Maybe a New Project

"I’ve heard the reports. I’ve seen the news photos. Dog-tired, sweaty and suffering the depth of jet lag that only comes from a trip that crosses fourteen time zones and the international date line, I pay the cabbie and turn my bags over to the smiling Sky Cap at the curb. American Airlines to San Antonio. He nods, and tags the scruffy baggage. He grins at the clothesline. I look around for the war protesters, the name-callers, the spitters. There’s no one beyond the normal airport people going about their business. Maybe some of them are against the war, but none approach me with taunts of baby-killing or any semblance of disrespect. Maybe it’s the scowl and the bags under my eyes, maybe it’s the “try me” glare, or maybe the protesting isn’t as rampant as the media would have us believe. Nobody cares. No one bothers me. I get my ticket and head toward the gate to wait for a departure in a couple of hours.

"A call from a nearby phone booth to San Antonio. No answer. I leave a message on the answering machine that I’ll be home almost exactly on the schedule I had sent in a letter a few days earlier. All the connections have been close to on time. I’ll get into San Antonio about eight o’clock in the evening. I nap in a chair near the departure gate.

"The sun is just setting as the flight touches down in San Antonio. I’ve caught glimpses of the white buildings and parallel runways at Randolph AFB and seen the lights on the Hemisfair tower downtown as we maneuver to land. Passengers file out of the airplane and are greeted by family and friends. I look around, but there is no one there. I retrieve my tired belongings from the baggage carousel and get a taxi to take me home.

"The cab pulls up before the small brick rancher in Universal City. The porch light is on and the living room light glows softly through the window. I drag my bags to the door and ring the doorbell. No answer. My dog, Count, barks from the backyard at the sound of the chimes. I ring again, then rummage through my briefcase to retrieve a house key not used in a year. There’s no one home. I open the back door and Count bounds in, jumping to lick my face and greet me. No notes, no explanations. She still lives here, but she hadn’t lied that night so long ago when I’d told here about the assignment. As Santana might sing, “my house is dark and my pots are cold.” Welcome home."

I've had the urge to maybe pick up and start writing the peacetime fighter pilot book from this point. There are a lot of stories to be told about what is often referred to as WW Cold. The story of how I got from San Antonio to Torrejon Spain and then through four years of deployments, travels, involvements, and career politics might make interesting reading.

The real question is how do I emerge truth and fiction so that in the process of writing the book I don't wind up damaging the lives and families of old friends not the least of which might be my own? The first two books were clearly nonfiction and I made every effort to keep them truthful. This book I would have to make every effort to ensure that no one could ever detect what was actually the truth.