TWO

The following semester I was ready to go back to school, but I’d decided to commute from my mom’s home rather than moving back to campus. Jäger had restored me emotionally enough to face the outside world, but I was a different person when I rejoined my fellow ROTC cadets. That next year, my junior year, was filled with mistakes. I took crazy risks, either out of a determination to kill myself or a sense that nothing I did mattered.

At a convention in New Orleans, I was goofing around with some fellow cadets and jumped from one balcony to another on the thirtieth floor of a hotel. I nearly fell and carried a softball-sized bruise on my left biceps from where my arm caught the railing. I bought a sport bike and drove it like it was stolen all over Austin. Some nights I would take part in illegal racing at a closed-down airport. A few months into my return to school, I even threw out my plan to wait to have sex until I was married. I fell in love with a cadet named Jack, although in hindsight it wasn’t really love. It was more like I was trying desperately to run from myself, to stanch my emotional bleeding, to numb the pain of losing my dad.

I was still with Jack during my senior year, and as school started winding to a close, the pressure on the ROTC candidates only increased. The way the selection for pilot training works is as follows: Each cadet is scored on various aspects (class ranking, GPA, physical fitness, etc.) throughout their time in the Corps (the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps, or the Corps of Cadets). The seniors’ scores are stacked against other ROTC senior cadets throughout the country in different universities, all of whom are “categorizing” in their second-to-last semester. The Air Force takes however many people they need for pilot training, and the rest of the cadets have to pick a different field, such as Intelligence, Security Forces, Aircraft Maintenance, and so on. Contrary to popular belief, only about 20 percent of the officers in the Air Force get to be pilots.

Throughout ROTC, I had consistently been getting around 425 or so out of 500 on the physical fitness test. I could max the upper-body-strength stuff like push-ups, but I could never max out the points for the sprint. When the day finally came for us to do our categorization physical fitness test, or PFT—in other words, the only PFT that counted toward getting accepted into pilot training—I injured my knee on the sprint and logged the worst PFT score of my career: somewhere around 280. I was incredibly disappointed, but given the fact that I was in the top of my class (I was serving as the second-in-command at the time, the Vice Wing Commander, as chosen by our cadet Wing Commander), I thought I still had a chance.

I was wrong.

When the results came out, I found myself standing on the sidelines as the names of those selected for pilot training were called out. They would come forward to receive giant silver-painted cardboard wings around their necks. I found myself trying to smile, taking pictures of my friends and acting as if my world hadn’t just come to an end—again. I was excited for them, so I had to paint a smile on my face for the day. Behind the smiles, I was devastated, of course, but I was already hatching a plan for my next step.

Some people who were disappointed that day resigned from ROTC to pursue their plan B, but I wasn’t going to let this knock me off my chosen path.

Though I had failed to get a pilot slot out of ROTC, I knew there were other roads that would lead me to pilot training. However, I also knew that it was incredibly difficult to travel those roads, as the majority of pilot slots go to the ROTC and Air Force Academy graduates who “win” a spot during categorization. For the rest of us, the fifty-thousand-plus people who composed the rest of the Air Force officers, there were a couple of pilot slots a year offered as a carrot, but only the absolute best of the best would ever grab that extremely rare golden ring.

I was faced with the decision of whether to find another dream or to join the military in a different career field and hope I could rise to the top. I decided to roll the dice and risk it. I looked at the list of career fields before me. Which one would make me a better pilot someday? I chose Aircraft Maintenance, as it would afford me the opportunity to learn about aircraft systems. I figured when I finally got to pilot training (not if, but when), I’d be ahead of my peers because of my experience working with different airframes.

I was ecstatic when I was selected. After I completed my training, my first assignment would be heading off to Japan to work on F-16s. I couldn’t imagine a better assignment. The only problem was that I was planning to marry Jack, and he still had a year left at UT.

This assignment to Japan seemed perfect to me in every way, except for the fact that it meant my soon-to-be husband and I would be spending the first year of our marriage on separate continents. But, I thought, we were in love. Love can overcome anything, right? So we got married as soon as I graduated, and I accepted my commission into the US Air Force. We had a midsize ceremony, and I wore the big white ball gown and everything. That should have been my first red flag that I was doing something completely contrary to who I really was. Jack and I took a honeymoon cruise in the Caribbean, and then off I went alone into the wild blue yonder at the age of twenty-three, starting my dream career. Not flying planes—not just yet—but in my head I was practically already in the pilot seat.

—

In January of 2000, I reported to Aircraft Maintenance Officers’ training at Sheppard Air Force Base in Wichita Falls, Texas. I was a newlywed and a green, eager young second lieutenant in the Air Force. My plan was simple—I would learn all I could and rise so far above my peers that the Air Force would have no choice but to send me to pilot training.

My class was made up of a dozen or so officers just like me. We were all fresh from our commissioning sources, which varied from ROTC to the Air Force Academy. None of us was quite sure what to make of the new “butter bars” on our shoulders, so named for the golden bar that looks like a slice of butter that identified us as second lieutenants. We were all hoping we had made the right decision as we embarked on the beginning of our adult lives.

On the first day of class I walked into the building nervous but excited. Strolling down the hallway looking for the classroom, I felt like it was my first day of high school all over again. I knew I was in for a long three months of learning the basics of aircraft maintenance management alongside people I’d never met. I’m an introvert, always have been, and I’m never very comfortable in a room full of loud strangers. I took a seat as close to the back corner as I could and sat quietly, absorbing all the noise around me. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I’d only have a couple more months in a classroom, and by April I’d be actually doing my job stationed at my first base in northern Japan.

As I sat there listening to the other officers chatter around me, I noticed that there was one voice that was consistently rising above the rest. I quickly pegged the loudmouth jerk in the front row as someone I planned to stay well clear of. He was a rough-and-tumble kind of guy, with a shaved head that showed off the many big scars he appeared to be proud of. I’d learn later that they were from a mix of bar fights and hockey games. Raised with mostly brothers in the wild Alaskan tundra, Keenan Zerkel was a tall, dark, muscular, handsome pain in my ass. His crystal-blue eyes were never without some sort of mischief, and if he was talking, you can bet he was offending someone. We had a connection from our very first meeting—we hated each other. It seemed like I couldn’t even raise my hand before he was retorting with some sort of smart-ass comment. And I couldn’t seem to help myself either—I returned the favor as often as I could.

Our class instructor seemed to share my opinion of our class troublemaker from the very first day. Over the next few weeks Captain Randall was constantly sparring with Keenan, trying to assert his authority. But Keenan apparently had it coded into his DNA to fight all forms of authority, so Randall’s attempts to control him seemed to only make it worse. I found out later that Keenan had almost been kicked out of the Air Force Academy right before graduation for breaking curfew and raising hell. Looking back on what I know of him now, I have no doubt he would have ended up killed in a brawl or thrown in jail if not for the Air Force. Getting into and graduating from the Academy likely saved Keenan’s life.

Keenan’s hopes of becoming an Air Force pilot were born from his time flying Cessnas and seaplanes in the wide, blue skies of Alaska. Despite our instant mutual dislike, we recognized the same stalled dream in each other. So despite my greatest efforts to avoid him, I couldn’t help but relate to him. Near the end of our three months of training, Captain Randall walked into the classroom in the middle of one of our famous arguments.

“Whatever you say, babe,” Keenan goaded. He never missed a chance to call me “babe” or “honey” in a dismissive way. By that time I guess Captain Randall had had enough, because he pounced.

“Lieutenant Zerkel!”

“I told you . . . Call me Zerk,” Keenan drawled lazily, drawing chuckles from our classmates.

Captain Randall was not amused.

“Lieutenant, that’s sexual harassment, and I’m not warning you again. Meet me in my office after class.”

When Keenan arrived in his office that afternoon, the captain handed him a Letter of Reprimand. The LOR was a serious thing, and it meant that Keenan’s entire career would be kicked off with something negative being added to his file. When he told the class what happened, we all sort of laughed.

“That’ll teach you to disrespect me,” I said with a wink.

“Oh, so you need him to fight your battles?” Keenan joked.

I punched him in the arm.

“Ouch! That’s assault! You should get an LOR,” he retorted sarcastically.

When the three months of training ended, we all went our separate ways. The Air Force’s newest Aircraft Maintenance officers scattered to the four corners of the world. Some of the officers were sent back to the United States, some were sent to Europe, and Keenan had, coincidentally, been assigned to the Pacific Air Forces (PACAF) just like me for our first assignment.

The course had prepared us with knowledge of logistics, supply chain issues, tool and equipment control, aircraft forms, systems, and any other information we could learn from a book. Now, 99 percent of our learning would happen on the job, in the hands of the experienced senior noncommissioned officers assigned to our flights.

None of us had any true intentions to stay in touch, but I think we all hoped we’d bump into one another out in the “real” Air Force in the coming months and years. Sure enough, not long after training ended, I was surprised to receive a phone call from Keenan, whom I hadn’t spoken to since we’d left Texas. I was immediately suspicious, wondering what he wanted from me. Apparently, Captain Randall had put what he saw as sexual harassment into Keenan’s permanent record. And while I was amused, I knew he didn’t deserve to have it impact his career.

Keenan might have been a loudmouth, but my classmates and I all knew he would make a very good pilot. Under the asshole facade, there was a solid, loyal, brave man with unwavering integrity and a passion for flying as strong as my own. I would have trusted him to watch my back over any other person I knew in the Air Force, and that’s saying something. If I ever found myself in a bar fight, I’d hope to see Keenan Zerkel’s face. Then again, if Keenan were there during a bar fight, it probably would be him who started it in the first place.

I asked Keenan what I could do to help, and he asked if I would write him a supportive letter. Of course I would, I told him, and I’d also help him track down the rest of our classmates. We rallied behind him and told Captain Randall’s boss how we felt. It was practically unheard of, but we successfully got the report pulled from Keenan’s record.

Strangely, this mini battle we fought against the bureaucracy brought us closer as friends. We got the derogatory report rescinded, and a mutual respect formed between us. Since he had been assigned to a position in Korea, while I would be in Japan, we kept in touch pretty easily. Our training together was over, but it certainly wouldn’t be the last I’d see of Keenan Zerkel.

—

In early April I boarded the long flight to Japan, excited to get started with my life as an adult, though I was a little apprehensive as to what this new chapter would have in store for me. I was married, but I was separated from my husband by oceans and continents. I was working toward my dream, but I was also working in a career field that was highly male-dominated and filled with people who treated me as if I didn’t belong. Most of them seemed to assume I’d be bad at my job until I proved them wrong, so I found myself starting over and establishing credibility every time I joined a new team, which at this stage in my career was about every six months.

At least I had my best friend, Jäger, with me in a kennel in the cargo hold of the plane. The vet had given me a mild sedative that would make him sleep for most of the trip, and he eagerly ate up the “magic hot dog” I spiked for him before takeoff. We had to spend the night in the Tokyo airport, and I hated having to keep him in the kennel. I slept with my fingers through the grate, gently caressing his fur. He had an all-pink nose—which is rare for a Shepherd, as they’re usually black—that I affectionately called his little piggy snout. It was so adorable to see him sleep cozily in his crate with his head resting on his little stuffed piggy dog toy. I woke up to the sounds of Japanese people oohing and aahing about him, asking if they could take a picture with the gentle giant I had in a cage. Apparently, dogs his size were quite rare in Japan.

My husband, who was still a cadet finishing up his last year at UT, had a nonexistent paycheck, so I would be paying both my bills in Japan and my husband’s bills in Austin with my tiny paycheck. That winter was tough—there were times when I couldn’t even afford to turn on my heater, so I spent many nights that year sitting up in bed, reading aircraft systems manuals, wearing two pairs of sweats and socks. At least I wasn’t too lonely—I could always snuggle up to a big, fluffy Jäger to stay warm.

My first assignment at the base in Japan was to lead a flight of back-shop maintainers. The Air Force groups its personnel into various levels of organization, and the smallest group is called a flight. Usually the biggest group on a base is the wing. Each wing is divided into groups, groups into squadrons, and finally squadrons are split into flights. Depending on the amount of work a flight must accomplish, it can range in size from a dozen or so to a couple hundred people.

The backshop is where the behind-the-scenes maintenance is done when aircraft and/or equipment is taken off of the flightline. The majority of aircraft maintenance happens in the back-shop flights (like Fuels, Engines, Avionics, etc.), but the fast-paced action happens on the flightline. The “flightline” refers to the taxiway, aircraft hangars and parking, and the buildings housing the flightline maintainers and pilots. Most, if not all, new officers are broken in running a back-shop flight before they are sent out to the flightline.

Those who work on the flightline live and die by the flying schedule. Working the flightline meant turning aircraft quickly, getting them ready to fly, and making sure they were safe. It often required fourteen-hour shifts in the freezing, horizontally blowing snow. I would have to spend six months paying my dues in the backshop before I would earn a place on the flightline. And although I know it doesn’t sound tempting, the flightline was exactly where I wanted to be—in the middle of the action, learning and being challenged every day.

During my first week in Japan, when I reported in to my first commander, Major Johnson, I did all of the things my college ROTC instructors had told me to do. I ironed my service blues, which resembled a not very flattering blue polyester business suit. I proudly placed my “training” ribbon, which showed that my training was complete, on my jacket across from my name tag, shined my shoes, and pinned my hair up nice and tight. I reported to his office and sat ramrod straight in a chair outside his door, waiting patiently to be called in.

“Jennings . . . Get in here,” I heard him call out from inside the office.

I stiffly marched through the doorway and stopped two feet from his desk. Popping a sharp salute, I could barely contain my smile. I was excited to be starting my career and meeting my first commander, to begin a mentoring relationship I was sure would span the next twenty years. I couldn’t wait to learn all he had to show me.

Major Johnson’s office was dark, musky, and smelled of cigars. Even when he was seated at his desk, he was still an imposing figure with a brusque demeanor. He stood well over six feet tall and reminded me of Bigfoot, only without all the hair. His high-and-tight military haircut revealed an enormous head, one that matched his burly frame.

“Sir, Lieutenant Jennings reports as ordered!” I was to hold my salute until it was returned, as I had been taught. With my eyes focused at an imaginary point in front of me, I could see Major Johnson eyeing me up and down, taking in my strict adherence to military decorum.

“Shit,” he said under his breath. “Lieutenant, the first time your time of the month gets in the way of doing your job, you’re fired. Now get out of my office.”

He didn’t return my salute. He just glanced back at his computer, ignoring me, not saying another word. I stood there frozen, still saluting, shocked into silence by what he had just said. Then, contrary to all of my training, I slowly lowered my salute and did an about-face. The fact that, in his mind, I didn’t even rate a returned salute did not bode well for my time assigned to his squadron. I was at a loss for why he would show such a lack of respect for me after having just met me. As I walked out of his office, I tried to think of all of the possible reasons for the interaction. Was I being tested? Should I stand up to him?

I decided to give it a few days so I could get a bead on him. Sure enough, it was just as I feared. There was no underlying lesson to be learned. He was just a misogynistic jerk. I’d have to keep my head up, toughen up, and learn to get along with someone who clearly disrespected everything I was trying to accomplish. This wasn’t the first time I had to bite my tongue, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. To be honest, I would learn a lot from my short time working for him because, after all, you can learn a hell of a lot from the leaders you do not want to emulate.

—

I feel strongly that your success in life has little to do with your situation and everything to do with your reaction to it. Instead of wallowing in despair, I chose to funnel the frustration I was feeling at moments like this into being better at absolutely everything I did. One of my favorite places to do this was at the range.

We had to qualify to carry various service weapons, which involved simply stepping up to the target and firing your weapon. Depending on how many shots you got in the center, you either fail to qualify, qualify, or shoot expert. Throughout my career, whenever I hit the gun range to qualify, I would always leave with an expert rating. Whether I was using a handgun or a rifle—no matter what—shooting always seemed to come naturally to me.

After the incident in Major Johnson’s office, I got the chance to blow off some steam at the range in Misawa. Once again, I qualified expert, and one of the instructors there high-fived me to congratulate me on my shooting.

“Outstanding, Jennings. You shoot like a girl.”

I stood there baffled. Did he just compliment me or insult me? Was I going to have to deal with this kind of shit here, too?

Seeing my expression, he quickly elaborated. And what he said would stick with me for the rest of my career, every time I picked up a weapon.

“No, really,” he continued. “Women are physiologically predisposed to being excellent marksmen. It’s about their muscle tone, center of gravity, flexibility, heart rate, respiration, and, in my opinion, psychology.”

“Really?” I responded, fascinated by this news.

“Yes, seriously,” he went on. “You see, there’s a lot of ego involved in how well you shoot. Frame of mind is one of the keys to accuracy when firing your weapon. If you put too much pressure on yourself, your grip tightens and you sabotage yourself. A lot of guys let their egos get the best of them and feel like they’re not a real man if they can’t shoot. The chicks come in here and have fun. I try to teach my guys to shoot like a girl when I can. You know, the Soviets were extremely successful at using women as snipers during World War II.”

He smiled once again, then turned away, leaving me standing there in silence. There were physical advantages to being a woman in combat? I went home that night and did some more research. Turns out he was right. I learned that women in general even handled G’s better than most men. “Pulling G’s” refers to the acceleration vector downward when fighter pilots execute sharp turns or climbs. It’s that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach at the bottom of a roller coaster when all of your weight seems to multiply and you feel like you’re being pressed down into your seat. In people with more upper-body strength, pulling G’s sends blood away from the brain, which can result in “G-LOC” or G-induced loss of consciousness. In those who have more lower-body and abdominal strength (like most women), it’s easier to execute the maneuver that prevents G-LOC. This is done by tightening your legs and stomach, thus preventing excessive blood from flowing away from your brain and pooling into your legs.

If this was true, and the military seemed to make decisions about who should do which job based on gender stereotypes, why not make all of their snipers and fighter pilots women? A long shot, sure, but the research helped me see how equally absurd it was to bar women from certain jobs without even assessing them individually to see if they had the right stuff. I was proud of myself for shooting like a girl, damn it, and I planned to fly like a girl one day soon. I’d be the best pilot in the Air Force.

—

After those six months behind the scenes in the backshop under Major Johnson, I was sent out to work on the flightline, where the tempo was a lot faster and the hours were longer. I didn’t mind working my tail off, but it did make it difficult to find time to work out. I fought against my old knee injury to go for a run now and then, but usually I spent my free time exhausted and home with Jäger.

The flightline is where I finally did find a leader worth following, but in an odd twist typical of the confusing military hierarchy, technically, I outranked him. Senior Master Sergeant (SMSgt) Matt McCabe was the senior noncommissioned officer (SNCO) assigned to my flight and, as such, he was the highest-ranking enlisted member under my command. Air Force officers tended to move around throughout their career in order to get a good breadth of experience, but the SNCOs and other enlisted members usually stayed put for longer to develop a greater depth and expertise in a specific field. Sergeant McCabe had been there for a few years, and he would prove to be a gold mine of information and leadership lessons for me during my time with him.

I don’t know how he did it, but he was the most squared-away airman I would ever meet. His uniform was always clean and crisp. Somehow, at the end of a fourteen-hour shift during an exercise wearing chemical gear and gas masks, he still managed to look like he had just gotten out of the shower. He took great pride in the fact that he ran a tight ship, and by the time I took the reins, his flight was already producing excellent results.

One day, early on in my time on the flightline, I was addressing the group of mechanics under my command. Sergeant McCabe stood next to me, towering over me with his hands on his hips. To this day I don’t remember what I had been saying, but he nodded in approval as I laid out the law to my flight. He then walked back toward my office with me, asking me if I had a minute to chat. I was about to make an excuse that I was too busy when he grabbed me by my upper arm and pushed me through the door to my office. “No. We need to talk now.”

Shutting the door behind him, he proceeded to lay into me about leadership, telling me in no uncertain terms why what I had just said to my flight was the complete opposite of what I should be doing. I was shocked. “Why didn’t you say anything out there?” I asked him.

“Because that would undermine your authority. I’m not going to let them see me be disrespectful to you . . . I’ll agree with you in public, but in the future maybe ask me for my opinion in private before fucking up the flight I’ve been building for months.”

Officers would come and go from the flight, but Senior Master Sergeant McCabe would be there to stay for a few years until his next assignment. It would be the last time I made the mistake of overlooking the true leader of the flight and disregarding the greatest resource I had at my disposal—his years of experience and his willingness to teach me rather than oppose me.

They say that for every terrible officer out there, there’s an SNCO who failed the Air Force. Well, Senior Master Sergeant McCabe took his job of turning me into a good officer very seriously, and to this day I remember him as one of the greatest mentors I had in the military.

—

Now that I was all settled into my new job in Japan, it was time to start preparing to apply for a pilot slot off of active duty. In order to even be considered, I needed the endorsement of my entire chain of command and, basically, to be rated the number one choice from the whole base. I had to do everything I could to make myself competitive.

In August of 2001, I went back to the States for a couple of months on temporary duty at Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I had requested and been granted a slot to attend the Aircraft Mishap Investigation School, which would, I hoped, make me look even better on paper to the higher-ups. The optional course was only about six weeks long, but it would make me an enormous asset to the base should there be any type of incident.

On September 11, 2001, a few weeks into the program, I woke up and began getting dressed for class as usual. The news was always on in the background, but what I heard that morning froze me in my tracks. Someone had crashed a plane into one of the World Trade Center towers, and smoke was rising from the skyscraper like a chimney. I was glued to the television as the reporters speculated as to what had happened. Mechanical failure? Air traffic control error? I was sure whatever it was, we’d be discussing it in class.

As I stood to turn it off, I watched in horror as the second plane impacted the tower on live TV. This was no accident. My stomach turned as I began to realize that we were under attack. Kirtland was on lockdown as I drove in to class that day, and Humvees with mounted weapons made their rounds. Flight schools across the country were closed. Air traffic was closed to nonmilitary flights for a short time. Our country would never be the same.

Unfortunately, in this most unstable of environments, I had already made plans to obtain my private pilot’s license. The first step in pilot training during these years was supposed to be in the T-3 aircraft, but the fleet was grounded for some mechanical issues. As crazy as it sounds, sending pilot candidates to get their private licenses became the Band-Aid solution until another suitable resolution could be arranged. Now that I was back in the United States, I wanted to take the opportunity to achieve this critical milestone, and I was willing to use up all of my leave to do so. I decided to spend the entirety of my leave hanging out with my family and my husband in Austin while going to school for a few weeks to learn to fly. Getting my license on my own, I knew, would make me a much more attractive candidate; it was one fewer step that the Air Force would have to pay for, but finding the money to do it on my own wasn’t easy either.

A few years earlier, while I was still in college, I had spent all of my savings to buy a brand-new Yamaha FZR600 motorcycle. I’d replaced the stock pipe with a carbon fiber Yoshimura exhaust system that made me feel like I was flying a jet whenever I opened her up. This bike was my baby, but during my time in Japan, I’d had to keep her in storage. At this point, I knew I had to make smart decisions, so I resolved to sell my bike to pay for my private license. It broke my heart, but it was just one in a long line of sacrifices I had to make to achieve my dreams. I was sure it would be worth it.

In late September 2001, I signed up for a private pilot’s license course in Georgetown, Texas, thirty minutes from Austin, and began within days of the government reopening flight schools nationwide. My civilian flight training was a complete whirlwind—I studied day and night and spent as much time in an aircraft as I could. I ended up obtaining my license in two and half weeks, which broke a school record. About three days into my training, it was already time for me to go solo cross-country. “Cross-country” meant that you landed at a different airport from the one where you had just taken off, and for rookie pilots, it was a big deal.

I was ready. I planned out my solo flight from Georgetown to Waco to College Station (Texas A&M University), and back to Georgetown. At this stage, having been training for only three days, I knew very little about flying. Essentially, I knew that you had to navigate by calculating wind direction, and the resultant heading was what you needed to hold for a certain amount of time in order to get to the location you’re aiming for. That’s it. I knew almost nothing about using my other instruments for navigation. I wasn’t flying blind, not really, but when I look back, I’m both amazed and alarmed at how little I knew at the time.

I ran through my preflight checks and took off from the small airfield in Georgetown, Texas. I was more thrilled than nervous—I was finally going up in the air on my own! I had been dreaming of this moment for years.

My leg from Georgetown to Waco was uneventful. I checked in with Houston flight following like I was supposed to, and the controller replied in an annoyed tone that he saw me. I know Houston airspace is crazy, so I felt a little bad for troubling him. But during my leg from Waco to College Station, the weather started getting worse. The ceiling was getting lower and lower, which pushed my flight path lower and lower, since I wasn’t rated to fly into clouds yet. I thought I’d be okay, though, because I was meticulously correcting for the wind and staying on track. Then I was almost grounded by the National Guard.

Halfway to College Station, I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. As I turned to see what was happening, two Black Hawk helicopters suddenly appeared, flanking me on my left and right. Houston hailed me on the radio to inform me that I was heading right for Texas A&M University during a football game. Since 9/11, there had been a restriction on aircraft flying too close to large gatherings of people. I was to divert my course immediately.

I complied, my heart pounding wildly, and I soon realized that I would be so far off course that I would have to recalculate the route, which I couldn’t do while flying so close to the ground, under the weather, by myself, with only eight hours in my flight time logbook. I turned around, waved at the helicopters, and quickly went over my options. I probably should have just flown back to Waco, but since I was more than halfway to College Station, I wasn’t sure I’d have enough gas. There was also the worsening weather to consider.

In my head, I hurriedly calculated an educated guess as to an alternate route that wouldn’t put me too close to the stadium. Then I reluctantly called the air traffic controllers in Houston on the radio.

“Yes, Cessna seven six November . . . Go ahead,” he said, sighing.

“Houston, Cessna seven six November . . . um . . . Be advised . . . Well . . . I’m a student pilot on my first solo cross-country, and that divert I just made has knocked me off course. The weather is getting worse, and I’m not 100 percent sure I can find College Station now.”

Luckily Senior Master Sergeant McCabe had taught me that asking for help was a strength. Admitting I was out of my depth was a good thing, I had learned.

In the tense silence that followed, you could sense the shift in the Houston Air Traffic Control facility as the previously annoyed controller suddenly made me his top priority.

“Uh, copy that, Cessna seven six November. Squawk one two seven six and ident for me.” This was his way of trying to find me on his radar. I flipped the switch on my transponder that made me light up on the controller’s screen for a moment, and he confirmed he could see where I was.

“Okay, Cessna, come left another five degrees to heading one three zero. Check in with me again in one five mike. I’ll get you a weather update.”

Relieved that someone was going to be able to talk me to my destination, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. I’d just calm down, follow his heading, then check in with him again in fifteen minutes and hope for the best. But then things got even worse.

“CESSNA SEVEN SIX NOVEMBER, HOUSTON . . . ARE YOU THERE?” The uncharacteristic near panic in the controller’s voice scared me out of my momentary calm.

“Yes! Houston, Cessna seven six November . . . I read you.”

“Cessna, you dropped off of my radar.” He sighed. “Your transponder must be malfunctioning. Recycle and ident.” But despite multiple attempts at troubleshooting, we couldn’t get my transponder to function consistently. We both slowly realized the situation. I was off his radar and entirely on my own.

“What do you see around you?” he asked.

“Well, I’m in the middle of nowhere . . . Cows?”

He chuckled. “Anything else?”

“I’m just about low enough to read street signs, but no. I don’t see anything else.” I took a deep breath. I could do this. I knew I could. “I’ll be okay, though,” I reassured him. “I know I can find it. I’m sure I’ll at least see the town soon.”

Unable to do anything else, the controller replied, “Well, you were on a good course last I checked. Hang in there. I’ll call ahead and tell them to be on the lookout for you. Good luck.”

I’ll tell you a secret—you never ever want to hear the words “good luck” from an air traffic controller. Luck should have nothing to do with it.

I was totally on my own. I regripped the yoke and furrowed my brow in determination. Fear was never a part of the equation for me as I faced moments like this. For some reason, in the moment, I always immediately go into laser focus. It’s not until after the incident that I allow myself the adrenaline rush of fear. That day, in that moment and in that aircraft, I was experiencing my first laser-focused life-or-death situation.

Comparing every landmark I could see to the map next to me, I breathed steadily as the cloud ceiling got lower and lower. I looked for any action I could take to help me land before I ran out of fuel, but unfortunately, after only two days of instruction, I didn’t have the knowledge to use the various pieces of navigational equipment at my disposal. After about twenty minutes, though, through the mist of the lowering clouds, I finally saw the airport beacon. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

I let out a gasp of relief and called out my intentions over the radio to land. Once I had touched down at the airport, only then did I let myself finally feel the weight of what had just happened. I parked in my spot and called for gas. Then I climbed out of the aircraft, knelt on the cement, and kissed the ground, laughing. This would make for a great story when I got to talk to my instructor again.

I was suddenly starving, so I decided to grab a bite to eat. It was the best-tasting club sandwich I had ever had in my life. Then I called my school and relayed the tale to my instructor.

“Rent a car and get back here,” he instructed. He’d come get the plane tomorrow, he reassured me. But something in me stirred. I wanted to finish what I’d started.

“No. I can totally fly home. I need to fly it home, or I might not be able to climb into another one again,” I responded. I could hear him hesitate.

“Are you sure?” he asked me with incredulity in his voice.

I knew that I needed to shake it off and get back in the air. There was no question in my mind that I needed to get back in that airplane. That was where I belonged.

“Yeah, if it’s okay with you. They’re reporting that it’s already breaking up out here.”

“Okay, if that’s what you want to do . . . I’m sure you’ve got this.” His confidence in me bolstered my mood. I hung up with him and completed a walk-around of my aircraft. Then I climbed back in, started my engines, and taxied out to the runway. It was such a liberating feeling. The moment my wheels left the ground again, I knew that I had found my true calling in life. I wasn’t even scared—I was just elated. Years later, when I think back to this moment, all I can think is that if I had known then what I know now about all the things that could have gone wrong, I would have been petrified. At the time I was just thrilled to climb back into the clouds.

The cloud cover was still heavy, though it didn’t appear to be getting any worse. But after my experience getting stuck under the clouds and having to fly so close to the ground, I got worried that the weather was going to creep down again. The moment I saw a hole in the clouds, I went for it, executing a sharp climb and darting through the small hole to see what was on top.

Above the layer that was pushing down on me, the skies were a bright clear blue. When I broke through and looked down, the cloud layer was like a white, fluffy down blanket spread out below me. It was stunning, and my breath caught in my throat.

What I didn’t realize at the time, due to my complete inexperience, was that this move was unbelievably dangerous, not to mention illegal. It was incredibly stupid to fly above the clouds. I had gotten the weather reports from the desk in College Station, but I had no idea what it actually looked like in Georgetown. If my home field was covered in clouds, I would be stuck, especially since my transponder was unreliable. I didn’t have the training yet to know how to descend through the cloud layer, and I probably would have ended up crashing. But that day I got very lucky—there happened to be a big hole in the clouds around my home airport. I landed uneventfully and cheerfully relayed the story to my instructor.

When I got to the part about climbing on top of the weather, he said, “No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did! And it was beautiful,” I told him, grinning ear to ear.

“You don’t understand what I’m saying. NO. You didn’t do something so stupid and illegal. Not if you want to receive your private license,” he said sternly.

I instantly wiped the grin off my face.

“Oh. Right. I mean, that would have been cool,” I said with a coy smile.

He ruffled my hair, and my heart ached at the reminder of my dad. Maybe it was him who’d opened up the cloud layer over Georgetown. I like to think so.

—

After I got my license, it was time to get back on a plane and head overseas for my second year in Japan. This time my husband, Jack, would join me. He had spent our year apart finishing up school, and I was both proud and jealous of him for getting selected for pilot training straight out of ROTC. Since he was my husband, he would be assigned to my unit in Japan for about a year while he waited for his pilot training class to start in Oklahoma. They called this “casual status,” and this meant he’d be rubbing elbows with the pilots in my unit and treated almost like one of them. I was thrilled to start our lives together after a year apart, finally in the same country, both of us following our dreams.

But very quickly it became apparent that I had made a huge mistake. When we had first gotten together back in college, almost everyone I knew tried to talk me out of marrying him, including his own family. I had started dating him shortly after my dad died, and that emotional state, combined with the fact that he was the first guy I had ever slept with, had clouded my judgment considerably. I was young and thought I was in love, though, and I felt like it was just us against the world. No one believed in us, but I did—we did. It was romantic, in a way. Now, looking back, it was just naive stupidity.

Once he arrived in Japan and we started our married life together, my optimism dwindled to nothing. Everyone back home had been right about him, and everyone here in Japan thought less of me for having married him. There were more than a few fighter pilots in Japan hoping to rescue me from him, but that wasn’t my style. I decided to resign myself to the fact that maybe life was just supposed to suck. I had made a bad decision, but it was mine to live with.

One night, about eight months after he had arrived in Japan, I was in bed reading. For some reason, we got into an argument about Air Force regulations. Jack was asserting that not all regulations were good ones, and he insisted that there were some you could simply turn a blind eye to.

“Wow. I hope you’re never a commander with an attitude like that,” I retorted, looking back down at my book.

Then, like a bull about to charge, Jack leaned over me, clenching his fists, staring at me, as if daring me to speak again. Panic gripped me. He had lost his temper countless times before, but this time seemed different. Slowly, and without making eye contact, I slipped out of bed. My intention was to pack a bag, not for the first time, and go stay with a girlfriend of mine who lived nearby.

But as I slowly stepped by him, I suddenly found myself on the floor. It took me a minute to figure out how I had gotten there. Shocked, I looked up, realizing that he had kicked me in the back and sent me flying into a dresser. I’d bounced off the dresser and landed on my butt. I’ll never forget that moment, looking up at him from the floor in utter shock.

There was no fear in me—honestly, I was prepared to kick his ass—but it was such an enormous emotional betrayal. Had he come to think so little of me that this was how he felt I deserved to be treated?

In that instant, he saw it in my eyes—the second I had decided to divorce him. He dropped to his knees crying, apologizing over and over. I got up and cradled his head to my chest. We both knew it was over. His temper was something he had struggled with his whole life. He had once told me that he was afraid to get married because of it and that he didn’t deserve me. I only wish I had listened to him.

—

Over the next few days we had countless agonizing conversations, but my mind was already made up. I would not repeat my mother’s mistakes and wait for the situation to get even worse. Jack cried as he begged me not to leave him, which surprised me. I always felt as if he treated me like he hated me.

It quickly became obvious as he pleaded his case that he was even more concerned that I not tell anyone that he had kicked me. He was ashamed of himself, and he was probably worried that it would hurt his career. We only had a few months left in Japan, and honestly, I didn’t know how to go about divorcing him when we were living out of the country. I didn’t want to go through the base’s legal services, so I agreed to let him continue living with me until we got back to the US. But from that night onward, we were never really husband and wife again.

After the incident, to be honest, I felt a huge sense of relief. I was devastated, of course, but in some ways, the road ahead was clear for me. I could focus all of my energy on accomplishing my goal. There wasn’t time for grieving. It was time to get back to work.

At this point, I had put my pilot application package together, and I couldn’t wait to interview with my chain of command. I knew I had a very good chance of being named to the number one slot off of the base for selection to pilot training, and my hopes were high. Sure enough, my squadron commander easily gave me his number one rating.

The next step up would be meeting with my Group Commander to convince him to do the same, and I was excited to get the chance to talk to him about my aspirations. After all, he was an F-16 pilot himself. My interview with him went extremely well, but at the end he told me he couldn’t in good conscience give me his number one rating. My throat closed. I tried not to show any emotion, but inside I was panicking. All of my hard work was circling the drain again. How had I screwed up? What had I done wrong?

“But why, sir? Who’s your number one applicant if not me? Is anyone else in your group even applying to pilot training?” I asked, forcing myself to stay strong and not let my voice falter.

“No. You’ve been an amazing asset to this group. It’s just that your husband is here on casual status, right?”

This could not be happening. Wordlessly, I nodded. As far as anyone at work knew, we were still together. Jack had stayed on to finish the year, even though we both knew our marriage was over. This was the consequence of my trying to do Jack a solid by not letting anyone know what he’d done.

“Well, how’s that going to work with both of you as pilots? Who’s going to watch your kids? What if you both get deployed? If he’s going to be successful in the Air Force, he’ll need a strong support system at home. Don’t you want to be a good wife to him?”

My heart sank. It was absolutely none of his business that we were going to get divorced anyway. None of this was any of his business. It clearly was not his place to be making that kind of decision for my family, or anyone’s family.

Stunned, I couldn’t even respond. I left the meeting and made it back to my office trying to keep it together. Senior Master Sergeant McCabe saw me return and asked me how it had gone. I told him the whole story in a monotone reenactment, looking down at my desk in disbelief. He grew quiet and his cheeks started to get red. Oh boy. I had seen that before. I knew I was about to get an ass chewing and guessed I should have stood up for myself more. I gritted my teeth, preparing to get berated. But instead of laying into me, he got up from his chair and gestured for me to follow him.

“Come with me,” he snapped.

I followed him right into our Squadron Commander’s office. He knocked once on the door, and our commander invited us in. “What’s up, Matt?”

“Tell him what you told me,” he said to me. I relayed the story to my Squadron Commander, and he silently exchanged a glance with Senior Master Sergeant McCabe. He told me to go back to my office and wait for his call. I don’t know what he did, but I’m sure the words “inspector general complaint” probably came out of his mouth at some point during his conversation with our Group Commander, who was his boss. After thirty minutes sitting alone in my office trying to reconcile myself to the fact that I’d be spending another year trying to be number one, there was a knock at my door. I cleared my throat and tried to compose myself, but I couldn’t hide my complete shock to see my Group Commander, a full-bird colonel (as opposed to the “light colonel” we called the lieutenant colonels) with his flying gear on and his helmet in his hand, standing at my office door.

“Lieutenant Jennings, I don’t know what I was thinking. Of course you have my number one rating. I shouldn’t take your husband’s career into consideration when making a decision like that. You’re my best officer, so you get the number one recommendation. You can move forward for your interview with the Wing King. I hope you get it. You deserve it.”

I don’t know if he said those things out of fear of reprisal for his behavior, or if he really believed it, but I was so relieved. I wasn’t dead in the water. I had the green light to go on to the last hurdle, an interview with my Wing Commander, the top-ranking guy on the base. If it went well, I had hopes of receiving the number one spot from the entire wing, if not the whole Pacific Air Forces.

My interview with the Wing Commander, again, went really well. However, I’d soon be walking out of his office after taking yet another punch to the gut. He cleared his throat and looked me in the eye.

“MJ, you’re clearly the number one choice, but you’re only twenty-five. You have so many years of eligibility left. There’s another candidate on the base who’s about to age out, and this is her last chance. I’m giving her my number one recommendation.” My heart dropped. I knew there were other men and women on the base who wanted to go to pilot training, and I could understand his reasoning. I didn’t agree with it, but at least this wasn’t personal.

“But will she be as competitive of a candidate as I will?”

He didn’t respond. It was clear his mind was made up already.

I knew that the number one rating was nowhere near enough to get selected. It was true that there was no way of getting selected if you were number two, but even if you were the number one, it wouldn’t be easy. There would be a number one from every base, nearly seventy across the world, competing for only a handful of slots. It was almost impossible to achieve even as the number one choice.

None of this mattered, though. It was clear I wasn’t going to change his mind, and I had to live with his decision. Gathering myself up for the long walk back to my office, I resigned myself to another year of working my ass off to try to be my next base’s number one all over again.

My next assignment was Whiteman Air Force Base in Knob Noster, Missouri. I’d be in command of troops who would be working on the B-2 Stealth Bomber, and by God, I was going to be the best company grade officer that base had ever seen.

—

In April 2002, I arrived in Missouri to join the advanced team of maintainers who were responsible for the B-2 Stealth Bombers. I knew it was going to be a tough few years, as the program was under constant scrutiny.

Before leaving Japan, I had given Jack the option of divorcing quickly and getting it over with or waiting until he was finished with pilot training. I still considered him a friend, and I didn’t want to be the reason he did poorly in training. This was a small concession on my part since we’d be living apart either way, and I wanted to focus on work. I was certainly in no hurry to date anyone else, and I figured it was the least I could do; he was still devastated by our breakup, whereas I was already feeling stronger. He asked that we wait until after pilot training, so I settled into my assignment at Whiteman, ready for a solitary lifestyle while he finished up his pilot training in Oklahoma.

Once I started at Whiteman, I worked my ass off and quickly gained the esteem of the aircraft maintenance leadership. Eventually I was assigned the absolute best job that someone in my position could hope for. I would be in command of the Fabrication Flight, which at any other base meant keeping up and patching the skin of the aircraft. A high amount of work goes into maintaining the stealthy skin of the B-2, so at Whiteman, about 85 percent of all B-2 maintenance falls under the Fabrication Flight. It was a very prestigious job, which also included briefing distinguished visitors, such as congressmen, generals, and admirals, as well as being called into key conversations around the deployability of the aircraft into a given military situation. My flight comprised more than two hundred military troops and thirty-seven civilians.

When the B-2 went into its first-ever combat deployment, Operation IRAQI FREEDOM, this mighty aircraft was responsible for the majority of the shock and awe of the first few weeks. It couldn’t have been a better time to be in charge of the Stealth maintenance at Whiteman—what an incredibly opportune moment to have this job on my résumé. I was definitely looking forward to this year’s application for pilot training.

A few months later, when the application process began all over again, I started checking off the boxes. For example, every year you had to obtain an exhaustive flight physical. This physical included a gynecological exam, but since flight surgeons weren’t gynecologists, each year I’d obtained the necessary exam and tests from my military ob-gyn doctor. Then I would submit the results to the examining flight doc. The previous four times I had taken a flight physical, twice in ROTC and twice in Japan, this had been completely acceptable. But that year at Whiteman, for some reason, the flight surgeon decided that this was no longer acceptable.

Dr. Adams, one of the many flight docs on the base, was in charge of my flight physical that year. He conducted a thorough exam, much more thorough than I was used to, as his attempts to ensure I didn’t have any “tumors” led to him groping my breasts far more attentively than seemed absolutely necessary.

“Okay, put your feet in the stirrups,” he commanded.

“What? No, you don’t understand,” I protested. “I just had an exam. I gave the paperwork to the nurse at the front for your review.”

“No, YOU don’t understand,” he said angrily. “You’re not in charge here. You don’t get to decide how this goes. I won’t sign off on a physical that I don’t conduct myself, and if you want to be a pilot, you’ll PUT your FEET in those STIRRUPS. NOW.”

I could feel the color drain out of my cheeks, and I felt like I was about to throw up. He was a general flight doc, not a gynecologist. I tried to explain to him that my husband was the only man who had ever seen me naked, that I had only ever had female gynecologists, and that I didn’t think this was necessary.

“Please, sir . . . Can’t you just use the exam I had last week?”

He looked at me like I had just slapped him. Then his God complex kicked in.

“No, but what I can do is fail you for psychological reasons,” he barked. “You don’t have the mental toughness you need to be a pilot if you can’t submit to a simple exam. If you don’t get your feet in those stirrups in five seconds, you can kiss being a pilot good-bye.”

I lay back and put my feet in the stirrups and began to cry, involuntarily squeezing my knees together, dreading the exam. It was bad enough having a female doctor examine me, but a male? No man other than my husband had ever touched me there. I bit my lip and tried to tough it out. He’s a doctor. He knows what he’s doing. He does this sort of thing all the time. It’ll be over soon.

Dr. Adams snapped his glove on.

“I guess you’re not going to like this,” he said, chuckling.

What followed was in no way a gynecological exam. I lay there crying so hard I couldn’t even breathe as he aggressively and painfully conducted his “exam,” as if he was trying to embarrass me, to hurt me, to put me in my place, to assert his control.

To this day I can’t explain the emotions of that horrible moment, as many times as I’ve gone over it in my head. He was a doctor and a superior and he had complete control over my future. That was the day I learned that mental restraints can be as tight as physical ones.

I couldn’t believe this was happening to me, but I didn’t feel like I could stop him. I was in shock. I just stared at the ceiling, tears streaming down my face, praying the torture would be over soon. Obviously if I had known he would do this, I never would have allowed it, but now I felt powerless to stop it. It was without a doubt the worst few minutes of my life. When he was done, he pulled off his glove and walked out of the examination room with barely a backward glance.

“Get dressed. We’re done here,” he snapped over his shoulder.

I pulled on my clothes, still choking back sobs, petrified I had failed some sort of psychological test. I couldn’t hide my tears as I walked out of the medical facility. While I was worried that I might have failed my flight physical, I was also fully aware that someone had just used his position of authority to sexually assault me.

Would he still fail me? Had I cried too much? Was there anything I could do? Should I tell someone? I was in shock. Just then an airman ran up behind me calling my name. I was in such a terror-stricken state that I flinched and put my arm up protectively. She froze and took a step back, her eyes wide.

“Captain Jennings, the Med Group Commander wants to see you in his office,” she said quietly. “Can you follow me?”

In a daze, I followed her to the full-bird colonel’s office, not really caring about what he could possibly have to say to me, terrified I would bump into Dr. Adams again. Was the Med Group Commander going to tell me I had failed my physical? That I had to submit to a psych eval? I was shaking and still crying as I tried to salute him. He stood and walked over to me, returning my salute.

“Are you okay?” he asked kindly, his brow furrowed, concern written all over his face. “Here, have a seat.”

“I’m fine,” I said, wondering why he was concerned, how I came to be sitting here when this terrible thing had just happened to me. I was nowhere near ready to talk about it, certainly not to him.

“Well, you don’t seem fine.” He shook his head. “I just talked to Dr. Adams. He came straight from his appointment with you to tell me what he’d done. Do you want to press charges?”

My head started spinning. The doctor had already admitted what he did? I had just left the examination room five minutes earlier, and things were happening so quickly. Before I even had a chance to answer him, my own Group Commander walked through the door.

My commander sat down with us, and the three of us discussed my options. I was so embarrassed to be discussing this with two old men I barely knew. I could press charges if I wanted to, but if I didn’t, they’d be sure to “handle it.” I began crying harder. Then I listened in disgust as I uttered lines that seemed to come straight out of a made-for-TV movie.

“If I pressed charges, would I have to see him?” I sobbed. “Would I have to tell a roomful of people what happened?” I was shaking, horrified with myself for being so weak and not standing up for myself more, but still I said no, that I didn’t want to press charges. If they promised not to let him ever do it again and that they would punish him “their way,” I’d leave it in their hands. I trusted them.

“I think that would be best. And don’t worry . . . He’s not failing your physical,” my Group Commander reassured me.

I admit, I was relieved to hear this. Instead of being utterly furious and ready to fight this monster, to end his career, part of me was just relieved that I’d passed my physical and I could still move forward with my dream to become a pilot. I simply wanted to forget absolutely everything that had just happened.

I asked if I could go and walked out without further discussion. Over the next few days, I called in sick to work and spent the time alone in my house, crying nonstop, unable to sleep or eat, replaying the horror over and over in my mind. I knew I needed to talk to someone about it, but I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone knowing I had let this terrible thing happen to me. I couldn’t stand to see the look of pity on their face. So I turned to my best friend in the world.

I spent a lot of time curled up with Jäger those awful few days, his long white fur soft under my fingers. He nuzzled me with his sweet piggy snout while my tears drenched his coat and I told him all of the things I was scared to admit to anyone else. He listened quietly, and his soft eyes seemed to say, I don’t know what you’re saying, but I promise everything’s going to be alright . . . And if I ever see that guy, I’m going to bite his balls off. There was a reason he was the only guy I trusted.

After a few more days of this self-imposed isolation, I knew I needed to leave my room, to get back out in the world, but I could just barely summon the strength.

When I did finally return to work, my Squadron Commander, Major Busch, looked at me with knowing eyes. Clearly he had been briefed. He asked if I was okay, and I responded simply with an apology for missing work.

“Don’t worry about it. You can take some more time off if you need to.” The last thing I wanted was to keep crying at home. I needed to start moving past it, and the best thing I could do was to get back to being the best maintenance officer I could be, knowing I’d need to fight even harder for the number one slot this time around, but also secretly wondering if I even wanted to be a pilot anymore.

A few months later I was selected as the Operations Group Company Grade Officer of the Year. It was decision time. This honor would definitely help my chances at getting the number one slot off of the base, but my commitment to the Air Force was up in a few weeks. I could either apply again for pilot training, or I could get out of the Air Force entirely.

I really struggled with the decision. After my assault, my trust in the Air Force had taken a nosedive, but I knew I had a chance at the number one slot and that I could be back on track for my goals in no time. I also knew that if I left the Air Force, it wouldn’t mean giving up my dream, as I could always apply with the Air National Guard. I really didn’t know what to do. My Squadron Commander, Major Busch, tried hard to talk me into staying, and it felt good to be so valued by someone I respected, someone who knew me.

At the awards banquet where I was set to receive my honor, all of the group-level awardees were dressed in formal wear, gathered with our respective commanders. I sat at the banquet table chatting with Major Busch when something out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. Dr. Adams was there, dressed to the nines, with his boss.

“Holy shit,” Major Busch sputtered. I had thought it, but Major Busch had said it. Dr. Adams had been selected as the Medical Group’s Company Grade Officer of the Year. I would be competing with him for the wing-level award.

My jaw dropped, and I looked over at Major Busch, who was wearing the same expression on his face. He could see in that instant that I had made my decision.

I didn’t even say anything.

“I know,” Major Busch said. “I’ll help you with the paperwork.”

I don’t know who won the award that night, but it wasn’t either of us. Disgusted with the way the whole thing had been handled, with Dr. Adams’s chain of command protecting him this way and even rewarding him, no doubt for his so-called honesty, I tried not to blame the entire Air Force.

It was hard not to. It was the general culture of the Air Force that had given Dr. Adams the idea that he could treat me like that. Clearly he was right. He could and he did and he was never punished for it.

I left the Air Force a few weeks later. Dr. Adams, as far as I know, stayed on.