After several hours, I finally finish reading the flight manual for a plane that no longer exists. After saluting the manual, I jokingly set alight with my lighter and walk out of the barracks.
All is relatively quiet. As a group of planes departs on a patrol flight, the screech of their engines leaves me cringing as I realize I don't have my helmet on. Checking my watch, a familiar voice scolds me sarcastically, "You sly bastard. Requesting aircraft acquisitions without my knowledge." I look up to find my navigator, Ian, standing in front of me, holding a paper.
"The hell are you on about?"
"The new Sukhoi in the hangar. Technicians said G-men sent it over."
"Probably not even ours." I begin to walk away.
"But it is. The manifest says out names on it." The rustle of the paper taunts me. I turn around, and take the paper from Ian. It indeed does have both of our names on it. An Su-34 for us?
"Why would they give us a 34?"
"Really, Tosè? Why are you asking that question? The answer is obvious."
I shrug. "Alright then. Get acquainted with it, and I'll pick up a manual from-" another shrug "- I dunno, somewhere."
Ian waves goodbye and runs back to the hangar, while I walk the other direction to the infirmary.
As I approach the doorway, I hear the many voices of my squadron inside, and for once, feel guilty about not visiting earlier. I gingerly approach the door, and peek my head in, knocking on the doorway. "Happy Birthday, Estaloo."
