by Doug Beason
Zero-dark early.
It was the middle of the night, but Bruce was wide awake. The giant C-5 aircraft felt motionless as it flew over the Pacific Ocean. The lights in the passenger chamber were down low, and most of the people around him slept.
He pulled out the telegram for the hundredth time and read over the text, an OFFICIAL USE ONLY e-mail:
CAPTAIN BRUCE STEELE 3rd TFS/3rd TFW/13th AF CLARK AFB PI
1. SUBJECT APPOINTED SPECIAL ASSISTANT TO THE AIR ATTACHE, REPUBLIC OF THE PHILIPPINES. PERMANENT CHANGE OF STATION TO QUEZON CITY, P. I. AUTHORIZED.
2. IMMEDIATE ASSIGNMENT AUTHORIZED WITH ONE (1) MONTH LEAVE EN ROUTE BEFORE REPORT DATE OF NOT-LATER-THAN 1 JANUARY.
MILITARY PERSONNEL COMMAND 376
Quezon City! Yolanda had written several times since she had left for school, some three months before. She had said her father was still bitter, but improving. Now he would be in the same city.…
It had taken her months to gain the courage to speak to him again. She had sought professional help, and Bruce hadn’t wanted to push the relationship, to force her to move too fast. They both had a lot to sort out, but things were definitely looking up.
Bruce wasn’t naive enough to think the assignment was purely out of Military Personnel Command’s benevolent nature; he saw President Adleman’s hand in his assignment. A phone call three weeks before from the President had ended with the statement: “You can have any assignment you want.”
The political-social circle would call for some adjustment—dinners, formal uniforms, hob-knobbing with the elite.
No more throwing beer bottles, that’s for sure.
Catman had had a fit, thinking Bruce could get the whole flight assigned to the new Advanced Tactical Fighter follow-on undergoing testing at Edwards; all of them but Skipper and Panther, that is.
Bruce drew in a breath. Skipper, Panther, Head, Zaz, and the two helicopter gunners. The Americans were lucky to get off with only six casualties. No telling how many more would have died if Skipper hadn’t taken out the HPM weapon. Bruce had spent some time with Skipper and Panther’s families, and even though it had been six months, he still broke up when he thought of the children they’d left behind.
Bruce tried to push those memories from his mind.
One month leave. Charlie and Nanette were picking him up at Travis AFB in northern California. Palo Alto was only a three-hour drive. He looked forward to catching up with Charlie. Too bad he’d had to take that medical discharge, but Nanette’s e-mails indicated that his condition was improving. More importantly, he loved Stanford, even if he only had fifteen percent of his vision back.
And then on to Texas, one last trip to see his mom.
And Dad.
His father had come by the hospital on Clark right after he was pulled out of the jungle. Bruce didn’t remember much of the meeting. He was too doped up at the time.
A letter from his mother six weeks later informed him that his father was retiring, too shook up to remain in the Navy. The loss of one son had been bad enough, she had written—almost losing another had made his father want to settle down.
Bruce didn’t look forward to the visit, but he promised himself that he would at least try to be civil.
One month.
He looked forward to recharging, getting some rest.
He folded the paper and shoved it in his top pocket.
It was the first time in, what—years?—that he hadn’t worn the old green bag. He’d been through a lot in that suit.
It was going to take some getting used to.
But, above all, he would miss the flying. Like taking off with Simone in the front seat, blasting away with afterburners, straight up.
Or screaming down from five thousand feet and laying hot, killing metal onto targets; pulling back up, grunting to keep conscious as the g-suit kicked in.
Or just flying at night above the clouds in his Strike Eagle, watching the moonlight reflect off the water through a hole in the cloud layer.…
The road not taken.
The Air Attaché job was too important to turn down; it opened too many doors for him to walk away from them. And with Yolanda there, it could only make things better.
But he always knew what he would come back to … what he was the very best at doing … the best in the world.
And what he loved more than anything else on earth.
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About the Author
DOUG BEASON is a retired USAF Colonel and has lived overseas in Canada, Okinawa, and the Philippine Islands. A graduate of the United States Air Force Academy, he holds a Ph.D. in Physics, was Commander of the Phillips Research Site, and has served as the Associate Laboratory Director of Los Alamos National Laboratory and Chief Scientist of Air Force Space Command. In addition, he has worked for the President’s Science Advisor at the White House in both the Bush and Clinton administrations. He is an accomplished short-story author in addition to his several novels.
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Author’s Note
This book is based on current research, as well as memories while I was in the Philippine Islands as a high school student (1968—1970) … selectively updated to reflect some of the changes that have occurred. Places such as the old Officers’ Club and Rathskeller may have changed—but certainly not the men and women who make up the Philippine experience.
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