Carly (12 page)

“You changin’ spark plugs?” Bowie asked after another few moments of silent watching.

The men ignored Bowie. Carly wasn’t so lucky. “Sweetheart,” the white mechanic said under his breath, his eyes on Haskell’s
receding back, “I’d like to check your spark plugs.” Then he gave her a sly once-over. “Anytime.”

The other private just grinned.

Carly froze. She’d been prepared for Haskell’s hostility. After all, when he’d enlisted probably back in the dark ages of
the sixties, women hadn’t yet been integrated into the services. But these two guys were nearer her own age. Had Haskell poisoned
their attitudes or were they naturally just like him?

She leaned closer as if studying what the private, whom she now thought of as Mr. Smarty Sparkplug, was doing. He leered at
her, and she leaned a little closer.

Abruptly, she lost her balance and bumped against him. He tripped on a red metal toolbox just sitting on the concrete floor.
He smothered a yelp as his shin and the unforgiving toolbox collided. And then he was on his seat looking up at her.

“Oh, sorry,” Carly murmured. “I’m not usually so clumsy.” She gave him an innocent smile.

Mr. Smarty Sparkplug got to his feet again. His blistering expression could have stripped the paint off the nearby Humvee.
He swore at Carly under his breath, and then he leaned closer to deliver his next insult. “So, sweetheart,” he jeered, “do
you know anything about spark plugs?”

Carly was ready for him. “Yes,” she deadpanned, “I don’t have any.”
And I wouldn’t show you mine if I did
.

A grumpy silence followed, which Carly didn’t mind at all. Did they think she didn’t know how some men hated women competing
with them? In her last year of high school, she’d tried out for coed soccer and had to put up with the stupid masculine pride
thing. But she’d showed those soccer jocks a thing or two by the end of the season. And if in basic she’d taken what Alex
and her DI had dished out, she could handle this garbage. She just didn’t look forward to it.

Matters settled down for the rest of the muggy afternoon. Carly watched and tried to take in as much as she could without
asking questions. Fortunately, Bowie asked enough questions for both of them, and she memorized everything he said and was
told, and thought of questions she’d ask him later. He seemed to know quite a bit about engines already. But then she recalled
that Bowie had told her his ambition was to start his own garage in his little hometown in Alabama. That’s why he had enlisted.

“Private Gallagher, get over here!” Sergeant Haskell shouted very near to the end of the day.

Carly marched swiftly over to him where he stood next to a huge truck. It was, according to Bowie a HEMTT—or a heavy expanded
mobility tactical truck specifically, if her memory was serving her—a M977 cargo truck with a material handling crane that
towered over her. “Yes?”

“Get up in the cab and drive this truck outside.”

With a sinking feeling, Carly stared at the sergeant. No sense in trying to bluff her way through that. She lifted her chin.
“I don’t know how to drive,” she announced loud and clear.

Haskell gawked at her. And then he swore for a full sixty seconds. Then he said, “You came here, and you don’t even drive?”

“I grew up in New York City,” she replied calmly, not in the least perturbed by his rudeness. “I took buses, subways, and
taxis. Cars are a nuisance in the city.”

“Well, isn’t that just ducky? I suppose you expect somebody to teach you how to drive?”

“I’ll teach her,” Bowie offered, coming up behind her.

Haskell glared at him. Carly knew that Bowie had put himself in the line of fire for her. In boot camp, they’d all learned
never to volunteer for anything. Coming to her aid would not win him points.

Haskell ordered them both up into the cab. “All right—you want to teach her, Jenkin, get started.”

This was easier said than done for Carly as she looked up. She had to climb way up into the cab. When she got a good look
at the dashboard, she sucked in breath. She saw immediately that driving a car looked like child’s play compared to driving
the monster truck.

Haskell stomped away into his office.

“Here’s the ignition,” Bowie pointed out.

Carly got up onto her knees so she could see clearly everything that Bowie was showing her.

“She won’t even be able to reach the pedals,” Mr. Smarty Sparkplug sneered, his comment floating into the cab. “Doesn’t even
know how to drive. And she gets paid just as much as we do.”

“Yeah,” another unseen soldier replied, “and we’ll have to do all the heavy work for her.” These comments were followed by
a general grumbling of agreement.

Beside her, Bowie tried to give Carly a grin. He started up the engine, had her put her hand over his, and shifted to drive.

By then, Carly had endured a full day of innuendo and mocking. All through basic, she’d weathered a storm called Alex and
now the army expected her to go through one to two years of
this
abuse? She remembered Marla’s comment that Haskell always got rid of his female soldiers. Boot camp had taught her not to
react to superiors’ abuse even if pushed to the wall. She only hoped that Haskell would have enough sense not to do that.
She never wanted to lose control the way she had that Sunday in the laundry room. And right then she made her decision.

August 1, 1990

Carly waited about a week for the opportunity she’d been waiting for. Once more, she was in the large garage in the middle
of yet another hot and humid summer afternoon. The platoon was spread out over the garage, overhauling engines on more huge
vehicles: three cargo and troop carriers. From classes and Bowie Jenkin, who’d proved to be an encyclopedia on military vehicles,
Carly knew that the troop carrier used a Ford low-profile F-600 body. It had a Ford-model 165 diesel engine and an Allison
AT545 five-speed transmission.

Haskell was standing with the group nearest Carly. “Gallagher,” he yelled, “get over here!”

Carly walked quickly to him.

“Here.” He motioned to her. “Get up under that hood and take out the air filter.”

Carly wondered if this elementary order was designed to show how inept he thought she was. Did he hope she wouldn’t be able
to find something that simple? Or what? Who knew? Haskell hadn’t let up a bit. But by this time, Carly was used to climbing
up the sides of the vehicles. So she scrambled up the running board and on top of the wheel well, then leaned inside.

With her head under the hood, she felt it.

One of the nearby soldiers had touched her inappropriately and it was clear to her from the sudden, complete silence that
everyone nearby had witnessed it. Shock and outrage pulsed through Carly. She didn’t hesitate. She’d made her decision, prepared
herself for that moment.

She swung around, leaped down from the vehicle, and attacked the soldier nearest her, Mr. Smarty Sparkplug. His eyes flew
open with shock. He didn’t have a chance. With all the skill of seven years of martial arts training, Carly flattened him.
Then she stepped back, poised and ready to continue.

Silence reeked in the large warehouse. No one moved. It was as if everyone was holding his breath. Haskell stood to one side,
his hands on his hips, looking simultaneously murderous and shocked.

Carly finally broke the silence. “Is that enough for you?” she asked in a bored, “I couldn’t care less” tone.

Mr. Smarty on the ground slowly got up, dusting off his seat. Carly moved back and prepared to defend herself again.

He shook his head and mumbled, “Sorry.”

Slowly Carly let down her guard. She looked to Haskell then, waiting to hear his punishment for fighting. She didn’t really
care what it would be. She wasn’t going to take it, and he and everyone else in the garage might as well know it.

Carly had decided it would be better
not
to let things progress to the point where she totally lost control, as she had with Alex in the laundry. She’d chosen to
make her point at a time when Haskell was present so he would know that she would not tolerate sexual harassment from him
or anyone. She stared him straight in the eye.

He stared at her. The silence between them grew and grew. Finally he barked, “Get back to work, Gallagher!”

A moment passed. Then Carly clambered back up onto the vehicle. Relief whistled like a cool breeze inside her. But had she
achieved her purpose? Had she made her point that she would not be harassed or belittled? Would it stick? Only time would
tell.

Ivy Manor, August 2, 1990

Chloe and Kitty sat together watching
Jeopardy
on TV in the cottage where the window air conditioner hummed. As usual, they both kept score of their correct and incorrect
answers and were eagerly waiting for Alex Trebek to give the final question to see who on-screen, and which of the two of
them, would win that day’s game.

Suddenly “NBC Special Report” flashed on the screen, and Tom Brokaw spoke from his desk, “Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein has
invaded neighboring Kuwait, penetrating deep into Kuwait’s capital city. Casualties are called ‘heavy.’ The emir’s palace
has been besieged as explosions jolt the city. Hussein announced he intends to annex sovereign Kuwait as Iraq’s nineteenth
province.” A map of the border between Kuwait and Iraq and the nearby Persian Gulf flashed onto the screen, and then video
showed Iraqi soldiers running through city streets, shooting at fleeing Kuwaiti civilians and what must have been Kuwaiti
troops.

Without saying a word, Chloe and Kitty joined hands. In Chloe’s memory, black-and-white newsreels of goose-stepping German
soldiers invading the Sudetenland, Austria, Poland, the Netherlands, Belgium, and France zipped past as if on fast-forward.
Not again
.

“Do you think President Bush will let him get away with that?” Kitty asked.

“A World War II veteran?” Chloe shook her head. “No, we learned what winking at aggression leads to. I need to call Bette
and find out if she can get more information about what’s really going on from her friends at the CIA. What if they take our
embassy employees hostage like Iran did in the seventies?” She rose and headed for the phone in the kitchen.

“President Bush will address the nation this evening on the state of affairs in the Middle East,” Tom Brokaw finished, and
a commercial for Taster’s Choice Instant Coffee came on.

New York City, August 2, 1990

In Leigh’s office at
Women Today
, her desk phone rang. She picked it up.

Before she could speak, Nate’s voice demanded, “Have you been listening to the radio?”

“What’s wrong?” She turned to look around the office and realized that people were gathering near the TV that sat in the corner
of the nest of cubicles.

“Hussein just invaded Kuwait!” Nate yelled.

“He did?” Leigh’s memory immediately brought up scenes of the U.S. Embassy in Iran during the Carter administration. “Has
he taken the embassy?”

“So far, no. But I’m worried, Leigh.”

Leigh frowned. Her journalist’s mind had begun coming up with questions on the invasion and angles to pursue. “Why is that
worrying you?”

“Because we have a daughter in the army, remember?”

This stopped her. “But we won’t go to war just because—”

“Leigh, we import oil from Kuwait. And Hussein is a dangerous nutcase. He’s gassed his own people and is trying to gather
the ingredients for nuclear weapons.”

Leigh’s stomach went cold. “Surely they wouldn’t be sending Carly anywhere. She’s barely out of boot camp. And they don’t
allow women in combat zones.”

“Maybe the UN can pressure Hussein to pull out.”

Leigh rubbed the back of her neck. She recognized that Nate had no faith in what he’d just said.

“Come home early tonight, okay? The president is going to address the nation, and I’d like us to be together to reassure Michael
that everything will work out.”

Leigh thought of all the work stacked on her desk and her daughter who’d looked so young and innocent at her recent graduation.
Why did I fight with her?
“Okay, I’ll be home early.”

“Promise?” His one-word request jabbed her as if an accusation of her breaking promises before.

She stifled the urge to argue. She didn’t want to fight with him or anyone now. “Promise.”

In the faded utilitarian rec room at the women’s barracks that evening, August 2, 1990, no one gathered around the ping-pong
table. All the women in khaki tank tops and shorts clustered around the small TV in the corner of the room. Carly sat on the
cool, speckled linoleum floor beside the long, well-worn avocado sofa. President Bush sat in the Oval Office with the American
flag behind him, saying “Saddam Hussein’s naked aggression will not stand.” He went on to list in detail all the international
laws the Iraqi dictator had broken that day and talked about the barricaded U.S. Embassy in Kuwait.

Finally, the president finished his address and the talking heads came on to discuss their reactions. More film showed Iraqi
tanks rolling over the desert into Kuwait, a video shot by a foreign businessman staying in a downtown hotel in Kuwait City,
and footage of the American Embassy, locked up tight against assault.

The women sat as if in a trance, all silently watching. Finally, the late night news show came on. The local anchor was talking
to their own base commander about the chances of the deployment of local troops. Still, not a word was spoken until an “I
like the Sprite in you” commercial came on.

War had never been declared in her lifetime. Carly looked from face to face around the room. Did they feel the same sense
of disorientation she did?

Marla cleared her throat. “Well, this could develop into something interesting.”

“Not for us,” Carly said, each word sanding her nerves. “They don’t allow women in combat zones.”

“That doesn’t mean some of us might not end up there,” another private said. “Some of us could be sent there in transportation
units in a support role.”