Logan
Langley AFB
“Viking, comms check.” Major Townsend’s voice cuts through the headset.
“Loud and clear, Bishop,” I reply, keeping my tone even. He always manages to sound like he’s barking orders, even during routine operations.
“Spartan, comms check,” Townsend continues.
Ryan’s drawl filters through the comms. “Spartan’s good. Don’t worry about me, Bishop. I know how to fly,” he teases.
“Ghost, comms check,” Townsend finishes.
Dalton replies, “Ghost is ready.”
“Copy all,” Townsend says. “We’re on mission parameters now. Remember, this isn’t a joyride. We’re flying a tactical repositioning to Tyndall, so keep it tight and professional. I’ll lead the formation; Viking, you’re on my left. Spartan and Ghost, take the rear echelon. Let’s keep it sharp, boys.”
The subtle jab about professionalism isn’t lost on me. Townsend always feels the need to flex his authority, but I let it roll off. I’m not here to argue with him.
The tower clears us for takeoff, and one by one, we roll onto the runway. Townsend’s jet, in the lead, is already accelerating when I ease the throttle forward, feeling the twin Pratt I’ll bring up the rear,” Townsend says, his tone clipped.
“Copy that,” I reply, adjusting my vector. I know he hates not being the lead, but I’m not about to argue mid-flight.
As we near Tyndall, the coastline comes into view—a jagged line separating the endless blue of the ocean from the green expanse of land. My HUD lights up with the airbase’s beacon, and I guide us into the designated pattern for landing.
“Tower, this is Viking, Raptor Flight of four inbound for landing,” I call over the radio.
“Raptor Flight, cleared to land. Runway two-eight,” the controller replies.
One by one, we descend, our jets gliding smoothly onto the runway. The moment my wheels touch down, the familiar mix of pride and relief washes over me. Another flight, another mission complete.
The golden canopy slides open with a soft hiss and the Florida heat hits me like a wall, the humid air clinging to my flight suit.
I pull off my helmet and take a moment, gripping the edge of the cockpit, to let the rush of flying settle in my veins.
Every muscle is tuned, sharp, alive. Carefully, I descend the ladder, the steel cold against my hands.
My boots hit the tarmac with a satisfying thud.
The ground crew stands at attention nearby, waiting for my acknowledgment. I straighten and snap a sharp salute, my body moving on instinct. They return it without hesitation, their faces impassive but professional. These are the unsung heroes, the ones who make sure we even get into the sky.
My eyes flick toward Major Townsend, who’s stationed just a few steps beyond the crew, his arms crossed. His expression is unreadable, but the faint quirk of his brow feels like a challenge. I salute him, too, keeping my posture stiff, my movements crisp. He returns it smoothly.
“Captain,” he says as I lower my hand, then turns and strides off toward the briefing room, knowing we won’t be far behind.
Ryan jogs up beside me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “So, lunch at that seafood place? Or is Townsend going to make us sit there for three hours just to hear himself talk?”
“Probably both,” I reply, smirking. Dalton joins us, silent but clearly amused by Ryan’s antics.
“Good work out there, Everett,” I say, clapping him on the back.
“Thanks,” he replies. “You guys make it look easy.”
Ryan grins as we head in to debrief. “Damn right we do.”
***
LOGAN: Landed safe and sound. Just checking in on you—hope your day’s going well.
I press send, leaning back in the stiff chair.
Or maybe it’s me that’s stiff. We’ve been sitting here for the last four hours going over practice plans.
Two shows this weekend, then we head to Cherry Point on Monday.
My flight suit is unzipped to my waist, my undershirt clinging to my skin from the humidity.
Why doesn’t this room have air conditioning?
I don’t expect her to reply right away, but my phone vibrates almost instantly.
LILA: Glad you’re safe. I’m fine, just working through a mountain of emails. Nothing as exciting as piloting Raptors across the country.
I smirk, imagining her sitting at her antique writing desk—the one Dalton and I lugged to her office from her car. She’s probably biting her lip, brow furrowed in concentration.
LOGAN: You say that like it’s all fun. I’d trade you a two-hour flight and four-hour debrief for a mountain of emails right about now.
LILA: Somehow, I doubt that. Unless you’re offering to write these emails for me. In which case, I accept.
LOGAN: I’m a terrible writer. All I can promise is your emails would include typos.
LILA: Hmm, maybe I’ll keep my job after all. I’d hate for your call sign to change to “Spellcheck.”
Her quick wit punches a laugh out of me, loud enough to draw attention. Dalton looks over, brows raised, but I ignore him, fingers flying over the screen.
LOGAN: Ouch. Harsh. Guess I’ll stick to flying and let you handle the rest. I’ll just be here wishing we were hanging out.
The pause this time stretches long enough to make my pulse kick up a notch.
LILA: Me too. Maybe next time, you’ll invite me to fly with you.
LOGAN: That depends. Do you trust me?
LILA: If I say yes, does that mean I get to fly with you instead of the crew?
LOGAN: Not exactly, since there’s no back seat in an F-22.
LILA: Right, so how does this work? Do I get to sit in your lap?
Heat coils low in my stomach, igniting like a spark in dry grass. My fingers twitch, every ounce of exhaustion evaporating.
LOGAN: Careful. You keep talking like that, and I’ll be halfway home before the briefing is over.
LILA: And here I thought you were a professional.
LOGAN: I am. I’d just rather be personally responsible for making you blush.
Ryan’s voice snaps me out of the haze. “James, who are you texting with that dumb smile on your face?”
I glance up, already regretting it when I see his shit-eating grin.
“None of your business,” I mutter, eyes dropping back to my phone.
Ryan crosses his arms. “Oh, it’s my business now. You’ve been grinning at that screen like a kid who just got permission to stay up past bedtime. Don’t tell me it’s Townsend you’re texting. Tell him to get his ass in here and finish this brief so we can get some dinner. I’m starving.”
I snort, fingers already moving before I lose my nerve. I haven’t been this bold with Lila, not even in Vegas.
LOGAN: If you were here, I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands to myself.
LILA: Who says I’d want you to?
I shake my head, fighting back the smile on my face.
Dalton leans in, blatantly curious. “I’m guessing it’s not Townsend,” he says, smirking at Ryan who reaches across the table to fist-bump him.
I ignore them, my pulse thudding in my ears as another text pops up.
LILA: You’d keep me in bed all day, wouldn’t you?
LOGAN: Sweetheart, I’d skip the demos and keep you in bed all weekend if you’d let me.
I swallow hard, the ache of missing her hitting me like a sucker punch.
LOGAN: You’re lucky I’m in uniform, or I’d tell you exactly what I’m thinking.
LILA: Tell me anyway.
LOGAN: Sadly, it’ll have to wait. Townsend just walked in and said we have some dinner tomorrow. Know anything about that? Apparently, our public affairs coordinator set it up.
LOGAN: Here I was planning on taking you on a date.
Her reply is instant, like she’s been waiting.
LILA: Sorry, Captain. Duty calls.
I laugh, pocketing my phone, my body thrumming with anticipation. Ryan claps me on the back, and I barely feel it, already counting down the hours until I see her again.
“Well,” Ryan starts, giving me a look like he knows exactly who it is, “you tell Valhalla to keep it up. You’re a hell of a lot easier to be around when you’re smiling like that.”
“Valhalla?” I ask, squinting at him like he’s inhaled too much jet exhaust.
He grins. “Yeah. It's Norse heaven. Where Vikings end up.”
I watch him walk off, wondering when the hell my best friend turned into a damn poet.