Read Online Shadow Catcher by James R. Hannibal - Free Book Online Page B

campaign speech. “Captain Petrovsky is a Combat Control PJ segregationist!”
    Haugen frowned. “You idiot. That segrim . . . that segee”—he polished off his beer—“that jerk could’ve washed you out for violating safety protocols. He’s been looking for an excuse to get rid of you, and you almost gave it to him.”
    Quinn gulped down the rest of his mixed beer while the others whooped and cheered him on. “Yeah, well, he missed his chance.” He ran his sleeve across his mouth. “One more day to sleep this off and then a wake-up and we’re done! And there’ll be no paper tests in between to spoil the mood!”
    â€œSpeaking of sleeping it off,” said Haugen, “I think I’m done for the night.”
    Quinn stood up, knocking his stool over. “As tonight’s lead, I declare one final team exercise: Operation Get Home Without Puking! Six, go and get us a taxi-van.”
    While the rest of the team paid their tabs and made their way to the door, Quinn and Haugen headed for the men’s room. As Haugen put it, “Somebody’s gonna lose bladder control in that van, and it’s not gonna be me,” but when they entered the restroom, Haugen headed for a stall instead of a urinal.
    â€œAw, man, Operation Get Home Without Puking is already a bust!” said Quinn, laughing and slapping Haugen on the back as the big man emptied his stomach into the toilet. “Whew, you shouldn’t have had those fire wings when we first got here. They smell worse now than they did when you were eating them.”
    When Haugen was finished, Quinn made a perfunctory effort to clean him up and then the two of them went to catch up with the team. Just as they stepped outside, they saw their teammates climbing into a yellow van twenty yards up the sidewalk. Quinn waved and jogged unsteadily in their direction, shouting, “Hey, wait up, team!” but the van door slid closed, and the driver pulled into traffic.
    Quinn slowed to a stop, holding his hands out to stop the streetlights from swirling around. “They left us,” he said.
    Haugen wobbled up beside him, staring at the retreating van in disbelief. “Hey, they left us,” he complained.
    â€œThat’s what I said.” Quinn opened his wallet and looked at the lonely ten-dollar bill that remained. “Shoot, I hate using credit for a cab.”
    â€œYou don’t have to,” said Haugen. “My truck is right over here.”
    â€œWe can’t drive, you idiot. We’re drunk.”
    â€œWrong. You’re drunk. Don’t you remember? I just puked out everything I’ve had in the last two hours. I’m also bigger than you. It takes a lot more to get me drunk. I’m fine.”
    Quinn closed his eyes and tried to think. Haugen’s logic seemed sound. He
had
vomited a whole lot of liquid. He was a big guy too, and didn’t basic science say that it took a lot more to get big guys drunk? Still, something hidden in the heavy fog of his alcohol-laden subconscious was calling to him; he just couldn’t make out the words. “Okay, Two,” he relented. “Let’s head back to base.”
    Haugen cranked the engine and pulled into traffic. His movements were solid and confident as he accelerated toward Hurlburt Field. Quinn relaxed. The flash of the white lines on the road began to make him queasy, so he closed his eyes and laid his head back on the seat. “Wake me before we pull up to the guardhouse,” he said.
    Quinn woke to the sound of light jazz, then acid rock, then bluegrass.
    â€œWe need some tunes,” said Haugen, pressing the radio buttons to flip through the stations.
    Quinn laughed and began to lay his head back again, but headlights flashed in his peripheral vision. Haugen had swerved into oncoming traffic. “Look out!” shouted Quinn, reaching out and wrenching the wheel to the right.
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