Chapter 7
Sector Four had gone quiet. The eight soldiers who had been in contact when the klaxon sounded were eating a meal somewhere, or sleeping, or calling someone whose number they knew by heart. They did not know my name. They did not know about the cracked ribs or the six-mile walk or the pad confrontation or what it had cost to get into that cockpit and keep the hands moving through the checklist when every nerve in my left side was registering its loudest objection.
They did not need to know. That was also the job.
I handed the water bottle back to Decker. He capped it without comment and fell into step beside me as I walked off the pad toward the medical bay, which I had been avoiding for the better part of four hours and could no longer reasonably postpone.
"Doc's going to have opinions," he said.
"Doc always has opinions," I said.
"About pilots who walk six miles on cracked ribs and then fly combat sorties."
"Doc's opinions are noted," I said. "802 is still on the line. Walk me through the post-mission inspection before I go in."
Decker looked at me sideways.
"Casey."
"Roy."
A pause. The desert wind moved through the gap between the hangars. Somewhere behind us, ground crew was already moving back toward the bird.
"Fifteen minutes," he said. "Then you go to medical and you do not argue with a single thing the doc tells you."
"Ten minutes," I said. "I want to look at the port engine seal. There was a vibration on the climb-out that I don't want logged without a physical check."
Decker made the sound he made when he was conceding a point he did not entirely disagree with, and we turned back toward the pad together, and the bird was there in the last of the afternoon light, dark gray and battle-worn and exactly where it was supposed to be.
May you like
Same as it always was. Same as it always would be.
Mine.
