Collateral Damage

The sound of jet engines began to fill the air a moment later, rising up from the south and gradually becoming louder and louder until they drowned out all other sounds. They passed almost directly overhead and began to fade. Those, Eric knew, would be American F-22s of the California Air Guard, flying from their base at McClellan Field and heading to intercept the incoming Chinese planes. Typically they would shoot down a few of them (sending them crashing into some residential neighborhood or a strip mall) but their effectiveness was limited by the difficulties in finding an enemy who was flying at 500 miles per hour less than 500 feet over the rooftops.

Just as the sound of the planes faded completely away, the hollow thumping of AAA guns somewhere off to the east filled the night. These were the flak guns, which sent up 37-millimeter shells that burst in front of the enemy. Their effectiveness was somewhat limited as well, usually only accounting for a plane or two each raid. The booming was punctuated by occasional bursts of the smaller caliber AA guns, which were either radar, infrared, or optically guided. It was one such gun that had fired the bullet that had killed his father.

From out the window a bright flash of light suddenly rose up from the direction of the rail yard and streaked out across the sky. It was a surface-to-air missile, fired from one of the many launchers aligned to protect the yard. It was followed by another and then two more in rapid succession. They were gone from view long before the roar of their rocket engines thundered into the house, rattling the windows.

There were a few moments of relative silence and then the AAA guns in the yard itself opened up all at once. Dozens of heavy caliber shells flew over the top of the neighborhood, bursting over the houses in spectacular red blooms, putting a virtual curtain of flak in the path of the enemy planes. The booming of the exploding shells was a deep, almost ominous sound, and was followed by the pattering of shell fragments that fell like rain over the roofs and sidewalks, that plunked into swimming pools and even came down chimneys on occasion. It was an experience both beautiful and terrifying, like a thunderstorm or a tornado.

Suddenly, a bright flash lit up the entire sky for a second or two. It was followed a few seconds later by a huge explosion from the south — an explosion large enough to shake the house in its foundation. A plane had just been shot down somewhere fairly close by, within a block or two by the sound of it. Whether it was an American plane or a Chinese one, whether it had been an air-to-air missile or a flak gun that had felled it, Eric didn't know and didn't care. His only concern was that it hadn't hit his house and snuffed out his life.

The sound of multiple jet engines began to swell up again from the south. Eric had been through enough air raids to identify them as F-15s by the sound alone. The old American designed fighter/bombers the Chinese used had a higher-pitched whine than the more modern F-22 engines. The sound grew louder and louder until once again the entire house was shaking from the vibration. From the direction of the rail yard, dozens of red tracer streams suddenly erupted, probing upward into the night, waving back and forth, seeking out the offending aircraft. Some moved smoothly with the mechanical precision of radar or infrared guidance. Most moved jerkily, bespeaking a human hand guiding them.

The planes passed almost directly over the house, climbing upward toward their attack altitude. Eric caught the barest glimpse of a few of them before they disappeared into the rainy night. The jet sounds began to fade just as the flashes of multiple explosions lit up the western sky. This was followed by a few huge fireballs that blew upward over rooftop level—obviously tanker cars or ammunition cars blown up by the bombs.

"Here comes the fun part," Eric said, holding onto the window frame and bracing himself for the concussions he knew were on the way. Experience told him it would take about twenty seconds for them to arrive.

They were right on schedule, solid thumps that slammed into the house at the speed of sound, shaking it as if an earthquake were going on, rattling windows, knocking loose objects from shelves. One after the other they slammed in, occasionally punctuated by larger, heavier concussions created by the secondary explosions at the yard. They reached a furious peak for a few moments, hammering into his chest with nearly enough force to drive the breath from his lungs. Behind him, on his desk, a stack of CD cases fell over and clattered to the floor, as did the glass of ice water he'd been sipping. Then, abruptly, they fell off, becoming sporadic and then ceasing entirely except for the occasional secondary explosion. The AA guns stopped firing and the flak stopped pattering on the roof. The sound of jet engines faded. Except for the continued glow of some horrendous fire off to the west, the night went back to its normal self.

As if to make this point, the computer chirped again and the message proclaiming the air raid warning was at an end flashed on the screen. The sirens began to sound again, this time with the all-clear signal. While they were still cycling upward the sound of the doorbell began to chime from downstairs, not just a single chime, but over and over, in a frantic manner.

"What now?" he said, annoyed. It would have to be Vickie. No one else would ring the doorbell at night, especially not with that panicky, frantic pushing. She probably had a window that had jammed from the concussions, or a fucking light bulb that had burned out and needed to be changed. And just as he had thought he was going to be able to settle down and start whacking off.

He went downstairs, passing a few loose objects that had fallen off shelves and making a note to pick them up later so his mom didn't have a goddamned bitch-fit about it when she got home tomorrow. The doorbell was still ringing away like mad and, unmindful of the consequences, he yelled out, "I'm coming, for God's sake! Quit ringing the goddamned bell!"

The ringing stopped and he finished his trek to the front door, undoing the deadbolt lock and throwing it open. "What's..." he started, and then stopped as he saw the state of his visitor. It was Vickie all right, just as he'd figured, but she was dressed in nothing but a short robe that was tied loosely and carelessly around her waist. The top of the robe was flapping open, allowing him to see most of her bare breasts. He couldn't quite make out the nipples but he knew if she turned her body one way or the other he would. She was soaking wet from the rain and had wet plaster dust smeared across her face and arms and in her hair.

Before he had a chance to get properly aroused by her appearance, she screamed a sentence at him that chilled him to the bone. "There's a bomb in my living room!"

"A... a bomb?" he asked, his eyes widening. "You mean... like from an airplane?"

"Yes," she said, terrified. "It came crashing through the ceiling while I was taking a bath. It buried itself in the living room floor!"

"Jesus," Eric said, feeling real fear now. Unexploded bombs were as much a problem in Roseville as they had ever been in London during The Blitz. They fell from shot down aircraft, or were dropped and failed to detonate for whatever reason. Most of the time they were successfully defused by the Placer County Sheriff Department's bomb squad. But sometimes they detonated before the bomb squad could get there. If Vickie indeed had a 500lb bomb sitting in her living room, every neighbor within 500 meters was in imminent danger. "Did you call 911 and tell them?"

"No," she said, shaking her head wildly. "I just ran out of the house. Oh my God, I didn't know what to do!"

"John is still over there with it?" he asked.

"Yes... I mean... well... yes," she blubbered. "Oh God, Eric. We need to get rid of it."

"We need to get your husband out of there first," he said, stepping out onto the porch. "Come on."

"But... but..."

"He's your fucking husband!" Eric yelled at her. "Come on. Let's get him out of there and then we'll call 911 from over here." And then get the fuck on down the road, he didn't add.

Reluctantly she followed him across the wet, muddy lawn and up to the front door of her house. The door was still standing wide open and he approached it carefully, peering inside, expecting to be obliterated at any instance. He saw immediately the ordinance of which she spoke. It was a gray, cylindrical object, about ten feet in length, although it was hard to be sure since the first third of it was buried in the floor. It was maybe six inches wide. Fins, which had been bent and distorted from its fall, adorned the tail end of it, as did a section of what appeared to be the mounting bracket that had held it onto the plane. On the cover was an American flag. Stenciled in black was AIM-9J. Eric breathed a big sigh of relief as he saw this. "It's not a bomb," he told Vickie, who was pushing nervously up against his back.

"What do you mean it's not a bomb?" she yelled. "It came crashing through my fucking ceiling and buried in my floor."

"Its an air-to-air missile," he said. "It came off one of our planes."

"I don't give a shit whose fucking plane it came off of, it's in the middle of my goddamned living room!"

"Yes," he said patiently, "but it's not a bomb. It's a missile designed to shoot down other planes. It doesn't have that much explosive in it, just some fuel and a small warhead."

"Can it blow up my fucking house or can it not blow up my fucking house?" she screamed, approaching hysterics now.

He had to concede that she had a point. "Well," he told her, "it could make a pretty good hole, I suppose. Let's get John over to my house. We'll call the cops from there and they'll come and take it away."

"I'm not going in there," she said, shaking her head.

"You're husband is in there," Eric hissed at her. "We need to get him out."

"He's not my husband," she spat. "He's a piece of meat that the fucking government threw into the meat grinder and then sent back to me to take care of. A piece of meat that shits himself twice a day and has to have his fucking neck tube suctioned every hour!"

Eric was appalled by her words, too young to understand the contempt that caregivers often develop for their family — no matter how much they once loved them — when forced to nurse them with no hope of recovery. He resisted the urge to slap her across the face and tried a different verbal argument instead. "He's a war hero," he told her. "If you leave him in there to die, they'll arrest you. Now let's go get him out of there."

This seemed to get through. "Okay," she said, her eyes looking at the missile in terror. "Let's do it quick."

They did it quick, easing past the missile in the living room and under the hole it had caused in the ceiling. They went into the back bedroom where a cheap hospital bed, provided by the VA, had been set up. John was snoring away, sleeping the sleep of a man who had been given sedatives so his wife wouldn't have to get up in the middle of the night to deal with him. He was naked except for the blue diaper. They wrestled him into his wheelchair and Vickie threw a blanket over him. She grabbed his suction machine and, together, they wheeled him back through the living room and out into the night, going down the sidewalk and up Eric's driveway. Once in the house they parked him in the living room, where he continued to snore away.

Eric went to the phone. "I'll call the cops," he said. "They should be here in a few minutes to get rid of it."

"Thank God," Vickie snorted, sitting on the couch.

Eric had to swallow as he caught the briefest glimpse up the hem of her robe as she sat down. He saw most of her sexy legs and had the fleeting impression that he might've seen a patch of black pubic hair. He tore his eyes away and picked up the cordless phone to dial 911.

An automated machine answered his call for help, telling him that all dispatchers were currently busy and his call would be answered as quickly as possible. He muttered curses for the better part of three minutes before a faceless, monotone woman finally asked him what the emergency was.

"My neighbor has an air-to-air missile in her living room," he explained. "It came down on the..."

"Okay," she interrupted. "Let me transfer you to the bomb disposal unit."

There was a click, followed by a recorded voice imploring him to buy war bonds for the good of the country. This was followed by another voice asking him to volunteer his time with one of the many civic groups in the greater Roseville area. At last a male voice, gruff and businesslike, came on the line. "Sergeant Jenkins," he said. "Placer County BDU. I understand you are calling to report some unexploded ordinance?"

"Yes," Eric said. "It's a..."

"I'm showing you at 3405 Hickory Avenue in Roseville," he cut in. "Is that correct?"

"Yes, but..."

"Is that where the bomb is?"

"No, it's next door, at 3407, but it's not a..."

"What does the bomb look like, son?" he interrupted again. "I need to know if it's intact, broken into pieces, still burning, or what?"

"Well, like I was trying to say, it's not a bomb exactly, it's a..."

"What the hell do you mean, it's not a bomb?" he said, almost angrily. "Boy, this is the bomb disposal unit, you understand that? Now do you got a bomb or don't you?"

"It's a missile," he said. "A Sidewinder. It came down in my neighbor's living room during the air raid."

"A Sidewinder?" he asked. "Are you sure, boy?"

"I'm sure," he said. "It has an American flag and says AIM-9J on the side of it."

"That's a Sidewinder all right," Jenkins said, his voice softer now. "It's not on fire or anything, is it?"

"No," Eric told him. "It's just sticking out of the floor."

"All right," he said. "I've got you logged down on the list. Evacuate that house and we'll have somebody over there either tomorrow or Saturday to defuse it and get it out of there for you."

"Tomorrow or Saturday?" Eric said, wondering if he'd heard correctly. The BDU was one of those public service agencies with legendary status, like the police and fire department. They were supposed to drop everything and respond immediately when called.

"That's correct, son," Jenkins told him. "Now if there's nothing else, I've got some other calls pending."

"Well... uh... you mean you just want us to leave the missile there for two days?" he asked incredulously.

"It's only an air-to-air missile, son," he said. "It has about eighteen pounds of explosive in it. That poses a danger only to your neighbor's house and nothing else. Meanwhile, as I'm sure you noticed, we just had a major air raid pass over Roseville and plaster the train yards. We shot down five Chink planes while they were on the way to the target, all of which had a full load of bombs that needs to be dealt with. Those bombs threaten entire neighborhoods so they have to get priority, you understand?"

"I guess so," he said.

"I'm glad we're on the same page," Jenkins said. "Now you keep everyone out of that house until we get there and everything will be just fine, okay?"

"Okay," he said. "But what about..." He never got a chance to finish his sentence. The moment the "okay" had come out of his mouth, Jenkins had hung up. "Asshole," Eric muttered, putting the phone down.

"They're not going to come tonight?" asked Vickie, who had been listening in from the couch.

"No," he said. "They say it's not a priority since it's only an air-to-air missile." He shook his head. "I should've pretended I didn't know what it was."

"That's okay, Eric," she said with a sigh, wiping at the plaster dust on her face. "It's not your fault. But what am I supposed to do now? There's a hole in my ceiling and a missile in my living room. I can't go back to my house."

Eric looked over at her. She had crossed her legs at some point but she was still showing a lot of thigh. "I guess you can stay here until they get rid of it," he told her, the idea suddenly not seeming as repugnant as he might have thought earlier.

She didn't even bother with token protests. "Thanks, Eric," she said gratefully and then looked down at herself. "My God, look at me. I'm a mess. And I don't have anything to wear but this filthy robe. And John doesn't have any of his clothes either, or his medicine."

"Why don't we just put John in the spare bedroom," he suggested. "He can... uh... sleep in a regular bed, right?"

She nodded. "He doesn't move around much, especially not when he's juiced up on the Haldol."

"We'll find some way to get him some clothes tomorrow. It looks like maybe he'll fit into some of mine." His old ones, he did not add. There was no way in hell that he was going to volunteer his newer clothes.

"What about me?" she asked. "What am I going to wear? I don't have any bras, any underwear, nothing."

That one was going to be a little harder. His mother was a large woman, standing 5-10 and nearly sixty pounds overweight. None of her clothing would fit Vickie's petite frame. "We'll have to get you something new tomorrow," he suggested, knowing, even as he said it, that his mother would volunteer to buy it for her. "In the meantime... well... maybe you can wear some of my clothes too. You know, like a shirt or something?"

She smiled. "I guess that will get me through the night," she said softly. "Do you think that maybe I could take a shower? I'm filthy."

"Sure," he said. "Let's get John set up in the spare room and then you can use the downstairs shower."

+++++

Eric felt somewhat dirty after tooling around in the rain and helping wrestle John into the spare bed. So, after finding Vickie a shirt to wear — he had reluctantly given her one of his longest ones instead of a shorter version that would have showed more leg — he took the time to take a quick shower himself, utilizing the upstairs bathroom. When he emerged into the living room, now wearing a clean pair of sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt, he heard the water still running in the downstairs bath. He spent a pleasant moment envisioning Vickie's nakedness behind the door but stopped when it started to produce an erection. Instead, he sat down on the couch and turned on the television, flipping through the channels until he found a rerun of Idaho Platoon, the teen-oriented war drama series that followed the adventures of the fictional Lieutenant Mike Smith and his men on the battlefront.

Vickie emerged from the bathroom about fifteen minutes later, his San Francisco 49rs shirt covering her body. He lost all interest in the television when he saw the braless jiggling of her breasts. The hem of the shirt fell to about mid-thigh on her, allowing him to see her sexy legs as well. Her hair was wet and falling over her shoulders. She was carrying one of his mother's brushes in her hand. She came and sat next to him on the couch, ignoring the easy chair that sat right next to it. Eric felt the stirrings of an erection again as his mind continued to remind him that she was completely naked beneath the shirt. Nothing but skin!

"I hope your mom doesn't mind me using her brush," she told him as she began to run it through her hair.

"Uh... ummm, no, I... uh wouldn't think she would," he stammered, his eyes now locked onto the junction of her arm and her shoulder. As she brushed her hair the armhole of the shirt would open up at the top of each stroke, allowing a quick flash of her left breast.

"Are you okay?" she asked, looking at him with concern.

He nodded quickly. "Yes," he said. "Perfectly fine."

She smiled and went back to brushing. He continued to look at her exposed breast out of the corner of his eye. He caught brief glimpses of the actual nipple twice, when she raised her arm for a particularly high stroke. He finally forced himself to look away when the front of his sweats actually began to tent outward. What would Vickie think if she saw he was getting a hard-on from looking at her? She would probably call him a sick pervert, stomp off to bed, and then tell his mother when she came home tomorrow evening. Eventually, grudgingly, the blood left his penis and returned to other duties in his body. He breathed a sigh of relief mixed with just a hint of regret.