After Action

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

I caught my breath as the cold realization took root in my chest.

Kids.

Kids playing soccer.

"Fire control, I see a clean shot," Sadler voice said in my headset.

My response was instinctual. "Roger."

I counted twelve kids. Two goalies and two teams of five running back and forth. I zoomed in tighter and adjusted the contrast. A handful of women sat on the porch, their bodies uniformly covered in burqas.

A quick movement caught my eye. One of the kids kicked the ball to the opposite side the field. The goalie realized too and the ball bounced against the back of the net. The women stood up and clapped and the kicker's team rallied around him.

"Fire control, we're losing our window."

Sadler's voice snapped me back to the present.

We had cruised nearly halfway around the compound. A second retaining wall would soon swing in between my canon and the building.

I knew the rules. These targets were classified "Tier One." The Air Force would never openly admit it, but a handful of kids would be a small price to pay to wipe out a house full of ISIS leadership. Hell, we'd probably save more children in the long run. Who knew what the commanders were plotting inside the building? The previous week, an ambulance had exploded in Tikrit, killing fifty people, including a dozen children.

My brain processed that logic and considered it sound and valid. I had my orders. There were enemies of the United States in that building and we had a singular chance to take them out.

One of the soccer players broke off from the game and ran up to one of the women. But then the kid dodged to the right and the woman playfully took chase. She quickly caught up to the kid and they fell to the ground. Another soccer player saw the action and ran to help tackle the woman.

"Fire control, respond," Sadler said, his voice taking a sharper tone. "What the hell's going on back there, Mark?"

"S–Sorry," I muttered. I blinked, regaining my composure. I was an Air Force officer, for God's sake.

I stretched out my hand, extending my fingers until they hurt, then wrapped them back around the stick. My index finger touched the trigger.

But I couldn't do it.

"Sorry, flight," I said, my brain sputtering for a response. "I'm having some problems with my station. I think something's wrong with the gun."

Sadler's response was crisp and curt. "Roger that. We're scrubbing the strike." The pilot knew you that you didn't screw around if there was a problem in fire control. He was flying a mobile ammunitions depot. We take safety pretty seriously.

"Command, this is Yankee 4-1-3. Fire control is reporting a malfunction. Unable to proceed with strike."

The frustration in Maddox's voice was not subtle. "Shit. Yankee 4-1-3, these are Tier One targets. Is fire control certain he can't proceed?"

There was a click on the radio as Sadler gave us some privacy. "Mark, you sure about this?"

"Yeah," I said. The second retaining wall had swung into view, blocking his view of the soccer game. Suddenly, the full weight of his decision sunk in. "The stick isn't responding."

"Okay." Click. "Affirmative, Command, fire control reports no response from the stick."

"Fine," Maddox grumbled. "Return to base. We'll try to scramble another bird before that meeting's over."

"Copy all. Yankee 4-1-3 out."

A few moments later, the plane leveled out and the engines revved, picking up speed. On my screen, the black-and-white neighborhoods whizzed past in a hypnotic blur. 

I suddenly felt very confined. There was no place to go. The inside of a C-130 gunship is dark, hot, cramped, and loud. I couldn't help but think of my control station as a flying prison cell, transporting me back to the base where the ground crew would discover nothing wrong with the fire control system. It was the officer who had malfunctioned and failed to perform his only task. 

My hands absently drifted over my console, then underneath. There was an access hatch to the control stick's electronics. I popped it open and explored the space with my fingers. A band of thin wires ran from the bottom of the stick into the bowels of a plane. 

I didn't give myself time to think it through. I didn't want the logical side of my brain backing out. 

With a yank, the cables snapped free. A red warning light flashed on the console: "ERROR."

Sadler, in my ear: "Fire control, I'm getting a red light in the electrical system. Can you confirm?"

"Flight, I can confirm the warning light," I said. "Not sure what happened there."

Just like that, it was done. 

I was done.