Whiteman Air Force Base
Missouri
The colonel’s office was cast in a deep yellow glow from the early morning light. The air was cool, not warm. It wouldn’t get warm today. Already the smell of rain was in the air, and the atmosphere seemed charged. Outside, the wind calmed, then suddenly shifted direction. Hearing the rustle of leaves, Bradley paused from his work, looking out on the day. His mood, like the western sky, was unsettled and dark. Inside, he felt drained and he didn’t know why. He thought back on other mornings he had prepared himself for combat sorties, reflecting on the emotions that beset him those days. Always he was eager, perhaps edgy, but also confident. There was a job to do, he would do it, it wasn’t much more complicated than that.
But he felt different this morning, uncertain and apprehensive.
He had had premonitions before; every good commander did, every good officer had a feel, a gut instinct for the future, an instinct born of experience and practice and bone-crunching preparation. Those who didn’t foster this sense either quit or were killed. Still, Bradley had never had such a powerful feeling before.
For the second time in a day he thought of his father, and of a story he had heard while hiding at the top of the stairs.
His father was a young lieutenant on a combat patrol. It was raining. No—pouring—the chilling rain coming in torrents that soaked to the bone and stung the face with each windblown drop. It was night, and the platoon was moving through the heavy forest, away from base camp, scared and alone. As the lightning crashed, the forest suddenly came alive. The first sound to be heard was a terrifying thwaat, as a VC bullet winged past his father’s head to impact the chest of his radioman. The platoon was surrounded. It was fight, flee, or die. Proud, tall, and defiant, Bradley’s father stood in front of his men, commanding them, jeering at them, coaxing them on, poking them, prodding them, demanding more than they had, holding them, pushing them, the blood of his brothers soaking his skin. For the next eleven hours, the young lieutenant led his men on, until, too late for many, reinforcements were finally choppered in. Twice he carried fallen soldiers through the thick firefight, draping the wounded men over his shoulders as bullets whizzed overhead, struggling to keep what remained of his unit alive.
The platoon lost seven of twelve soldiers that night. They were lucky, blessed, that they didn’t lose every man, for they remained disciplined and together under Lieutenant Bradley’s command. Shane’s father was credited with personally saving two men that night, while performing in a way that would lead him to the Silver Star. But he never spoke of it, and as far as Shane could remember, he had never seen the small medal on his father’s chest.
Sitting in his office on that cold Missouri morning, Colonel Bradley had no idea why this memory came to mind.
But the memory and premonition did not go away. He shook his head to clear it, then heard a knock and looked up to see Colonel Kier standing in the doorway. “Captain Lei is here,” he announced.
At five-six, Tia Lei weighed in at a whopping 112 pounds, and that was after drinking half a gallon of water to ensure she made the minimum weight requirement in order to pass her flight physical. Beautiful, Asian, a refugee from the Cambodian killing fields, her face was a perfect oval rimmed by dark hair and narrow eyes, and despite her light stature she walked fearlessly. The nights as a child in Cambodia had sucked up her life’s allocation of fear, leaving her determined and strong as a scrub oak in the wind. A slender figure among burly men, she had proven herself so many times that no one doubted her anymore. Her dark eyes said it all. This was a woman of strong nerves and steel. She walked to Colonel Bradley and extended her hand in a no-nonsense grip. “Sir,” she said simply.
Bradley gestured toward a large leather couch and Captain Lei sat down. She was wearing her air force blues—a blue skirt and high-collared blouse under a dark cotton sweater. The skirt fit her neatly and she leaned back, at ease. If being in her wing commander’s office was intimidating to her, she gave no indication.
“Tia,” Bradley asked, “I need to talk to you.”
Tia leaned forward and asked, “What’s going on, sir?”
He explained very quickly. As Tia listened, her hands started trembling and her eyes grew wide. “You’re kidding!” she kept repeating.
Bradley only wished that he was.