Dalton
Nellis AFB
“Morning, sir,” Mendoza says, already crouched by the ladder, hands in motion. Master Sergeant Alex Mendoza has been my crew chief since before I got on the team. He’s the best I’ve worked with.
“Morning,” I reply, knocking my gloves against the rail. “Everything tight?”
“Always is.” He grins as he unhooks the intake covers. “Raptor’s clean. Full fuel. No squawks. She’s good to bite,” he says.
“Roger that.”
I climb the ladder and drop into the seat like I belong in it because I do. Even though today I’m flying Wells’ slot. Townsend’s call. Logan’s leading. We’re here to sharpen up before the full run. Every second matters. Every breath has weight.
This is practice, but it isn’t pretend.
Battery on. Oxygen on. Fire warning lights blink as I move through the startup. MFDs light up one by one—primary flight display, moving map, radar scope.
“Ghost 2, ground check,” I say to Mendoza.
“Loud and clear,” Mendoza replies over the comm.
I scan my instruments, then settle into the pre-taxi checks.
Logan calls over the radio. “Viking to Ghost, you good?”
“Check’s good.”
“Then let’s wake them up.” I can hear the pride in his voice. Aside from myself, I’ve never met someone who loves the Raptor the way I do. Who seems so perfectly matched with the machine.
I can see the crowd barricades already set up along the flightline, demo prep in full swing. Civilians can’t see us yet. But we’re here.
We hold short for a moment. Logan calls it.
“Ghost 2, let’s push.” I say.
Mendoza’s voice pops back in before I go. “Give me a show, sir.”
I smirk. “You know I will.”
Mendoza stands just outside the safety line as I give the final thumbs-up from the cockpit.
He returns it with his usual two-finger tap to the side of his headset.
Then he steps in close, just a few feet from the intake, and holds up his hand, palm flat.
I reach out and mirror the motion, palm to palm, glass between us.
“Bring her home clean,” he says. Same every time. Like a prayer.
I nod once, slow. Then I raise two fingers and tap the side of my helmet. He grins, then turns and trots clear of the jet. That’s our ritual. No chest pounding. No shouting. Just one gesture, one promise. You did your part. Now I’ll do mine.
“Alright, Ghost,” Logan calls from lead. “Let’s show them what the baby bird can do.”
My hands tighten on the stick. “Copy. Locked in.” I’m flying Wells’s slot—Towsend’s call—for this practice demo, testing my reflexes, my timing, my edge.
I hit the throttle. Afterburner lights. The Raptor leaps forward like she was waiting to pounce.
Nose up at 140. Rotate at 150. Gear up by 170.
We’re airborne in seconds. And then we climb.
Vertical. Aggressive. Clawing for sky at more than 30,000 feet per minute.
Vapor trails curl around the canopy edges as the air pressure fights back.
Townsend’s voice crackles faintly over the ground team freq. He’s our narrator and will be leading us through the show as if it were real. “You’re live in three, two…”
He doesn’t finish the countdown. Because we’re already rolling in.
Logan dips his nose and cuts east along the crowd line. I follow a beat behind, tight and aggressive. “High-speed pass, right to left. Stay low and light,” Logan instructs.
I push the throttle just shy of afterburner and drop to three hundred feet AGL. The ground blurs beneath us. The speed isn’t just visual, it’s physical. I feel it in my ribcage. Over the show line at 620 knots, wings level. The nose barely trembles.
Logan peels up. “Clean. Break left. Minimum radius next.”
I roll in, throttle steady. I press through the turn, pulling 7.2 gs. The g-suit tightens around my legs, thighs burning. The Raptor digs in, carving a vicious arc.
On the ground it looks simple. Up here, it’s a balancing act between control and blackout. My breathing’s methodical, “hook” breaths like we train for. Huh-HUH...Huh-HUH…
“Smooth pressure,” Logan calls. “No snap.”
“Copy. Holding six point eight.”
“Looks good from here,” Townsend adds. “That’s your cleanest pull yet.”
I ease off the stick as we level out.
Logan banks left and climbs vertical. “You’re up, Ghost. Tail slide next.”
I nose up. The sky floods my canopy. The jet climbs, then climbs more.
I throttle back as airspeed bleeds. Then I let it go.
For a second, we hang there. Nose to the stars.
Zero forward motion. Gravity catches us.
The Raptor drops backwards, tail first, engines idle.
I can feel the slipstream tugging at the rudder. The world inverts. Sky becomes ground.
I don’t panic. I never do. I wait. Count one, two, three. Then snap the stick forward and punch throttle. The nose flips through the horizon line and we’re level again.
“Nice,” Logan murmurs.
I don’t reply.
“Next pass, you’ve got the pedal,” Logan says.
This one’s showy. Low and slow.
I hit show center and pull vertical, then twist the rudder hard left.
The nose skates sideways, jet yawing like it forgot what forward means.
I hold it there—a flat spin through air, on purpose, no stall.
It’s not violent. It’s surgical. Like the jet is dancing.
I finish it with a roll and level out. From the ground, it must look like a glitch in reality.
“Ghost is dialed,” Townsend says, quieter this time.
“Last one. Power loop, two-ship,” Logan calls. “We do this together.”
I tighten up just behind his wing. We climb vertically together. High g, full throttle. Horizon gone. We crest the top, upside down. Vapor curls off our wings. Then we dive, straight down the back side, speed building as we arc back toward the deck.
It’s perfect. Symmetrical.
“Call your break,” Logan says.
“Ghost breaking right.” I peel off, pushing lateral speed. The air claws at the canopy, pressure in my chest. Then we’re out.
Demo complete.
“Nice work, Ghost. Viking to Bishop, he’s ready when we need him.” Logan’s voice crackles in my ears again, this time quieter. Less instructor, more friend. “So how’s it going at the house?”
I know what he means. I keep my tone neutral. “They’re settling in. Hadley thinks I live in a jet museum. Ivy is…on guard.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Logan lets out a short breath. “You ever going to say what you’re actually thinking?”
“I answered your question.”
“That’s debatable. You went around it.”
I don’t respond.
He doesn't press.
After a few seconds, I say, “I’m keeping them safe. That’s what matters.”
Logan’s quiet again. Then, “Do you care if I say what I think?”
I already know he will anyway. “Go ahead.”
“She makes you different.”
I don’t answer. Because I can’t. Not without saying too much.
“I don’t know if that’s good or bad,” Logan adds, “but I know you notice her.”
“I’m not blind,” I say simply.
He snorts. “I get that. Just careful.”
“Someone has to be.”
We ride the silence down toward final. The sun’s at our six now, casting our shadows across the ground below. Two Raptors cutting the sky open.
And in my chest, something moves. Not a feeling exactly. Just a weight I can’t drop.
I’m careful. Always have been. But something about Ivy Wade is making that harder every damn day.