Logan
Spratly Islands Airspace
“Shit,” I hiss, flipping switches on instinct. The missile alert screams louder, warning me it’s already closing in. My pulse pounds as I eject flares, their bright streaks a warning in the darkness.
“Viking, break right! Missile inbound!” Dalton’s voice is sharp, urgent.
I don’t waste a second. I shove the throttle forward, slamming my jet into an aggressive corkscrew dive.
My g-suit tightens against my body, the pressure squeezing my legs and abdomen as I fight the blackout creeping into my vision.
For a split second, Lila’s face flashes in my mind—her soft smile, the way she crinkled her nose the last time I kissed her.
I left her in my bed, the sheets still tangled around her legs, not knowing when I’d be back home.
The missile screams past, close enough that I feel the heat ripple through the air.
“Missile evaded,” I sputter, but the relief is short-lived.
My HUD flares again.
Another lock.
“Fuck me,” I hiss, jerking the stick to the left this time. My free hand slams the flare release and bright bursts trail behind me. The missile chases the decoy, detonating harmlessly in the distance.
“Viking, you’ve got another bandit closing from above,” Wells warns, his tone still calm but clipped.”
I glance at my radar. They must have scrambled some more advanced fighters because this guy came from nowhere. A Su-35 this time. It’s diving straight at me, trying to cut me off. The bastard’s smart, using my evasive maneuvers to box me in.
My mind races, adrenaline surging.
I can’t climb. I can’t dive again. He’s forcing me into a corner.
I roll my jet into an inverted dive to slip beneath him. The maneuver is brutal, the g-forces slamming into me like a freight train. My vision blurs slightly, narrowing to a dark tunnel as I pull up hard, leveling out.
The terrain below rushes past in a dizzying blur. My heart hammers against my ribs, but there’s no time to dwell on it. I pull back into a climb, gasping for air as my lungs scream against the pressure.
“Viking, you clear?” Wells’s voice cuts through the haze.
“Still here,” I rasp, my voice uneven.
“Hold tight, Viking, Saint. I’ve got the asshole,” Dalton replies.
I glance over my shoulder just in time to see Dalton’s F-22 race past me, parting the dark sky like a scalpel through velvet. His missile fires, a streak of light in the night, and slams into the enemy jet with pinpoint accuracy.
“Splash three,” Dalton calls out, his voice as solid as ever, like this is just another day in the office.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus. My hands are slick inside my gloves, but the cockpit feels stable now, familiar again.
“Thanks for the save, Ghost,” I say, my voice lower than I intend.
“Anytime,” he replies, already turning to re-engage another target.
“One Sukhoi’s still active,” Wells calls out, his voice slicing through my thoughts. “I’m engaging.”
I glance at my radar. A Su-25 is closing in fast, taking advantage of my slowed movement. Wells swings into action, his jet banking hard to intercept. He fires, the missile streaking toward its target, but the enemy fighter breaks hard, dodging at the last second.
“Viking, watch out!” Wells yells suddenly.
The bandit isn’t running. He’s diving straight for me.
For a split second, time freezes. A lump rises in my throat. I promised Lila I’d come back to her. I hadn’t really considered the possibility of that not happening.
Then out of nowhere, Wells’s jet swoops in from above, another missile streaking toward the Su-25 in a perfectly timed attack. The enemy fighter tries to evade, but it’s too late. The explosion is deafening, the fireball lighting up the sky.
“Splash four,” Wells says, his voice even as though he didn’t just save my life.
I exhale shakily, the tension flooding out of me all at once. “Thanks, Saint.”
“Don’t mention it,” he replies.
“Raptor Flight, status check,” Townsend calls into comms.
“Ghost, green.”
“Saint, green.”
“Viking…green.”
“Good. Let’s finish this and get the hell out of here,” Townsend says.
And then my HUD notifies me of two more bandits.