Then the master caution alarm screamed. Flame out. Flame out. I’d ingested debris from the bomber when I flew through the fireball. The right engine spooled down to zero. A second later, the stick went
dead in my hand. The last of the hydraulic fluid had bled out.
The F‑22 was no longer flying. It was falling.
The altimeter unwound in a blur. 3,000 feet. 2,000. I reached down and grasped the yellow‑and‑black ejection handle. “This is Hush. Target destroyed. Aircraft critical. Ejecting.”
I didn’t hesitate. I pulled hard. The canopy blew off, instantly replaced by the deafening roar of the hurricane. The rocket motors beneath my seat ignited, slamming 14 G’s down on my spine. I was blasted out of the cockpit and into the freezing, rain‑lashed sky. I tumbled for three agonizing seconds before the drogue chute deployed, snapping me upright with bone‑jarring force. The main canopy opened with a crack. Below me, the F‑22 slammed nose‑first into the Pacific and vanished.
