G.I. BABY (22 page)

It was lost on her. She just nodded. She didn’t want to speak. Couldn’t speak. Her throat hurt from holding back her tears and her chest felt like bursting with the things she wanted to say to him. She focused her eyes on Richard in her arms.

“I’ll call you periodically from the base. It won’t be often, but I’ll call you when I can.”

She nodded again.

“Andi…”

“When somethings happens…”

“Andi, don’t—”

She met his eyes this time. “Will they call me?”

He shook his head. “If I’m seriously injured, they’ll call Bella. Bella will tell you. If I’m killed in action, they will inform Bella in person, not over the phone.”

“I see,” her voice cracked.

He held her shoulders. “Andi, I want you to be strong. For our son.”

“I’m strong.” But her tears fell. “I’m very strong. Richard will be fine and safe when you return.”

“Thank you, baby.”

He kissed her forehead, then her cheeks, wiping her tears with his gentle lips. He bent to kiss Richard’s forehead.

Then he was gone.

CHAPTER
14

FRANCE HAD DECLARED WAR ON ISIL.

Two days after the Paris attack, the French started bombing Raqqa, the de-facto capital of ISIL in Syria. The US and its allies followed suit.

Together with a pack of four Eagles codenamed Trojan 11, Craig led USAF's first episode in a series of air strikes with one sole mission: decimate ISIL with no hope for recovery. Easier said than done.
 

Despite receiving heavy fire power from the French the past days, the ISIL was holding tight on its capital. This group was a monster of the same species with the Taliban but with a different level of hunger and motivation. Wounded maybe, but far from dead. After Paris, the ISIL knew this would happen and they were prepared for the retaliation.

His pack’s mission today was to destroy several ISIL-controlled oil facilities in the eastern part of Dier Ezzor, a province near the Iraq border, the major source of the group’s funding. Cut off the source of moolah, those fuckers would eventually run out of cash to buy SAMs from the black market. But he doubted it. The only way to stop those fuckers was to kill them. All of them.
 

It was hard to understand the motives of this group. But he did his own readings. Understanding the enemy is a key to defeating them, that, he had always believed. However, that was always easier said than done. They were like a giant plague rapidly expanding and ravaging the world with insatiable gluttony and with the cruelty that made heroes lose their balls and cry like babies. They had no particular face. Their leader, Abu Bakr Al-Baghdadi appeared only on TV once and never again. He was nothing like Bin Laden who constantly romanticized al-Qaeda’s bloody exploits with fancy speeches of Islamic patriotism. The ISIL was a
 
religious extremist caliphate and its people advocated the apocalypse according to their fundamental understanding of the essence of true Islam. They were not politically motivated but religiously fanatical. They’d make a kill and claim responsibility as a group. They were all masked, literally and that made them more formidable. They could be anybody.

An enemy without a face was the worst. Ask Sun Tzu.

The moment his pack came within radar range, his HUD flashed SAM sites like hooters’ tits. The Raptors flew undetected over Lima Sierra (the code for their target) for reconnaissance earlier and relayed the SAM sites coordinates to his team. He couldn’t believe the ISIL had more SAMs this year than last year. When he bombed Syria last year, it was a walk in the clouds, literally. He didn’t even think they could defend their territory for much longer after the French rained shitstorm on them, but was he wrong. The French wasn’t able to shut them up, apparently.

He’d seen a lot of this shit during Operation: Iraqi Freedom. This was a motherfucking orgy of SAMs in the making and he hadn’t had any in some time. And that will happen in a few minutes.

They looked like a fucking cheering squad on his screen, wagging their deadly pompoms and shouting
Salam Alaikum, we see you!

Fuckers, I see you, too and I’m not in the fucking mood to cheer you up.

He was still flying high enough out of the buggers’ range and his RWR (Radar Warning Receiver) hadn’t started screaming like a bitch yet, warning him of the armageddon. But once he got within range, those buggers could be already hiding in the clouds, waiting for heat to fuck in the ass. That would be his ass.

Not a good picture. Especially now that he had a son to come home to. And a woman, as well.

Don’t think about them now. Focus.

He called the AWACS freq. That was where a combat pilot got valuable info not appearing on his radar yet. Launched SAMs were undetectable from this distance yet but they could be picked up early by the AWACS plane 30 miles away which was carrying a huge satellite on its back. The satellite had a 200-mile radar range and can pick up all kinds of nasty elements within radius. “Titan, this is Trojan 11 on Victor. Advise SAM launches on Lima Sierra, over.”

“This is Titan. No SAM launches on Lima Sierra yet, over.”

“Copy, Titan. Over and out.”

It was a given, of course. They’d have to come within range of the SAMs to be able to hit their targets accurately. It was a catch 22 that all combat pilots had to deal with every mission flight like this.

The ISIL had been using people as human shields, which made it harder for the pilots to just drop mayhem without making sure of the exact location of the targets, avoiding collateral damage. They were not the Russians who’d been dropping the shit like dumping the shit, uncaring of civilian casualties. But then again, Russia’s motive in this particular war had always been suspect, as far as he was concerned. They just wanted to protect their base in Tartus, the Alawite stronghold of Bashar al-Assad, the president of Syria, a stalwart Russian supporter. They didn’t really give a shit about what happened in Paris.

Speaking of the Ruskies, he was not really comfortable flying the skies with them MiGs, friendlies (for now) or not. As an American combat pilot, the equation was simple. MiGs were Darth Vader’s. He was with Luke and Obi’s team. MiGs were ALWAYS bad news.

The scenario was hilarious. F-15s and MiGs in a friendly mode? Hah! Knowing thy enemy was wise, said Sun Tzu, too. Keeping them close, with an arsenal that can decimate an entire city, or counter the force of the coalition was stupid. Worse, flying alongside them was a Russian Roulette, pun fucking intended.

“Trojan Two, Three, Four, what do you see, over.” He preferred to ditch the codes in his team’s freq. They worked better if they talked plainly, with no fancy codes.

Each of his team reported several SAM sightings, similar to what he was seeing on his HUD.

“Any 6, over,” he asked anybody in particular. The SA-6 was a type of radar-guided missile they didn’t want to deal with at this early. It was very hard to shake off like a gnat with a deadly buzz that would blow an Eagle to oblivion in a flash. Yup, funny analogy? Truth. The Eagle can be felled by a fucking gnat.

Fortunately, nobody saw a 6 yet.

“Alright boys, let’s get this show rolling. Trojan One diving in. Over and out.”

He dropped altitude to ten thousand feet.

——*****——

Andi couldn’t sit still.
She’d been watching CNN and Al Jazeera all day as they covered the massive air strikes done by the French over Syria. It was reported earlier that the US Air Force will start conducting their own air strikes any day now. That would definitely be Craig’s squadron.

“How were you able to endure this all these years?” she asked Bella who was carrying a sleeping Richard. They were sitting on opposite ends of the wide sofa in the living room.

“By not watching too much TV,” Bella replied simply.

She sighed deeply. She tried not to open the TV, but she couldn’t sleep at night. She wanted some assurance that the US Air Force hadn’t suffered major casualties there. To be more blunt, she wanted to make sure there were no US fighter planes shot down over Syria.

She even went as far as research about F-15 Eagle fighter planes. She heaved a sigh of relief that only one Eagle had been downed by enemy anti-aircraft artillery during combat and that was a decade ago, during the onslaught of the Iraq War. That reassured her, at least. Craig was an elite pilot, according to Bella. He had survived the Iraq War. He would survive the Syrian Civil War.

But the nagging fear inside her won’t shut up.

“He hasn’t called yet,” she said to Bella.

It had been a week since Craig left. She’d been waiting for his call every day. Every hour. It was pure torture, not knowing what was happening to him.

“Don’t worry, if he doesn’t call, that means he’s okay. He never called me while he was away. I only got a call when he was scheduled to come home. What I dread most is somebody else calling me about him.”

That wasn’t comforting at all.

“Sorry, hun.” Bella smiled at her with sympathy. “Don’t worry too much, okay? He’ll call you soon, I know.”

She shook her head. “I won’t count on it.”

“Are you missing him already?” Bella teased her.

She evaded Bella’s eyes and didn’t answer. In the past few days that Craig’s sister had lived with her, they’d gotten pretty close. Bella was good vibes personified. Her aura was always positive. She wouldn’t have survived being alone in the apartment thinking about Craig fighting in a war in a foreign land.

“By the way, how did you two meet?”

Heat crept up her cheeks. “Uhm…”

“Craig has never introduced a girlfriend to me.”

That perked her up some. “Ever?”

“Uh-huh. Imagine my shock when he said he got his girlfriend pregnant.”

Craig told his sister they had a relationship? A white lie but one she was grateful for. She felt joy suffuse her.

“We met in a bar,” she fibbed.
Sorry, Bella, I can’t possibly tell you the deets of how I met your brother. I’m getting embarrassed myself thinking about that first night.

“Well, I’m glad he finally found someone! I’ve been asking him for years to look for a woman he’d like to settle down with but he was married to his job. However now, I’m so happy for him, for you both. This little bundle is just so precious. I have a gorgeous nephew. Finally.”

Bella nuzzled the baby’s cheek. “Soooo cute! Mmmm mmmm…”

She smiled. The sight of Craig’s sister going crazy over Richard took her mind off of her worries. It was useless to fight it now. She felt it with every breath that she took yearning for him.

As hard as she’d tried to resist the feeling, she had fallen madly in love with a soldier.

Be safe, my love. Come back to me.

——*****——

The HUD was full of symbols
coming from various types of flying objects being picked up by his plane’s radar which was on search mode, painting the horizon. Lots of them were SAMs.

One thing was for sure, all of them were hostile and would be chasing him in a flash if they sensed his plane’s heat.

Now, if they were radar-guided…

Lots of local folks wanted him fried today for sure.

“Heads up, One! 6 in the air!…6 in the air!” That was Trojan Two puffing like he’d seen the devil himself rising from the clouds.

Shit! They unleashed the most vicious of the bitches early. The SA-6 was a medium-range radar-guided missile with altitude range as high as 161 miles. It was designed to kill Eagles and Vipers. It can engage as low as 100 meters above ground. If one managed to lock on you, you’d better know how to fly like a god to throw the fucker off of your back or you’re toast.

Then his pack were all in deep shit.

“Four, defending 6!” Trojan Four had another 6 locked on him.

“Three, defending 6! Close!”

Fuck, they were all locked on. The fuckers down there could be tracking him now, too, not only by one but many, but he couldn’t see what was after his ass. His HUD was a mess of signals coming in like a blitzkrieg.

He bunted and rolled his plane, doing irregular movements to throw off radar signals, scanning the horizon for the missiles.