Symphony of Destruction

A banging at the door... the words “TIC” and “Go” caught in the undissipated haze of interrupted sleep. Call sign, frequency, grid. Gunship freestyle. Double-banging the engines... time is of the essence. Do it right, smooth is fast. “Spooky, you’re cleared into the ROZ 12 block 14, Hawg is below you 8 block 10. Break, break, Hawg push echo 2; expect rounds from Spooky through your altitude.” Nav confirms target... Arm 3... “All players, Spooky’s hot, surface to 12.” The shudder of fate leaving the barrel. Gun ready. The instruments’ momentary blur. 14 souls echoing in harmony the tribal beat of their people’s song, a gleeful dance drummed on by the Symphony of Destruction. On Station. Home. Peace. Family.

2 comments

  • We can know our EKIA numbers, but we will never know the number of friendlies saved-the number of wives spared the knock on the door-the number of children growing up without their dad-the number of little league coaches-the number of brides who get to have their dads walk them down the aisle.
    I have a friend from college who never left Kabul alive. Watching his amazing kids grow up without their dad breaks my heart.

    Dave Sloat
  • Love this— I can hear it

    Neil Bartkowski

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