Page 133 - Never Fly Solo

106 | NEVER FLY SOLO
I can do this, I thought to myself. After all, I had survived
six-hour night combat missions in Iraq and Kosovo. How bad
could it be? It would be a challenge, sure, but also fun.
I was conveniently forgetting about my claustrophobia.
So here I am, at three a.m., wondering if I’ll have a panic
attack at twenty thousand feet and fifteen hundred miles out
to sea. Will I be able to control myself as I did in the past on
those harrowing combat missions? Or will I lose focus and
spiral into a fit of hysteria and panic, alone and strapped
tightly inside a coffinlike cockpit, with the nearest emergency
airfield more than two hours away? My head spins as I ponder
every possible emergency procedure. I don’t sleep a wink.
I stumble out of bed at seven a.m., exhausted, and barely
eat breakfast. Anxious and miserable, I have a pounding
headache during the premission brief, reminding me of how
little sleep I’ve had. I can’t shake my anxiety and ponder ask-
ing the commander to replace me with another pilot. I talk
myself out of it. There is no way I am going to wimp out and
embarrass myself in front of my wingmen. I’m tougher than
that. I’m no coward.
Besides, I can’t tell anyone the reason why I’m so stressed,
why I couldn’t sleep last night. If I do, they’ll rip the Air Force
wings off my chest so fast, I won’t have time to think. I hid
my little secret for seven years, and there’s no way I’m going
to tell anyone about it now. I’ll fly the mission and live up to
my commitment. I’m a fighter pilot, for goodness sake!
I strap on my survival gear, grab my helmet bag, and head
out to the jet with my five wingmen. It’s gorgeous out, and a
slight breeze cools the air. Soon we’ll be home with our fami-
lies, enjoying a home-cooked meal and our own warm beds.
No more living in tents, eating powdered eggs and Saudi des-