DEADLY DILEMMA by Dan Stratman (story read aloud .txt) 📗

A fluffy black-and-tan Yorkshire Terrier ran up, bouncing up and down like an over-caffeinated four-year-old.

“Silo!” Cyndi shouted with equal excitement. “How are you, girl? I missed you.” She scooped up her dog and gave her a big hug. Silo began furiously licking Cyndi’s face when she headed toward a certain cabinet in the kitchen. She opened the cabinet door and grabbed a bag of Purina, pouring out a small helping in the dog bowl. “Bon appétit.” Silo dove in before the bowl even hit the floor. Cyndi dumped out the old water from the second bowl and refilled it.

After Silo was taken care of, Cyndi pulled a frozen enchilada dinner from the freezer and popped it into the microwave. When the timer went off, she pulled the steaming meal out and gingerly transferred it to her kitchen table as quickly as possible before burning her fingers.

Cyndi stabbed at the unappetizing blob of Mexican food while she watched a young anchor with KGWN read the evening news. The lead story was about the city council approving the budget for an additional snowplow. Big news in a small town.

After taking a few bites, she pushed the tray away. She looked around her small, sparsely furnished apartment. On a coffee table were wooden models of an Apache helicopter and an F-35 Lightning II. Next to them was a faded picture of her father posing on the boarding ladder of an F-15 Eagle. In the photo he was clutching his flight helmet under his arm. His confident pose exuded his usual fighter pilot swagger.

There was no question she was her father’s daughter. From her steel trap of a mind to an ego she had to work to keep in check, Cyndi was most definitely Brock “Razor” Stafford’s daughter. Even the resemblance was striking. Cyndi dwelled on the picture for a moment then let out a heavy sigh. A single tear trickled down her ivory cheek. She got up and tossed her dinner in the trash.

Cyndi marched off to her bedroom, emerging a few minutes later wearing baggy gray sweatpants emblazoned with large block letters spelling out USAF. A tight white spandex tank top, pink Nikes, and black fingerless exercise gloves rounded out her outfit.

Cyndi stormed into the modest workout room in the basement of her apartment complex. She jumped on the stationary bicycle and cranked the resistance up to the max. After ten grueling miles, she did a set of twenty reps at each station of the weight machine. Next, she attacked the heavy bag hanging from a chain attached to the ceiling. It was the size of a water heater and covered in faded, peeling leather. She unleashed devastating kicks and punches on the hapless bag, splitting open duct tape that had held together a previous split.

Ten minutes later, she slumped down to the floor and leaned against the wall, drenched in sweat. Cheyenne was almost one thousand feet higher in elevation than Denver. The thin air left her lightheaded and gasping for oxygen. Cyndi closed her eyes and forced herself to moderate her breathing. Once it had returned to normal, she stood up and gave the bag one more powerful roundhouse kick for good measure.

Back in her apartment, she cranked up the temperature in the shower as hot as she could stand it. Slowly, the steam bath washed away the tension in her muscles. Sweat and Wyoming dust were swept away by the soothing spray. But no matter how hot she got the water or how many gallons she wasted, the guilt that haunted her refused to drain away.

Cyndi gave up and got ready for bed. She changed into a T-shirt adorned with a rendering of Pistol Pete, the U of W mascot. She’d snatched it out of the air at a basketball game when it was shot into the stands from an air cannon.

She nestled under a thick, down-filled blanket and flipped open a thriller novel by her favorite author. Silo lay curled up at the foot of the bed.

Just as she began to drift off, her iPhone rang. She rolled over and looked at the Caller ID on the screen. “Oh crap.”

Chapter Nine

She tapped the screen. “Hello.”

“Hi, pumpkin. It’s your mother calling. I’m still alive in case you’re wondering.”

“I’m so sorry. I meant to call you back.”

“You scared the daylights out of me.”

“I didn’t know it was a false alarm when I called you this morning. We only learned that later. It’s been crazy all day. They locked down the base. No phone calls were allowed in or out after that.”

Silo got up, extended her front legs, and arched her back. She came over and snuggled up next to Cyndi.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay,” her mother said in a passive-aggressive tone Cyndi had heard many times before. “Your tour in the missile command,” she said the words as if they were the name of some awful disease, “will be over soon. I know we’ve talked about it before, but…”

“Mom, don’t start with that again.”

“You’d be perfect for the job. What else would you do when you get out? I can’t imagine there’s a huge demand in the business world for employees who specialize in vaporizing the competition.”

“My job is called missile combat crew commander. And there’s a lot more to it than just that. Besides, I’m not interested in taking over Dad’s job running the flight school now that he’s gone.”

“Business is really booming. I could sure use the help.”

“Sell it then. Move to Florida. Enjoy life.”

“I couldn’t do that. You know me, always have to stay busy.”

“Get Stevie to help out then. He certainly has the time.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t ask your brother to help. You know how stress upsets him.”

“No, we wouldn’t want to upset poor Stevie.” Cyndi took a calming breath. “When I get out, maybe I’ll look for a job here.”

“Wyoming?”

“It’s not so bad. There’s a sort of rugged, untamed vibe here. It’s like stepping back in time. People look you in