Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
Shannon finished her cooldown set, hands braced on her knees, sweat cooling at the base of her neck when Hunt walked into the training bay.
He never came in here during PT, not unless something big was coming.
He carried a thin envelope in one hand. Official.
Military. Her name was typed in the upper corner.
Her stomach dipped. “Hunt?” She stood slowly, wiping her palms on her joggers.
He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look worried either. Just… resigned. “You recovered faster than most people expected. Better than some thought possible.”
“That a compliment?”
“A reality check,” he said. “You’re fit to fly. Fit to serve.”
She went still.
Hunt extended the envelope, his expression gentler now. “They didn’t waste any time. Your orders came through.”
Her heartbeat kicked sharply. She took the envelope with hands she forced not to shake. The paper was heavy gauge. Her name was clear, Air Force crest faintly watermarked. She slid a finger under the seal and opened it.
Hunt stayed right there. A silent support in a suddenly unsteady room.
Shannon unfolded the single-page dispatch and scanned the header. Then the assignment line. “Forward Operating Base Anaba – Niger, Africa.”
Her breath hitched. Not out of fear—it was something deeper. Something like gravity. It was the Sahel. It was where the intel threads Dante and Ford were chasing led. It was where Bravo was bleeding for answers. It was where Krueger had been flown.
Her pulse thundered. “Niger,” she said, as if repeating it would make it less surreal.
“Yes,” Hunt replied. “Fast deployment. Rotary-wing support. MEDEVAC rotation and recon flights. They’re short pilots.”
“You made some calls to check it out.”
“Yes.”
She swallowed. “Because the region’s heating up.”
“Exactly.”
She kept reading. Report date: 10 days. Unit: 449th AEW Forward Detachment.
Aircraft assignment: HH-60W Black Hawk. Initial operating responsibility: Extraction and evacuation in AO Charlie-2. U.S. Africa Command.
Her heart stopped at that line. Her area of operation—Charlie-2—was where the network was. Where Ford and Dante were. Where everything was spiraling toward a confrontation no briefing had fully prepared anyone for.
Hunt watched her, his expression softening. “You’re ready. More than ready. But I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t one of the tougher deployments.”
Shannon folded the orders and held them tightly in both hands. “Does Ian know?”
“Yes.”
“And my dad?”
“He suspected your orders were coming,” Hunt said. “He hasn’t seen them, but he didn’t try to block any of them.”
She nodded slowly. Her father wouldn’t. Not when she’d fought twenty times harder to get back in the air than anyone knew.
“Does… Dante know?”
Hunt hesitated then shook his head. “No. He’s dark. No comms.”
Something in her chest twisted, sharply and warmly at the same time. She exhaled through it. “So,” she said, steadying, “this is it.”
“This is the job. And you’ve earned every step that brought you here.”
She looked down at the orders again. Stared at the word Niger until it blurred. Then she whispered, almost to herself, “I’m going to the same place he is.”
She didn’t say it out of fear. She said it as a promise.
Shannon found her father exactly where she knew he’d be, inside the glass-walled operations room, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, staring at a screen covered in spreadsheets and comms logs. He was mid-conversation with Martin Bailey on a screen when he saw her through the glass.
Mike turned everything black. Martin gave him a two-finger salute. The door clicked shut behind him. “Shan?”
She held the envelope at her side. Her throat felt tight, but her voice came out steady. “My orders came.”
His jaw tightened, not with surprise, just inevitability settling in behind his eyes. “Where?”
She stepped closer and handed him the paper. He didn’t unfold it immediately. He just searched her face for fear… hesitation… or regret.
He found none. Only after that did he open the orders. His gaze moved line by line. When he reached the assignment location, he inhaled once. Deep. Controlled. “Niger.”
She nodded. “FOB Anaba.”
He kept staring at the paper. “Well. They didn’t waste time.”
Shannon chuckled. “Hunt said the same thing.”
Finally, he set the orders on the table and stepped in front of her. Not imposing, not looming, but as her father, trying to read all the pieces he couldn’t ask out loud. “You ready?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t be if I hadn’t come here.”
Mike’s throat bobbed. “You’re not afraid?”
“Oh, I’m terrified,” she said. “But I know what fear feels like now. I know how to fly through it.”
That startled a small, tight smile out of him. He brushed a thumb along her cheek, the gesture light, reverent, barely there. “Your mother would be proud. And, Shan, I couldn’t be prouder. I watched you fight like I’ve never seen.”
The pressure behind her eyes prickled. She leaned forward until her forehead touched his chest.
He wrapped his arms around her, strongly and steadily. He didn’t speak for a long moment. When he finally did, his voice was low and rough. “You come back to me, Shannon.”
“I will,” she whispered.
“You come back whole.”
“I’ll fight to.”
“And you call me every damn day you can.”
She smiled into his shirt. “Of course I will.”
He kissed the top of her head like she was still eight years old and holding on to his hand at an air show. When they finally stepped apart, Mike cleared his throat and nodded toward the hallway. “Call your brother. He’ll be furious if he hears it from anyone else.”
Shannon ducked outside, the warm Louisiana air hitting her in a soft wave. She sat on the low stone wall near the courtyard fountain and dialed.
Sam Johnson picked up halfway through the first ring. “Shan? Everything okay?” His voice was steady and older now, but he was still her brother.
Something squeezed tight in her chest. “I got orders.”
Silence. Then sharper: “Where?”
“Niger.”
A long exhale.
She could practically see him running a hand over his short West Point regulation haircut. “When do you leave?”
“Ten days.”
“Are you ready for that?”
“Yes,” she said. “Really.”
“You sure you’re not saying that just to keep me from flipping a table?”
She laughed softly. “Not this time.”
He hesitated. “You’ve fought like hell this year. Dad sent me a video of your test flight. You looked… strong, Shan. You looked like the videos of Mom.”
Her eyes burned. “Thanks, Sammy.”
“Don’t get mushy; I’m in a company area,” he muttered, but his voice was warmer. “I’m proud of you. And you better call me from Africa. Or I’ll show up in uniform and embarrass you.”
“That tracks,” she said.
They talked a few minutes longer about nothing heavy, everything real, and when she hung up, her shoulders felt a little lighter.
SHANNON’S SUITE
She returned to her suite after thanking and saying goodbye to her physical therapists, Kim and Luis, and Mack the PA.
Her duffel sat open on the bed like a promise she couldn’t outrun.
It was her duffel. The one that still smelled faintly like jet fuel and eucalyptus detergent from Novosel.
Her dad shipped it the minute he knew she was cleared. Of course he did.
She moved through her room with the same precision she used in the cockpit. All her emotion was held tight behind her ribs. She folded her two flight suits. Smoothed the creases into her boots. Checked her Nomex gloves for wear. Set her mother’s scarf beside them, warm with memory.
Next came the flight bag. Headset, spare batteries, tablet charger. The solar charger Hunt dropped off with a smoothie and a look that said, I’m trying to do what Dante would because he’s not here to do it.
She pulled her knee board from the desk drawer and slid it into place. One flight logbook. Then another—her father’s first, her mother’s second—the leather worn, the call signs faded. She ran her thumb over her mother’s handwriting.
Flashlights, red and blue, with extra batteries, a med kit—because Mack Browning damn near shoved it into her hands. The survival knife Ford gave her at graduation—because Chase takes care of their own. Then she reached for the care package.
She’d found it waiting on her bed the morning after Dante shipped out. A box with his handwriting on the label. Inside, Randy sunglasses, snacks, and other odds and ends.
Tucked beneath all of it, the note he left.
Shan,
If you’re reading this, I’m already wheels-up. Listen to me: You’ve earned every second of this return to the sky. You don’t owe anyone perfection. Just fly the way you were born to.
I won’t pretend I’m not wishing I could be there when you lift off. But I need you to know something before you go:
You don’t walk into that desert alone. Not ever. Not as long as I’m breathing.
When it gets loud out there, when the sand kicks up and the world narrows to the sound of your rotors, touch your left wrist. That’s where I’ll be.
Come home safe, Falcon. I’ll be right behind you. I love you.
Dante
She folded the note carefully and slid it inside the side pocket of her duffel, close to her body, close to her pulse. Then she picked up the rosary Luis had pressed into her palm when she hugged him goodbye. “Para protección,” he’d whispered. She packed that too.
The final piece was Dante’s dog tag. Heavy, solid, and warm from her hand. She traced the edges with her thumb, the metal imprinting against her skin like a vow. She tucked it into the sleeve pocket of her flight suit. It was the place closest to her heart when she flew.
Her hip flared with a stubborn ache. Her chest pulled tight, remembering the crash, the smoke, the scream in the rotors.
But she breathed through it. Because, ten days from now, she wouldn’t just be healed.
She’d be operational. And somewhere out there, in the same red desert, with danger closing in on all sides, Dante was already in the dark.