I didn’t think about being brave. I thought about the faces I’d never see if I didn’t go. I thought about the transport ships, full of people who were just trying to get home. I zipped up my G‑suit, the zippers loud in the small room, and told Marshall to unchain my bird.
Stepping onto the tarmac was like walking into a fire hose. The wind stole my breath instantly, shoving me backward. I leaned my whole body weight forward, boots slipping on the flooded concrete, every raindrop hitting my flight suit like a BB pellet. The F‑22 sat 50 yards away, bathed in the strobing glow of the emergency runway lights. Marshall and two mechanics were already under the belly, fighting the heavy steel chains. I climbed the ladder,
the metal freezing and slick, and dropped into the cockpit.
The smell hit me first. Cold electronics, worn leather, aviation fuel. I jammed my helmet on, plugged in, and started the engines. Not the full checklist — there was no time. I hit the switches in fast‑forward, skipping everything that wouldn’t keep the jet from exploding. Battery on. APU start. Engine one. Engine two. The twin F119 engines spooled with a low, concussive thrum that vibrated up through the soles of my boots. The airframe began to shake — a living thing waking up in a nightmare.
