Lucretius Angelus stood expectantly before Dante Valderez, leaning out of the cockpit into the passenger cabin of the large black military helicopter, holding his notepad with the deciphered message in one hand and steading himself on the seatback of the bench nearest him. Dante calmly looked back at the pale young man, breathing steadily behind the respirator mask covering his nose and the lower half of his face. His black eyes revealed nothing about what he was thinking, and his black-uniformed body was stiffly postured, with his outstretched arms keeping him steady as the helicopter was occasionally buffeted side-to-side by turbulence. Lucky looked at his notebook again, re-reading the message, “’Report damage and casualties immediately.’ How should I respond, sir?”

Dante remained silent, and turned his head to look out the window nearest him, seeing the approaching California coastline in the breaking morning sun. He turned his head and looked back at Lucky, who was now awkwardly standing as if to not know whether to wait, or to sit in the cabin or go back to the cockpit. “Report back that we are not able to confirm that the target was hit,” Dante growled, “until we know that it is safe to do so.”

Lucky nodded, relieved to have some direction, and turned to go back into the cockpit. As he was reaching for the headset in the co-pilot’s seat, he stopped on hearing Commander Valderez say in a sharp tone, “And request from General Thompson further information on the type of warhead installed in the self-guided missile.” Lucky nodded again, and put on his headset as he sat down in the co-pilot seat. He wrote down some notes and started radioing back to the Quadristar with the encrypted response from Valderez.

Dante stood up from the bench he was sitting on, and strode up to the cockpit and addressed the pilot, “Do we have enough fuel to reach Ojai?”

The pilot, shook his head in surprise, saying, “We have enough to reach Ojai, but not enough to get back to the QuadriStar, unless we divert to a base at Ventura first.” Dante followed the pilot’s pointing finger at the map of Southern California, at the region north of Los Angeles. Dante noted that Lucky had finished sending his response, and was now writing on his notepad, receiving a new message from the QuadriStar, the young man’s brow furrowed in concentration.

“Do it,” Dante said, and went back into the cabin, grabbing the ceiling handles to steady himself as the helicopter banked sharply north, now following the coastline. The helicopter flattened out again on it’s new course, and Dante sat down on the bench, as before. Looking forward into the cockpit, he could see that Lucky had finished deciphering the new message, and was looking back at Dante with a clear look of alarm in his blue eyes. He started speaking, but Dante gestured that he come back to him and held out his black-gloved hand, expecting Lucky’s notepad.

Lucky nervously headed back into the cabin and handed over the notepad to Dante, pointing to the new message he had written below the encrypted response, “A tactical nuke warhead? How is that authorized or legal, even if this were a test?” Without waiting for further direction from Dante, he sat down on the bench in front of him, running his hand through his messy, short blonde hair.

Dante read the message at the bottom of the notepad, scribbled in Lucky’s uneven handwriting: “Low yield thermonuclear warhead. Radiation exposure minimal, report damage and casualties within 24 hours and return immediately to QuadriStar.” He tore off the sheet from the notepad and folded it up neatly, putting the decrypted messages into a pocket on his uniform jacket. Dante held out the notepad to Lucky, who got up to retrieve it. Lucky glanced into Dante’s eyes, and was taken aback by the sudden rage in their normally unreadable darkness, and that the older man was shaking and clenching his hands at his sides. He quickly returned to his bench and looked away, frightened by Dante’s building fury. He could hear over the thumping and vibration of the helicopter blades that Dante’s breathing behind his respirator was getting louder and more ragged.

Dante then slammed his feet hard against the metal floor of the cabin, the soles of his boots making a loud thudding clang that made Lucky jump. The pilot looked back to see what was going on, but quickly looked forward again on seeing the angry Valderez lit by the bright morning sun, stamping around the passenger cabin. Lucky shrank away, pressing himself into the corner of the cabin, pressing his face against the cabin window as if hoping to escape the raging black figure he was trapped with, and take his chances on surviving the 10,000 ft drop.

“That FOOL!” Dante roared, his voice breaking, “That hucking hoo! I ill kill hi…!” He started coughing violently, and then made choking noises, falling onto the floor. The oxygen tank on his back fell to the side, dislodging one of the tubes running from it to the mask covering his mouth. The tube hissed escaping gas as Dante reached frantically around trying to find the end of it. “Ucky! Ucky! El ee…!”

Lucky was frozen in fear, but was able to move again on hearing Dante’s barely coherent pleas for help. He dropped down to the writhing figure on the floor and grabbed the end of the tube, quickly figuring it that its connecter twisted onto the side of the mask. Lucky grimaced in dismay as he saw the mask slip away from Dante’s jaw, revealing a gaping hole in the cheek that showed the jagged teeth and rolling tongue inside the mouth cavity. He tried to slide the mask over the scarred flesh, but Dante stopped struggling and pushed the young man away, making him fall back against the bench.

Dante grabbed the respirator mask, adjusting it to fit over the missing parts of his face and fit over his damaged teeth again. He rolled onto his side and lifted himself with one arm to sit on the helicopter floor, breathing slowly and deeply. Dante calmed down further and was able to lift himself up from the floor and drop himself onto the seat. He looked over at Lucky, still on the floor with a look of bewilderment on his face. “Get up, Lucretius,” he rasped, “I’m sorry you had to see that… I’m… no. Thank you. For assisting me. The SEA War was… no. Never again.” 

Lucky slowly got up, his look of bewilderment changing to one of pity. Dante pointed to the notepad on the floor, and said sternly, “Gather the PAB reports from around Morongo Valley and Joshua Tree Park. I want you to find out how many area residents know of this very foolish-,“ he stopped talking to cough harshly, and after regaining his composure, continued, “-this dangerous indiscretion.”

*** This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. ***