At 15,000 feet, we accelerate and begin the drop for the run-in on the target. The cumulus clouds are the way I like them. Sparse, cotton-wool and above the bubble canopy of my F-16C. Blue yonder above and green conifers below. We’ll drop our simulated payload, then the training sortie’s over and it’s TGIF. Boo-yah!

Hal ‘Golden Boy’ Harper will be waiting at the harbour bar with two ice cold beers. Rumour has it, tonight he’s going to toss a small velvet box to his daredevil darlin’, Gwen Parton. Callsign ‘Dolly’. Me.

I’m punching above my weight landing that bad boy. The guys know it. They’ve already bet on how many beers he’ll make me sweat through, before the box appears and I say ‘yes’.

At briefing this morning, I leaned over to Daniel ‘Watchman’ Perez and whispered, ‘What’d you bet? One beer? Two? Three?’

Per usual, he sat with his arms crossed, sizing up everything, everyone. Face like a thunderstorm.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he muttered. ‘Say no.’

What the –

‘Why? Because Hal’s a desk jockey now?’

Watchman’s frown deepened. ‘The silk elevator changed him.’

‘Of course it did. His injuries –‘

‘I don’t mean that. Marriage is like flying a two-seater. You think he’s got your back?’

‘Always,’ I insisted, though Golden Boy can get snide when the pain in his lower lumber flares. But then, he’s lucky to be alive. Not everyone survives ejection. 

A bang jolts me back to the present. What the hell? There’s a moment of soft silence. The absence of an engine. And then every damned alarm goes off and my controls light up like a Christmas tree.

Watchman’s in formation behind me. ‘Your jet’s on fire! You’re spilling fuel. REPEAT. You are ON FIRE!’

A goddammed malfunction.

‘Dolly!’ Watchman bellows. ‘You’ve gotta punch it!’

Despite my training, I pause, hearing Golden Boy in my head: ‘At least I bailed in combat.’

‘I can land her!’ I shout.

‘Eject!’ Watchman commands. ‘Plane’s replaceable. You’re not!’

Dammit, he’s right. Heart hammering, I assume the position – head back, spine straight, butt tight against the seat, then I reach beneath and pull the handles. My bubble canopy blows, and I am catapulted skyward. Despite my G-suit, I go faint as I rocket up, up, up.

As I sail into a cloud, I pray the parachute’s deploying. I’m so light-headed, it’s damned impossible to focus. Through my visor, the wisps become silver wedding bows and doves, then morph into Golden Boy’s plans for us: a pair of Labradors, and countless squalling babies.

‘This is your wake-up call,’ I hear him say. ‘You and me, we gotta keep our feet on the ground where it’s safe.’

Safe is grey like a cloud’s innards. I don’t do ‘safe’.

If I live, I’m buying a good man – my wingman – a beer.

If I live, I’m returning a velvet box to a boy, who should find another girl to play house with.

Nobody clips Dolly’s wings.

Let me live.