Originally Published June 2025 on Pomalom’s Ponderings
(Photography: “Wishbone”; Cameron Genereux; CC BY 2.0)
The cloud cover was heavy.
"This is a shit sky," grumped Warrant Officer Carl "Bucket" Breckenridge. "Seconds would have said that."
"Yup," Chief Petty Officer Hernandes nodded. "Seconds, she hated a shit sky. And she loved it. She was amazing nuts."
"She was our savior, man," said Petty Officer Johnson, clutching his crutches.
Petty Officer Vittetoe stood next to his blood brother, Johnson, crying silently.
"Yea. Well, next to—" and Hernandes pointed to the sky with his left hand, crossed himself with his right.
The SEAL team all nodded, then stood at attention with Johnson, Hernandes, and the other attendees, as the salute was called.
A white veil of smoke from seven rifles, fired simultaneously, rose slowly into an Arlington clear winter sky. The three reports, each about ten seconds apart, echoed across the Potomac. All eyes were transfixed as the veil dissipated. They then lowered to trace the rows and rows of white headstones, each one decorated with a red-ribboned evergreen wreath.
"Damn," sighed Hernandes. "Unreal."
###
Carrie Martin was the first passenger to deplane after landing at Dallas Love Field. A wheelchair awaited her at the gate. Two gloved security officers assisted her off the plane. A flight crew member followed with her carry-on, his jaunty Santa hat in contrast with the grave look on his face. A whiny "Why the hell can't we get off now, I'm going to miss my connection!" washed over Carrie as she was whisked through the airplane's door.
All she could perceive were the abdominal spasms and the blood slowly oozing out of her. And, when she could think, i need to clean up was all she could muster in between the cramps. While the security guards settled her into the wheelchair she cupped her face with her sweaty hands. Rolling up the jetway, Carrie dropped her hands for a moment, looked up, and noticed that the guard who had borne most of her weight as she was being shifted to the wheelchair had a dark-purple stain on one of his blue-gloved hands.
i need to clean up
She clutched her abdomen, ground her teeth. Once she was past the crowd waiting to board at the gate, the guards lifted her out of the wheelchair and into the electric cart. Rolling through the terminal, Carrie stared blankly ahead as seasonally decorated gates rushed past in a blur of green and red and silver. The trip past security took only a few minutes. Carrie was met there by EMTs who rushed her to the hospital. Once there, she was triaged and examined by an emergency OB-GYN.
"I'm Doctor Joan Xabat." She noticed Carrie's eyes try to focus on her ID badge. "It looks weird, and sounds like Sha-BAT. I'll be helping you—"
"I thought I didn't want it," Carrie cried. "He made me not want it." She shuddered, started crying.
"There, there—"
"They wouldn't show me. Show me the ultrasound. I don't know if it's a boy or girl."
"That's okay, Carrie," said Dr. Xabat, "Can you tell me when you took the first pill?"
"I don't know. This morning. AaahhhHHH—" A wave of cramping came on.
"Focus now, Carrie. Was it early morning, or say 10 am?"
"Late, m-morning," said Carrie through her teeth. Her breath quickened, shushing through clenched jaw.
The doctor glanced over at the charting nurse. "Patient, sixteen years, received first dose—" she looked at her watch, back-calculated "—approximately eight hours ago." Dr. Xabat put her stethoscope to Carrie's abdomen and listened intently. "Positive for fetal heartbeat." She turned her face to Carrie's. "Your baby is alive."
Carrie's response was fueled by laughing and weeping and then cringing as another wave of cramps came.
"Doctor," said an approaching nurse, "we got hold of Carrie's mother, Missus Selene Martin. She says she's only fifteen minutes away. She wants us to do whatever is necessary for her daughter. And she understands that Miss Carrie wants to save the baby, if it is still alive. Carrie called her from the plane. Never took the second pill. Missus Martin supports all necessary intervention for her daughter."
"Carrie mentioned a 'he.' Is there a father that knows about this, did her mom mention anything about the fa—"
"She says he's out of the picture. Apparently he insisted Carrie call the Kansas clinic." The nurse rested her palm on Carrie's forehead, stroked gently with her fingertips. "Clinic paid for the ticket."
"Typical. On both counts."
"Can I see it—can I see my baby?" Carrie was more lucid, looked alternately at the doctor and the nurse.
"Miss Martin," said the doctor while motioning to an orderly, "we can get the ultrasound over here, but we would like to wait for your mom—"
"I want to see my baby."
"I know, I know, dear. Your mom is on the way. You're only sixteen, so we need to wait for her to confirm."
"Please, save my baby!" cried Carrie. "They wouldn't show my baby to me! They kept calling my baby 'it' l-like it was a monster, or trash."
"Honey," said the nurse, her palm still resting, her fingers still stroking. "Honey, it's alright. We're here for you and your baby."
###
The cloud cover was heavy.
"This is a shit sky," grumped Chief Warrant Officer Joan Carrie "Seconds" Martin. With a swift directed stride she headed from the combat aviation brigade HQ toward her Army Black Hawk, which rested on a damp tarmac. The helicopter had a defined range of conditions for operation. The current ceiling and precipitation were not even close to pushing the envelope of activity, but the forecast at the exfil point was less than ideal.
Warrant Officer Carl "Bucket" Breckenridge strode up toward his pilot from the huge open hanger bay. "Perkins and Duchesne are hitting the head."
"I hate Perky," she replied. "He's a bastard. Too damn good at Texas Hold 'Em. Took me to the cleaners last night."
"Beginner's luck," said Bucket.
Seconds chuckled, shook her head. "Don't believe in luck."
"Says you, the one with the wishbone tattoo."
"Bonehead!" Seconds rolled her eyes. "It's supposed to be ironic. Why that tat also says 'Order from Chaos.'"
Bucket evaded, took a swipe at their second gunner instead. "Duchess doesn't deserve to live. Damn last name no one can pronounce or spell."
"Don't blame Duchess that you can't spell. Or that you don't know what irony is." She smiled as they came up to the Black Hawk and punched Bucket lightly in the shoulder.
Banter was a norm between Pilot Seconds and Co-pilot Bucket, but on this day it was in overdrive. Their mission was the extraction of a SEAL team on a mission in Somalia, not far from the Gulf of Aden. During Deyr—Somalia's rainy season in November—a miasma of the unknown hung like swamp gas. The weather could change on a dime. Seconds and Bucket had seen some shit skies, and this was definitely on the top ten list. Both were a little on edge. Understandably, their crew mates made reasonable targets for venting.
The two boarded their bird and were running through preflight when gunners Perky and Duchess arrived and sorted their equipment. Extraction of a SEAL team required extra supplies, both medical and ammo. But only enough fuel, calculated for minimal travel and hover time given the predicted conditions, to account for returning with an eight-man SEAL squad and their gear. If the Black Hawk couldn't land in the exfil point or couldn't take off from it due to a sudden change in the weather—or worse—all hell could break loose.
Seconds was getting antsy. "Hey, Bucket," she shouted loud enough for the rest of the crew to overhear, "let's go over it all again, then maybe a fifth time." She looked back into the cabin scornfully. "We've got plenty of time, since Perky and Duchess got their asses on board so damn quick."
Perky and Duchess groaned, tossed a few "eff-yous" under their breath, and finished up.
"Okay boys," called Seconds into her mic, the rotors now whining, "get your diapers tightened up. We're heading into God's country, if God was Satan."
"We gotta snag us some SEAL meat," shouted Bucket.
"Good to go," chimed Perky and Duchess in unison.
"Studebaker, Studebaker, this is South Bend. Copy," came over the radio from HQ.
"Copy, South Bend, this is Studebaker," replied Seconds. "We've gotten this jalopy ready to roll down to the Garage. Standing by for your lead."
"Roger, Studebaker. Take 'er out, and be careful out there, the roads aren't paved with gold today."
"Roger that, South Bend."
###
"Studebaker, do you read?" shouted Chief Petty Officer Hernandes into his mic. "Studebaker, this is Garage. The driveway is swarming with slugs and it's damn wet."
"Copy that, Garage," said Seconds. "The reports are for more crappy weather. Stand by." She looked over at Bucket, who monitored comms with HQ for conditions en route to the exfil point as Seconds assessed the situation on-ground through the weather radar and updates from the SEAL team chief.
"Studebaker, Stu—baker, do y-u read?" came the scratchy and intermittent voice from HQ. "St—bak— this is South Bend."
Both Seconds and Bucket could hear HQ. Seconds looked over to Bucket and pointed toward the weather radar display. Bucket responded: "South Bend, this is Studebaker. We're getting local weather that says it's opening up for a nice picnic in a little while." Bucket and Seconds saw the same terrain-following radar and weather map data. Their trek from Southern Saudi Arabia ran high over Yemen then low across the Gulf of Aden. Both Seconds and Bucket saw a break in the freak thunderstorm line that was closing in on the exfil point. At their current speed, the Black Hawk would arrive at the landing zone right as the gap in the front was passing over. Which would give them less than ten minutes to evac the SEALs until the next wave of thunderstorms.
"Negative, Studebaker. Hol— for —structions."
That bozo is going to call us back, snarled Seconds under her breath. HQ's access to solid weather information had been dodgy for most of their 500-mile flight, "which concerns the hell out of us," so they said. The Black Hawk's own tech gave them the optimal weather data on site, but HQ was extra fidgety due to recent political events in the region.
"Studebaker, Studebaker," came Hernandes again from the ground, clear as a bell. "We're at the Garage. We have two hurting, one critically. A bleeder. What's your ETA?"
Seconds scanned the heads-up display, reviewed the data. "Got you in five minutes minimum, best window is ten."
"Copy that," said Hernandes. "There are more slugs with guns. Can't spot them, though, there's a Noah-style deluge here."
"Garage, look sharp. There's a weather window coming." Seconds looked to Bucket again. "Bucket, you heard that about a bleeder?" Bucket looked her in the eyes, nodded. Turned back to his conversation with HQ.
"Studebaker," called Hernandes. "Studebaker, do you read?"
"Yea-yes, Garage," replied Seconds. "We're waiting on South Bend. Stand by."
"Copy," said Hernandes in a terse voice.
Seconds took a deep breath and adjusted the Black Hawk's pitch in reaction to a strong gust. Shit sky, she whispered. She turned to Bucket for an answer on their status. Bucket was still engaging HQ, then started gesticulating, shaking his head. She heard him saying "Negative, negative, South Bend. Garage is minutes out." He then turned off his mic, flipped up his visor, and rubbed his eyes with forefinger and thumb.
A cold wash flooded through Seconds, from her face down through to her abdomen. She knew what was coming and turned off her mic.
"Shit, Seconds," shouted Bucket. "They've called an abort mission."
"What the f-"
"I know, I know. Tried to convince them we've a better line on the weather. Mentioned the bleeder we need to save, plus, shit, a whole fucking squad. Bastard at HQ keeps saying since they don't have eyes or ears on the weather, they need an alternate solution."
"There is no alternate solution," shouted Seconds. "That bozo doesn't see what we see. He's sitting in a cushy seat at a terminal and can get up to take a piss if he needs to. Damn, I can't even pee in a coffee can."
"Hear ya." Bucket rubbed his eyes again, pulled down his visor.
"Seconds means something, Carl. My sign. If the bastards who gave me that call sign were here, they'd say: 'Woman, you are blessed. You were not meant to be, and here you are. You are the Patron Saint of Second Chances.'"
"Joan, you should have never admitted you were the Texas Miracle Baby," said Bucket.
"They should have never looked me up on the web." Seconds was quiet for a few beats. "There aren't that many of us named Joan Carrie Martin from Fort Worth." She shook her head. "But nah, it's okay. I wasn't gonna lie to 'em. Not done."
"And you busted their balls."
"Ayuh." She smiled. "That's another story. But I got a second chance, Bucket. That's the only reason I'm here. And I'll get another one today. The SEALs will, too. We all will."
"STUDEBAKER, ST—, THIS IS S— —ND. COME IN." crackled in and out over the intercom.
Seconds shook her head at Bucket, drew her hand across her throat. Bucket nodded and switched on his mic.
"S-South," stuttered Carl softly. "Repeat. Sou Ben. Repeat last. Say ag—" Then he cut his mic and turned down the channel's volume.
Joan flipped on her mic to speak with Hernandes. "Garage, we're coming in for a lube. Looks like we'll be there at five pm."
"Roger that, Studebaker," replied Hernandes. Five minutes, he thought, please be only five minutes. He searched his bag for more compression bandages, found only one small one. He handed it to Petty Officer Vittetoe. "Here, fold it like this, then press it hard onto Johnson's thigh, like I was doing. Arterial bleeds, man, are for shit." Hernandes turned to his squad. "Looking at five minutes. Let's be sure the bird can land. Cooper, Kwan, Montana, Borjes. Follow my lead. Secure the exfil point. Funkhauser, form up with Johnson and Vittetoe."
Forms of "Roger that, sir" came through in multiple voices from multiple squad members.
God willing, whispered Hernandes, as he made the sign of the Cross and then pointed up to the sky.
###
A thunderclap rattled the ragged patch of Northeastern Somalia. Sheets of rain pummeled the Black Hawk.
"There, you see it?" shouted Bucket. "Right there, a landing zone, in that clearing."
"LZ, roger," shouted back Seconds. "Lots of little boy toys down there. I hope they're good at hide and seek." She flipped on the com to Hernandes. "Garage, we're coming at you from mark three-thirty."
"Copy that, Studebaker. Sight for sore eyes! Signaling now—"
"See that flashing?" Bucket pointed.
"Roger. They're okay."
Bucket logged the position of the flash and marked that section of the LZ as friendly. He then pointed to the weather radar. "Wait for it, wait for it—"
Just as the Black Hawk passed over the crest of a ridge, the torrent ebbed as a gap in the storm opened up over the EZ. Sunlight danced off of the soaked rocks and ground.
"Studebaker, Garage here. We see you. Friendlies are deployed on your near-side of the EZ. Bogeys are from nine-to-three o'clock from our location."
"Copy," said Seconds, followed by "Perky! Duchess! D'ja hear that?"
"Copy!" they replied in unison.
"Suppressive fire!"
The bird surged forward as Perky trained an M230 chain gun on the furthest section of hostiles, while Duchess worked the nearer side with the M60 machine gun. As Seconds brought the bird over the landing area she could see fire flashes coming from the SEALs. Only a few flashes appeared from the enemy side.
"Shit!" shouted Bucket, after seeing a bright flash from a thicket of shrubs to the north, near a rock outcropping. "Shoulder-fired SAM incoming! REPEAT: MANPAD INCOMING! EVASIVE! EVASIVE!"
While Bucket deployed defensive countermeasures, Seconds spotted the oncoming missile. Instinct took over. She lurched the Black Hawk backward, nose up, then rose straight up, then pitched nose up further and to the left. The bird shook as the missile zoomed past to their right.
She continued her loop around to the left, circled back, trained in on the launch area, and opened up with the M134 miniguns. The shrubs and outcroppings about 800 meters away exploded in clouds of debris. Panning the attack, Seconds spread a wide arc of hellfire over the hostile area. Perky and Duchess followed with their guns anywhere they saw hostiles on the move.
Seconds scanned for evidence of infrastructure, saw several military vehicles, and aligned the Black Hawk accordingly.
"Hellfires, Bucket. Do you have a target?"
"Roger, targets resolved. Engaging."
The bird shuddered as two missiles ripped out of their launch tubes and tore through the hills just above the exfil point. Large explosions followed, with secondary explosions indicating multiple targets were likely destroyed.
"The fuel, Bucket," said Seconds. "We've got to land or we're never going to get home." She turned her head back to glance into the fuselage, made eye contact. "Perky, Duchess: keep working the surroundings, and I'll clear out again from nine- to three-o'clock with the miniguns. Then open the doors."
As the Black Hawk lowered, a swath of vegetation and dirt laying beneath it, damp from the hard November rain, rose like wet brown cotton candy. Cackling weaponry ensued as Perky and Duchess panned the area surrounding the landing zone, which they could now see clearly just twenty, then ten, meters below. Carefully they avoided peppering the region secured by the SEAL team.
With her com open to both the SEALs and her crew, she called out "Ready to touch down in three, two, one, mark."
Perky and Duchess switched over to their hand-held M250 machine guns and scanned the surroundings, then Perky slipped his M250 around his shoulder and motioned to the SEALs. They rushed the Black Hawk, first with their wounded comrade, then executed a perfect extraction maneuver and boarded.
"Buckle up, Navy girls," shouted Seconds. "We're getting your asses home."
As they rose there was a flash, and another puff of smoke also rose, off to the left.
"Shit, another MANPAD!" called Bucket.
"Not now, no way," whispered Seconds. Hovering only five meters above ground, she pulled the bird hard to the right, both miniguns blazing full bore. She waddled the ship back and forth, pitched it up and down slightly, saw an intense explosion from the defeated surface-to-air missile, then jerked the Black Hawk up and pitched over the terrain from where they had come.
Intense cheers from the men onboard nearly drowned out the racket from the engine as they flew back toward the Gulf of Aden, for their trek back across Yemen and into Saudi air space.
Next to "Damn," the most-often repeated word on the return flight was "Unreal."
###
Seconds didn't drink anything stronger than Pellegrino at her Navy Cross Ceremony after-party at The Ram's Head. For the SEALs, plus her crewmen Bucket, Perky and Duchess: a totally different story. Their pours here were particularly stronger than wassail, although that was actually on the Christmas bar menu. But that was all good and fine. Seconds, well in command of her faculties, could reap the vibe off of her comrades and drink in the joy with a clear mind. Her new medal hung proudly on her ribbon rack, just below her left shoulder; a particularly rare decoration to see on a soldier.
Her mother, Carrie, had been flown up from Fort Worth for the ceremony and also joined her daughter at the bar. With the generous open-ended return ticket, Carrie would be able to stay until after New Years. She, too, remained sober, as a constant memorial not to that particular night when she wasn't sober—when her daughter was conceived—but to the day that she most definitely was, when she chose to have her daughter saved. In fact, Carrie had remained sober ever since, and prayed the Holy Rosary every day.
"Seconds," shouted a leaning-in Hernandes over the din, "jus' can't—I just can't say how amazing nuts you are."
"What? Now you wanna get into my pants?" Seconds shouted back, then winked.
Hernandes laughed and raised the back of his hand to his mouth in mock secrecy, and shout-whispered: "Sheeaat, my ol' lady'd kill my ass." Hernandes laughed hard and long, squeezing the waist of his wife, who, also laughing, clutched him back.
"Yea, but I'd kill your ass first." Seconds smiled rich and long at the couple, patted Hernandes on the shoulder.
Johnson, still limping a little on his wounded leg, wobbled over to Seconds and threw his arm around her waist, not caring in the least about any military code of conduct. His Purple Heart, awarded that same day, flopped on his dress whites. Although this was also his party, everyone there, including Johnson, knew who the star really was.
"Seconds!" Johnson said. "Dammit, woman. You was our savior!" A string of holiday lights in the bar reflected off of his damp eyes.
She threw her arm around his shoulder in reply and punched him lightly in the gut. "Just don't ever slow my bird down with extra lead again, you bastard." Then she reached around with her punching arm and hugged him.
"Seconds, you gave us a second chance," called out Vittetoe. He had become blood brothers with Johnson, literally, as he pressed that compress onto the femoral artery wound, waiting desperately for the Black Hawk to swoop down and save them.
"That's what I was made for," Seconds replied. She paused a beat, glanced over at her mom, sniffed back a tear. "I was made for seconds."
"Mama," she then said, turning to Carrie, "I really should go, We both got a ways to ride. Tomorrow's a work day." She looked around, then back at Carrie, "You'll be okay getting upstairs to your hotel room?"
"Oh yea, sure, dear. You go on ahead. Your navy boys here are taking the best care of me!"
"I love you, mama," said Seconds, with a kiss to Carrie's cheek. "Tomorrow. See ya when I see ya."
"I love you, sugar!"
Echoing more good-byes on a short but crowded path through the bar to the entryway, Chief Warrant Officer Joan Carrie "Seconds" Martin collected her motorcycle jacket from the pile of conspicuously safe overwear in this military-friendly establishment. She pulled open the door, crossed the threshold, shivered a little at the December cold, and strode into the parking lot. Her Janus Halcyon 450 was parked right in front of the main bar's window. She pulled on her helmet, turned back to look through the Venetian blinds at her brothers assembled within, and saw her mother too. She smiled rich and long, waved. Turning back, shemounted her bike, gunned the engine.
An old Mercury Grand Marquis swerved into the parking lot. The drivers side spotlight gave it away as a retired police interceptor, probably sold cheap at an auction. The car's path jerked a bit. Seconds watched it approach. A drunk driver on a bender, heading into The Ram's Head for a night cap? She squinted into its single working headlight, still at least twenty meters away, then fifteen. Aiming her motorcycle's headlight through the oncoming windshield, she made out a bald-headed elderly driver paying little attention to what was in front of him. She saw a hand rise in front of his eyes, palm outward, to block her motorcycle's headlight. The car slowed, and Seconds relaxed a little, adjusted herself on her seat. Then the driver's head jerked forward. The car bolted.
Nothing stood between her, her bike, and the car. Seconds turned back to look into the bar window not three feet behind her, turned forward into the oncoming headlight, released her grip on the handlebars and lunged sideways to dismount. The pant leg from her dress whites snagged on something, held her to the bike. She yanked. The snag wouldn't give.
mayday mayday
accident accident
i'm not an accident
###
A thunderclap rattled the hospital in Northeastern Texas. Sheets of rain pummeled the walls.
"There, do you see her?" said Dr. Joan Xabat, pointing to the screen. "Right there," pointing to two tiny legs, splayed wide. "That's no boy."
"It's a girl?" asked Carrie.
"Yes, it's your baby girl. And look, see that flashing? Right there? That's her heart beating."
Carrie was transfixed. Her hooked index finger crammed into her teeth. She started to weep. "Please save my baby. You've got to."
Carrie's own mother stood in the corner. She wept as well, and nodded frantically, pearl rosary beads clutched in trembling fingers.
"Here now, Carrie," said the nurse, "we'll do everything we can to give your little lady a second chance."
"It's almost Christmas," said Carrie's mother. "We need a Christmas miracle."
"She's a fighter," cried Carrie, "full of second chances. I know it."
"God is gracious," sang Carrie's mother in a soulful chant. "God is gracious."
"Young lady," said Dr. Xabat, "You came to the right place. God has given you a second chance. We can stop the effects of the first pill, and there's a good chance that your little lady will also have that second chance you earned."
"Damn," sighed Carrie. "Unreal."
Awesome story!