Born to do, she’d say that all the time. And back then, before it all went to shit, maybe it was true. Lately, though, I was born to spiral into despair and throw my career as an elite fighter pilot down the drain.
And that sweltering July morning, without a home, without a will to do anything, I was at rock bottom.
“I miss you so much it hurts, baby,” I said to the empty room, as I had so many times before.
But this time was different. Every hair on my body stood up, and the crackle…no one will ever believe me. There was a charge, and like static electricity, I felt a jolt.
And I heard her. “Where are my roses, Jonah?”
I swear on everything, the voice was not in my head. Rachel spoke to me that wretched morning in that shitty VOQ room at Nellis Air Force Base. Out loud.
I swung around in disbelief – was I dead? Had I truly managed to find the courage to off myself and be with her the night before? Of course, the room was empty. Where are my roses, Jonah? I repeated in my mind.
“Rachel, I’m sorry. I love you so much – and I failed you. I killed you… I killed us…”
Once more, the soft lilt of her perfect voice filled the room.
“It’s time, Jonah. I love you, and it’s time. Go get my roses.”
And you might think I’m nuts, or delusional, or so drowned in my all-consuming grief that I couldn’t separate fantasy from reality. Think what you will, but I can tell you this, years later; that morning Rachel came to me with a purpose, and that purpose was Hannah.
I met Rachel Morehouse at a deli while I was going through pilot training in the tiny, sticky town of Columbus, Mississippi. Never did I want to meet some southern belle and fall in love during the all-encompassing turmoil that was learning to fly a military jet, and afterward, a fighter plane. But I did.
Then again, I didn’t decide. She did. I’d say fate, but I didn’t really believe in fate or destiny. I did believe in the power of her will. Over a mediocre turkey and swiss sandwich at a place called Peppers Deli & Market, we became inseparable. Despite the objections of my family, hers, and about everyone else, we got married months later. They all said she’d be a distraction, but the truth is that without her I’d have been lost. Rachel was my biggest cheerleader, the support I needed to truly excel.
I opened the door and squinted in the harsh Vegas sun. Despite all the time I’d spent there, that jolt of searing light always shocked me. I felt around my shirt for my sunglasses, like a vampire opening his coffin at noon or something.
Ray Bans on, I shuffled in my heavy boots outside to make my way down the road toward the Nellis Base Exchange, or BX as we all called it. Of course, I should have driven in that heat – but I couldn’t be bothered to find my car keys. And, let’s be honest, I smelled like a distillery and even I am not stupid enough to risk a DUI.
Seconds through the door of the sprawling mini-mall that was the BX, some asshole grabbed my arm.
“Oh hey, Danno – ‘sup?”
Yeah, he didn’t like that one bit. Although I was at Nellis because of my connection with my commander, the second in command, our DO (aka Director of Operations) Lieutenant Colonel Daniel “Danno” Mortensen wanted me flayed open with a dull Spork and slowly nibbled to death by buzzards.
“’Sup, dickhead, is that you look like shit.”
I glanced down – yeah, my outfit was sketchy at best. “Jeans, boots, what’s wrong?”
He puffed out his beer belly, presumably to show me his crisply ironed polo shirt. “You reek of bourbon for one thing.” He took a long, exaggerated sniff at the air.
“Meh,” I said, swatting at the air as if it were full of gnats. “I don’t drink—”
“You aren’t Major Jonah Jones, known colloquially as Whaler, who happens to possess two alcohol-related LORs and an Article 15?”
I waved him away again, as if my paperwork was trivial. (It wasn’t.) “I was going to say, I don’t drink bourbon. That’s pure scotch you smell. Must’ve spilled some on my jacket last night.”
He glanced at my jacket with a sneer. “Speaking of the jacket – in July, no less. As an officer in the United States Air Force, next time let’s wear seasonal clothes on base in public. Even in our civilian attire, we should reflect the dignity of our rank.”
“Seasonal? Is that in the regs?” I looked down again – refusing to acknowledge the absurdity of heavy Doc Marten boots, a leather jacket, and yesterday’s jeans in the middle of Nevada summer. It was all that was within reach that morning, and I’d been far too queasy to dig through the suitcase that I’d never unpacked for a change of clothes. Again, I really didn’t care about much of anything and didn’t particularly plan to live long enough for it to matter.
“Major, I dare say if you don’t clean up your act, trouble will find you.”
I tried to casually chuckle, but it came out louder than I expected. Three ancient ladies wheeling carts full of their tax-free treasures craned their necks to steal a glance at the scene.
With a cough, I cleared my scratchy throat. “Danno, you and I both know trouble’s already found me and stomped on my naughty parts with stiletto heels.”
He glanced around like the snake that he was and hissed (yes, hissed) these words in my face. “I’m taking you down. I’ll have your wings, and then after that, Jones, I’ll have your commission.”