I grab onto the handholds on either side of my jump seat as Raven wrenches the Merlin through a sequence of ever-tighter turns. Twice every second, there’s a hollow boom from the back of the fuselage, and the plane jolts. I’ve got to assume the rigger’s punching out chaff—at least some of it probably active chaff with radar-emitting microchips incorporated into the mylar foil.