Page 134 - Never Fly Solo

ABORT! ABORT! | 107
ert sand. No more night missions trying to refuel on a tanker
while fighting vertigo.
I try to get jazzed, but I can’t. With each step toward the
aircraft, my anxiety grows along with my fear.
I climb into the cockpit, run through the preflight check-
list, and hear the commander give us the start-engines call.
Here we go. I take a deep breath and get ready to crank up
the massive F-16 General Electric engine. It’s go time.
What the heck am I doing? Do I really need to fly this jet
today? Is flying home that mission-critical? Are we at war
here?
If I take off in this plane, I cannot say with 100 percent
certainty that I won’t freak out and have a panic attack. And if
I do, then I’ll become a serious safety hazard, not only to myself
but to my wingmen as well. Is it really worth that risk?
I have to make a critical decision and make it quick. Fly
or abort?
My crew chief looks up at me, waiting for the start-engine
signal.
I can’t do this. Damn it!
I call out to my flight lead, Lieutenant Colonel Dodson,
who is also our squadron commander—my boss, “One, this
is Two.”
“Go ahead.”
“Uh, yeah. Uh . . . Two needs to abort.”
There’s a slight pause. “Say again?”
“Two’s aborting, sir.”
Another pregnant pause follows. “State reason.”
“Yes, sir. Uh . . . I am feeling, uh, pretty sick. Not sure I
can make it all the way home. I didn’t sleep last night and feel
like crap.”