To Our Success

 334.

"The way I look at it, we have four hours to file our report," I begin once our wheels are up and internet connection established. "Which will leave us with a couple of precious minutes to power nap before starting the investigation."

Mustang is along for the ride no matter what, making this improbably demanding scenario just another day at the office. Still, I feel, that in a perfect world, her real-time, live-action, everything on the line indoctrination should be a touch, what? Easier, less stressful, more forgiving? The reality is that we are jumping into a live fire-fight where the bad guys - the latest intel indicates a joint venture between QAnon and the Proud Boys - are about to unleash a novel form of lethal carnage on innocent citizens, making our job of stopping them before their demented ideas of righteousness manifest as violence and terror, quasi-impossible. We run schools and training centers for this, but nothing, NOTHING, takes the place of active duty experience. As much as it pains me to say, to beat them at their own game one must learn to think like them. Stay one step ahead and bet them to the punch. So strenuously suggests my experience anyway - and I've been at this for longer than I care to remember. For these, among other reasons, I try to shield her from the sheer violence hidden between the lines of our job descriptions and the physical, emotional and social tolls that they take. Amazingly, she has yet to file a formal complaint.

We diligently prepare our report, leaving one open ended question regarding a cousin of the perpetrator with a history of sympathetic communication with known enemy combatants as follow up. I open our encrypted portal and file the paperwork, job done. Our Air Force flight attendant stops by to see if we need anything and, knowing the drill, I ask what we stocked the galley with prior to take-off. Upon his reply I know that our MO has been successfully passed along the chain of command.

"Outstanding, let's try the tofu stir-fry, assuming its still sizzling, the garlic naan, a bottle of the sparking water and a pot of french roast."

In preparation for the meal, we close our laptops and push them far right to clear table space.

"Looks like they know their audience," she comments about both the menu and the service.

"Ha, yes, I raised such as stink on our first shuttle about the grease burgers and stale fries that the protocol was literally changed overnight. Now, they stop on the way and stock up with fare a touch healthier - and tastier."

"Nice to have contacts in high places," she says.

"I think we deserve it, after all, food is fuel, and on this team, our fuel needs to be high-octane, clean, and, perhaps above all, enjoyable."

"Because…"

"Right, because you never know if this one might be…"

"The last?"

I look at her closely. This is not the conversation direction I was heading. She looks back in complete understanding and acceptance. She is right. She knows. She agrees. This could be, could very well be, the last decent meal we ever share together. And that changes everything. It makes each breath special and every minute count. It makes the water sweeter and the air somehow less polluted. Our meal arrives. It smells magnificent. We savor and smile. I raise my glass.

"To our success."