Strike Force Alpha

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Tom Santos was scared.

He’d flown B-52s over North Vietnam. He’d seen entire squadrons shot down around him. He’d seen friends plunging to their deaths, 20,000 feet below. All of it terrifying. But nothing compared to this.

The doctor’s office was cold and sterile. The yellow walls were devoid of anything but diplomas and awards. This guy had been referred to Santos as being the best in the business, that business being oncology. But he was having doubts. The diplomas looked too small and the awards too large, as if the guy had printed them up himself.

He’d been waiting here, alone, for 35 minutes. This after the nurse had told him the doctor would see him “in just a few.” Ginny, his wife of 28 years, mother to his six kids, was down in the lobby, seven floors below. The torture of waiting for the results of the test he’d taken a week ago had exacted a toll on him, so Santos had asked her to wait downstairs. He didn’t want her to see just how scared he was.

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