A sense of great power, seemingly not entirely rational, overcame me as I felt the bottom of the balloon basket leap upward, causing my knees to bend slightly. A simple brass lever being moved less than an inch had released tens of pounds of propane instantly, to be ignited and produce almost 20 million BTU’s of energy upward into the 120,000 cubic feet of envelope capacity. I was there with Kris but was truly alone, rising like Icarus into the rising sun’s rays. I stared up into the expanded envelope.

“We do not have high-altitude equipment,” Kris said from behind me. He pointed at the instrument panel.

I looked at the altitude gauge and the needle indicated only six thousand feet or so and rising.

“That’s AGL, using radar altimeter,” Kris said, pointing lower down on the display panel. “Above ground level.”

I looked at the second gauge which was showing over 10,000, and breathed in deeply, not because I needed more air in my lungs but because I was surprised. The balloon had silently went up almost like a rocket.

A rope appeared around my left shoulder. It was the regular thick but unremarkable cord that I knew was the vent rope.

“Ten thousand is fine for me and maybe you but it can cause light-headedness, dizziness and sometimes vomiting, all of which are unpleasant to deal with when the basket might be filled with passengers.”

I looked over at the perfectly innocent-looking younger man next to me as I put some downward pressure on the vent rope I was holding. I smiled to myself. He was as cherubic looking as I was which meant he’d be good spy material, not that that was likely.

“Hard,” Kris said, not moving to help or take over. “Ten seconds will yield a descent of about two thousand, which takes us into comfort territory.”

I pulled down as hard as I could and counted to ten as I bent over, finally letting up. The rope snapped back as the two sides of the vent slammed shut. It took only a few seconds for the envelope to stabilize and the balloon began to lose altitude.

“Give the gas release a few taps just to help bottom us out,” Kris said, leaning back against the side of the basket and stretching before peering down.

“You know,” he continued, “many first-time riders sit or lay in the bottom of the basket but after a while get up and look out. After that you have to watch them as at this altitude, there’s no feeling of height anymore, so you sometimes will have  to keep them from sitting on the edge here.” He rubbed the leather surface that covered the top edge.

“We’ll just fall slowly until we get to about a thousand feet AGL, then we can catch the northerlies and hopefully complete the box.”

“The box?” I asked.

“In ballooning, the neatest maneuver is to use the mets rising and falling through the different wind directions, always hoping to plant the balloon down exactly in the spot where it took off from. The box.”

The wind reacted exactly as Kris described and we floated back toward the fiesta grounds in the distance.

“Ground skimming is neat. As we get closer just bump the gas lever every few seconds and see if you can keep us about fifty feet in the air, high enough to avoid encountering those trees down there.”

I looked down and then did as he instructed, amazed that he would, even under his close supervision, let me guide us along. The ballon was moving in the slight wind, which was more than it had been when we took off.

“We want to get down before the sun is fully up as the desert wind will rise and we don’t want to be dragged along until enough air is exhausted from the envelope to allow us to stop.”

I took in the scene below as we silently, except for an occasional blast from the burners, made it seem like I was in a movie or some other equally strange existence. It was wonderful and I wanted it to go on and on.

“It’s even better out over the real desert but we’ll save that for another day,” Kris remarked, moving to gently change positions with me.

“You’re a natural so you’ll be soloing in no time, then it’s just a matter of some ground school training and you’ll be a pilot like me.”

I moved to stand facing in the direction the balloon was moving, thinking that I would never be like him. He was such an obvious and calm master of the air we were riding in.

The fiesta field came under us and Kris pulled first on the vent rope until the basket bumped into the ground and bounced heavily once before he changed ropes and pulled the top out. Almost immediately the basket dropped onto the hardscrabble desert surface, like it was stuck into it. The envelope collapsed and Kris jumped over the basket lep.

“Come on, we have to gather in about four hundred pounds of nylon before the wind picks up and pulls us along with it.”

Suddenly vehicles showed up and parked all around the open area surrounding the collapsed envelope, my Range Rover included. The chase crew members quickly jumped out and began the work of folding the giant expanse of nylon into a ball and then forcing it into a canvas bag that seemed way too small to hold it.

Kris pulled out a bottle of champagne and worked to pop the cork. Almost mysteriously, the work stopped, and plastic cocktail glasses were passed around.

Kris poured and then toasted to my first ride in a balloon. I sipped and reflected on the fact that I had somehow not known a thing about such a great sport or the wonderful people who were involved with it.

One of the crew handed me my car keys.

“Lunch tomorrow?” Kris asked.

“You better believe it,” I answered, quickly, having a million questions for the man but now they could wait. How had he come to arrive at the office and invite me to go ballooning would be at the top of my list.

I carefully worked my way across the fiesta grounds, trying to avoid spots that might have debris or sharp rocks that might penetrate the Rover’s tires. The office was only minutes away.

Once there, I let myself in. Ballooning was over and it was not even seven a.m. in the morning.

I sat at my desk and then leaned back in my swivel chair in order to take in the experience I’d just had. It was an astounding day and it hadn’t really started yet.

The phone rang. There was no staff but it was quiet enough so I could hear the ring all the way out in the clerical area. My own phone didn’t ring, as calls had to be put through by Pat or another staff member.

I hit the button that was lit, expecting some nonsense supplier or client to be calleing in so early.

“John McCain here,” the voice said, even before I could say hello.

“Yes, sir?” I replied, shocked out of my wonderful reverie into the balloon experience.

“I’m coming to Kirkland Air Force Base, and I’d like to visit with you…as long as you leave that automatic at home or wherever you might keep it.”

I was struck dumb. What could the man possibly want? I’d said no to the project he didn’t seem to have wanted to be a part of in the first place. Why, other than the rescue project, would John McCain want to visit with me, which also meant he didn’t want to talk about whatever it was over the phone.

“When?” I asked, knowing that there was no way I was going to deny the famed captain, who, in spite of what others might think, was a true hero to me.

He’d made it through five years of torture for his country. I’d made it through only thirty days, and so there was no way I could not do anything but be beholden to the man.

“This afternoon, over at that strange hangar,” he replied. “Say, two o’clock, or so.”

“Yes, sir,” I said but I was talking to a dead phone.

I looked at the receiver before I put it back on its cradle. My hand went automatically toward it as my mind thought about my wife and my promise, but I stopped it to pick up the instrument again and dial. Not telling her of the visit did not violate my oath. What might come of that meeting might, but I wasn’t about to let that happen. I wasn’t going and I wasn’t about to lose my wife or her confidence in my keeping my word. The image of Smedley Butler came into my mind.

“All the way, up the hill, Smedley, you and me,” I breathed out, sitting back in the chair once more and clasping my hands together as I thought. Ballooning was no longer on my mind.

I tried to relax but the unknown nature of my new existence didn’t allow for that luxury. I still had no training and there seemed not even to be any discussion about that. McCain was not a fan of the rescue and that was in my favor, because no matter what Mary and I did to avoid the mission the forces we were now aligned with and run by were powerful almost beyond our comprehension. I knew deep down that I could likely be made to do anything.

I went to work on the stack of paperwork on my desk which took up enough time for Pat and the staff to show up. She came through the open door with a note in her hand. I smiled and took it, noting that she’d stopped at the door to knock on the outside wall next to that door. Times had changed, at least the times between she and I.

“Who’s this from?” I asked, taking the note from her hand and opening it.

“That nice balloon man,” she replied, before turning and leaving.

“You want the door open or closed?” she said, sweetly.

I sighed, wondering if I wasn’t better off with the mean-spirited assistant I’d had before.

The note was from Kris.

“I know you are running the life insurance office here on Rio Grandes,” it began, before going on, “Before we go through all that sales stuff can I just buy a fifty-thousand-dollar policy on myself, twenty-five on my wife and ten on each of my two kids. We can spend lunch talking about other stuff.”

I put the note down on the top of my desk gently, as if getting it ready to be bronzed. It was another totally unbelievable life insurance sale in the making, one that Tom Thorkelson and Chuck Bartok, in their old sales wisdom, would start laughing over if they knew. I was about as much a life insurance salesman as I was a spy. Somehow, I just managed to muddle on by, but the potential of the coming hostage rescues effort was nothing to take so lightly. I could see no way that men would not die pursuing a successful mission outcome.

I left the note, reminding myself to fill a file with some applications for our lunch on the next day. Lucky’s Cantina was right west on Rio Grande Boulevard not more than a mile, but I’d never been there. I decided to check it out, have a couple of tacos and then head toward the airport to await McCain’s arrival.

The drive was short, so I stopped at the car wash. Ballooning was going to have an effect on the Rover I decided, after having to run the car through the wash twice and it could have taken a third, but I was too impatient to wait.

The hangar was as before and, once having passed through the military base gate with my still valid Marine Corps I.D. card, I drove inside to wait. The New Mexico heat of the sun at midday, blazing down on a vehicle, even a white one like the Rover, was not something to be easily tolerated.

I got out of the car and walked around to wait. There was a phone on the wall so I decided to call my wife about the balloon ride, which she thought was one of my PTSD insanities. There was no convincing her that ballooning had the same mortality as walking down the street did, in fact, less if it was driving down the street.

She answered on the second ring, either because she was waiting for my tardy call or she was ironing, something she loved to do for no good reason I could ever figure out.

We talked about Kris and the experience. All of a sudden, and I’d not been paying attention, the sound of spooling turbines grew to the point where it was hard to talk to her anymore. I’d forgotten where I was.

“Where are you?” she yelled into her phone.

I breathed in and out deeply, before answering.

“At the airport,” I confessed, dreading what she might say next.

“And who are you meeting there?”

I wanted to lie in the worst way, but I knew it wouldn’t fly. My wife was more accurate about tonal quality than the detector I’d had removed from my desk drawer.

“John McCain,” I said, hoping the dying engines of the plane would mangle the words.

The line went dead. I hung the receiver at my side. The day was all of a sudden not going very well.

I looked at the white King Air, recognizing it immediately. Allen Weh’s Charter Services was making a pretty penny off my joining the Bankers Life office next to him. I wondered if I’d be billed again.

The plane door silently flowed outward and up while the stairs slid to the concrete. John McCain eased himself down the stairs, obviously having a hard time holding the cable rails from the damage to his body while he was a prisoner of war. The engines of the King Air spooled all the way down and both propellers stopped rotating at the same time.

“Captain,” I said, putting the phone back on the nearby hook and turning to walk toward him.

“Let’s get back aboard,” he said, having looked around to discover that the big hangar was just that and offered no decent place to sit and have a talk like would be normal inside a regular airport concourse.

Once back on the plane, McCain ever so slowly preceding me, we sat opposite one another in two of the overly lush passenger seats.

“What’s on your mind, Captain?” I asked, steeling myself for what he might reply.

“I’m not a fan of this rescue attempt,” he began, looking out through one of the big porthole kind of windows behind where I sat facing him.

“Men are going to die in attempting to rescue men who are very likely dead. The fact that I’m here is a fluke, and I know it. But I can’t be seen to be opposing this attempt. I’m running for a U.S. Senate seat soon. Marcinko is a crazy person but he means well, not at all like your rather cold and quietly commanding approach nor with your proven capability.”

I was growing uncomfortable listening to the man. I’d been told by my therapist Paul, years before, that people would say to me that I was the smartest man they ever knew and, although that might be true, it also meant that they were either setting me up for a fall or one was already underway. Men in the American culture never admitted to other men that they were smarter than them. It was a ‘tell’ and I should start looking around for the confidence game. I looked around me, remembering his advice. Why was McCain being so complimentary? He wanted something he wasn’t entitled to and that thing might be very costly for me, not even considering the firing squad I was going to face when I got home for first not telling her in advance of the meeting and then second for even listening to McCain about what it was that he wanted.

I said nothing. There’d been no question. I just looked at him expectantly.

“I want you to train the team they’ve assembled,” he said. “There’s a training facility right on the base here that you can use. You don’t go over there at all.”

I listened to McCain’s tone like my wife would have, taking the words apart and putting them back together. It was slight but it was there, the tone of my not being able to face into the fire another time. He would never accuse me of being a coward, but his tone let it be known that in the very back of his mind the suspicion lay there, like a dead pig in the sun.

“Who are the volunteers?” I asked, changing the subject, almost making it so that I was in and wanted to know my team candidates.’

“Some real well-trained men from different parts of special ops teams,” McCain replied, his tone going to enthusiastic.

“Any Vietnam Veterans?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Nah,” he replied, “these are younger guys in better shape.”

I could not help letting out a short cut-off laugh.

“So, you want me to train as a bunch of FNG types who’ve never seen combat, to go into a triple canopy jungle fighting situation after being toughly trained and fully exposed to desert warfare?”

McCain stared at me.

“I know how smart you are,” he concluded, looking me straight in the eyes, doing nothing more than raise my sense of pending doom that those words had been drilled into me meant exactly that. “I don’t intend that these men ever serve anywhere in that zone of nightmare jungle, and I think that you know that.”

“Because you are so concerned for their welfare, and I get that,” I said, delivering the sarcastic sentence as flatly and unemotionally as I could. “I’m Op Con to the CIA in field service, and you already know that.”

“I can get the approvals,” McCain said, with a big smile, as if I was accepting his proposition.

“I have to call my wife and my control officer,” I said, coming to my feet, wanting nothing more than to get out of the plane, the hangar and the airport itself. Having come from the ballooning fiesta field all the way to where I was seemed like a gulf bigger than the Pacific Ocean.

“I’ll call your control officer, while you can assure your wife that you’ll be right here on Kirkland for the entire training period. That will give me time to kill the whole thing and then it’s over.”

He said those words to my back as I fled out of the cabin and down the stairs. I got into the Rover, started it, and drove out of the hangar and then away back through the base gate. I headed for the office but then stopped when I saw the car wash I’d put the Rover through twice before my meeting. I drove in, waited, and then ordered the luxury wash with wax. I needed to wash the whole experience off of me but getting the car really clean would have to do.

Once at the office, I walked through the clerical area without saying a word and on into my office. As expected, a bill for McCain’s flight was already on my desktop. I shrugged. The CIA had holes in it one could drive trucks or airplanes through. I called Herbert without even sitting down. He answered so I gave him McCain’s whole spiel.

“You hit pay dirt with that meeting,” Herbert said as if impressed with my performance.

“What in hell are you talking about Tony?” I asked, in surprise.

“That bit about training inexperienced hot shot jocks in the desert to fight in a jungle situation.”

“Bad news travels fast,” I said, waiting for what might come next.

“Yes, that was truly sound advice, so they want to move the training to a very peaceful part of pacified Vietnam.”

I put the receiver down at my side, trying to recover myself. I hung it up while I could still hear him talking. I waited, still standing. When I could not hear his voice anymore, I hung up the phone and then pushed a button to get an open line to call my wife. I tried to punch in the number, but my fingers would not work right. I pulled my hand back. I had not had combat shakes since being in the Valley. I could not call her. I could not go back to the valley. I could not say no if they made me because without ever saying anything they were holding my wife and my life hostage. I felt like crying, sitting in my chair, but nothing would come to my eyes, with my hand shaking like a wind-blown leaf, hoping that nobody would walk through my open office door and see me in such a state.