Dalton
Langley AFB
The projector fan hums louder than the second lieutenant talking.
His voice is thin and fast, reading straight from the slide like it’ll protect him from screwing up.
It won’t. “—so if you take a wider offset from the threat ring, you preserve your maneuvering energy post-release and avoid masking with terrain—”
He skips over “terrain” like it’s optional. My pen taps the folder on my knee. “Stop there,” I say.
The lieutenant stiffens. I don’t raise my voice, I don’t have to. Every other pilot in the room looks up, waiting for blood.
“Go back to the offset slide,” I tell him.
He fumbles with the clicker. The slide reappears: messy lines, a vague elevation profile, zero data.
I stand, take the marker from the board tray, and draw a clean, tight version.
“This is your threat ring. Here’s your flight path.
If you’re dragging left, you need to give yourself enough lateral displacement to keep the SA-11 outside your RWR cone.
Otherwise you’re defending in the dirt. That’s how you end up a crater. ”
Someone chuckles behind me. I ignore it.
I finish the diagram and cap the marker. “You want to drop smart. Not pretty. Questions?”
Silence. The lieutenant nods, red-faced but grateful. I sit again and flip my folder closed.
Cassidy leans in beside me and mutters, “See? You’re a natural.”
I snort. “At ruining careers?”
“At shaping them,” he says, louder this time. Then, claps once. “Alright, we’re good. Everett, come with me.”
We step into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind us, the echo of boots and chairs fading.
“I meant what I said in there,” Cassidy says without looking at me.
I lift a brow. “That I’m a natural jackass?”
He smirks. “That you’re the kind of pilot we need shaping the next wave. Not just flying alongside them.”
We pass a bulletin board on the way to Life Support. Safety flyers, weekend PT schedules, and a shot from last year’s airshow are tacked in the middle. A demo Raptor frozen mid-vertical pull, vapor cone blooming off the nose. It’s everything: violence, beauty, precision. Art, with afterburner.
Cassidy slows, sees me looking. “You ever think about flying for the demo team?”
I keep walking. “Sure. When I was nineteen.”
He smirks. “And?”
“And I’m not that guy.”
“Why not?”
I shrug, keeping it light. “I’m not really a spotlight guy.”
“That’s bullshit,” he says, not unkindly. “You’re one of the cleanest pilots I’ve ever flown with.”
I say nothing. I’ve heard compliments before. It doesn’t mean they stick.
He keeps pushing. “Are you telling me you never watched demo videos on repeat? You never stood on the tarmac as a kid with your mouth hanging open?”
“Of course I did,” I say. “First time I saw the Raptor fly, I couldn’t move. Thought God Himself was inside it.”
He grins. “Exactly. So what changed?”
I stop at the drinking fountain, lean against the wall.
“Nothing changed,” I say quietly. “I just got far enough into it to realize there’s a difference between flying well and flying like that. That’s a different class. Those pilots aren’t just good, they’re...perfect. And I’m not.”
Cassidy looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You’re serious?”
I glance away. “I can fly. I know that. But I’ve seen what demo requires. The showmanship, the pressure, the precision. I don’t think I measure up.”
There’s a pause. Not long, but enough.
“You ever think maybe you’re the only one still doubting you?” He looks me in the eyes.
I keep waiting for someone to tap me on the shoulder and say, you don’t belong here. But no one ever has. Still, the doubt hums like background static.
He gestures toward the photo again. “That could be you. You could be the one making some kid out there fall in love with the jet for the first time. Don’t you want that?”
“More than anything,” I admit, before I can stop myself.
He smiles. Not surprised. Just glad I finally said it. He leaves me in the hallway with those words burning behind my ribs.
Life Support—the aircrew flight equipment room—is cool and quiet when we step inside, the kind of institutional silence that smells like disinfectant and nylon. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. A row of lockers lines the wall, each marked with a name and callsign. Ours sit side by side.
Cassidy doesn’t speak as he unlocks his and pulls out his gear. No lecture. No pep talk. Just the clean focus of a man who’s flown a thousand hours and knows better than to waste breath before strapping in.
I follow suit.
G-suit first, green, heavy, and familiar. I step into it, cinch it tight at the hips and thighs, tugging the hose to loop it cleanly through the retention clip. My gloves go into my flight suit pocket. My harness is already adjusted from yesterday’s sortie.
A young AFE tech walks by and gives us both a nod. “All set, sirs. No issues on your gear.”
“Appreciate it,” Cassidy says without looking up. I nod my thanks, already easing into pilot mode.
I move to the far rack and grab my helmet bag. The weight is nothing, but it carries everything, oxygen mask, comms cord, and the barrier between me and the rest of the world once I’m strapped in. I sling the bag over my shoulder and walk toward the door.
By the time we step outside, the heat’s come up, baking the pavement in waves.
The sky’s that perfect East Coast blue, clear and hard and humming with jet noise.
We keep walking, boots clapping against the concrete.
The jets are lined up ahead like sleeping beasts, sleek and silent until we wake them.
Mine is the second from the left. She’s gleaming in the sun, weapons bay sealed, canopy open like an invitation.
And standing at the ladder, arms crossed and already sweating through his undershirt, is Mendoza.
Staff Sergeant Alex Mendoza.
He clocks me with that flat look that means, Don’t make me chase you through preflight today, sir.
I smirk under my sunglasses. “Morning, Chief.”
“Lieutenant.” He nods once, then jabs a thumb toward the nose of the jet. “She’s ready. Clean bill. Hydraulics topped. No squawks on the forms.”
“Appreciate you.”
“Just try not to break her.”
“No promises.”
He hands over the forms. I scan them quickly, everything checks. We trade salutes, sharp and clean. He doesn’t smile, but I see the flicker of approval. We've done this dance too many times to fuck it up now.
Cassidy is already climbing into his jet. Owen and Porter are ahead, running through their own checks. The ground hums with engine growl and shouted commands. It’s organized chaos, just beneath ignition.
I climb the ladder, one hand on the rail, helmet bag swinging off my shoulder. Mendoza follows me halfway up, holding the bag open while I slide into the seat.
Once I’m strapped in—leg garters, chest harness, lap belts locked tight—I reach back and pull on my helmet. The oxygen mask clips into place with a hiss. I plug the comms cord into the port under my seat. Sound comes alive in my ears—radio check, aircraft status, my own breathing loud and steady.
Mendoza gives the panel one last glance, then leans in and taps my canopy rail.
“You good?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?” He always asks.
And I always say the same thing. “I’m sure.”
He climbs down, giving the ground crew a thumbs-up. One crew member peels off to disconnect the external power. Another holds the signal wand high for clearance.
Engines spool up. HUD glows green. Everything comes alive, and the static in my head starts to quiet.
Across the ramp, Cassidy checks in. “Midas, hot and ready. Ghost is in the lead for this sortie.”
Owen, chipper as ever. “Titan is all systems go. Riot’s trying not to throw up.”
I can hear Porter’s eye roll. “Riot is ignoring Titan.”
I click in. “Ghost ready. Taxi in sequence.”
We roll, engines growling as we snake toward the runway. A final salute from ground crew. Yellow shirts wave us on, sending us out to the line.
I push forward.
The jet answers instantly.
And as the nose lifts off the runway and the world drops away beneath me. I feel it. Clarity. Freedom. Everything that makes the rest of it worth it.