A Man Named Dave

call.”
    In a swirl of emotions I profusely thanked Sergeant Blue. Hanging up the phone, I clasped my hands together. Calming down, I began praying, thanking God.
    Ten months later, in the summer of 1984, an SR-71 Blackbird stabilized in a hovering state, flying ten feet below and forty feet behind a KC-135 Q model refueling tanker, waiting on me – a recently certified crew member – to fulfill my part of the mission. Staring out of the glass that not only protected me at an altitude of twenty-five thousand feet, but gave me an unlimited view of everything within hundreds of miles, I drew in a deep breath to collect myself. I felt the unique sensation of needing to merely reach out through the glass and touch the Blackbird, as both planes made their way south at speeds exceeding five hundred miles per hour on a specialized refueling track above Idaho’s aqua blue Salmon River. It wasn’t the heavenly scenery or being lucky enough to be a part of a distinctive air force program that was important to me, but that it was my first solo flight. I was fulfilling a childhood dream. I was no longer confined to a dark, torturous environment, hopelessly wishing I could “fly away” from danger. After years of sacrifice, my life had made a turn for the better. For the first time in my life, I began to feel good about myself. I always knew as a child, deep down inside, I could make it if I had the chance. And now my entire life was on track. I no longer wore a mantle of shame. I was becoming a real person. I could lower my guard, relax, and live life.
    “Aspen 31, Bandit 27,” I relayed to the waiting SR-71, using his identification call sign immediately followed by mine, “you are clear for contact!”
    “Hey, boom!” the pilot in the flight deck echoed, “make Kelly Johnson proud!”
    “Roger that!” I smiled. For me, it didn’t get any better than this.
    Now that I was an air crew member, every day was an adventure. Every time I zipped up my flight suit, I felt like my childhood hero, Superman, out to save the world from impending doom. My green Nomex uniform was my red cape, taking me to places I had dreamed about when I was a prisoner in Mother’s war. I was appreciative that I was with a unique organization that carried a sense of honor and camaraderie. The more I became involved as a boom operator, the more I cherished my position, and a deep sense of pride was growing. I was part of a family.
    My new career carried a new level of responsibility. Besides flying two, sometimes three times a week, at any hour of the day or night, my crew and I would have to spend the day before planning the most minute segments – from preflighting the aircraft before takeoff to engine shutdown after landing. I quickly learned the seriousness of the job. If there was a major political or military situation anywhere in the world, the Blackbird would be deployed to collect real-time photographs of a hot spot that could be in the hands of the President, if needed, in a period of twenty-four hours. The Q model KC-135 Stratotanker was the tanker that fed precious, one-of-a-kind JP-7 fuel to the Blackbird, enabling the SR-71 to accomplish its mission. There was a sense of excitement knowing that my bags were packed and that I could be called upon to fly off into the sunset at a moment’s notice.
    Because I never slept the evening prior to a flight, there were times after a late-night mission that I would be so exhausted, I’d collapse at the pool of my apartment complex. Yet still I’d be smiling. I’d gaze up at the stars that hours ago seemed close enough to cup in my hand.
    I lived a grand life. I had my own apartment, my home, where no one could kick me out or make me feel unwanted. I could go to bed as early as I wanted without being disturbed, as I had been when I was an airman living in a dormitory. I kept my tiny one-bedroom home apartment sparkling clean. Financially, I was barely getting by, but what I was losing in salary was easily made up for in peace of mind. I was proud that my first home was fully furnished and paid for from my years of saving. My life also included two close friends that I had met as a foster child, Dave Howard and J. D. Thorn. They still lived in the Bay Area, and I’d drive down to goof off with them during the weekends whenever possible. I kept close tabs with Alice and Harold as well by calling them several times a week. I felt I had more than anyone could ask for.
    Although I was feeling good about myself,