After Action

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

We landed an hour later. I was actually surprised there weren't any MPs waiting to arrest me. It was just Daniel, pissed that one of his birds had failed to perform. I don't even remember what I said to him.

I went straight to the barracks, showered, and then went for a run around the base's perimeter fence. My anxiety needed a physical outlet.

So I ran. My legs and lungs burned. I focused on the pain and the ground ahead of me. Running was like a sponge for my fears and worries, soaking up all of the thought and attention until there was none left. None to focus on what I'd done.

Daniel found me as I was passing the runway.

"I found your problem," he said, holding out a length of frayed wires. "Wanna explain this?"

I put my hands on my knees, catching my breath, trying to think. "What is it?"

Daniel searched my face, gauging my surprise for its authenticity. "Mark?"

I was always a terrible liar. Trying to keep up the charade would only delay the inevitable. "What happens now?"

To my surprise, Daniel's face relaxed. He looked around but we were practically alone on the runway. "I submit a report that the fire control station wiring needs to be replaced. And, maybe, I include the fact that they were manually pried from the console."

"I see."

"Just tell me why you did it."

So I did.

He listened patiently, nodding along with my story. When I finished, he just looked down at the asphalt, kicking some errant pebble off the tarmac. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked me in the eyes. "Alright then. I'll get this wire replaced. These birds are due for a retrofit anyway."

His business concluded, he turned to leave.

"Daniel!"

He paused and looked back.

"Did they send another bird?" I asked. "To finish the mission?"

Daniel turned his gaze over the runway. A fleet of fighters, helicopters, and heavy aircraft sat in neat rows, stretching nearly to the horizon. "They scrambled another C-130 but the meeting broke up before they could make it. The Rangers tried to follow but they were too far out."

I nodded, uncertain how to feel about that. The soccer team had escaped death. But so had ISIS commanders.

"You should put in for a transfer," Daniel said.

The underlying truth of those words stung. There's nothing more painful than telling another soldier they were incapable of performing their duty. 

"I will."

Daniel gave me a curt nod. "Alright then. I'll get these wires ordered."

After that, I flew a few more missions. They were mainly support fire missions for ground units – not much moral ambiguity there. Daniel avoided me on the tarmac and in the mess hall. A few weeks later, I got transferred to a non-combat flight outfit in Germany. Project Visigoth picked me up a year later. Sadler must have impressed them with tales of my calm professionalism in combat. Apparently, they never thought to interview the maintenance crew chief. 

They (a plain-clothes gentleman from "a special sub-branch of the Defense Department") recruited me with a promise: I was going to be the front-line defense of our country. Missiles could fly across the world in a half-hour. The Military needed a nimble solution, not bogged down by the political calculations of an elected official. 

I arrived on this island believing this to be true. I arrived fully confident that I could fulfill my duty when called upon. But in less than a week, I've almost vaporized a city twice for, ultimately, no good reason. 

For a long time, my biggest fear is that I wouldn't be able to "push the button" when the order comes through. Now, I fear that I will.

As a C-130 gunner, firing on terrorists was pretty easy. Not a lot of guilt when you're killing people actively shooting at your own soldiers. But this is different. How can we justify th–

<DRAFT ENDS>