Ranma 1/2 Fan Fiction ❯ Phoenix ❯ Chapter 12 ( Chapter 14 )

A section of four Delta Darts touched down and taxied to their structures at Morristown AFS.  As soon as the wheels were chocked and the powerplant of his fighter was shut down, Marx climbed wearily out of his fighter.  "God, I'm getting too old for this," he muttered.  An exercise that had been scheduled with VF-84 from NAS Newark was interrupted by some knucklehead in a Beech Bonanza stumbling into restricted airspace, and not following instructions from both the Navy and the Air Force.  The results, at least for the pilot of the Bonanza, were not pleasant.

His new crew chief, SrA Rios, chuckled.  "You're only as old as you feel, Captain."

"Yeah, I know.  Right now, I feel like I'm ninety-four."

"Tough mission, Cap?"

"Yeah, you could say that.  Right now, all I want to do is go home, kiss my wife, and go to sleep for a month," Marx replied, as he loosened his parachute harness.

"Oh, sir, Colonel Reed wanted me to remind you that you have your promotion boards in the morning."

Marx nodded as he rubbed his face.  His contacts had started bothering him on this flight, so all he wanted to do was put his glasses on then go home and relax.  "Thanks, Pete.  I'll see you in the morning."

------

Five years of marriage had been wonderful to him, Marx reflected, on the drive home from the former municipal airport turned Air Force base.  It was ironic, he chuckled mirthlessly, how his life came back full circle.  They'd just moved back into the house he put up for rent after his first wife died, and he returned to active duty.  The 539th Fighter Squadron had been reactivated as a fighter wing in the wake of the terrorist attacks on September 11th.  Even though the Cold War wasn't over by a long shot, air defense for the continental United States was sorely limited.  Several Air National Guard units that were part of Air Defense Command were stood down from five minute alert and reorganized to ground attack and anti-shipping roles. 

In the months after 9/11, several municipal airports in and around major metropolitan areas were acquired by the Air Force and Navy as forward air defense bases even as old Nike missile sites were being reactivated and equipped with Patriot missile batteries.  Marx's reassignment back to his home state wasn't much of a shock to him.  Colonel Bell had recommended him for assignment as the 542nd Fighter Squadron's executive officer.  All he needed to do was pass his promotion review board, and the position was all but his.

As he pulled into his house, Marx saw his wife was home.  Her car was a concession that they needed another car, and something more practical than Marx's antique jeep.  So Ranma was driving around in a five-year old Chevy minivan.  He grabbed his briefcase out of the back of his jeep and walked into his house.  "Taidama," he called, taking his boots off in the entryway.

"Poppa!"  Saburo shouted, running up and grabbing his father's leg.  Marx reached down and ruffled his son's reddish hair.

"Anata," Ranma purred from the stairs leading to the second floor.  "How was your day?"

Picking his son up off his leg, Marx moved into the living room and flopped on to the couch dramatically.  "Long.  The guys from VF-84 gave quite a licking.  And a few other things that happened today proved that Murphy was around.

"So, how was your day?"

Ranma had curled up next to her husband.  "Not quite as exciting as yours was, I'm sure.  One of my professors didn't like my paper on Bushido.  But this guy's a real jerk.  He wouldn't know Japanese history if it came up and bit him on his…mmph!"  Marx took that moment to kiss his still young wife, to keep their young son from hearing a few choice words-not that Saburo didn't hear them when his father was working on his Jeep.

"Ick!  Yuck!"  Both Ranma and her husband laughed at their son's antics.  "I never wanna meet a girl if that's what they do."

The parents of the precocious young boy smiled at their son's antics.  "So, what's for dinner?"

"Stir fry," replied Ranma.  "I'll go whip it up."  The redheaded martial artist kissed her husband before heading into the kitchen.

After the light dinner, Marx headed up to the spare bedroom that they were using as a changing room and walk in closet.  He pulled out his dress blues and began looking them over.  One of Marx's biggest problems was that he'd been informed that he had his boards a month ago, and promptly forgot about it.  But, as a result of informal training he'd received while a member of the Security Forces his first tour in the Air Force, he'd been having his blues dry cleaned with razor sharp creases.  His only real concern was with his jacket, and that was really just replacing the badges and ribbons.

As he took a clean cloth to the badges in the case, his son wandered in, in his pajamas.  "What'cha doing Dad?"

"I'm cleaning off the badges for my uniform."

"Cool.  So what's that one," Saburo asked, pointing to his father's wings.

"Well, they tell everyone that I'm a pilot.  And the star on top of the shield means I'm pretty experienced at what I do."

"That's cool.  And this one?"  Which began a question and answer session between the two Marx boys.  With pride, Marx told his son what each badge and ribbon on his jacket.  Ranma looked in on her men and smiled.

"Saburo-kun," she called, "it's time for you to go to bed."

"Aw, mom, do I have to?"

Ranma ruffled her son's hair as she chuckled.  "Yes little one.  Its time and no buts."

With a dejected look on his face, Saburo turned to his father.  "Poppa…"  His father was no help to the young boy wanting to stay up past his bedtime.  "Hai, 'kasan, 'tousan.  Good night."  Saburo left the changing room for his.

"He'll be asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow," Ranma said.  She began moving into the room seductively, stalking him like a lioness stalking her prey.

Marx looked up at his young wife stalking him.  He could almost see a tail swishing behind her.  "As much as I'd love to tonight, I have to be down at McGuire, reporting in to Wing Headquarters at eight o'clock."

Ranma still managed to drape herself in her husband's lap, her long red hair pooling on the floor.  "How come?"

"I have my promotion boards in the morning," he replied.  "I'd forgotten about it until Airman Rios reminded me about it this afternoon."

Ranma gave her loving husband that smile that said "Yeah, sure," and Marx inwardly cringed.  The last time he'd seen that smile was a year this past December, when he'd been scheduled for alert on their anniversary.  He'd made up for it the following weekend by taking her to the Metropolitan Opera for a performance of "Madame Butterfly", followed by dinner at Tavern on the Green.  Marx had almost cried when he saw the bill for that meal.  Ranma, for her sake, had learned to cut down on her meals, since she wasn't with her father anymore-who, at last report was languishing in a Thai prison cell-but still managed to want three dirty water dogs and two pretzels from street vendors.  "Well then," she finally said, "if you're a good boy tomorrow, and have some good news…" She leaned up and whispered in his ear.  Such a blush grew on Marx's face that he could have lit up Times Square at midnight in the middle of a major blackout.

------

The alarm shrilly pulled Marx out of a sound sleep-and a particularly pleasant dream involving his wife, a can of whipped cream and a jar of cherries.  Opening his eyes, he saw his wife's long hair splayed across his chest.  He could feel Ranma's head against his chest; her arms wrapped around his body; the steady rise and fall of her chest.  "Ohayo, anata," she said, stirring.  Marx wasn't the only one woken up by the alarm.

"Ohayo," he replied, as he kissed her gently on her forehead.

She looked at her husband.  "What time do you have to be at Wing again?"

"Eight o'clock," he yawned.  Marx glanced out the window, at the sky pearling to the east.  "At least it'll be a nice day for a drive."

Ranma gave her husband a very good look as she slipped out of bed and stretched before putting her robe on.  "I'll get breakfast ready while you shower and get dressed."

Marx nodded, even as he muttered "Kawaii."

"So, you think I still look that good, eh?"

Marx slipped out from under the covers and hugged his wife, nuzzling her neck.  "Good enough to eat."

"Not now, or you'll never get out of here on time."

"Okay, okay," he said, and let her go.  Marx smiled as she walked with the grace of a martial artist.  She was, to his eyes, still as attractive as she was when they first met on that snowy December night.  As he showered, the middle aged pilot thought about how his life had turned around for the better.  Sure, he'd given up a decent job with the Newark school system as a history teacher after the death of his first wife, but, in retrospect, it was the decision he made.

"Christopher-kun," he heard Ranma call from the kitchen, "breakfast is ready."

Throwing on his BDUs, Marx made his way down to the kitchen.  With a puzzled look, Ranma set breakfast down.  "I thought you had to be in your blues," she asked, fixing her husband a bowl of miso soup.

"I do," Marx replied.  "It's just that for that long a drive, the jeep plays hell with my blues."

"Then why don't you take my car?"

"I would, but I don't know how long I'll be down at McGoo, and Saburo has that doctor's appointment this morning."

Ranma gave her husband a sheepish grin.  "You're right.  I forget that he was two and a half months early; he's so high functioning."

"He comes from good stock, mainly on his mother's side."  Marx chuckled with his wife.  "Even the OB/GYN at Branch said he was resilient after that incident with your father."  He let any further comment slide when he saw the look Ranma was giving him.  "I'd better get going.  Who knows what the traffic will be like down by New Brunswick."  With a kiss to his wife, he grabbed his briefcase and the garment bag with his dress blues in it, and headed out to his car.

------

Marx walked through the New York Air Defense Sector blockhouse to the Wing conference room, with F-106s doing high-G maneuvers in the pit of his stomach.  The last time he'd felt this nervous was on his wedding day-either of them.  Just today, he didn't have the advantage of a couple of shots of Maker's Mark.  Approaching the double solid oak doors, the captain adjusted his jacket one last time, stuck his service cap under his left arm.  Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door.  "Enter," came the terse command.

Marx opened the door and marched in.  Stopping two paces from the officer of the board, he snapped a salute.  "Captain Marx reporting as ordered."

The board president returned the salute.  "Be seated, Captain."  Marx sat down in the wooden chair next to him.  The wing commander, and president of the board, Brigadier General Rodriguez began the proceedings.  "Captain, this is your first time before this board, yes?"

"Correct sir."

"Please state name, rank and position, for the record."

"Christopher Orion Marx, Captain, acting Executive Officer 542nd Fighter Squadron."

BG Rodriguez opened the manila folder on the desk in front of him, and began the interview.  Questions were asked of Marx about his prior military service records, his education, and prior civilian experience.  And the feelers that Marx was getting from the board were giving him a good feeling-until Lt. Hartnet, the wing intelligence officer, began asking his questions.  "Captain, your wife is a Japanese national, correct?"

Marx nodded.  "Yes, Lieutenant.  I noted it on my last security clearance renewal."

"So you did," Hartnet replied.  "In the course of the investigation, it was discovered that your wife spent some time in the People's Republic of China.  Were you aware of that?"

"I am."

"And do you know why she was there?"

"She and her father were there as part of a ten-year martial arts training trip.  She spent about a year there in the hinterlands of the country."

"Are you aware if she met with any representatives with that government?"

"As far as I know, all she met was with the representatives of an autonomous village in the Bayankala mountain range of the Qinghai province."

"Thank you, Captain," Hartnet said.  And the way he said it gave the middle aged captain a shiver down his spine.  "Just one other thing, Captain.  How old was your wife when you met her?  You don't need to answer it, if you don't want to."

"She was sixteen," Marx replied, flatly.  He never did like the intel officer, and his line of questioning may have torpedoed his chance for promotion, if not the rest of his career.

"Captain," BG Rodriguez said, taking over the interview, "can you go into the circumstances as to why your wife was so young when you met?"

Marx swallowed hard.  He really didn't want to try to explain the existence of magic to his commanders, and the actual circumstances of Ranma becoming his wife.  "Her father, who was her sensei, was an abusive drunk who'd think nothing of prostituting his daughter for booze money.  Her mother had disowned her, declaring her ronin.  In Japanese society, it's shameful to be kicked out of one's family, to the point where a ronin is unable to find employment or education.  That was why I married my wife at such a young age."

"You realize that your wife was not of legal age, don't you Captain?"

Marx looked the wing commander square in the eyes.  "Sir, when Ranma was disowned by her family, kicked out of the Saotome Clan, she was, for all intents and purposes, given legal adult status.  As it is now, she is legal, and we love each other very much."

The General stared the impertinent officer down.  "This board is closed.  Thank you, Captain, for your time.  Dismissed."  Marx stood, saluted and left the conference room.  He was still on automatic pilot when he walked down to the parking lot and climbed into his jeep.  He drove on to Fort Dix, and pulled into the parking lot for the Navy's Inshore Boat Unit 24.  A buddy of his from his National Guard days was assigned there, he'd gone back to the Navy after seeing just how screwed up their unit was.

"Is Chief Desena available?"  Marx asked the petty officer at the desk.

"One moment, sir," he replied, and slipped out from behind her desk.  He knocked on his office door.  "Chief, there's an Air Force Captain here to see you."

"Send him in," the Chief growled back in his Brooklyn accent.  The petty officer motioned for Marx.  He nodded to the petty officer, and walked in.  "Marxy, how the hell are you?"

Marx threw his service cap on the desk and opened his jacket.  "Not bad.  Flying's pretty good.  I'm with some good people, like the section back in Teaneck."

"Glad to here it.  How's the family?"

"Ranma's almost done with school; Saburo's a handful, and getting into everything.  I thing Ranma'll be happy when he goes to school in September.  How've you been?"

"Pretty good.  Jo and the kids are doing great.  So, what brings you down to my neck of the woods?"  The chief lit up a cigarette, and pushed the ashtray over towards Marx, who reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigar. 

"Promotion board," he replied as clipped the end and lit it up.  "I think I did pretty well until that bald-headed prick started asking me questions about Ranma's past."

Desena chuckled.  "Sounds like another bald-headed prick we know from Teaneck."

"God, don't remind me about that schmuck."  The two continued to talk about shop for a while, letting frustrations out that were building up.

------

"I'm home," Marx called as he walked into the house.

"Hi sweetie, I'm in the kitchen," Ranma called.  "How did it go?"

Marx walked back.  "I'll be lucky if I get to keep my security clearance, let alone get promoted."

"Why's that," she asked, walking to him.  She took one sniff of his uniform.  "You've been smoking again, haven't you?"

"Only two cigars down at Dix.  As to why, Lt. Hartnet began asking questions about your past, especially your time in China.  Apparently that paranoid knucklehead thinks you're a potential security risk."

"Why does he think that?"

"Because you spent over a year in the People's Republic."  Marx sat down wearily in the chair.  "This just sucks."

Ranma gave her husband a reassuring hug.  "Does it suck as much as when your father died?"

"That's a different kind of suck, aisuru.  This could be the end of my career in the Air Force."

"But would it be so bad?  You could get a job teaching again.  Maybe even get a small plane and fly on the weekends."  She began rubbing her husband's shoulders.  "Mmm, you're tense."

"Is there any other reason why?"  Marx felt his shoulders loosening up, slightly.  He didn't answer her question, letting it linger in the back of his mind.  "Where's Saburo?"

"He's spending the night with your mother.  Your mom was delighted to have him for the night, and he got to spend time playing with his cousins; although I still think your sister is the odd duck, and our niece is too whiny. 

"Dr. DeBruin checked him over at St. Joe's today.  He didn't find anything that could keep him from school when school starts.  In fact, the doctor was amazed about how much our son is on a normal level."

"Like I said, he comes from good stock, mainly on his mother's side."

"If you knew me before Jusenkyo, anata, you really wouldn't think that.  I was such a jerk.  And," she barely suppressed a shudder, "Oyaji was the best role model I had at the time."

"But look at what you've become since then: a loving wife and mother; you graduated high school in the top 25 percent of the class, something even I didn't do; you're in school to become a teacher.  You've probably exceeded what that lazy panda'd want for you in life."

"True, but since when did this become a discussion about me?"  Ranma asked.  "Let's go get you relaxed.  I have something I want to do with you," she purred in Marx's ear.

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AN:  For those of you who may have seen the model on my Yahoo! Photo page, and had questions about the tail code (I know Viper did), here's the answer.  Up until 1994, Misawa was an air defense base; their tail code was "MJ".  When the 35th Wing moved from NAS Keflavik to Misawa, they assumed a new mission, SEAD, or Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses, and became Wild Weasels.

A Wild Weasel-designated squadron can be assigned to any base, anywhere in the world, so they are not limited to one specific tail code.  It also allows escorting fighters a chance to recognize what their mission is.

In this reality, the 35th Wing did assume responsibilities on Misawa, but the wing maintained their air defense role, hence the "MJ" on the model.