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deck, yanks on the outside handle of the pilot’s escape hatch until it falls free. I breathe deeply, pulling in a lungful of smoke, and immediately begin coughing.
    I rip out my radio cord, undo my harness, and fumble to get out. It’s about a five-foot drop to the deck from where I’m sitting, so Lego helps me down. Smoke is billowing out of the aircraft, and through the haze, at least a dozen sailors run toward the bird, some in flight suits, some with firefighting gear. I double over, racked with a fit of coughing. Lego keeps one hand on my back and the other on my arm as he leads me away. Several people rush to my side, supportive hands, ushering me along. The ship is pitching so violently, I’m having trouble balancing.
    I need some space. I need to sit down.
    â€œFuck!” Lego shouts, looking behind us. “What the fuck are they doin’? Shit, they’re comin’ with fire extinguishers!” Lego is in a panic. They don’t need fire extinguishers for this, and the chemical would be a nightmare if it got into the control box.
    â€œSir, can you watch her?” Lego says. “I’ll be right back.”
    â€œI’ve got her. Don’t worry,” an unfamiliar voice says.
    A man wearing a flight suit has me by the arm, leading me away from the aircraft. I quickly read the name tag—Lieutenant Marxen. The logo on the tag is instantly recognizable. Shadow Hunters.
    He guides me toward a metal box near the railing that houses deck-edge lighting and I lower myself to sit. Dropping my elbows on my knees, I hold my helmeted head in my hands.
    I need to get myself together. I’ve experienced my fair share of emergencies with this aircraft and it’s always an out-of-body experience. I drift away from myself and watch the ultra-focused person that’s left shut out all peripheral noise and execute.
    The only problem with this ultra-focus is that once we’ve made it through safely, the extraneous noise I had kept at bay rushes into my brain all at once—the noise of what could have happened—a transmission grinding itself into oblivion and the rotors seizing, an aircraft breaking apart and freefalling, aircrew screaming.
    But the worst part is knowing what waits below—an insidiously patient, always-hungry ocean. This fact alone is responsible for my physical reaction now—hands shaking, breath accelerating, body shuddering.
    â€œAre you okay?” Lieutenant Marxen asks, putting a hand on my back.
    No, I’m not okay. The enormity of what just happened, what could have happened. That god-awful water just laughing as it waits. I’m not handling it well. Damn it. I hate this about myself. Just handle it, Sara!
    â€œYou’re shaking,” he says.
    â€œI’ll be fine in a second. Just give me a second!” I say a little too sharply.
    He removes his hand.
    Lego returns, squatting down to my level. “How ya doin’?”
    â€œNot so good,” I say more honestly.
    With Lego, I can be totally open. Same with Messy. When we fly together, one risky mission after another, I entrust them with my life each and every time. Operating in close quarters, I move the controls almost instantaneously with their calls, not questioning, not hesitating, trusting that they’re going to get it right. It’s hard to hide anything from them, but even so, as a friend, I would never try to.
    â€œWell, you fuckin’ rock, ma’am! That’s all I gotta say. I’ve never seen flyin’ like that in my life. Hell, I still can’t believe what you pulled off. Seriously, you were flippin’ amazing!”
    â€œShe was flying?” Lieutenant Marxen says. “We couldn’t see who it was through the smoke.”
    â€œFuck, yeah. And thank god she was at the controls. Smoothest pilot we got. Fuck, we woulda gone in the drink otherwise.”
    â€œKyle,” I say. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done