Born and raised in San Jose, California, Jillian O’Hara knew at an early age that she wanted to fly helicopters. She attended Norwich, a private military college in New England, and after graduating in 2013, she went on to flight school. Jillian is an aeromedical evacuation officer as well as a pilot. She’s stationed at Hunter Army Airfield in Savannah, Georgia.
I bolt awake to the crackle of the radio inside our shack. It’s dark, unbearably hot, and I’m already jumping off my cot before a voice belonging to one of our night-ops guys is yelling over the radio, “Medevac! Medevac! Medevac!”
My bunkmates are up and scrambling. I went to sleep in my uniform, so I don’t have to waste precious time getting dressed, and my vest and equipment are close by. When the call comes in for medevac, you know someone is in extreme pain, possibly dying, and you can’t waste a single second.
Then I’m told we’re about to launch on a Category Alpha mission. That takes the adrenaline to a whole other level.
Alpha is the highest category. A Cat Alpha means a dire emergency. Life, limb, or eyesight.
It’s just before dawn here in Jalalabad, a city in eastern Afghanistan. I sprint across the uneven ground full of fist-size boulders, heading for the airfield. My gear is weighing me down, and I’m carrying my weapons. In the crushing August heat, the temperature is already well above ninety degrees, climbing to upwards of 120 degrees by noon.
I’m the pilot of what’s essentially a flying ambulance. But I’m not in this alone. I have my Dustoff crew with me: my copilot, crew chief, and medic. We’ve been training together for the past year. We have each other’s backs. This is our first real mission.
And we’re going into actual combat.
I take the left seat in the HH-60 Mike—a Sikorsky Black Hawk medevac-outfitted helicopter with a litter system, hoist, and forward-looking infrared (FLIR) cameras. It’s a marvelous piece of machinery: swift, efficient, and fast.
I turn knobs and flick switches as I run through a mental checklist. The Black Hawk sat all day yesterday baking in the desert sun, and the cockpit is sweltering.
The twin turbine engines fire.
The rotor blades begin to chop the air. Moments later, the sound is nearly deafening. The only voices I can hear are the radio calls over my headset.
“Dustoff 609,” Tower radios, “you are clear to launch.”
Wheels up. I grab the stick.
As my bird climbs along with our two escorts, a pair of Apache attack helicopters, I look to the nearby mountain range housing Tora Bora, the cave complex where Osama bin Laden hatched his terrorist plans. The month after 9/11, bin Laden returned here and then managed to escape US forces. Tora Bora is always in my line of sight, even on the ground.
Bin Laden is the reason I’m here—why we’re all here.
Our destination is on the other side of the mountains. When I reach our maximum speed, I radio the ground commander: “This is Dustoff 609. We are en route. ETA six minutes.”
“Roger, Dustoff 609. Please be advised patient’s life signs have dropped. Anything you can do to increase time will be greatly appreciated.”
I increase speed as I climb, keeping my eye on the torque gauge. I can only sustain a high temperature for thirty minutes. Anything longer and the engines will seize.
I’ve never felt more exhilarated in my entire life.
I knew I wanted to fly since I was five. People would say, “Oh, how cute. Maybe next year she’ll want to be a princess or a ballerina.” My mind never changed. Then 9/11 happened. Hearing my dad on the phone, distraught as he talked to his family on Staten Island—that sealed the deal for me.
We get a break from the heat, courtesy of the higher altitude. Cool air rushes inside as we fly over the snowcapped mountains at sunrise. Looking down, you might mistake these beautiful peaks for the Colorado Rockies.
And yet I can’t reconcile how something so beautiful and peaceful can be so harsh. On the ground, people are living in mud huts and makeshift compounds without electricity, running water, anything. It’s a third world country, and I’m humbled to think that back at base we’ve got plenty of food, shelter, and clean water—we even have Wi-Fi.
I know the bad guys could be lurking somewhere in these mountains right now. Not only are they trying to kill us, they hurt and kill their own, even women and children. They hide there, waiting to take us down with their RPGs (rocket-propelled grenades)—which is why we’re flying with a pair of attack helicopters.
Per the Geneva convention, medevac helos aren’t allowed to have any weapons installed inside the aircraft. The enemy knows this, which is why they specifically target us. With the red and white medical crosses painted on the bird’s sides and nose, we’re easy to spot.
But we’re not going into this unarmed. Our M4 rifles are stored inside the aircraft, and we each carry an M9 handgun. We can defend ourselves on the ground, if necessary.
I check the speed, and then the temperature. We’re good. Only a few minutes away from the landing zone.
Then I get a call from one of the guys on the ground. “LZ is hot. We’re trying to clear the area for your landing. Stand by.”
As I reach the LZ, over the radio I can hear gunfire, fighting, and I can see bullets hitting the buildings off to our right side.
The guy on the ground says, “Ma’am, you’re not cleared. You can’t land.”
Except I’ve got to land—and do it right now—or the patient won’t make it. I also have to consider my team. They’re hearing the same radio communication I’m hearing yet they’re trusting me to keep them safe.
I’ve got to make a decision: wait or go into a hot landing zone.
I go in.
My medic throws open the door the second we land and runs off to grab the patient. The whole helicopter is encompassed in dust. I can’t see him—I can’t see anything.
And we’re getting shot at.
Normally, I’m on the ground for no more than a minute—usually less. This time, the waiting feels like a lifetime—and the gunshots are close.
It’s the most scared I’ve ever been.
The medic comes back and loads the patient. Flooded with adrenaline, relief, and the knowledge that I’m helping bring someone home on their worst day, I’m already lifting off the ground.
This is 100 percent the best thing I’ve ever done and will ever do.
And I cannot wait to deploy again.