Picking up the Pieces

Bridget looked at the twisted mass of steel inside of the crate with her hands on her hips, tilting her head from side to side. "Typical wasteful Yanks." she said under her breath; but with a satisfied grin on her face. The Chassis and the fuel tanks were completely useless, but they'd left the parts she was really after: the hydraulics, electronics, and fittings. A set of R.A.I.D gear wasn't exactly the delicate balance of parts a full sized jet engine was. Mil Spec designs tended to have wide tolerances for mass production; but a few of the specialized parts, such as the fuel inlets, turbopump, and the Rocketdyne Propulsion Control System that was built into the left glove were almost impossible to produce without specialized milling equipment.

"What on God's Green Earth am I looking at, Birdie?" Doug said, lifting the thrust vector boot quizzically. She hauled the ruined chassis out of the box, flipped it over and sighed in relief. The fuel inlets were still attached, though she'd have to figure something out for the turbopump as it had been damaged from what looked like AA flak. Next, she slid the glove onto her hand. It was of dark brown leather and fur lined, produced by the same factory that made bomber jackets; and when she pressed all four of her fingers into the pad of her hand and bent her wrist, she could tell that the internal RPCS was undamaged. She had what she needed to make it work. Almost.

"You are looking at a rocket pack without the rockets." She said, carefully turning the glove inside out to access the snap button patch the would allow her access to the internal wiring. "Think you can get that off of the engine housing without breaking it?" she asked, indicating the fuel inlet manifold. He scratched the stubble on his neck before running his hand through his hair.

"Yeah, no sweat. Is like one a' those outfielder rigs the Tigers use?" he asked as he sat the boot down, found the seam, and quickly wedged a flathead screw driver between the locksprings. She bit her lip. She couldn't tell him the truth without putting both herself and Elliot in danger.

"Not exactly, its for Cricket. That's why the glove isn't a a catcher's mit." He furrowed his brow, but nodded as if he understood. She was banking on the hope that he was just as clueless about Cricket as most Americans, and it had worked.

"Ahh, yeah. Gotta be able to hold the ...bat? Paddle?," he said; his flawed internal logic letting him form a completely false idea of what this was for. The gloves were designed to be used with the Lee Enfield Triple Barrel rotating light machine gun; affectionately called the L-E-3, or "Lee-3" by the Bombadiers. "Blue Blood sports stuff, eh? Must be pretty rich to afford a rig like this. Whatt'r you doin' with it?" He asked, setting the fuel inlet down and retrieving the heavy padded boot to inspect where the vector thrusters should have been; utterly confused but accepting that it must be some British Dandy thing he just wouldn't understand.

"It's for a rich test pilot I ran into. Private commission." she said, mostly telling the truth. He shrugged it off. Most mechanics had side gigs and under the table deals to make ends meet, so he didn't press the matter. He blew out a breath dramatically, and sat the boot down.

"I'd love ta' help you, doll; but I'm a diesel engine and chrome man. This is like, well rocket science to me. You want it to look snazzy when yer' done, let me know." he said with a hint of defeat, but also a hint of respect for her skills. He started to walk toward the door, and paused. "You gonna be okay?" he asked. Bridget stopped pulling the broken wiring from the glove, and sat it down before looking at him.

"Yeah, Doug. I can't do anything about it, one way or the other. Could you tell Sid I need a couple days off, though?" she said as she turned to face him with a suddenly tired expression. She realized that this project was just what she needed to occupy her thoughts. He nodded in assurance.

"Sure, doll. I'll let him know. Let me know if you need anything, alright?" Bridget smiled and nodded. "Alright, don't blow yerself up in the meantime. Yeesh!" Bridget watched him walk through her door, and back to the work truck. She heard it roar to life as she turned her attention back to the wiring; but her mind was across the Atlantic at the outskirts of Kildare. She shook her head, and refocused on the damaged turbopump.

She sighed, and sat the glove down. "Guess it's time to go visit Johnny." she thought; knowing the Meatheads had the parts she needed.

......................................................................................................

Moira O'Dell bit her index finger as Sean Fallon drove his surprisingly large cock into her from behind. He sat with his legs straddled outside of hers with her thighs pressed together and ass sticking up while pressing her face against the musky sleeping mat on the floor of the _Bloemfontein Castle _with one hand and bracing himself with the other. Her husband Peter lay beside her on the cramped ship's floor trying his best to ignore the little moans and whimpers echoing off of the hollow steel shipping chamber that was cram-packed with refugees. She couldn't help but quiver as being fucked prone made her wet pussy incredibly tight for his hard, veiny member.

"Cramped enough for ya'?" he grunted into her ear as he sought to bottom out inside of her. She nodded in her fuck-haze as he drove deeper and faster into her pale body while the sounds of other women being used filled her ears. The Irish were a notoriously modest and prudish people when it came to use, but the American crew had been making their rounds and had already inseminated a number of Lasses. The free-flowing whiskey the refugees had brought to ease their troubled hearts had certainly helped lower quite a few inhibitions as well; and it seemed at this point that the entire deck was about to explode in a carnal spectacle that she was glad the ship's deck shielded from the eyes of Christ.

An American crewman knelt before her, oafishly wedging his knee between Peter and his wife. "Hey, watch it!" Peter said with a stern expression. The sailor was an ogre of a man with the dull expression and bulging muscles typical of a farm boy; and the crooked grin with matching nose of a person not to be trifled with in a fist fight. He scoffed as he fished his hairy, swollen cock out of his pants and scooted forward. Fallon slid his fingers into Moira's fiery red hair and gripped it tightly. He pulled hard, forcing her to arch her back and open her mouth, much to the delight of the oaf.

Peter wrapped his thin pillow around his ears as the sloppy throat fucking and liquid slap of his wife's spasming pussy reverberated and mingled with the moans and whimpers of his neighbor's wives and daughters. Such displays just weren't proper for civilized folk, he felt.

"Hey!" someone said as a pointy heel poked into his shoulder. Peter rolled over, his face set in a grimace as his eyes traveled up the long, cream and coffee colored fishnetted leg that ended in the flowery, shaven lips of a Navy Morale Officer. She had dispensed with her uniform completely other than her hat and heels, and stood with her hands on her wide hips. "Cheer up!" she said as she stepped over him so that her heels were on either side. He couldn't tell what her ethnicity was. She wasn't quite black, wasn't quite Hispanic, and wasn't quite white. She had high cheek bones and slightly black curly hair with amber eyes and full, luscious lips. Despite his piety, his cock roared to life at the sight of this exotic Creole beauty. "You jus' won da' jackpot, Monsieur... you 'bout ta' become an American!"

He tried to scoot up onto his elbows, but the brute facefucking his wife was kneeling on his sleeve. Instead, he looked up at the firm, large breasts topped with dark nipples and the smiling face before him as she slowly lowered herself onto him. He was frozen stiff from such brazenness even as she quickly fished his cock from his fly.

"Wait, I...ahh!!!!" he said as her meaty, tight pussy slid onto him. His head snapped back as her pendulous breasts swayed over his face, her dark nipples hard and brushing his lips. She lifted her hips and drove herself down onto him with a serpentine rhythm. His hands moved to her large, soft, and shapely ass and gripped it as she fucked herself upon him. He couldn't help but feel his balls swell with semen as his cock glistened in the low light of the hold. In Kildare, his options for diversity were pale with freckles, pale without freckles, blonde, brunette, or redhead. This magnificent woman was wholly foreign and exotic to him, and was riding him like the Harlot of Revelations.

He squirmed when he felt another man's testicles roll over his own. He glanced over her shoulder to see a crewman squatting behind her and driving his cock into her ass. He would normally have bolted in shock, but her strong, velvet cunt seemed to hold in place like a magnet. He did his best to ignore it as she pulled his mouth to her nipple, which he sucked like a hungry babe.

Moira looked over, her body quivering from orgasm as Fallon slammed into her again and again while the seaman held her hair tightly with one hand and violently jacked himself with the other. She opened her mouth and closed her eyes as the tip of his cock danced across her face, shooting rope after rope of hot jizm onto her cheeks and forehead before he jammed it back between her lips to shoot his main load down her now raw throat. Fallon lost it at the sight and buried himself deep inside of her as her spasming cunt met his twitching member to draw the flood of semen deeper inside of her before contracting hard and squeezing it out to form a pool of cum in the triangle of her pussy and clamped thighs before slowly draining onto the steel floor.

Peter watched as the Morale Officer reached over to scoop some up to her lips and lick it with her small, pink tongue. He gripped her ass tightly, pulling it apart much to the delight of the crewman behind her who could now go balls deep inside of her, and flooded her meaty sex with his Celtic seed in thick, liquid squirts that never seemed to end. She smiled as his convulsions peaked and red face slowly turned back to pale white before sliding forward off of him on her knees, over to one side, and drove her cum-filled cunt onto Moira's moaning lips. Peter took in the sight, and in his bliss; he laughed.

"So that's why the Irish go to America..."