Logan
FOB near the Spratly Islands
I threw a football today.
Not well, not far, but it happened. The first time I did it, my shoulder protested like hell, pain flaring sharp and hot across the joint—but I didn’t stop. I rolled it. Stretched it. Worked through the tightness like Keller told me to. It wasn’t pretty, but it was progress.
It’s healing. I’m healing.
The warm-down area is mostly empty now, just the low hum of overhead lights and the faint sound of someone racking weights in the corner.
I’m toweling off the sweat at the back of my neck when Townsend shows up.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me for a second with that unreadable expression he gets when he’s sizing someone up.
“You look better,” he says finally, voice casual but carrying weight.
I nod, instinctively rolling my shoulder as I test its range again. It’s still tight, still sore, but it moves. And that means something. “I feel better.”
“Good.” He pauses, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth like he’s trying to hold it back but can’t. “You ready?”
I don’t hesitate. “Hell yeah.” It’s not cocky. It’s not even loud. It’s just true.
His smile breaks through then, and for a beat, he doesn’t say anything. But that simple gesture, that small acknowledgment, it’s not enough this time.
Over the past three months, Townsend’s managed to wedge himself into my life like some older brother I never asked for—steady, relentless, always pushing just hard enough.
He challenged me when I wanted to quit. Called me on my bullshit.
Didn’t flinch when I shut down, and never took any of it personally.
So I pull him into a hug—solid, firm, no-nonsense.
Just a grip and a couple of hard pats on the back before we step apart again like it never happened.
“Thank you,” I say, meaning each syllable.
Without him, I’d probably still be buried in my own head, clinging to guilt and anger like they were oxygen.
But he didn’t let me spiral. Didn’t let me forget who I am.
The weight is still there. Reaper. Ryan. The pieces of me that shattered when they were ripped away. That doesn’t just go away.
But it’s lighter now. Bearable.
And for the first time in months, I feel like I can breathe.
I glance down at the flight suits in my locker—folded sharp and clean. I haven’t worn one since the day Ryan died. Since I lost the right to. It had always been more than a uniform. It was a badge, a belonging. The second skin of a fighter pilot.
And for a long time, I didn’t feel like I deserved to put it back on.
But now?
Now I do.
Because I’m ready. Because I’ve earned it. Because Ryan and Reaper don’t get another chance to fly. But I do.
And I’ll make it count.
I miss the sky. I miss my Raptor. I miss that sound—the drone of the engines, the growl of the afterburner, the silence of being alone in the air where nothing else matters but instinct and precision.
I miss feeling in control.
But I’m getting that part of myself back. One step, one rep, one cleared checklist at a time.
And soon, I’ll be where I belong again.
Not grounded. Not broken. But flying.
***
Two hours later, I’m sitting in the briefing room for today’s mission. I guess that much never changed. Command switched my duty but I’ve been privy to details regarding our purpose here. I think we’re close to establishing some sort of stability in the area and being able to go home.
Townsend’s at the head of the table, as usual, but his presence feels different now. He’s not just my commanding officer, he’s become more than that. He’s a brother who’s been through his own struggles and who’s got my back even when I’m being a dick and probably don’t deserve it.
I glance around the room at the rest of the team.
The second Raptor Flight—Charlie—is in here, too.
They were deployed about a month after us.
Two weeks after all hell broke loose. Townsend briefs us.
It’ll be Dalton, him, and me for tonight’s flight, the other four on standby in case something goes wrong.
***
The hangar is alive with activity when we walk out there after our briefing. The whirl of engines and the low murmur of voices mix into a smooth rhythm. It’s been too long since I’ve been in the cockpit.
I thought it’d kill me to sit on the sidelines, to watch my team fly without me. It nearly did. But I’m back.
I run my hand along the smooth, cool fuselage of my fighter.
It feels like coming home.
My crew chief gives me a quick nod, his face serious. “He’s ready, Captain. Good to have you back.” He salutes me and I return it before completing the good luck ritual we’ve had for years. We fist-bump, then he pulls his fist back, making a whooshing sound, mimicking the afterburners.
I climb the ladder, settling into the cockpit with practiced ease. I adjust my helmet, my hands moving on autopilot to run through the preflight checks.
I exhale slowly, the weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders.
This mission is critical.
We’ve been tracking a high-value target for weeks—a weapons smuggler who’s been running arms to insurgent groups across the region.
Intel says he’s moving a shipment tonight, using an unmarked cargo plane to slip through contested airspace in the South China Sea.
Our job is to intercept the plane before it reaches the drop zone.
Simple on paper.
Messy in practice.
Townsend’s voice crackles in my headset, calm and authoritative. “Viking, Ghost—let’s keep it tight tonight. We’ve got two bogeys escorting the package. Rules of engagement are clear. No mistakes.”
“Copy, Bishop,” I reply, my voice steady. It feels good to speak into the comms again, to feel like I’m part of something bigger than my own mess.
“Roger that, Bishop. Viking, don’t embarrass yourself on your first flight back.” I can hear Dalton’s smirk.
I chuckle despite myself. “Stick to your wing, Ghost, and I’ll do the hard part.”
Ryan’s not here to toss out some cocky retort, and for a second, the thought guts me. But I push it down. I can’t think about that now.
The jet roars to life beneath me, and the familiar pull of g-forces presses me into my seat as we take off. The sky is clear, the moonlight glinting off the ocean far below us. It’s beautiful out here, peaceful in a way the ground never is.
But peace is an illusion.
“Package is on the move,” Townsend says over the comms. “Bogeys are escorting at three o’clock, low altitude. Let’s spread out. Viking, you’re on me. Ghost, take high cover.”
“Copy,” Dalton and I say in unison.
We approach the target plane, our radar locking onto the bogeys flanking it. Two MiG-29s, fast and deadly. They don’t know we’re here—their movements still offensive and not aggressive yet. I can almost feel the tension radiating through the airwaves.
“Viking, take lead on the intercept,” Townsend orders. “Let’s see if they play nice.”
My hands grip the throttle as I close the distance. “Unidentified aircraft, this is the United States Air Force. You are in restricted airspace. Divert your course immediately, or you will be engaged.”
There’s no response, just a burst of static. The MiGs shift again, moving to box us out since we’re close enough to see now.
“Looks like they want to dance,” Dalton mutters.
“Viking, engage the lead escort,” Townsend commands. “Ghost, cover the package. I’ll handle the other MiG.”
“Engaging,” I confirm, my blood pumping with a mix of adrenaline and focus.
The MiG-29 banks hard left, trying to pull me into a turning fight. Bold move—but not a smart one. It’s fast, sure, but it’s no Raptor. It doesn’t have the same thrust vectoring, can’t match my angle-of-attack authority, and it damn sure can’t disappear like I can.
I stay with him, tightening the turn, my hands steady on the stick and throttle.
G-forces press against me, but I breathe through it, legs flexed, core locked, keeping blood in my head.
The sky blurs as I roll inverted for a split second, slicing under his tail and bleeding just enough energy to keep from overshooting.
The jet groans under the pressure, but responds like always—fluid and lethal.
The MiG tries to dive out, desperate to shake me. I follow. He rolls into a split-S, diving toward the deck. I keep my nose glued to him, feathering the throttle, adjusting my pitch to stay just outside his exhaust trail. My Raptor dances behind him, ghosting his every move.
A sharp tone shrills in my headset—missile lock warning. Shit. My thumb flicks the countermeasure switch, and I deploy a burst of flares. The infrared seeker bites at the heat, and the warning cuts out. I roll right, out of the threat’s path, and swing back behind the MiG.
“Viking, clear that bird,” Townsend barks over comms. No panic. Just business.
“On it,” I grit out, lining up the shot. My HUD flashes as the box tightens over the target. The tone in my headset shifts—steady, certain. Lock.
I squeeze the trigger.
The missile streaks away, a white-hot blur tearing the night sky in two. It slams into the MiG’s fuselage and detonates, a fiery burst that quickly disappears into the dark below.
I exhale hard, forcing my hands to unclench around the stick.
“Splash one,” I report, my voice even despite the chaos.
Townsend’s voice cuts in. “Welcome back, Viking.” I can hear the smirk in his voice. “Ghost, status on the package?”
“Still intact,” Dalton replies. “But the second MiG is making a play.”
“I’m on it,” Townsend says, his tone sharp.
Once the escorts are neutralized, we close in on the cargo plane. It’s a lumbering beast compared to our jets, but that doesn’t mean it’s harmless. These guys are desperate, and desperate people make dangerous choices.
“Unidentified aircraft, this is your final warning,” Townsend says, his voice cold and commanding. “Divert your course or prepare to be fired upon.”
It feels like they might comply. The plane wobbles slightly, losing altitude. But then a side hatch opens, and I see it—a missile launcher being prepped by one of the crew.
“Shit!” Dalton shouts. “They’re armed!”
“Viking, take the shot!” Townsend orders.
I don’t hesitate. My thumb presses the release, and the missile streaks forward. The cargo plane doesn’t stand a chance. The explosion is massive, briefly turning my cockpit into daylight. Debris rains down into the ocean, and for a moment, the comms are silent.
“Splash three. Target destroyed,” I say finally, my voice grim.
“Good work, boys,” Townsend says. “RTB. Let’s head home.”