Tuesday – a day of Mars.
The jet looked beautiful in the daylight, gray steel against gray sky. At night, it would show itself as the bird of prey it was, maybe the dim light reflecting off the hull of the jet would turn it into an almost ghost.
The jet would come in low, its roar like a dragon’s fury. It headed south of us, probably on its way as a show of force. I was proud of it, again, and its pilot.
“Behind you,” came a voice, directed to me. I turned around to see Bryan with a pallet of bombs. I stepped smartly forward. He looked in the same direction I did. “Still dreaming, Goat?”
I guess I was. I shoved the glasses up on my nose again. The Air Force accepted me with bad eyes, but I’d never be able to fly the birds. Which I suppose was all right, though I didn’t want to be a loader for the rest of my days here.
Iraq was an unholy place, and the bastards we went after were barbarians. ISIL, the Islamic State, had taken Ramadi, and we were going to “strategically” bomb the shit out of them. As long as we didn’t bomb what Russia was bombing, we were good.
I went back to the loading bay to get another set of bombs.
[Unknown where this was going]
