Our Family Was Flying To Maui For A Wedding. At The Airport, My Father Handed Me An Crumpled Economy Class Ticket. “We’re Flying Business, But We Put You In Economy — It Suits You Better.” Just Then, An Air Force Officer Approached Us. “Ma’am, Your C-17 Is Ready To Depart.”

“And here is yours. Economy. Middle seat.

Row forty-eight, right up against the lavatory. I didn’t want you to feel self-conscious about your financial situation by sitting in our class. It’s better if you’re with your own kind.”

Next to him, my brother Patrick smoothed the lapel of his Armani suit, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked at me with the pity one reserves for a stray dog.

I gripped that ticket until my knuckles turned white. They expected me to bow my head and whisper a thank you, just like always. But not today.

Today, my C-17 Globemaster III was waiting on the tarmac. If you are tired of being disrespected by the very people who are supposed to love you, comment “justice” below and subscribe. You’re going to want to see the blood drain from their faces when I pin my stars on my shoulders.

The air inside the PACAF command center at Joint Base Pearl Harbor–Hickam tasted like stale coffee and ozone. It was a controlled chaos that I had lived in for twenty years, a symphony of ringing phones, clacking keyboards, and low urgent voices speaking the universal language of the United States Air Force. “General, we have updated telemetry on Tropical Storm Hina,” a major called out from the lower pit, his eyes glued to the massive wall of screens dominating the room.

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