Saving Lieutenant Riley

"Ma'am, we have a situation"

"What is it, private?" General Chwe inquires. Chwe is slim woman in her mid-forties. She looks especially spiffy in her neat uniform.

"Warbirds, a whole fleet of them approaching from the north. And another from the northeast!" a young radar specialist calls out.

"Two fleets? That's nothing to worry about, this battleship has enough firepower to take down ten times as many planes," Chwe reassures them.

"No, it's not us I'm worried about," the private retorts, "About 30 miles north of here there's a small destroyer directly in the path of the southbound fleet. A hundred new recruits, and given how green they are, they'll almost certainly be taken out by the warbirds."

"Let's get to that ship. What's the ETA? Can we make it in time?" Chwe demands.

"Yes, definitely... but there's a complication," the private informs her.

"There always is.. spit it out."

"It's lieutenant Riley, ma'am."

"What about her, she's on R&R."

"Exactly," the private explains, "It appears she charted a Yacht and it drifted off course last night... Her vessel will be picked up by the enemy's radar... and that second fleet of warbirds coming from the northeast will intercept her within the hour."

"How close is she to the destroyer?" Chwe asks, thinking through her options.

"50 miles east... Ma'am.. I don't think we'll be able to save them both. We're going to have to make a choice."

The radar specialist chimes in, "By the time our vessel reaches the destroyer, those warbirds will have reached Riley. And by the time we get to Riley's yacht, those southbound planes will have torn up the destroyer."

Before Chwe has a chance to respond the communications officer pipes up, "Ma'am, I have the captain of the destroyer on the line. I've hailed Riley's yacht multiple times, but nothing."

"Put me on the horn with that captain, now!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Four minutes later the 100 inexperienced sailors were called to the mess hall for an emergency meeting. General Chwe's voice blares over the PA system. "We've no time for pleasantries. The enemy is advancing on this position, and fast. Our analysts predict that without our intervention your chance of survival is 0.0001 percent."

The men gasp and exchange nervous glances. Just yesterday they were packed like sardines onto this boat, and now this hunk of metal could very well be their coffin!

"I know this is disturbing news, but your ship is not the only vessel under threat. The enemy is closing in on another ship, one that is also incapable of putting up any meaningful resistance. And unfortunately, we cannot save both vessels." Chwe shoots a glance at her assistant who presses a button to turn on the projector in the mess hall. Light shines on a blank wall and soon an image of Riley's yacht appears before the men.

"This yacht is manned by Lieutenant Riley," Chwe states matter-of-factly. "Although Riley is the only passenger on this vessel, she is a woman, so we have a very tough decision to make. Saving Riley will almost certainly condemn you all to death. Yet Riley has no chance of survival if we intervene on your behalf."

The gravity of the situation begins to really sink in as the men start to ponder whether a woman's life is worth 80, 100 or 200 of their own.

Chwe continues: "I contacted you because given the sheer number of lives at stake, it is only fair to allow you some input on the matter. This is not to say that your opinion will be decisive. The final decision is up to me and me alone. Nonetheless, I will take your advisement onboard."

"However, before you deliberate on the matter, I want to very briefly put a face to the name. Lieutenant Riley is 25 years of age. She graduated from Harvard in the top of her class, where she was captain of the lacrosse team as well as editor of the student paper. She turned down offers from some of the largest firms in order to serve her country, which she has done in exemplary fashion. She served in the elite infantry squad for two years before transferring to the airforce. During her time on the ground, she rose to the rank of group-leader and racked up an impressive 124 confirmed kills. Now in the sky, she's successfully completed hundreds of missions, and has shot down 48 enemy fighter jets."

"Dude, this chick plays life on God mode!" yells a recruit.

The men sheepishly laugh. A video game reference is really the only way they're able to relate to a warrior of this caliber.

"Yes," Chwe concurs, "God mode. I can see why you would say that. To an untrained recruit, Riley possesses skills you can't yet even fathom. She has more experience in combat than the lot of you will probably ever have, and she possesses enough dedication to overpower the will of every single one of you. So, yes: for all intents and purposes, Riley is fighting for her country on 'God mode'."

An awkward silence sets in on the men. Each of them pondering their relative insignificance when compared to a *real* soldier. Without missing a beat, General Chwe continues.

"As mentioned, she rented a small yacht two days ago. It has drifted into harm's way, and we unfortunately cannot save her unless you engage the fleet of warbirds heading this way without our support. We have been unable to get into contact with her, so we can't confirm her wellbeing. That said, we have every reason to think she is alive and healthy, as just yesterday she posted this image to her Instagram. Put that onscreen please."

The gigantic image of the yacht is removed and replaced by a photograph from her Instagram account. The men react with a collective gasp so loud that General Chwe can hear it through her headphones. "Oh goodness," she thinks to herself, "I think I've made a mistake..."

The men are dwarfed by a towering projection of a bikini-clad Riley sunbathing on the deck of the yacht. She's looking seductively at the camera, holding a mixed drink in one hand. After hearing her many accomplishments and what a badass killer she is, to then see her like this -- her near perfect body lounging on a yacht -- was just too much for the recruits to bear.

A frenzy begins as the men start moaning, their twitching cocks in need of immediate release.

"Can you bring that damn picture down," Chwe barks at her assistant. "You're turning their brains into mush!"

The assistant scrambles to bring the image down but accidentally flips through the Instagram post, revealing the next photo in the series to the men. This one is even more explosive: Riley is now standing on the deck of the yacht, one hand on her hip, the other holding a large automatic weapon. "In case I run into any pirates 😉," the caption reads.

Jaws are falling to the floor at this point. These new recruits still hadn't even laid hand on a pistol, nonetheless a heavy-duty assault rifle. The thought of this sexy woman wielding such a weapon -- one they couldn't even comprehend using -- to tear through a boatload of pirates was just too much for their pea-sized brains to handle. That is, until the next and final picture was displayed on the screen.

Riley aims the assault rifle directly at the camera and winks coyly at the viewer.

"Good god, pull the trigger, pull the trigger!" shouts one man.

"OHHHH!!" screams another as he forcefully cums in his pants.

Some of the men on deck begin chanting 'die for her, die for her!' The chant soon picks up steam, and before long the General can hear it loud and clear over the radio as all the men chant in unison.

"Welp," she turns to her assistant. "I guess they've made their decision. Let's save Riley!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three days have gone by, and Lieutenant Riley has safely returned from sea and is now lounging in a hotel room near the harbor. She stretches out on the hotel bed, reflecting on her relaxing but painfully short vacation. "Gotta report for duty tomorrow morning..." she thinks to herself as she lets out a long sigh.

She picks up her phone and checks Instagram. She posted the remaining pictures from her trip an hour ago. She mindlessly scrolls through the hundreds of positive comments that have now amassed in response to the many photos of her scantily clad body. With 14,000 likes, this is one of her most successful Instagram posts to date.

She places her phone by her side, only to pick it back up a moment later. She stares pensively at the screen, deep in thought. Finally, she opens the Instagram app and starts a new post. Instead of bikini pics, however, the image is a somber wall of text. She types: "I recently discovered that my yacht excursion was put in danger, a danger thwarted by the sacrifice of 100 men abroad the USS Tulsi Gabbard. Feeling very grateful." With that she turns off the lights and gently nods off to sleep.

Later the next day she boards a bus heading to the nearby military base. She opens Instagram and is dismayed to see that her tribute to the thirsty men of the USS Tulsi Gabbard has only been liked 94 times, less than one like per lost sailor. She skims the three short comments the post received.

"Why are you praising someone for doing their job?"

"Glad to hear you're well!"

"Wow -- close call! Keep the bikini pics coming! 😉"

She rolls her eyes before placing her phone away. She closes her eyes and imagines herself back in the cockpit of her fighter jet. The sky is hers.