“Altitude one-hundred-thirty klicks,” Boldt’s dry voice informed me.
As I continued to gain altitude, five minutes later, brilliantly lit nighttime Washington, DC, swept below me.
“No time to say Hello—Good-bye…I’m flying through your nighttime sky,” I sang, floating in my sling, awestruck by the speed of passing.
“Roger that,” the Master Chief opined.
During the ten minutes it took to cross a darkened Atlantic, I watched lightning bolts play between towering thunderheads of a massive storm system creating a magical landscape beneath my flying carpet.
“Good morning Mauritania!” I said in my best Robin Williams imitation as I approached the West African Coast.
“Roger that. Altitude one-hundred-fifty klicks.”
In the final ten minutes, I swept southeast across the Gulf of Guinea and pa
