KANDAHAR AIRFIELD. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Laura Vaccaro sat at the edge of the tarmac under a sea of stars. In the distance the Sulaimans rose up to meet a moon just hovering above their jagged peaks. The range looked majestic, mysterious—even peaceful.
From a distance.
Up close and personal, however, she knew that dark forces were constantly at work against NATO. The jihadists, relentless in their quest to exterminate every last nonbeliever in their zealous cause, had a very simple strategy: kill every last soul inside these walls. To them it was a war of complete annihilation of the enemy at all cost, and that included dying in the process, which made them so damn dangerous.
Vaccaro frowned while staring at various jets, cargo planes, and helicopters taking off and landing. Off to the right, the ground crew towed her crippled Warthog from the spot she had parked it earlier that evening, by a long line of tied-down A-10s on the ramp, and into a hangar for repairs. Her eyes moved to the adjacent Warthog, her new ride as of two hours ago. Someone had even already stenciled her name on the side of the cockpit.
She contemplated it while reminiscing about the hundreds of combat hours she had flown in the formidable air support jet standing larger than life under the yellow glow of floodlights bathing a tarmac the size of dozens of football fields. To this day it amazed her that a plane that entered service in 1977 not only was still in business but also was kicking ass and taking numbers. And last she’d heard, this beast of a machine was going through a number of improvements, primarily in avionics, precision weaponry, and improved armor, to extend its service life to 2028.
But improvements aside, the Warthog was still the same basic robust platform she first flew in 1991, shortly after Congress lifted the restriction on women flying in combat.
Hugging her knees, Vaccaro stared at the large Laco Trier pilot’s watch on her left wrist while thinking of the female aviators that had come before her, trailblazers of yesteryear who had paved the way for her generation.
And it had all started with the WASP.
The legendary Women Airforce Service Pilots was formed in 1942 by pioneering civilian female pilots employed to fly military aircraft under the command of the U.S. Army Air Forces, the predecessor of the modern U.S. Air Force.
She filled her lungs with pride at the courage displayed by those pilots, who logged more than sixty million miles during the war years under the unflagging leadership of legends like Jackie Cochran and Nancy Love. The WASP flew every type of military aircraft of the time, from P-51 Mustangs to Spitfires, P-47 Thunderbolts, and all bomber models—in noncombat roles, but certainly in combat-type conditions. Their job was to relieve male pilots for combat duty in Europe and the Pacific, and it included test pilot duties, handling the delivery of airplanes from factories to airfields, training new male pilots, and running simulated strafing missions. The WASP even towed targets behind their fighters to train B-17 gunners using live ammunition. Of the 1,074 women who earned their wings to join the WASP ranks, thirty-eight lost their lives during World War II—eleven in training and twenty-seven in active duty.
As she thought of this, Vaccaro noticed a truck pulling up to the ramp a few hundred feet from her. It was filled with caskets draped in American flags.
She stared at the Stars and Stripes for a good minute or two, until a Boeing C-17 Globemaster III cargo jet caught her attention as it taxied from the runway. Its air force gray was dull in the floodlights as it stopped near the truck.
Probably from Dover, she thought. Dover Air Force Base, in Delaware, was home to the 512th Airlift Wing.
Shortly thereafter a long line of young men and some women, a mix of U.S. Army 82nd Airborne and U.S. Marines 7th Regiment, marched single file out of the rear ramp, hauling their standard-issue duffel bags. They headed to their respective branch’s welcoming committee, which included NCOs and some officers.
From high school proms to Afghanistan in as little as six months via Fort Benning or 29 Palms plus an air force ride, she thought, wondering how many of those kids were having sex in backseats this past spring.
She stared at their baby faces, most of them in their teens, innocent eyes gawking about after being cooped up in that jet for fifteen hours. She dropped her gaze to an older guy in civilian clothes walking among them down the ramp, hauling a backpack.
Probably another civilian contractor, she thought. The man certainly stuck out among the young GIs with his bald head and salt-and-pepper beard, breaking ranks with them on the tarmac to meet up with someone in a dark sedan with tinted windows. He threw his stuff in the rear, climbed in, and drove off.
The line of newcomers continued for another few minutes, quieting down when the large truck backed toward the ramp and the detail started to unload the coffins—a sight guaranteed to strip any notion of romanticized war from their minds.
“Yeah, kids,” she mumbled. “Welcome to hell.”
“Talking to yourself again?”
Vaccaro looked up and stared at John Wright in his running shorts, sneakers, and a Semper fi T-shirt. Perspiration filmed his face. He had two bottles of water and offered one to her.
They sat there awhile in silence, drinking and watching the soldiers deplaning, before she pointed toward the caskets. “You know, back in World War Two, the army did not allow the U.S. flag to be placed on top of the coffin of any female aviator because they were not considered part of the military.”
“Are you talking about the WASPs?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“I had no idea,” Wright said. “I thought they received equal—”
“In your dreams. But it gets better. Because they were not considered military personnel, all fallen WASPs were sent home without traditional military honors—and at their family’s expense. How’s that for the ultimate fuck you from your country?”
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah … and we still haven’t bottomed out. After the war, the chauvinistic brass wanted to sweep the whole WASP thing under the rug, so WASP records were sealed for thirty-five years.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“I wish. It wasn’t until 1977 that accounts of their amazing accomplishments were made public, but the military still didn’t allow the deceased WASP to be buried in Arlington until 2002. I mean, think about it, John, I was already out of the academy and flying A-10s in Iraq and Afghanistan, but those pilots who paved the way for me to do just that were not allowed a military burial.”
“Looks like we’re slowly getting there,” he said.
“Yeah,” she replied, pointing at the A-10 at the end of the line. “It took the military over six decades to bury female pilots at Arlington, but it took the same military less than—” she paused to glance at luminous dial on her watch “—four hours to find me a new bird. They even got my damn name on it already.”
And unlike her last Warthog, this one had a mouthful of sharp teeth painted across its nose.
“Well, it does fit your flying style.”
She chuckled. “I’m wondering what Mrs. Clark would think of me now?”
“Who’s Mrs. Clark?”
“Fifth-grade teacher. We had to stand up and tell the class what we wanted to be when we grew up. So I said I wanted to be a fighter pilot. After the class stopped laughing, Mrs. Clark told me it was against the law for a woman to be a fighter pilot.”
“That’s cold.”
She shrugged. “True stories usually are.”
“Well, sweetheart, technically you didn’t become a fighter pilot. You fly Hawgs.”
“Go fuck yourself, Captain.”
“Roger that, Captain.”
“So, what did the good colonel want?”
He frowned. “Took one of my LTs to backfill the LT I told you about at dinner who bought the farm.”
“Wiley, right?”
“You were listening. Yes. Him.”
“Ah,” she said. “And who’s backfilling your team?”
“New rotation.”
She stretched a finger at the deplaning soldiers. “Fresh meat?”
“Nah,” Wright said. “Should get here in a week or so.”
“And until then?”
He grinned and raised his brows at her.
“Dammit, John! You’ve done your stint in a rifle platoon—longer than anyone I know who’s still in possession of their legs and their balls! I thought the whole fucking point of getting fucking promoted was to get you off the fucking field and on to Central Command to coordinate raids, not lead them!”
“Honey, please tell me how you really feel.”
She punched him on the shoulder.
“I guess Duggan should have checked with you first,” he said.
She punched him again. “Don’t screw with me, soldier.”
“You didn’t mind it so much in Qatar,” he said, running the tip of his index finger across her palm.
She pulled her hand away. “Perv … and don’t change the subject.”
“Look … my unit isn’t due out for at least another week, maybe longer, so chances are I’ll have a replacement by the time we have to head out again.”
She turned back to the newcomers still deplaning.
“Besides,” he added, “leading a rifle platoon isn’t that much different from what you do, and you don’t hear me complaining when you pull stunts like the one this afternoon.”
“It was textbook and safe. And we wouldn’t be having this conversation if I had a penis.”
“Bullshit. It wasn’t textbook and it certainly wasn’t safe, penis or vagina. And besides, I thought we decided in Qatar that we weren’t going to do this.”
She sighed. He was right of course. Somewhere during their R & R week they had almost taken vows not to get in the way of each other’s careers. Until they rotated out, they had a job to do, and it did involve a significant degree of risk. For this thing that started after a slow dance barefoot in the sand under the stars to have any chance of being anything more than … a thing, they had to respect the fact that their jobs were inherently dangerous. They were, after all, in the middle of a terrible war.
“Look, I just don’t want to lose you, like I lost my dad,” she said.
“I know,” he replied. “But remember, I also lost my father and my grandfather in wars. And while I’d like to believe I’m going to beat the odds, we still need to respect our chosen profession, at least until we get stateside.”
Vaccaro nodded, remembering their first conversation over beers at that beachside bar in Qatar. Their similar pasts, the pain and the pride of growing up knowing their fathers had paid the ultimate price for their country, had certainly played a role that evening.
“I know what we said, John,” she finally replied. “But that was … well … before.”
“Before what?”
“Really, John?”
Reaching for her hand and interlacing fingers, Wright said, “Qatar was…”
“Textbook?” she said, grinning.
“Yeah,” he replied, also smiling. “Definitely textbook … But not very … safe.”
She rested the side of her head against him while remembering their postdance activities in that beachside cabana.
“Safe is overrated.”
“Sounds like something you would say.”
“It’s too bad indeed we’re not in Qatar anymore, Captain Wright,” she said, tightening her hand, “or I’d show you just how overrated it is.”
“Yeah, that’s too bad indeed, Captain Vaccaro,” he said. The various military organizations at Kandahar had strict rules against fraternizing among soldiers. And while some chose to take the chance, and to risk their careers in the process, Vaccaro and Wright had agreed to stick to the rules.
Pointing at the caskets as the arriving soldiers vanished inside buses and the ramp ceremony began, he added, “We’re definitely not in Qatar anymore.”
They stood and watched it in silence.