Quake by Andy Remic Page A

this Deity of Hair, this ultimately vain and narcissistic male of the species. And Jam secretly knew that if Fenny had decided to shun his flamboyant locks, to cast aside his self-love and hair-lacquer abuse, then God would have shown forgiveness and allowed him the mane of a lion.
    God punishes those who punish themselves, he mused.
    ‘Hiya, Fenny,’ grinned Jam, slapping the pilot on the back and watching with obvious amusement as his tresses bobbed - as if he were auditioning for a TV advert for the ultimate prodigal pelt.
    Fenny carried his HIDSS helmet under one arm and surveyed the group with a convivial and easygoing gaze. This and other friendly characteristics had earned him many friends among Spiral, despite his love of getting drunk and pouring his pint into soldiers’ laps.
    ‘Your team going to Slovenia, Jam, you womanising old scoundrel?’
    ‘Yeah,’ drawled Jam.
    ‘I think you’ll find that there’s lots of suspected Nex activity in the city of Ljubljana.’
    ‘Possibly.’ Jam grinned, his arm still draped around Fenny’s shoulders. ‘But I think you will find that it isn’t enemy territory until we turn it into enemy fucking territory. Now, I have a question for you, my old friend.’
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘Well, I don’t want you to become tetchy, but every time I see you I always ask myself the question: why don’t you shave off your curls? Get a good Number One, sorted.’ Jam puffed at his cigarette.
    Fenny looked a little confused.
    ‘Why would I do that? Why would I want a ... ugh ... a shaved head?’
    Jam spluttered. ‘Well, mate, it’s just your curls ...’
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘And, and ... the curls bobbing, and the hairspray ... it makes you ... makes your curls ... like ... with their bobbing ...’
    ‘Yes?’ Fenny was grinning broadly but with an iron twinkle in his eyes.
    ‘If he had a pint, I’d choose this moment to take a step back,’ rumbled Slater. He had walked home from the NAAFI on too many evenings with a wet beer-stinking crotch and a strand of stray curl caught between his knuckles where Fenny had been too swift and elusive to suffer Slater’s left hook.
    ‘Well,’ continued the politically inept Jam, ‘I just thought you looked a bit, y’know, like a mad clown.’
    ‘Leave him be,’ said TT, sidling over. She pushed Jam aside and planted a large kiss on Fenny’s lips, making the pilot grin even more broadly. ‘I like the curls. Reminds me of—’
    ‘A poodle?’ suggested Jam.
    ‘No, a real rock star,’ crooned TT. And she slapped Fenny’s behind. ‘Now, are we mounting up and shipping out into the rain, or are we going to stand here all day and exchange pleasantries?’
    ‘Always the spoilsport,’ sighed Jam.
    Fenny climbed into the cockpit and engaged the engines. Jam and Slater grinned at each other, as TT muttered, ‘You guys are just so savage - you gang up on people and try to tear them apart...’
    ‘Me?’ squawked Slater.
    ‘Ha,’ said Jam. ‘That’s just fucking life.’
    They followed Fenny and climbed into the Comanche’s modified cockpit. As a war machine, the originally specced USA Comanche could only carry two pilots, whilst the Spiral Comanche VQ7s had a host of modifications to bring them in line with the requirements of anti-terrorism operations.
    Once its occupants were settled, the Comanche leapt into the air, slicing up through the rain with the satisfying roar of twin LHTec engines, leaping into the darkened iron bruise of clouds and heading south, away from the nearby city of London and towards the dark churning mass of the English Channel. Fenny’s curls bobbed from the exposed rim of the HIDSS helmet in time with the howling engines.
    Southern Europe was still warm at this time of year, the sun beating down from a cloudless late-autumn sky. The Comanche landed in a remote mountain location, trees whipping and bowing under the onslaught of the war machine’s rotors.
    Jam, Slater and TT climbed free, stretching wearily