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position Six, I no longer thought about dying and returning home in a dark plastic bag. I thought about surviving, living to tell the story, and seeing Katie.
        It’s odd how little things mean so much, but on the back of the evasion plans there’s a tiny American flag. When the time came, I’d set the stars and stripes beside me and go to work.
        Before long we’d be humping the combat zone. The radios would be singing in my ears. The Iraqis would be coming at us once again. For now, though, I had checks to complete.
        I checked my position top to bottom, and then ran through the radio checks with Cowboy, who was sitting Seven. “MCS, Six, preflight checks complete,” I called out afterward, and Tammy, Happy, Sparrow, Popcorn, and Cowboy followed suit.
        “MCC, MCS, we’re all ready to go back here,” relayed Chris.
        Crow and Happy were working on something feverishly as the pilot began the Before Takeoff Combat Entry Checklist. Soon afterward the engines were rising to a roar. We were almost ready for departure.
        Crow ran back to his seat as we got clearance for taxi and takeoff. He was strapping in just as my headset tweaked. “Crew, we’re rolling,” Captain Sammy said.
        I gripped the armrests of my chair as we rolled down the runway and lurched into the sky. The Gray Lady seemed exceptionally sluggish today.
        We were climbing out of 5,000 feet when my headset tweaked. What followed sounded like a drum roll and I nearly shot out of my seat except the safety straps held me tight. Suddenly I heard music and Martha—Martha Reeves and the Vandellas. She was singing, “Nowhere to run.”
        The music was playing over Private A, so the front-end hadn’t really heard it yet, except for the Nav, but old Bill didn’t say a word. In fact I later heard that he tapped the pilot on the shoulder and told him to pull out Private. Later we switched the music to ship’s PA, which we could punch on or off more easily.
        As we were still thirty minutes or more from the sensitive area, music really caused no harm. It was just another channel of chatter we could push in or pull out if we wanted to. No one said anything though it was clear it’d be punched off prior to entering the sensitive area. A tradition began. Martha became our go-to-war chant. When she sang there’s nowhere to run, I imagined she was telling it to Saddam Hussein himself.
        Thirty minutes passed with surprising swiftness. The music was turned off. It was time to earn our pay.
        “Stations, in ten mike,” called out the MCC. “Four clear to the rear for spotting. AMT, any slugs in the system today?”
        “She’s hummin’,” Crow replied.
        “That’s what I wanted to hear. Nav, MCC, ETA to package ingress?”
        “On my mark, seventeen mike,” Bill replied, “mark!”
        “Crew, MCC, clear to log in and get ready to work. Prepare to give ‘em hell. MCS, MCC, what’s the word from Phantom?”
        “Phantom’s not airborne today. We’re on our own on this one. What’d Gypsy just pass?”
        I keyed Select and said, “Traffic advisory and two of the Eagles just pedaled off to juice up with Gas Station.” Afterward, I completed my log in.
        “Crew, Pilot, Before Combat Entry Checklist.”
        Crow blackened out the crew entrance portal and dimmed the interior lights from white to red. Staring at a darkened screen with red overhead lights put a definite strain on the eyes. I adjusted the little spotlight over my position so that it shone down on my position, ensuring that it, too, was properly dim.
        “Crew, we’re on orbit. Environment is left,” hissed the pilot’s voice into my headset, “Nav, ETA to package ingress?”
        “Environment left,” confirmed Jim.
        “Seven mike.”
        “Roger, Nav, seven mike.”
        “Let’s get those targets!” yelled Tennessee