After Action

Capt. Hudson Psychiatric Log (Sept. 20) [DRAFT]

The following Mandatory Psychiatric Log Entry was found auto-saved as a draft in Captain Hudson's Air Force email account. It is believed he intended to send it.

I can't do this anymore. 

I've been asked twice in the past week to almost destroy a city. No one should be asked to do that. 

I hesitated to turn my key the first time. If we hadn't received the stand-down order the second time, I don't know if I could have gone through with it. 

The Air Force should have never given me this post. 

Since I hesitated, I worried Amy might say something to command. You guys might be looking into it right now, reviewing past assignments, reading after-action reports. Maybe you've even talked to Daniel. 

I'll save you the trouble. 

Two years ago, I got the order to "push the button." Back then, the button was the fire control stick on a C-130 gunship. I was in Iraq and we got word of a possible high-level ISIS meeting in Mosul. 

As missions go, this was stupid easy. There was a compound on a large plot of land, no other houses or hospitals or schools to get in the way. Army Rangers were on the ground and confirmed that the ISIS commanders had arrived. A single 105mm round was all that was needed. 

As the fire control officer, I watched our approach on the black-and-white FLIR monitor (warm bodies in white, cold surfaces in black). It was dusk, around rush hour. I saw warm car engines float down streets, appearing like white ghosts through the infrared camera. The neighborhood began to thin out, the buildings grew further apart.

"Two minutes," Captain Sadler, our pilot, said in my muffled headset. "We should be in visual range shortly."

The left side of the plane suddenly lifted as the pilot eased us into a lazy circular flight path around the target. I took the fire control stick and began looking for the compound. Even against the ceaseless tremor of the C-130's massive engines, I could feel the twitch of the Howitzer repositioning at my command. There was now a tank canon pointed at this neighborhood. 

"Sixty seconds!" 

I flipped some switches and said, "Fire control safeties off. Load rounds."

Deep in the plane's belly, a team of airmen hefted 40-pound shells into the Howitzer's magazine. It was about to get very loud and very hot back there. 

"Eyes on target," Sadler said. "Fire control, look sixteen degrees right, three klicks out."

Using the stick to move the camera and a separate dial to adjust the zoom, I searched the ground below. "Flight, I think I see it. The building behind that big pine tree?"

"Roger, fire control. But I believe that is a pindrow fir."

I smirked. Sadler wanted to be a park ranger when he finished his tour and was fascinated by the flora of northern Iraq.

"Apologies, flight," I said. "Call it in."

There was a click as Sadler switched comm channels. "Command, this is Yankee 4-1-3. We have a visual on the target. Request weapons free."

Colonel Maddox's gruff female voice answered. "Copy 4-1-3. Be advised, Ranger team is stationed on a ridge approximately two kilometers due-west of the target. They have been advised danger close but would appreciate it if you didn't miss. You are weapons free."

"Roger weapons free. Tell those Army boys to cover their ears." There was another click. "Fire control, you are weapons free."

"Roger weapons free," I said. 

Tugging gently on the stick, I centered the crosshairs over the compound, which slowly spun as our plane circled the neighborhood. A thick concrete retaining wall stood between us and the building, so I had to wait. My finger rested just above the trigger as the compound's open yard and unprotected front porch came into view. 

A swarm of blurry white dots appeared on the front lawn, scurrying back and forth across the ground like bees buzzing around their hive. I paused, considering the dots. At this distance, I guessed they were just over a meter tall. I adjusted the contrast and exposure to get a better view and saw a dark (cold) ball flittering between dots. I saw the faded outlines of a rectangular sports field and two white dots standing on either side, each protecting their goals. 

It was a soccer game. And between their awkward dribbling and lack of general coordination, I guessed they were in middle school. Ten or twelve years-old. 

Children.