Dalton
Langley AFB
Ivy and I have reached a new normal.
One that involves a lot of flirting, a lot of stolen kisses, and a lot of excessive touching while navigating around each other in my small kitchen cooking dinner each night.
We take Hadley to preschool together in the mornings and then I drop Ivy off at my house to work on admin stuff for her studio.
I know she’s struggling more than she will admit being away from it, but she, Hadley, and I go almost every evening after they close so Ivy can dance, Hadley can play, and I can pretend I’m not hopelessly captivated by the way she loses herself to the music.
And for two beautiful hours she’s not someone who had to be rescued, someone who hasn’t found her way out of the darkness, and instead she just is.
“Earth to Ghost.” It’s Wells over comms.
I blink back to the present, refocusing on the horizon line glowing pale blue against the canopy.
“What’s up, Saint?”
The Raptor hums around me, a living thing responding to the smallest pressure of my gloved hand on the stick. Twenty-two thousand feet above the Atlantic, the world feels deceptively calm. Engine instruments are steady. Fuel flow nominal. Radar painting a clean sweep.
Routine sortie. Mostly. We’ve flown this CAP line more often than usual lately, orbiting a quiet stretch of airspace that suddenly feels less quiet than it used to.
“Stop thinking about your roommate and scan your sector,” Wells says. There’s no bite to it. Just the opposite, I can practically hear him grinning.
“Scan is clean,” I reply, nudging the throttle slightly forward, maintaining position on Townsend’s left wing. “I appreciate the concern for my mental discipline.”
“Just trying to keep you combat effective,” Wells says.
“His definition of combat effective seems heavily influenced by a certain blonde,” Logan adds.
I sigh. “We are on a tactical frequency.”
“And tactically speaking,” Logan continues, “you are absolutely compromised.”
Townsend voice cuts in, calm as ever. “Maintain spacing.”
We subtly widen formation, four F-22s moving through the sky with effortless precision. The jet anticipates inputs before I consciously think them, fly-by-wire smoothing every micro-adjustment.
My displays remain quiet. Radar scope clean. Data link symbology steady across the screen.
Still, the repetition of this patrol box isn’t accidental.
Someone wants eyes here.
“Tell us Viking, how’s wedding planning? You pick your flowers and place settings yet?” Wells actually laughs at his own joke.
“Jealousy isn’t pretty on you, Saint,” Logan says casually. “How’s Alinna?”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Ask your wife,” Wells snaps.
“Oh, I have.” Logan doesn’t even try to sound innocent. “Lila told me Alinna says you friend-zoned her.”
Wells snorts. “The fuck I did.”
I chuckle, adjusting throttle slightly as we push a little higher.
“How do you friend-zone a girl who looks like that?” Townsend adds, voice deceptively neutral.
Great. Now our flight commander is participating in this disaster.
“I didn’t,” Wells insists. “I wouldn’t. You assholes have eyes. She’s fucking stunning.”
“Objectively accurate assessment,” Townsend agrees.
“I only have eyes for Lila,” Logan says smugly.
“You’re an idiot, Viking.”
“I’m fucking loyal,” Logan corrects.
“Disgusting,” Wells mutters.
“Pretty sure Alinna thinks you’re the idiot, Saint” I add helpfully.
“Oh good,” Wells says flatly. “Ghost is contributing now.”
“Just observing,” I say. “You do get weird around her.”
“I do not get weird.”
“You sat through an entire dinner and forgot to eat,” Logan says.
“I was talking.”
“You were staring,” Logan clarifies.
“At her mouth,” I add.
“Shut up.”
“You like her,” Logan singsongs.
“I didn’t say I didn’t like her,” Wells fires back. “I said I didn’t friend-zone her.”
“So what happened?” I ask, genuinely curious.
A pause.
“I told her she deserves someone who’s not gone all the time,” Wells admits.
That sobers the comms slightly.
“Saint,” Logan says, gentler now, “that’s literally all of us.”
“Yeah well,” Wells replies, voice quieter, “doesn’t mean it’s fair to ask someone to live with it.”
I suck in a long breath, letting it out slowly thinking of Noa. He’s not wrong. And then there’s Ivy who’s already lived this.
“Speaking of questionable life choices,” Logan says smoothly, “Ghost.”
I sigh. “Here we go.”
“You kiss Ivy again?” he asks.
“I plead the fifth,” I answer.
“I already know the answer,” Logan counters.
I adjust formation slightly, banking left with the others, the horizon tilting smoothly as the Raptor responds effortlessly.
“And yet, you still asked,” I deadpan.
“Because it’s fun to give you shit,” Logan continues. “And besides—”
I cut him off, “Enough, jackass. I don’t need this kind of slander in my headset.” My tone gives me away because as annoying as these two can be, it’s kind of nice having someone to be teased over.
“Oh it’s not slander,” Wells says. “Viking, are you going to share with the group or…”
“Oh I think you know the answer, Saint. Ghost already told us he didn’t plan to stop kissing her,” Townsend chimes back in
“Goodness. What the hell is this?” I snap, harsher than I mean to.
Ivy and I haven’t talked about what’s going on between us. Maybe that’s what’s making it so good. It’s simple and it’s just ours.
Kissing her has quickly become my new favorite pastime. I fall asleep thinking about it and wake up excited to kiss her again. Nothing more has happened, but it’s getting harder to stop there.
“You like Ivy,” Wells says calmly.
“And you like Alinna,” I respond smugly.
“You both sound like twelve-year-olds,” Townsend mutters.
“Radar contact,” Logan says suddenly, tone shifting instantly professional.
Just like that, the levity evaporates.
I glance down at my display, pulse kicking slightly faster.
There.
Small return.
Low observable profile.
Not broadcasting.
“Saint, confirm contact,” Townsend orders.
“Confirmed. Bearing zero-nine-five. Altitude approximately twenty-two thousand. Slow moving.”
“Unidentified,” Logan adds.
My focus narrows, world shrinking to the symphony of data across my displays.
“Ghost tally,” I say, locking the contact. “Small signature.”
“Looks like our mystery guest finally showed,” Wells murmurs.
Townsend's voice is steady, controlled. “Flight, push tactical. Maintain spacing.”
We shift formation fluidly, muscle memory taking over.
“Unknown aerial system, this is the United States Air Force identify yourself,” Townsend transmits on guard frequency.
Nothing.
No response.
The drone is small, sleek, almost birdlike in silhouette, wings narrow and efficient. Definitely not commercial hobby grade.
Purpose built.
“That’s not a toy,” Logan says quietly.
“No external weapons,” Wells notes.
“Doesn’t mean harmless,” Townsend replies.
My jaw tightens as the implications settle.
Reconnaissance? Signal collection? Testing response times?
All of the above.
“Raptor Flight to AWACS. This is Bishop. Are you seeing this?”
“Bishop this is Hawkeye, we copy. Attempt contact again. Then you’re cleared to fire,” the AWACS officer responds. I don’t know why but it sends an unsettling chill down my spine.
“Command is tracking,” Townsend says back to us. “Ghost, Saint, move to bracket.”
“Copy,” Wells and I say in unison.
We split smoothly, approaching from opposing angles, careful, deliberate.
The drone doesn’t deviate. Almost like it wants to be seen.
“Creepy,” Logan mutters.
“Second call,” Townsend says. “Unidentified aerial system, you are operating in proximity to U.S. military aircraft. Identify immediately.”
Silence.
“Yeah, that’s a no,” Wells says.
“Weapons free,” Townsend says calmly.
My thumb settles over the control without hesitation.
Even unarmed, this isn’t nothing.
It’s a message. Testing boundaries. Seeing what we’ll tolerate.
“Fox two,” Wells calls.
The missile leaves his weapons bay cleanly, streaking forward with terrifying speed. Impact is precise, controlled burst, debris scattering into the open sky.
Small pieces glint briefly in the sunlight before disappearing into the endless blue below.
Silence fills comms for half a second.
Then Logan exhales. “Well…that just killed the mood.”
“Debris field minimal,” Townsend says, already all business. “Good shot, Saint.”
“Thanks,” Wells replies, though his voice is thoughtful now.
We reform automatically, spacing tightening once more.
Routine flight my ass.
“Think we’ll ever get bored up here?” Logan asks quietly.
“Not likely,” I say, scanning the empty sky where the drone used to be.
My mind drifts briefly, not unfocused, just…aware of how quickly things shift, how fragile normal is, and how easily everything changes.
Just like it did for Ivy.
“Hey, Ghost,” Wells says.
“Yeah?”
“You ever going to admit you’re gone for that girl?”
I look out at the endless horizon, sun reflecting off the canopy.
“Already did,” I say quietly.
He snorts. “To yourself maybe.”
Logan chuckles. “The man’s flying a fifth-gen fighter and still scared of a ballerina.”
“Copy,” I confirm, scanning the horizon once more.
I get a weird sense of déjà vu. Maybe because this isn’t the first time I’ve shot unmanned drones out of the sky.
Maybe because this isn’t the first time we were left with little to no explanation as to who it belongs to or why it’s encroaching our airspace.
The sky feels different now. Less empty.
More watched. And I have the distinct feeling this won’t be the last time we see something like that out here.