Good Kill Page #4

You don't know what helps me. I get it.

I get why you don't want to

talk about that.

But you don't want to

talk about anything.

I swear to God,

if I didn't start a conversation,

we would never f***ing have one!

Ever since the drawdown,

things haven't been the same.

You know that.

I just want things to go back

to the way they were.

It might have been scarier back then,

but at least we made each other laugh.

We did it in every room in the house.

We did it in parking lots.

Even if we weren't together all the time,

when we were, we were together.

I used to make you...

I used to make you happy.

Well, I can't be that person

if I'm not doing what I do.

I am a pilot and I'm not flying.

- Tom.

- Just...

I don't know what it is that I am doing,

but it's not flying.

Hey, Major.

How's the war on terror going?

Kind of like your war on drugs.

Yeah. Drive safe.

Nothing explodes quite like explosives.

One IED factory going out of business.

Soon as he comes back from taking

the last piss of his life, we smoke him.

We are cleared hot. Light 'em up.

Warheads on foreheads.

Damn it. Damn it, I lost the link.

The Reaper's on autopilot.

Reaper on automatic holding pattern,

figure eight, deconflicted altitude.

- Get it back.

- I am trying.

All right, I've got it. We're back on.

Laser on.

Painting the target.

Both Hellfires.

I've got two tickets to paradise

Won't you pack your bags

We leave tonight...

Master arm on. Weapon's hot.

Rifle when ready.

Three, two, one, rifle.

Missiles off the rail.

God damn it, what's that?

- Sh*t.

- Time of flight?

- Seven seconds.

- Abort?

Negative. Impact, three seconds.

Run, you little shits! Get the f***...

Where are they?

Master arm off.

Weapon's safe.

I know what you're thinking.

I must have been a f***ing pilot

before Pontius.

You religious, Major?

You never cuss.

Yeah, I don't think it helps.

I'd do it if I thought it helped.

Maybe it's something I picked up flying.

You know, actually flying.

Yeah, not a lot of hotheads

stay up in the sky.

And those who make it

through flight school

generally owe us for an F-16.

I owe us for a Phantom.

So how are things at home?

Can't complain.

Well, that's the thing, isn't it?

I mean, we really can't complain.

I mean, try telling our sob story

to the grunts on the ground.

I mean, sh*t, they already thought

we were candy-asses

when we were up in the air

with our f***ing planes.

No. No one's throwing

a pity party for us.

You just gotta keep compartmentalizing.

Never mind the compartments

got too close.

I mean, it used to be

we go to war with a country,

we'd actually go to the country.

Guys enlisted to see the world,

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