Logan
Langley AFB
The night air clings to me, thick with humidity, pressing against my skin like an unseen weight.
The floodlights along the flight line cast long, flickering shadows over the waiting jets, their sleek silhouettes standing in perfect, predatory stillness.
The familiar scent of jet fuel lingers in the air, grounding me in the moment.
I stretch my neck, trying to release the tension coiled tight in my muscles.
My helmet is on, the oxygen mask hanging loose against my chin as I go through my preflight checks.
I know this routine inside and out—every screen, every gauge, every step ingrained into my muscle memory.
But tonight, my hands feel colder inside my gloves, my grip a little too tight on the controls.
“Viking, you good over there?” Ryan’s voice crackles through the comms, threaded with what sounds like concern.
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring too long at my instruments without actually seeing them. I exhale. “Yeah. Just ready to get in the air.”
“Ghost to Flight, ready for takeoff.” Our current alternate is a few years younger than me and a damn good pilot. He reminds me of someone I used to know. Ryan jokes that whenever the brass gets tired of me, they’re going to give Dalton my slot.
Townsend’s voice filters through my headset, smooth and authoritative as he gives final instructions.
I listen, but the words don’t sink in. My heart is beating too fast. Not from nerves, not from anticipation, but from something that feels like lead in my chest. Something I haven’t let myself think about in a long time.
The glow of the screens, the hum of the jet beneath me, the way the darkness stretches out beyond the runway—all of it pulls me back.
Back nine years.
Back to another night, another sortie.
Back to my days flying an F-16.
Back to Reaper.
His voice had been steady, even when mine wasn’t. “Viking, you with me?” He hadn’t masked the edge of adrenaline beneath his usual easy confidence. “You’re pulling too hard on the stick.”
I had been flying too aggressive, burning energy I couldn’t afford to lose. The stars had been endless above us, the black ocean rolling far below, indifferent and infinite. I’d nearly overshot my turn, nearly left myself exposed. Nearly left him exposed in our simulated dogfight.
Reaper had laughed after I corrected, that reckless grin in his voice. “Damn, Viking. You trying to get us killed or just making sure I’m awake?”
I hadn’t answered. I’d just swallowed down the hard lump in my throat and focused.
“Shake it off and fly the jet,” he had told me.
And then, months later, he was gone.
And I was still here.
I flex my fingers over the throttle, forcing the memory down, locking it away where it belongs. The past doesn’t belong in the cockpit and hesitation gets you killed.
“Viking, you’re up,” Townsend calls.
I push the throttle forward, the roar of the engines swallowing everything else. The second the wheels leave the runway, I feel a small sense of relief. The air wraps around me, the ground falling away.
Up here, there’s no past. Only the sky.
Everything else can wait.
We climb fast, ripping through midnight’s embrace. The ocean stretches below, a void speckled with the occasional shimmer of moonlight on the waves. The comms stay mostly quiet, just brief check-ins, the occasional callout. I settle in, adjusting my formation, my breathing even.
Then Townsend calls the maneuver.
“Viking, break left on my mark, then rejoin.”
Simple. Routine.
“Mark.”
I roll left—too sharp, too militant.
The jet shudders beneath me, a warning, the edge of a stall creeping up faster than I expect. The g-force slams into my chest, stealing my breath for a split second. The world tilts too fast, the horizon skewing. My pulse spikes, instincts kicking in as I correct, easing off just in time.
It lasts less than a second. A blink.
But it’s enough.
Enough to leave my heart hammering. Enough to feel a cold sweat break along my spine. Enough to remind me how fast a simple mistake can become fatal.
“Everything good, Viking?” Townsend’s voice is calm, but I know he saw it.
I clear my throat, forcing my voice steady. “Yeah. Just overcorrected.”
There’s a beat of silence before Ryan cuts in, his voice edged with something I don’t want to name. “You sure? ’Cause that looked like a little more than overcorrection.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m good.”
But I don’t feel good.
Because I know exactly where my head was when I messed up.
It wasn’t here, in the cockpit. Wasn’t focused on the jet, on the flight, or on the sky stretching out before us.
It was back there.
With Reaper.
I swallow hard, tightening my grip on the stick, adjusting my position.
“Rejoining.”
Townsend acknowledges it, moving on.
“Viking…” Ryan hesitates for half a second, like he wants to push, but he lets it go.
I exhale slowly, staring ahead into the vast, endless dark. Tonight, I got lucky. But next time, I might not.
Shake it off and fly the jet.