Cloud Crashing Bad Luck

We headed north east over Vietnam, the target zone would be underneath us at the crack of dawn, bombardier Henry, call sign “Warhog” awaited with patience my drop command, the instruments were ticking target range, time to target, time for bomb drop; my copilot Lt Ferrero was sleeping away the distance, our B52 was a cozy place in these unfriendly skies, cruising at an altitude of 47 thousand feet, thrusting us at 531 miles per hour, the turbulence got out of the way, within the hull of this ship, the humming sound of those eight engines showing all the subtle confidence of our stratofortress.

Outside my cockpit, the painted markings of historical missions, 34 sorties of 124,589 hitherto flown by B52s over Indo China, this would be thirty five for our crew, and our B52 Cloud Crasher was going on the record for having fought in decent and dirty climates, a couple of scrapes with uranium tipped arsenal, but other than that, the missions had been good, and had amassed our wing a modest 67% target hit ratio.

Dawn breaking out the silhouette of our escort service, a couple of bricks, F4 Phantoms, keeping an eye out for us, ready to reach for their cannons ought any of those nasties Russian made Mig17, try and tarnish the paint on Cloud Crusher. Those bricks were the birds I always wanted to fly, fighter pilot me, but I guess my reflexes were not fast enough, you have to think like a stockbroker to fly a Phantom, everything happens there, most often nothing happens, but everything happens so fast, you yourself have to be faster; I don’t know what test scores they used to make me a bomber pilot, I like to read, most Phantom pilots haven’t the time for that, I like thinking through puzzles, again the Phantom doesn’t give you time for that; making a brick fly requires constant attention, me and crashing cloud were on auto pilot cruise, I could wiggle the hours with inspiring imaginings between targets. Your always between targets, and that is mostly a boring time, but when you get to your target zone, all the adrenaline in the world ins’t enough, you stay over the target zone for not more that 4 to 9 minutes, drop your payload and hustle out of there, once your enemy is awake, there isn’t the article of surprise to keep you alive, there is only the article of hustle out of there and get your ass back on deck.

Approaching “Target Zone!” Target Zone!” Lt Ferrero comes to life, red lights, “ready,” “ready targeting Warhog,” beep, beep, coordinates indicate a slight deviation, course adjustment, beep, beep, “Target Zone,” “incoming missile, incoming missile,” beep, beep, blast bucket turbulence, “wow that was close” “what the fuck are those bricks doing to keep us safe!” “Common bricks! Shit” “Another missile 6 oclock…” blast bucket turbulence, “shit Captain don’t think this is going to be our last mission do you.” “Nope, those goons haven’t enough lead to pump into the sky…” “Aint got the aim either,” “lack of a professional military, eh” radio chuckles, blast bucket turbulence.

“Free to launch” “I repeat free to launch” “Common baby don’t let us down” “We got target lock” “Target lock!” “Bombs Away” “Bombs Away” Silence, silence, silence, boom, boom, boom, crashing cloud banking left, boom, boom, “full trust, full trust!” Lt Ferraro, a bit young on this things, trying to catch a glimpse at the destruction, “Dam it Lt, keep your mind on getting this thing back home!” We are taught not to endeavor to look at our target, but something keeps you wanting to turn the ship in just such a manner so that you can see those babies going off and up in flames, them goons. No time for that, blast bucket turbulence, “incoming missile,” beep, beep, “damn,” beep, “damn,” “bricks please, damn it please!” “Wow, what was that?” “got a hit to tail rudder.” “Hit confirmed” “Stabilizer damaged” “Confirmed” “Fuck” “Fuck” “Fuck I don’t want breakfast in Hanoi” “Damage report,” “still airworthy boys” “shit yes!” “Lets get this baby home and on deck.”

Its never fun to land with a damage tail rudder and a useless stabilizer, but when the rubber hits the deck you get a drill thrill, you did it, would have been more boring with the whole machine working properly. Of course it goes on your record, you damaged government property, you cost the tax payer some fifty thousand here and there, but the enemy got hit, you dropped your load good and done, time for a nap, but first that quick debriefing.

Years, have past.

A bar, in the middle of the red district, the city, San Francisco, the night pitch black, no moon tonight, the strangers meet and cancel that. “Hello you looking for a good time?” “Yeah, and a drink too.” “My name is Jing,” “My name is Captain,” “good to meet you captain.” The red velvet couches, await, the strangers, laughs a little, Jing, faking giggles of little innocence, but her eyes not smiling, solemn eyes, behind her a thousand screaming fields, barbwire prisons is her pearl white skin, her long dark hair straight and cold, “Captain, what’s your favorite drink.” “Whisky” “What label?” “Any label, black or red or blue just as long as it is whisky?” A sordid whiskey arrives at the red table, red table, red mirrored walls, red curtains, red velvet sofas, and somehow you feel that there isn’t enough red.

The ice melts a few times, Jing, finds captain amusing enough to bypass the bar tab, they stroll home together, cigarettes in common, she opens the door to her dingy apartment, neither at odds with the place, Captain lives in a rundown hotel, an apartment is an upgrade in class, there is not much here, just a bed, a couple of black and white photographs on the dirty mirror, lots of red lipstick, a few nylons, and kinky underwear that has worn holes of stature, a bathroom home for fungi, a kitchen with a few cups and plates, in a sink too small for all, a lot of towels and newspapers on the ground, Jing, strikes a match and lights a joint, offers some to Captain, “no thanks, don’t do that stuff.”

Jing, turns on the radio, playing “Lady in Red.” But neither Jing nor the Captain notice all the red, instead they sit next to each other though two decades apart.

“You have any children captain.” “No, marriage nor children were ever for me, I like my independence, besides never could trust myself with others lives.” “Yeah me too.” As she replies, Jing leans her head on the captain’s shoulders, her red dress showing skinny pretty legs, captain notices them, and covers her with his arm, she inhales cigarette smoke, and utters “I always bring bad luck to people.” “Why do you say that?” “Ever since I was born I been bringing bad luck to people.” Captain retorts trying to add some humor, “you know they say its bad luck to be superstitious.” Jing, limbo staring, “I was born at 6 in the morning captain, right at 6.” “Yeah, how do you know the time so well, I don’t even think I know if it was morning or afternoon for me.” Jing limbo staring “My mother was hiding in the tunnels, there was an air raid, they always struck at the crack of dawn or at midnight, this one was six, the moment I was born, the bombers struck, bombs went off everywhere, in the panic the nurses took me away from mother…” “I brought her bad luck.” She pauses, sees Captain teary eye, “See I bring people bad luck.

RC