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1
Jack
A clear, blue canopy stretched overhead, barely even a whisper of a cloud as far as I could see. Another beautiful day in Northern California. And most importantly, a perfect day for flying.
“All set, Boomer?” A voice buzzed into my ear through my headset.
I smirked as I glanced over the control panel. The use of my call sign always brought a smile, remembering the day it had been given to me. I flashed a thumbs-up through the front window. “Let’s do it!”
My F-18 Hornet fighter jet was alive and begging to get airborne. The machine was raw power, made to take over the sky, and I couldn’t wait to get it back where it belonged. My hand rested on the throttle, itching to get going, as I waited for the all clear to come over the radio. When I was granted permission, I pushed forward and made my way down the runway, gaining speed with each yard, until I gracefully lifted up at the perfect, sweet spot moment to take to the sky. I loved just about every part of flying, but my favorite part was taking off from an aircraft carrier—that split second right as the plane left the deck, dipped down and then roared into the air. At that moment, it was like my mind and body melded with the machine, giving it life and purpose, as we soared together into a new adventure.
The jet roared as I urged it higher and faster, and I smiled to myself at the raw power. For now—this would do.
Flying was freedom.
I climbed quickly, my internal autopilot taking over every motion. I was recently assigned a new plane and still getting a feel for it. Airplanes are like women and can be a little temperamental at times.
Todays’ mission was simple. All I needed to do was get in the air and make sure everything was in tip top shape. A straight work-up flight. Nothing more. The real action would begin about a month from now, when I’d be on a WestPac somewhere overseas, I will be flying missions over hostile territory most likely in the middle east somewhere. The ATC in the tower cut into my musings. “Looks good Boomer. Everything checks out okay?”
“Affirmative,” I replied, doing another quick scan over the array of instruments in the cockpit. “I'm gonna take her out and stretch her legs a bit—be back in thirty.”
“Copy that. When you get back, the Captain wants to have a word.”
“Great, Roger that.” I clicked off the radio and focused my attention on the task at hand —it was just me and the blue sky ahead. For a moment, my mind hinged on what the Captain could possibly want to discuss when I landed, but I pushed that out of my mind and focused on the plane. If there were any problems, they needed to be resolved now. It would be a helluva lot easier to fix things at the base, rather than from an aircraft carrier, or even more daunting—in-country. Not that I expected perfection. That was unrealistic. There were always hiccups. In a little over two weeks, my unit would be embarking on my third WestPac to the Middle East. Since this wasn’t my first rodeo, most of the basics were second nature, but it was important to not get too lax, because that’s when most mistakes were made. And mistakes where I’m headed tended to be fatal ones.
I climbed a little higher and shifted my focus, putting all thoughts of the upcoming mission out of my head.
Flying, especially when I was alone with no threat or danger, was the best place for me to clear my mind. It became something of a meditation session, often my only place where I have true clarity in the middle of my busy, break-neck life’s pace as a Naval Fighter Pilot. I’d recently turned thirty and something about crossing that milestone was hanging in the back of my mind and forcing me to look back with more reflection than I usually did.
As I circled back toward the base, I spotted my 69 Camaro gleaming in the side lot outside my office. It had been a graduation gift from my father, who had purchased it brand new back in his early twenties. Although it was a hand-me-down, there was nothing second-rate about it. He’d kept it in phenomenal condition over the years, often times spending entire weekends working on it out in the garage back when my younger brother, Cody, and I were growing up. The day he’d handed me the keys, I’d been overcome with emotion, and at first, refused such a grand gift, but the look in my father’s eyes that day had assured me it was what he wanted. Cody, of course, had been butt-hurt about it for a while, but when he graduated and received a considerable check, he shut up about the car.
