That remains to be seen. Each office gets three bugs (one in the phone and two hidden as near the desk as possible) and a key-logger/activity tracking program is installed on all computers. The whole process takes less than an hour, after which Lena returns to her own office and calls Oona to confirm reception of all signals and to have her start recording everything onto one of the servers.
Lena leans her elbows on her desk, thumbs pinching the bridge of her nose. A drink would be nice right about now. But even if she had a bottle of wine, she knows the times a drink sound good are the worst times to have them. She should go to bed. Instead she pulls a set of keys from her pocket and unlocks a file drawer.
Al'Bashir is dead and Qasim is in the wind, but there's one more name on her list, and Lena is determined to make the third time a charm.