A Cure To Fear

I laid the sticker - a purple flower outlined in neon green - on the “forehead” of the face formed by the paintwork on Raffy’s jet’s nose cone. I knew that beneath the sleek surface rested some of the military’s most guarded secrets, a high-power pulse-Doppler radar capable of locking onto enemies before they even knew they’d been spotted. But to me, it was just his jet - the one that carried him away every morning and, by some miracle, brought him back again.

I scampered up the ladder once more to help him with his gear. We worked quickly and silently, the movements practiced and natural. When I gave him the thumbs-up, he returned it with a small wink that sent warmth creeping up my cheeks.

I jumped down, dragging the ladder back - my last link to him before the sky claimed him again.

As always, I joined the other mechanics along the hangar wall, shielding myself from the searing blast of the jet’s exhaust. The five-hundred-degree plume roared as Raffy eased the throttle, the aircraft straining like a chained beast begging to run free.

When the danger passed, I darted forward, standing at the edge of the open hangar doors. One hand pressed over my chest, I watched as the jet rolled toward the runway, the howl of its engines vibrating through my ribs.

One by one, the squadron took off - each aircraft erupting into thunder and flame. And then, finally, Raffy’s jet screamed down the strip, the afterburner igniting in a sheet of white-hot fire as he climbed into the pale morning sky.

The first thing I noticed when Raffy’s jet began taxiing back toward the hangar were the missile pylons - both empty. As it rolled closer, the dark smudges of soot around the gun nozzle came into view. The patch of paint beside the nose, scorched and pitted, spoke volumes. And the sticker was, of course, long gone.

The engine wound down with a groaning sigh as the tractor latched onto the nose gear and began to push the aircraft back inside. I hurried forward, dragging the ladder alongside until the machine came to a halt. My heart pounded as I scrambled up, my gloves scraping against the metal rungs.

When I peered into the cockpit, Raffy already had his helmet off. His hair clung to his forehead with sweat, and he was rubbing at his eyes, exhaustion plain in every movement.

I unbuckled his straps with shaky fingers, my voice spilling out before I could stop it.
“Are you alright? What happened?”

He gave a low groan, twisting awkwardly to stretch in the cramped space as I helped him out. His words came as a rasp, barely audible over the noise of other returning jets.
“I… I got one… I think…”

He stumbled down the ladder, using my shoulder for balance, his steps unsteady. I wanted to stop him, to press for more, but all I could do was watch as he made his way toward the debriefing room - somewhere I wasn’t allowed to follow.

The knot in my chest only tightened. I turned back to the aircraft, its once-sleek skin marred by grime and smoke. It had only been airborne for three hours - what could’ve happened up there to leave it looking like this?

I didn’t know. I couldn’t know.
So I did the only thing I could do: I got back to work, my heart tearing itself apart inside my chest with worry.

I found him later, sitting in the mess with a large beer glass, half-empty, on the table in front of him. His eyes were downcast, his body slumped against the wall. He was twiddling his thumbs, lost in thought, when he startled at my arrival. I slid onto the bench beside him before he could speak.

“Hey. Are you alright?”

His eyes searched mine for a moment, as if looking for something I couldn’t give. He slumped again, his voice taut.

“Ye-yeah… I’m alright…”

He reached for the glass, but my hand shot out, pinning his wrist gently to the table. My voice came out stern but soft with concern.

“No you’re not. Talk to me. You can trust me.”

He stared at me, then slowly relaxed his hand as I nudged the glass out of reach. His reply was a murmur, barely audible above the din of the mess hall.

“Okay. I… I don’t know. I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know how you could help.”

I gave him a small smile, my hand still resting on his wrist.

“That’s not the point. Just talk to me. It helps, trust me.”

He nodded, then began, voice low and halting.

“Okay… I… I’m scared. I don’t know. I’m just scared. I thought I loved it…”

“Loved it?” I asked softly.

“Yeah. Loved it. I loved every moment of training. Flying supersonic jets. It was amazing. But in combat…” He swallowed. “All that love disappears. Like it’s been snatched away by a giant hand.”

He sighed.

“So far I’ve managed to keep my cool. But sometimes I wonder if it’s just a matter of time. If… if one day my number will come up. Like it did for the poor sod I shot down today. It hurt me, y’know.”

It struck me then that this boy had far more heart than I’d realized. I felt myself drawn to him even as he spoke his fears.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just paranoid. Maybe…”

I shifted my hand, sliding it over his. His eyes flicked up to meet mine as I squeezed gently, offering the best comforting smile I could muster.

“Hey. Don’t worry about it. As long as you keep coming back, you’ll be fine.”

But the truth was, I was worried too. The expected lifetime of a rookie pilot wasn’t long.

Then he grinned.

“You know, actually, you’re right. I will keep coming back. Your stickers keep bringing me back.”

I couldn’t help but grin back.

“You think?”

He nodded.

“Yeah. They do give me good luck, I reckon. I’m grateful for them.”

And then he winked.

“One day I’ll come back with it still on, and then you’ll have to marry me.”

I laughed, then smiled sweetly.

“I’m still rooting for you.”

He flushed a little, as did I, and we both laughed together, surrounded by the low hum of conversations in the mess hall, a small pocket of warmth amid the noise.