There I sat, on a battered oil drum, observing the afternoon by the tarmac. The cigarette in my hand smolders gently as I rock the filter back and forth between my thumb and knuckle. Just a few hundred yards away, a flight of Mercanan F-16XLs lifts off the runway in a minimum interval takeoff. The afterburning engines rumble deeply, somewhat resembling a distant thunder.
Kissinger, Aramina and Guerra are gone. That makes a total of four Mjolnir pilots I've seen killed in action in my time with the squadron, only the latest in a long list of people I've witnessed die in the war: the defenders at Qenton, the crewmen aboard the aerial carrier, the people taken hostage at McNamara...
My gaze slowly drops down, and before long I'm staring at my own hands. The cherry burns a soft red, inevitably consuming the tobacco as it works its way down the roll. Whatever ash it leaves behind scatters with the wind.
... That makes me the only other captain in the 514th, besides Kibble.
I continue thinking about all the things that've happened since I've entered service, wondering if there was any future left for me here, and whether or not joining the Air Force was a good decision.
I wonder if I'm next.
I eventually get up from my spot and flick the butt haphazardly onto the concrete. All that's left was the filter.
Poll