THEY MOCKED ME AT 30,000 FEET—UNTIL A FIGHTER JET CHANGED EVERYTHING The water was ice. It hit my chest in a steady pour, not a splash—soaking my fatigues like a punishment. One of them muttered, “You wear that uniform like it means something.” Then they laughed. Laughed hard. I was the only woman on the C-17, no insignia, no rank on display, hitching a ride to a classified op. Just gray fatigues and silence. That made me a target. SEALs, six of them, took one look and decided I didn’t belong. D