CHAPTER 8
THIS TOUR WAS DRIVING CRAIG NUTS.
Patrolling the skies in the F-22 Raptor, returning to Al Dhafra Air Base in the UAE after every uneventful CAP (Combat Air Patrol) was so fucking tedious. He resented this perfect machine he’d been flying for the past four months now. It was too beautiful, too clean for his comfort. Clean, because it hadn’t seen real action yet.
He wanted to be on a F-15 Eagle, his usual ride in the sky, but his superiors decided he should be in a fucking Raptor in this tour. He envied his comrades who were doing some real action in Syria, pulverizing the ISIL forces there.
As an elite multi-rated pilot, he had earned the credits and the special training to fly the Raptor, the most advanced fighter plane in the USAF, whose stealth ability was so superior it could completely penetrate hostile territories without being detected by radars, thereby aiding the coalition fighter planes to position and strike before the enemy could detect their presence. But it was like driving a flashy, V-12 sports car and not able to join a drag race. It was the best killing machine the USAF ever had but had not dropped a single ordnance on enemy soil since it had been operational almost a decade ago. A Raptor plane was worth 400 million USDs of cutting edge engineering and still a combat virgin. Unbelievable. He would really love to pop the Raptor’s cherry but it may have to remain so for some time, well, until China, Russia or North Korea started really acting up and only the Raptor can match or outmatch their aerial firepower.
Speaking of cherries…
No. Forget about her fucking cherry already. She’s history. Come on!
Yeah, she was history. In his next RNR, he’d make sure Tommy delivered the right goods. No wonder he was so fucking antsy. That virgin pussy that couldn’t take a rough pounding was not able to eliminate all his blood lust from the last tour spent mostly in the skies of Iraq and Syria aboard an Eagle, evading SAMs (surface-to-air missiles) going after his bird like hungry vultures or shooting down high-value targets. The ISIL seemed to have unlimited supply of SAMs, fuck ‘em.
It was no wonder being in the boring Raptor was making his demons restless as caged sex maniacs. They had a lot more energy left to spend. The Raptor was the most valuable jewel in the USAF’s crown, too valuable both in technology and cost it must be guarded like a fucking queen. He hated being the queen’s bodyguard. He wanted to be in the thick of the action at the battlefront. He didn’t want to be doing almost nothing up in the air but think, think, think.
Of HER.
Andi.
Fuck, he still couldn’t be thinking about her! It had been four months!
——*****——
Andi couldn’t put it off for much longer. Her bump couldn’t be concealed by loose clothes and thick jackets anymore. And the dizziness and vomiting was just too much.
She had prayed so hard that her period was just delayed, but it was only trying to deny the obvious.
She was having his baby.
Craig Walker’s baby.
What a stroke of bad luck! She wanted to hate her body that so eagerly received his seed that night like a fucking guest of honor! Why oh why did her womb have to be so welcoming in those moments?
She had to tell someone of she’d go crazy. What were BFFs for?
“I knew it!” Greta exclaimed when she fessed up over steaming cups of coffee at their favorite café.
She threw Greta a doubtful look. She thought she was great at camouflaging her condition in the first three months. “You knew? How?”
“Well, you started eating like a Sumo wrestler. Never seen you devour an entire family size-pizza all on your own. Who’s the father? Is it Renly?”
“No! Ew! Renly? C’mon! It will be incest.”
“Then who? You don’t date, never mentioned a BF. What’s that, immaculate conception?”
She rolled her eyes. “Ha-ha.”
“Okay, okay, shall I give you my real reaction now?”
“Oh, that wasn’t it?”
“Of course not! That was your cool BFF trying to downplay your major fuck-up. Now this is Greta’s reaction, Greta who’s practically your sister, mind you---Are you fucking shitting me?! No---ooo! No, no, noooo!”
“Shhhh!”
The people in the café curiously looked in their direction.
“Will you keep your voice down?”
“What the hell, Andi? Please, please, tell me you’re just joking,” Greta said in a furious whisper.
She sighed and looked at her best friend seriously.
Greta’s shoulders slumped. “Ohhh shit.”
“Please, don’t make me feel worse than I already do,” she said softly. “I need you, Gretz.”
“Oh Andi.” Greta squeezed her hands which had gone colder than the cafe’s temperature. “Okay, tell me what happened.”
She really didn’t want to talk about Craig Walker again but she reckoned she owed her BFF some explanation if she’d be needing Greta’s help in this pregnancy.
“Oh my god, between the two of us, I’m the one serial dating and you’re the nerd type. If there’s someone who’s likely to get knocked up, it’s me!”
“I know. Nerds are stupid, after all. We’ve too much IQ but below average EQ,” she said in self-deprecation.
“Oh, chica, what are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know…”
“How far along are you?”
“Four months.”
“So, you’re keeping it?”
“I guess.”
She’d considered abortion. In this country, abortion was legal. She had a choice. She was not prepared for this. She had plans, so many plans for her future that didn’t include a baby.
But she couldn’t do it. If her own mother had considered it, she wouldn’t have been here today. Stupid she may be but her mother was not a murderer.
No, she couldn’t kill her own child. She brought this unto herself. Blaming the innocent baby in her womb will not make it better. Terminating it will not make it right. She wouldn’t be able to live with it anyway.
She was strong, but she had to be made of sterner stuff now that she was going to be living for two.
“What about the father, this Craig Walker?” Greta asked.
“He won’t have anything to do with this baby.”
“Why not? He’s equally responsible. He must know.”
“No. I’d rather do this alone, Gretz. I don’t want a complicated life. This baby was conceived from a week of fun. There was nothing involved but consensual sex. I can hardly dump a baby on a man who was only in it for fun.” She was now embarrassed to mention that Craig paid her.
“I don’t agree. He had fun, you had fun, therefore you’re both responsible for the consequences. Men get off the hook easily because we absolve them all the time. It’s not fair.”
She shook her head repeatedly. “I don’t wanna complicate my life further with a man like Craig Walker.”
“But why? He’s not married, is he?”
“No.”
“Then—“
“He’s a soldier.”
“Oh.”
Greta knew her life story, how strongly she felt about soldiers of any kind.
Her BFF gave her a tight hug and shut up.
——*****——
Call it a divine intervention, not that The One up there approved of his inexhaustible blood lust, but yesterday, the situation at the Iraq/Syrian border took a sudden, crucial turn.
ISIL troops conducted another massive, coordinated attacks and lay siege to several towns and a military base in Western and Northern Iraq.
The last of the US troops departed from Iraq several years ago but there were still more than three thousand GIs down there aiding the Iraqi Security Forces and training them in modern warfare. Now that the ISIL was acting up like a full-blown virus intent on ravaging the entire country, more US troops had been deployed back in Iraq early this year. They were demanding for the Hog, their most efficient close air support (CAS) aircraft since the onslaught of the first Gulf War. In danger close air-to-ground assault, the Hog had no equal.
The ISIL forces were brutal and single-minded in their intent to make their jihadist belief a dominant religion. They’d been doing the global media rounds a lot the past few years, capturing their brutality on cam, sending clear messages from various parts of the world that they were a major force and could no longer be ignored. They were experts in guerilla warfare. It was for this very reason that the Hog was brought back into the picture. There was nothing that could terrorize the Muj (mujahideen; jihadist) more than the notorious Hog.
Now the Marines deployed in Iraq needed extra pilots who had high expertise in flying the Hog, but the other Hog-trained pilots were busy in Afghanistan and Syria, too and there were just a few stationed in Iraq right now.
He wanted action, so he volunteered. There were enough trained Raptor pilots at the base, anyway. He won’t be missed.
Thank fuck hallelujah the situation was probably too urgent and serious the commander let him go.
He was dropped off in an air base in Baghdad within twenty-four hours.
——*****——
Needless to say, her aunt bawled her heart out this time.
Frida sobbed for a good fifteen minutes, berating her for her carelessness.
“I’m so sorry, auntie,” she said quietly, too ashamed of herself for causing her aunt pain.
Frida cried harder. However, when she’d finally calmed down, her aunt smiled tremulously. “Well, I guess we’ll have a beautiful niño soon? Your uncle will be happy to know this. He has wanted a baby for so long. Now, we finally have one in the family.”
That surprised her. She wasn’t expecting an easy acceptance like this. This made her tear up. It was hard to admit but she’d been crying most nights the past months, feeling afraid and insecure of what the future might bring. Now she could finally see a direction. She smiled through her tears. Her aunt and uncle had no child together. Her kid would be loved by an extra pair of parents from day one.
“Thank you, auntie. Thank you so much!”
They hugged each other and her silent tears turned to sobs. “Hush. It will be alright. This child is a blessing to us.”
Blessing.
She hadn’t thought of it like that, until now.
Yes. Her baby was a blessing from above.
“Are you going to tell Craig?”
“N-no.”
“But—”
“No, auntie. He has his own life. I have mine. Let’s leave it at that.”
——*****——
His target’s location was relayed by the ground troop’s forward observer. He was on his way to the Syrian Border on board a fully loaded A-10 Thunderbolt II, nicknamed Warthog or simply Hog. Sure, he loved the Eagle, but the Hog had given him the biggest satisfaction as a combat pilot. This was the plane that honed and fine-tuned his pilot skills and combat instincts to the fullest.
Fuck, but he was having a boner as he sat there, navigating the plane over the endless sand dunes of Iraq on a beautiful afternoon. The calm of the desert gave no clue of the mayhem that lay ahead.
How he’d missed this baby. They had quite an interesting history. He remembered many years ago after the fall of the Iraqi Forces under Saddam Hussein to the Coalition Forces, insurgency followed. Iraqi insurgents began attacking US troops, sparking the most violent phase of the Iraq War. The worst part was Iraqi civilians were caught in the crossfires.
There was a demand for more Hog pilots as the Hog was more effective against the insurgents in close air-to-ground combat. But most of his comrades balked at the idea of downgrading from their sleek Eagles and Vipers into this piece of ugly shit. But not him. He was getting bored with the Eagle and he wanted more action. Action he could feel and see at closer range.
After talking to the engineers, he’d expressed enthusiasm in mastering the Hog and master it he did in just a few months. He was that obsessed when he wanted something. He was young then, eager to prove his valor, and valor to him meant flying close to the ground, high-fiving the enemy in the face with vicious firepower.
The ground troops loved this clunker. It was their savior every time, like an on-call 911 rescue team. Unlike the other fighter planes which were launched from battleships and air bases with long strips, the Hog can stand by at Forward Operating Bases (FOB) in far-flung areas and would be airborne within minutes due to its short takeoff and landing capability. It was designed specifically for Close Air Support for the troops in the thick of battle on the ground and it can fly low enough and aim at small hostile targets even within 100 meters of friendly forces. In short, it was a flying tank with extra firepower.
For three years as the insurgency in Iraq raged, he was one of the most feared pilots flying this tankbuster from hell and his name resonated in the desert. He was the insurgent’s worst nightmare and they called him the War Thug. In fact, he was quite popular among the young, aspiring pilots back home, when America was still deeply embroiled in the Iraq War and the people were all clamoring to end the mayhem and bring the soldiers home. They took comfort in airmen like him who was hell-bent in protecting the ground troops with the ferocity of a father protecting his children.
When the insurgency was put under control by the Coalition Forces, he then got a directive to fly the Eagle again in the US campaign to fully neutralize the Taliban stronghold in Afghanistan. As much as he loved the Hog, they had to part ways.
How time had flown since then. This was his eleventh year in the Air Force and the war was now against the ISIL. New enemy. Same story.
His fingers skimmed the control panel reverently. This plane was 30 years old and it looked it, but it had the feel of an old shirt, or old shoes. Broken in. Comfortable. Familiar. It wasn’t flashy nor was it super-fast but when a pilot knew what he was doing in the cockpit, it was a perfect killing machine way more efficient and accurate than those supersonic jet fighters, much like when a dude knew what to do with his dick, not for its size but for its natural abilities.
He could fly this monster with his eyes closed. And he couldn’t wait for the Muj to see it coming at them.
——*****——
So here he was now, about to deliver the bad news to the enemy again, War Thug style. He went solo on this mission, with assistance fifteen minutes away, in case he needed back up. All the deployed Strike Eagles in the Middle East were busy in Syria. Iraq was not a priority at this time. Well, maybe not for long.
The border between Syria and Iraq was a mountain range, a great advantage for the ISIL troops advancing inward. However, they cannot bring in heavy artillery so they relied on suicide bombers to infiltrate and attack communities and Iraqi military camps.
His mission was to destroy one of their new encampments just inside of the Iraq border which they used as their own Forward Operating Base (FOB) to supply ammunition to their troops already in place inside of Iraq. A contingent of Iraqi Forces was a kilometer away, trying to foil the advancing ISIL troops but they were losing the battle. Poor boys needed the Hog big time.
He’d been warned that the ISIL Mujs had a small greeting committee armed with tanks they’d seized from an Iraqi border camp. His baby might be welcomed with a nasty wallop. Not that it would deter him from his mission as he was sitting inside a cockpit fortified by 3.8 cm thick Titanium. Ah well, he had his own welcoming committee of Mavericks to greet them Assalam Alaikum!, as well.
The camp was protected by a steep rocky cliff, soaring high above ground. That meant he had to make this dinosaur move like a fucking Raptor on a vertical rise or turn sharply sideways or he’d crash his ass on the cliff right after the Avenger had said Long Live America! to their bloodthirsty asses. Not a good way to go.
The trusty Targeting Pod, the camera attached to the right wing of the Hog was able to capture target images from miles away. It gave him a decent visual of his quarry.
Five tanks out front, some fifty meters from the camp.
A MANPAD (Man-portable Air-defense System) missile immediately came to say hello, proof they were quaking in their hairy balls to see the Hog. They were wasting valuable ammu way too fast already. Idiots. He'd received far more heated welcome from the Talibans two tours ago.
He’d bet they were not expecting the Hog to be back in Iraq for sure as there was a well-publicized debate for the Hog to be retired last year by the USAF to be replaced by the F-35 Lightning.
Well, not just yet, mofos!
Now MANPADs were the Hog’s worst irritants as the Hog was not as fast as the Eagles and Vipers to easily evade the little buggers. He released a flare to lure the infrared-guided missile away but it was tenacious. Resistant to flares. More likely third generation. The ISIL forces had money to burn. He increased altitude and dropped another flare then he swerved the plane away and reduced engine power. The bugger got confused and hit the flare.
Now, that was not cool, you fuckers. My turn.
He warned the Iraqi ground troops he was firing a Maverick. The enemy had to be paralised fast. He didn’t know how many MANPADs they can unleash and he didn’t have a wingman or back-up to watch his ass.
He popped a Maverick. Just a few seconds and the screen showed he hit dead-on. He then dove head on, unleashing the Avenger, that 7-barrel Gatling gun attached to the Hog’s nose, his favorite in the Hog’s arsenal.
Fuck yeah!
It almost felt like coming. The rush was unbelievable.
He'd missed this. The sensations were surreal. It was like sitting on a giant jackhammer. He could feel every vibration as the weapon unloaded rounds of cannon, the smoke coming right at him as he was flying at a steep angle to the ground. It beat firing at long range from the Eagle anytime.
He tilted the plane and made a sharp turn to the right, avoiding collision with the cliff.
He returned for another burst of Brrrt. He could hear it faintly through the thick glass of the cockpit. How he’d missed the sound of that, too.
He came back again for the finale— obliterate the encampment.
Another MANPAD tried to nip his baby’s butt. Fuck, but they can try harder. Worse shit had tried to blow his ass off in the air. He disposed of the missile and fired another Maverick.
That should finish the job.
The Hog vibrated after the explosions as it was flying so low and not fast enough to get away from the shock waves of the detonating bomb, making him feel alive in the middle of death.
When he came back, there were no more MANPADs coming at him.
The ground troops were happy with his handiwork.
Minutes later, as he was flying back to the base, he felt a sense of calm as his adrenaline cooled down.
He closed his eyes.
One with the sky and the desert. His home.
He saw her face. That’s home.
He opened his eyes abruptly.
Fuck me.
——*****——
As her belly grew each day, her love for her unborn child blossomed.
She felt contrite for even considering abortion to make an easy way out.
Despite her rough childhood living with an irresponsible mother, she grew up in a country where life was generally precious. The Filipinos were predominantly Catholics and abortion was a mortal sin. Sadly, it was one of the reasons why the country was over-populated. Lots of folks over there made babies indiscriminately and didn’t believe in birth control. But even then, despite the hand-to-mouth existence of many of its citizens, a baby, even an unplanned one was considered a blessing from God for most Filipinos. It was an irony really. But she’d rather suffer the practical consequences of being a single mother than carry the guilt in her soul forever.
So she was keeping her baby, raising it on her own. Her Aunt Frida and Uncle Reno supported her all the way. Even Renly offered to marry her to save her the embarrassment but she gratefully declined. She and Greta had already started shopping for baby clothes. With a solid support group like that, she was able to go through with her pregnancy with ease.
She’d didn’t enroll this second semester. She would return to her studies next year.
She didn’t know how she would make ends meet for her and her baby but she would do her best even if she had to work three jobs every single day. She had to be strong. This was a fight she needed to win, for her and her child.
She wondered where her baby’s father was now…
Oh, she tried so hard to avoid thinking about him but it was no use. The memories of Craig Walker grew alongside her belly. He was unforgettable, a big shooting star that passed through her life, fast and gone too soon, but he left some really good memories in the very short time they’d been together; one of them was a permanent one. So, she’d allowed herself small moments with him.
She didn’t know exactly how she felt about him, only that there was a constant ache in her heart now that wasn’t there before, a bittersweet feeling of sorts.
It was foolishness to even think that they will see each other again. Informing him of her situation just didn’t appeal to her. She cringed at the thought of dumping a kid on him created from their very brief sexual encounter. It was unfair to him. He didn’t want that kind of baggage and he was fairly clear about it, too.
No. Just no.
Maybe one day, when things were better, when she was already financially comfortable, so Craig won’t think she was just after his money or child support…maybe she would see him. Maybe when her child was already five or six years old, she would introduce him to his father, so he won’t feel any serious identity crisis growing up, like she did.
But that would be years into the future yet. For now, she must focus on giving birth.
She just prayed that Craig was safe, wherever he was.
Always.
——*****——
He saw the smoke shells fired by the Iraqi soldiers to mark his target. They were engaged in a mad battle with some estimated 50 ISIL Mujs in the ravaged city of Fallujah and probably a hundred Dulaim Sunni militias who had aligned themselves with the former. He didn’t ever want to come back to this place for the same mission but as fate would have it, here he was again.
The ISIL soldiers were holed up in an abandoned building and had been exchanging fires with the Iraqi Security Forces since yesterday. They were clearly in a do or die mission. He was here to make the latter happen.
Since the US Forces had pulled out years ago, JTACs (Joint Terminal Attack Controller) were no longer deployed in Iraq to accurately direct combat pilots towards their targets. The Iraqi forward observer called for fire at danger close in a community area. That meant the friendly forces were just 100 meters away or so. The worst thing that can happen to a pilot was miss his target and kill friendly forces, or worse, innocent civilians instead of the enemy. It happened in the past. He had to fly the Hog very low to be accurate. He couldn’t use missiles in danger close assaults. That will most likely hurt both the enemy and the friendly troops.
He dropped to 500 feet and unleashed the Avenger, showering a mist of little cannons on the building’s perimeter. Smoke billowed, covering the entire structure in seconds.
He returned shortly. He saw three vehicles leaving the building. He sprayed them over. The Avenger bullets can destroy tanks in a single burst. Trucks didn’t stand a chance.
He returned and waited to see if things still moved around the smoked area.
He sprayed on the building one more time to make sure the friendly troops down there got to sleep tonight.
He heard the forward observer acknowledge the fires. He made the standard response.
In the background he heard the Iraqi troop’s jubilation.
Mission accomplished.
In just under a week, he had destroyed an ISIL camp near the border, pulverized an enemy unit traveling toward central Iraq in the tanks they’d seized from an Iraqi base camp, and just a while back, toasted around 50 of their lot and some.
His kill record in this tour would impress his superiors.
That should calm him.
It should.
But he was feeling another kind of restlessness.
Something he was now truly afraid to acknowledge.
For the first time in a decade, he couldn’t wait to leave the desert.
He sighed harshly and returned to the nearest FOB to await another call for assistance.