Libya...25 Years Later

Only six weeks late...who's counting? Oh, if you're offended by politics, stop reading.

***

Libya. If it weren’t so deadly serious I’d be laughing my little furry tail off right about now. It’s amazing what 25 years will do. I remember back when I was an adolescent pup, back when my beloved Miami Dolphins were kicking butt and taking down names in the Orange Bowl, watching TV when Peter Jennings suddenly broke news of the American airstrike on Libya. Europe, sans Great Britain, cowardly sat in the corner and watched as Ronald Reagan led the fight against the terrorist North African regime. American F/B-111 Aardvarks struck Tripoli in the early morning hours of 15 APR 86 sending Khadaffi a message loud and clear. I sat and watched, mesmerized by the efficiency of the F/B-111s, A-6 Intruders, and F/A-18 Hornets. I decided I was going to be a pilot. Two months later Top Gun came out; I decided I was going to be a pilot alright, an F-14D Tomcat pilot.

France. I’m sure you’ve all heard the jokes about the French waving the white flag of surrender whenever someone utters something trivial. That fateful April night they refused to let the Aardvarks fly over France enroute to Libya. Strangely 25 years later; the weak kneed, limp wristed, whiny French grew a pair. They found the intestinal fortitude to fire the first shot, while we stood in the corner…watching.

The Mainstream ‘Lamestream’ Media. They constantly and most shamelessly wagged their finger at Reagan and called him a cowboy. He was going to bring us to nuclear war with his cowboy diplomacy. How dare he attack Libya and not get congressional approval!?! Barack Obama? Different story; they shamelessly waved their red, white and blue patriotic star spangled pom poms and cheered on the President as he finally ordered air strikes without congressional approval.

President Obama. It’s sad when a man can’t speak clearly when his teleprompter goes down, it really is. “I, um, ah, uh, well, gee,” aren’t exactly Presidential words, yet that’s my Commander-in-Chief when the teleprompter isn’t putting words in his mouth. Worse, it’s what he sounds like when he’s talking about Egypt, Libya, or another Islamic country that’s been overrun with chaos, very indecisive indeed. However, he’s decisive, firm and determined when it comes to his March Madness bracket! Yes, sir! He’ll defend his bracket with the fiercest passion imaginable!

As I was saying earlier, I would be laughing my duff off if this weren’t so deadly serious. I earned my paycheck for another month. I did what I was trained to do: To kill people and break things. Tripoli was ablaze. Its night sky is lit up like the 4th of July as my F/A-37 squadron safely thundered over the Gulf of Sidra.

I took one more prideful glance back and settled in for the hypersonic express to the States. It should’ve been a jovial one, instead our collective hearts crashed into the Mediterranean Sea. We listened as an F-15E Strike Eagle went down. My head sunk for a moment. I shook my head as I closed my eyes. I opened them and raised my head up towards the Mediterranean starry night sky.

War is hell. I’ve seen it thousands of times; Kosovo in ‘99, Afghanistan, ’02, Iraq in ‘03, North Korea ‘XX, Latveria ‘08, and now Libya ‘11. No matter how many times you’ve seen death it still crushes you like an M-1A1 Abrams Main Battle Tank running over a Yugo. It ain’t pretty to put it mildly. Times like these you do a little soul searching. Questioning reality, questioning your reason, questioning your existence, your purpose in life. Finally, questioning your lifestyle. One that I knew had to change.

I heard a still small voice. It was inaudible, but I heard it none the less. It spoke softly. Every woman I slept with rose to the surface, mostly good, some bad, and a few fugly. So fugly that it wanted me to fly my F/A-37 into the Rock of Gibraltar and die a fiery death.

I shook those nauseating memories from my head. It was time to settle down. Who? That was the question. Every woman I had come into contact, ahem, with wasn’t a girl you would want to take to see mom. My mom would once again scream, “RYAN TIBERIUS WOLF!”

Before I could wince at the very thought of my mom bellowing my full name in my bad ear a soft pleasing name popped into my mind, Samantha Jameson. How could I forget her? She was always there for me, thick and thin, but bizarre circumstances kept interfering with us hooking up.

True she wasn’t as titillating as Rowan Hex, her eyes weren’t as hypnotic as Vamperilla, she wasn’t as voluptuous as Wonder Woman, nor inebriating as Jessica Drew, but she made up for it with her bodacious fiery petite frame. It packed more punch and had more curves than the natural law allows for a petite; she’s my version of Lois Lane.

I took a deep nervous breath. The thought of asking Samantha scared me to death. Funny how coolly I could bomb Tripoli and a few hours later be turned into a stuttering babbling fool by a 36C-24-34 smoldering redhead. Yeah, that was the true super power of Samantha Jameson or is she my Kryptonite? I, Lieutenant Commander Ryan Tiberius Wolf of the United States Naval Air Force, will soon find out.