Kevin Miller - Raven One

As he and Smoke transited to the southeast in silence, Wilson thought about the white SUV. The insurgents had never had a chance once they made the turn onto the dirt road, not that they had had a much better one on the main road. Who was in that vehicle? Iranians? They had taken a shot at him with a MANPAD. Where could they have gotten that but from Iran ? Wilson could not get the image of the SUV — coming right at him — out of his head. With a cool demeanor, he had placed his 20-mm aiming reticle on it and shot the truck to pieces in one massive burst. They had been trapped; it was as if he had been holding them in his hand and had shot them point blank. They didn’t have a chance. Was it murder? They had shot at him twice, including the potshot the passenger took at him seconds before he died. Was the weapon an AK? Another gift from Iran?

Over the course of his career, Wilson had dropped bombs and shot anti-radiation missiles against fixed targets. Enemy buildings. A bridge. A radar in a field. Maybe enemy personnel had been inside… maybe not. Regardless, Wilson had always slept well afterwards. But an hour ago, he had seen human beings in that truck, human beings that Wilson had reduced to lifeless, and probably unrecognizable, bodies. That guy took a shot at me. This is war , he thought. They were clearly enemies, but they were humans, nonetheless, with human reflexes and emotions. He tried to imagine what it must have been like to be inside the SUV and to see his aircraft looming larger, unable to turn left or right to avoid the bullets that were only seconds away. Wilson could only guess about how close the AK bullets had gotten to his jet… the guy who took the shots must have been a bad mother or scared to death.

Weren’t they all scared kids in a foreign land, like Bowser and his squad, thinking about home? Like those Iraqi soldiers freezing in their bunkers? Maybe so, but these guys were fighting in the shadows, behind civilians, and not in uniform. Getting in the SUV and making a run for it was as stupid as it was suicidal, Wilson rationalized to himself. The world now has two, three, or four fewer terrorist insurgents to cause mayhem and murder — here or anywhere.

The sun was just above the horizon, and Wilson watched it over his right shoulder, his dark visor sitting on top of his helmet. Smoke’s aircraft formed a sharp silhouette against the bright western sky as he flew a loose cruise formation next to Wilson.

From altitude the desert sunsets were often spectacular. Airborne particles turned the horizon a deep red, and sunlight from the now orange ball illuminated the bottom of stratus clouds over 100 miles away, the sky transitioning to a yellow band, then deep blue. Above them, several miles away in the blue, he saw an airliner heading southeast with twinkling anti-collision lights. The setting sun turned its four long contrails into platinum. Wilson wondered, Where is it going? Dubai? India? He thought of the wealthy passengers sipping cocktails in first-class comfort, oblivious to the combat below them. He studied the aircraft a little longer and identified it as an Airbus.

As Wilson contemplated the western sky, his thoughts turned to Mary. Can she see this same sun right now? He realized today was a Sunday. Eight time zones away — maybe she was packing the kids in the van for church. They have no idea what just happened here, he thought, and he was glad that was so. He would keep it that way. And tomorrow is New Year’s Eve back home. Out here, it’s just another fly day.

On the surface, the desert floor was a dim grayish blue in the twilight. Scattered lights shone here and there and the wispy outline of a river— Tigris or Euphrates? — meandered to the Gulf. A large cluster of lights from Basra loomed ahead off the nose, and oilfield flare stacks were visible to the west. Another 30 minutes to the ship… Wilson adjusted the cockpit lighting and checked his fuel.

Soon Wilson’s mind drifted back to Balad Ruz. He reached up and turned the rear view mirror down toward him. His eyes reflected back over his oxygen mask; the eyes of a hunter… the eyes of a trained killer.

That day, combat became personal for James “Flip” Wilson.

Mary awoke the next morning to the sound of the Virginian-Pilot hitting the driveway while it was still dark. With so much on her mind, she hadn’t slept well. Her parents were coming down from Baltimore to spend New Year’s with her, and her plan was to put them up in her room. She still had to clean the bathroom, pull sheets off the bed, do the wash, move her things into Derrick’s room (for three days), vacuum the house, and go to the grocery store. She then had to make something for when they arrived and get ready to go out with some of the squadron girls to a New Year’s Eve party in Lago Mar. When she thought about that… the outfit, the shoes, the small nub of her favorite lipstick left on her dressing table… she wondered, Is that enough for tonight? She looked at the clock: 5:55 a.m. Ugh!

After she fixed breakfast and dressed the kids, she threw on a sweatshirt and looked in the mirror, groaning at what she saw. I hope no one sees me at Safeway . She made a mental note to get nacho chips. Dad is going to watch a lot of football tomorrow.

Damp winter cold greeted her as she opened the door and loaded the kids into the minivan. Fumbling with Brittany’s car seat, she saw the paper at the end of the driveway.

“Derrick, please get the newspaper.”

At once he spun around and sprinted to retrieve it. He sprints everywhere, she thought. How does he get the energy, and how can I bottle it?

“Here it is, Mommy!” Derrick said as he proudly handed her the newspaper. Still struggling with Brittany, she kissed him, asked him to get into his car seat, and tossed the paper onto the floor of the vehicle under Brittany’s feet. Inside, in the “News in Brief” section on Page Six, was a wire service story:

U.S planes bomb al-Qaeda safe haven east of Baghdad

BAGHDAD, Dec 30 (Reuters) — U.S. warplanes bombed a suspected al Qaeda safe haven east of Baghdad, a U.S. Air Force spokesperson announced, the latest in a series of strikes aimed at disrupting the Sunni Islamist group’s operations.

The operation, which began Saturday night and continued through Sunday, involved B-1 bombers and F/A-18 jets. It targeted Balad Ruz, an area 50 miles east of Baghdad.

“This particular mission targeted an area where al-Qaeda laid obstacles in the way of improvised explosive devices and took up safe haven at the same time. They also used the land to send fighters into Baghdad,” the Air Force spokesperson said in the statement. Several houses booby-trapped with explosives were destroyed in the air strikes. Six U.S. soldiers were killed in Diyala province north of Baghdad at the start of the offensive when the house they were searching blew up and collapsed on top of them.

A U.S. military spokesperson said 117 militants, including 82 characterized as “high-value targets” were killed in the operation, including three fleeing in a vehicle that was destroyed by machine gun rounds from an F/A-18 jet fighter.

Upon returning from the store, Mary received a cell phone call from her mother as her parents traveled along Interstate 95. With the phone in the crook of her neck, she removed Brittany from the car seat and scooped up the newspaper, still in its wrapper, and deposited it in the garage recycling bin, never to be read. It dawned on Mary that she had forgotten the nacho chips, and she asked her mother to pick up a bag on the way.