Dalton
Langley AFB
The engine whine builds into a high, violent scream beneath me as I push the throttle forward, feeling the twin engines of my Raptor spool up, the vibration running straight through the seat and into my spine.
My helmet presses back against the headrest as the jet strains forward like it’s been waiting for this, hungry, impatient.
“Bishop to Alpha Flight.”
“Viking ready.” Logan’s voice is clear and calm.
“Ghost, ready,” I call, voice steady even if everything inside me is anything but.
“Saint ready.” Wells sounds more serious than I’m used to.
“Alpha Flight, you are cleared for immediate departure. Proceed as filed.”
Townsend doesn’t hesitate. He never does. “See you boys in the air.”
Logan’s up next. Then Wells.
When it’s my turn, I shove the throttle forward to full military power and then into afterburner, and the kick hits hard, slamming me back into the seat as the runway disappears beneath us in a blur of gray and white.
The jet roars, alive under me until the nose lifts and we’re airborne, wheels up, gear retracting clean as we claw into the sky.
The coastline drops away behind us as we bank east, the Atlantic stretching out ahead like an endless sheet of steel blue, calm and empty in a way that feels wrong knowing what’s out there waiting for us.
“Alpha, check in,” Townsend orders.
“Ghost.”
“Viking.”
“Saint.”
We settle into formation, tight and precise, four Raptors cutting through the sky like a single machine, and I force my breathing into something controlled, something steady, because my head is not where it needs to be.
Ivy flashes anyway.
Her hands shaking. Her voice breaking.
I shut it down hard, jaw tightening. Not now. Not up here. I don’t get to carry that into this cockpit. Not at fifty thousand feet with unknown hostile drones headed toward U.S. airspace.
“Alpha Flight, this is Hawkeye,” the Airborne Warning and Control System officer begins. “Radar contact confirmed. Multiple groups bearing zero-eight-five, range three hundred nautical miles from your position. Angels five-zero.”
“Hawkeye, Bishop copies. Vector?”
“Alpha, turn heading zero-nine-zero. Increase speed to intercept. You are weapons free upon hostile confirmation,” he continues.
Weapons free.
“Alpha, push it,” Townsend says, calm as ever, and I ease the throttle forward, feeling the jet respond instantly as we climb harder, faster, the sky darkening slightly at altitude as the horizon sharpens into a thin, distant line.
My radar lights up first, clusters forming across the display, not scattered, not drifting—organized.
“Contact,” I say, leaning forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “Multiple groups. Confirming…shit.”
“What do you see, Ghost?” Logan asks.
“They’re holding formation. Grid pattern. Tight spacing. This isn’t random.”
“Hawkeye, Ghost,” I call. “Confirming approximately three-zero plus UAV contacts. Formation consistent with coordinated swarm behavior.”
“Ghost, Hawkeye copies. Additional intel inbound.”
There’s a brief pause before another voice cuts in, colder, sharper, the kind that doesn’t waste time with anything unnecessary.
“Alpha Flight, this is Overlord.”
JSOC.
“Overlord, Bishop.”
“Signal intercept analysis has identified encrypted command relay consistent with prior Al-Shaheen operations. High-confidence attribution.”
My grip tightens on the stick without me meaning to.
Same network.
Same bastards.
The ones who took Ivy.
The ones who—
I cut the thought off, hard and immediate, forcing my focus back where it belongs.
“Overlord, Bishop copies.”
“Be advised, payload configuration unknown. Treat all contacts as potentially armed.”
Of course they are.
We close the distance fast, the shapes coming into view against the sky—small, dark, angular, too many of them, moving in a way that makes something cold settle in my gut.
“Holy shit,” Wells mutters. “That’s a fucking swarm.”
He’s not wrong. They don’t move like independent aircraft. They move like one thing, shifting in layered clusters, maintaining spacing, adjusting position with purpose.
“Alpha, spread,” Townsend orders. “Maintain visual. Do not fly through the formation.”
I bank slightly right, giving myself separation, eyes locked on the nearest group as they come into full visual range.
“Visual,” I confirm. “No markings. Minimal heat signature. These things are clean.” Then to AWACS. “Hawkeye, Ghost—no transponders, no visible ID.”
“Copy, Ghost.”
“Uh, Bishop,” Logan cuts in, voice tightening slightly, “you seeing this spacing?”
“Talk to me.”
“They’re layered. Offset altitude, mutual coverage. That’s not civilian. That’s fucking tactical.”
He’s right.
“Overlord, Viking. These are not basic UAVs.”
“Viking, Overlord copies. That aligns with known Al-Shaheen development capabilities.”
So it’s confirmed.
My jaw tightens.
“Alpha,” Townsend says, voice hardening just enough. “We’re not letting these things get any closer to the coast.”
“Ghost ready.”
“Viking.”
“Saint.”
Townsend exhales once, controlled. “Engage.”
I lock the first target, tone steady in my ear as I line it up, finger tightening on the trigger.
“Fox three.”
The missile launches clean, streaking forward in a flash of controlled violence, and a second later the drone erupts into fragments, debris scattering across the sky—
And the formation doesn’t break.
“Shit,” Wells mutters. “They’re compensating.”
He’s right. They shift immediately, tightening, closing the gap like losing one doesn’t matter.
Because it doesn’t.
There are too many.
“Multiple launches,” Logan calls as missiles streak out from our formation, explosions rippling through the swarm, taking out several more.
Still not enough.
“Bishop, we’re not thinning them fast enough,” I say, already locking another.
“I know,” he replies. “Keep pressure.”
Then something changes.
“Bishop,” Wells says, and there’s something in his voice I don’t like. “They’re descending.”
I check altitude.
Fuck. He’s right.
“Hawkeye, Saint. Drones descending. Repeat, descending.”
“Alpha, Hawkeye copies,” comes the reply, but there’s a beat too long before the next part. “Possible targeting recalibration.”
Translation: they just picked something.
“Overlord, Bishop. Confirm intent.”
Silence stretches just long enough to feel wrong.
Then—
“Alpha…we assess the drones are shifting toward potential coastal infrastructure targets.”
“Not fucking happening,” I mutter under my breath.
I lock another, fire, watch it explode into nothing, but the swarm keeps moving, keeps adjusting, keeps coming.
“Alpha,” Bishop says, sharper now, “we stop them here.”
No one argues.
I push the jet harder, weaving for better angles, locking, firing, tracking targets as fast as I can cycle them, everything becoming instinct, muscle memory, years of training narrowing my world down to radar, sky, and threat.
But beneath it—
Ivy and the way she looked at me like I was the shield between her and the nightmare closing in.
I clench my jaw so hard it aches.
Stay in the fight.
“Ghost, break left!” Logan shouts.
I react instantly, banking hard as two drones slice across my nose faster than expected, closer than I like.
“Fuck. They’re reacting,” I hiss, adrenaline spiking. “They’re adjusting to us.”
“Yeah,” Townsend says grimly. “I see it.”
That’s bad.
That’s really fucking bad.
“Ghost to Overlord,” I snap, “confirm these are not fully autonomous.”
There’s a pause.
“Ghost…we are no longer confident they are.”
A cold weight settles in my chest.
Someone’s flying them.
Right now.
“Then let’s break their damn network,” Logan says, voice tight with focus.
“Keep hitting them,” Townsend orders.
Missile away.
Explosion.
Another drone gone.
Still too many.
Still closing.
“Alpha,” Hawkeye cuts in, and now there’s no hiding the urgency. “You are running out of intercept window.”
No shit.
I lock another target, tone steady, finger tightening again, and for just a fraction of a second—just long enough to feel it—I think about what happens if even one of these gets through.
About Ivy.
About Hadley.
About what I almost lost this morning.
My jaw tightens.
“Not today,” I mutter.
Fox three.
The sky lights up again.
And we keep fighting.