The order to attack and destroy Idaho’s Army and Air National Guard aircraft had been issued by the Chief of Staff of the Air Force himself. Like Deacon, the Chief understood that there were certain orders one does not have a minion pass on. Each man found it impossible to delegate the responsibility for giving that order unless he, himself was involved. In the case of Deacon, this meant leading the attack himself. “When we go in,” he told his stone faced pilots at the mission briefing, “I will make the first pass. I will draw the first blood.” Then, lowering his head, Deacon found himself muttering, “And may God have mercy on my soul.”

The crackle of a squadron leader’s voice brought Deacon back to the here and now. “Mace One—this is Blue Mace Leader. Target area is in sight. Over.”

Deacon shook his head. The woman who was leading the F-16s designated as Blue Mace was not the commander of the squadron that made up her flight. That officer was headed south toward the Nevada border with other personnel from Mountain Home not flying the mission. When word of what they were about to do leaked out, the squadron commander had presented himself to Deacon in his office and laid before the general the silver eagles that represented the squadron commander’s rank and the wings that stood for his vocation. “I have no doubt,” the squadron commander stated as clearly as his emotions would permit him, “that the orders you have received are valid. I cannot, however, bring myself to raise my hand against my fellow countrymen.” After rendering a final salute, the former squadron commander pivoted about and left Deacon’s office, passing a dozen other aviators who were lined up outside and waiting to follow suit.

Deacon had warned the Chief of Operations back in Washington that some of his pilots would decline the order he was about to issue. “Frankly,” he told the senior general, “if I were not in command here, I am afraid I would find it hard to follow myself. But …” Deacon never finished his comment. There was no need to.

The glint of the setting sun off the dome of Idaho’s capitol building stood out like a beacon. Quickly Deacon’s eyes cut south to the runway of the municipal airport. His targets would be to the left, or south of that. Some of the A-10s would be on the commercial runway, on alert or dispersed, instead of at their normal location adjacent to the Army National Guard facilities. He also suspected that a few of the AH-64 attack helicopters would be up and about, hunting down the forlorn paratroopers farther to the south. All of this, plus the frantic activity at the Idaho Guard base, would make hitting their targets while causing minimal collateral damage all but impossible.