Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

until the building shook and I suddenly found myself on the floor in the next room.
The glass picture window that made up the exterior wall was gone. It took me a few
seconds to realize that I was sitting on most of it. More was in my hair and stuck
through my skin in various places. But not my eyes, thank God. As I lay there, legs
spread and sticky back against the wall, it occurred to me to inventory my critical
body parts.
Testicles first. Thanks again.
Then feet, legs, hands, etc. . . . As I was doing this, my suitemate (each officer
got his own room in the four-bedroom suite) appeared in the doorway. The blast
had knocked him out of bed and he stood there a moment, scratching himself and
peering at me through one open eye.
“Hey . . . I think that was a bomb.”
No shit, Sherlock.
In fact, it was an enormous bomb.
Twenty-five thousand pounds of TNT had been packed into a sewage service
tanker truck and driven up to the perimeter on the northeastern corner of the
compound. A USAF Security Policeman had actually seen the truck and its
getaway car approach the fence. Two local Saudis had jumped out of the truck into
the car and sped off. Recognizing it for what it was, the cop tried to evacuate
Building 131, the closest to the truck—but was too late.
All the American pilots had just finished our nightly fun of cracking skulls
during games of roller hockey. I slowly limped upstairs and was heroically drinking
milk in my kitchen on the top floor of Building 133 when the bomb went off.
Minutes later, as I lay there in the puddle of glass and blood, I remembered a
similar blast in Cairo five years before. It had felt more or less the same, just much
smaller, and I’d been a bit farther back than the fifty yards that had separated me
from the explosion. Staring at my feet, I realized I was still wearing my skates. The
other captain saw it, too, and we both laughed.
The laugh of the terminally crazy.
I ditched the skates as sirens began to wail and the shouting began. We made a
quick tour of the tenth floor, kicked a few people out, and I limped toward the
stairs. I’d gotten a piece of glass stuck in my face and wasn’t seeing so well, but
eventually we got downstairs and emerged into chaos. All the compound lights
were out, but the lights from the surrounding Saudi housing area were shining
brightly. Dust hung in the air, thick and nearly motionless. Buildings were burning,
people were running, and there was lots of shouting. You see, most of the Air Force
is made up of support folks. Essential, of course, but they weren’t trained for