Free Baghdad or Bust by William Robert Stanek

enlisted. Right then, I sure wished I was going on the mission, but when I had said we, I meant the unit.
        The woman I was speaking to had six stripes below her shoulders. She was a technical sergeant. She looked at my flight suit and then the clipped on badge. She knew I was enlisted too and suddenly she seemed more interested in me. “What you flying on?”
        “EC.”
        Her eyes lit up. “Show me where the orbit’ll be, and let me see if I can help you.”
        I outlined the orbit area on the map again, and she gave me a rundown of the immediate threats. While she talked, I took careful notes.
        “Good luck,” she later whispered after us.
        “Thanks,” I told her, “I think we’ll need it.”
        Afterward, we took another look at the intelligence logs. I took some more notes. The Lieutenant collected our unit’s classified dispatches from the distro pile. Then we departed.
        Back at ops, Major James was eagerly awaiting our return. We held the briefing in the intel room, going over the details with a fine-toothed comb. I had my list of notes, but as I began to explain the threat situation, I recounted it mostly from memory. I’d always had a knack for numbers.
        The Lieutenant and I were finishing up; I’d said my adieu and was just about to leave the room when Major James turned to me. “How’d you like to be on that mission tomorrow?”
        “You kidding?”
        “No. You’ve done a good job tonight; you deserve to be there more than anyone else. Besides, we could use an extra spotter.”
        I smiled and replied, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world; wouldn’t miss it for the world!”
        “Good, that’s what I was hoping you’d say.” Major James looked at his watch. “It’s 03:15; you’re in crew rest. Go back, get some sleep. It’ll be a long one tomorrow.”
        

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
Friday, 15 February 1991
     
     
     
    I awoke to the sound of screaming voices and loud music. The room Cowboy, Chris and I shared was directly across from the day room, and the noise was coming from there. Sleepily, I stuck my head out the door, not even realizing I wasn’t wearing anything but a pair of jockey shorts. The room was crowded with crewers, guys and gals, and they were celebrating something.
        “What’s going on?” I asked a passerby.
        “Iraq said they’d withdraw from Kuwait!”
        “No shit?”
        “No shit.”
        I staggered back into the room and sat down. I stared into the mirror across from the bed. My eyes said I was still exhausted. And I was. I clicked on the TV, and then lay back on the bed. I listened to the news, waiting to hear what had actually transpired, and somewhere along the course, I fell asleep.
        I didn’t awake until hours later, and by that time, no one was celebrating anymore. The situation had changed. Iraq had attached so many conditions to the offer that it was little more than a cruel hoax. I quickly found that cynicism had replaced enthusiasm, but I had to push all this out of my mind and prepare for what was potentially the most dangerous mission to date.
        The alert came later than I had expected, and by the time Popcorn alerted me, I was pacing like a caged animal. I couldn’t tell anyone what I knew, so I had said nothing and stayed mostly in my room. I wasn’t surprised to find that the front-end had been alerted an hour before the mission crew or that Gentleman Bob would be flying the plane.
        Everything was smooth sailing until we entered intel for our preflight briefing. I watched faces full of life and color, faces that had been lit up with smiles, turn pale and then grow ashen. The small briefing room had been filled with voices, but now it was absolutely silent. An overwhelming measure of unknown had returned. The unknown that had been there that very first day and those first few flights. Here I held