Troops in contact

Endless turns on CAP, unrelieved khaki brown below, the distant horizon obscured by a dirty, sullen haze. Over to the west, the sun crawls lazily down towards the haze layer, just that tiniest degree lower with each successive turn. Nothing to break the monotony but the repetitive sound of his own breathing in the O2 mask, the very occasional radio communication to his wingman as they come to the end of an orbit and reverse course. On each turn, the engine instruments, fuel quantity and fuel transfer systems are checked and verified in the green with such long-accustomed force of habit that the thing itself is automatic, unremarkable. Out of the turn the squadron XO looks to his right three o’clock wearily, almost hoping to see his wingman out of position. If only to have something to talk about, something to say besides, “In place right, go.” But no: The young man is exactly where he is supposed to be, in perfect formation, as silently focused as a bird dog on point. He had, the XO admitted to himself, done very well in his first hot mission, very well indeed. He might just do.