Guardian On Base (Hearts on Base #9)

Chapter 1

ONE

CREWE

I stand at the edge of the ramp, wind whipping around me, nothing below but swirling snow and empty sky.

The cargo plane vibrates behind me, loud and restless, like it’s eager to shake me loose. A gloved tap hits my shoulder—two quick knocks. Go time. I glance into the whiteout, spotting the blinking rescue beacon far below in the foothills. Just a faint red pulse through the storm.

My oxygen mask hisses as I breathe. I taste metal. I taste the storm.

“Green in five!” the loadmaster yells, voice nearly lost in the roar of the engines. My team’s voices crackle over comms, calm and clipped. This isn’t their first storm. It’s not mine either.

“Winds are gusting,” Major Lexi Chen calls from the command center back at Ridgeway. “We’ve got a thermal hit. One survivor.”

“Copy,” I say. “Hawthorne stepping.”

The ramp light turns green, and the world narrows into a single choice.

I jump.

The cold hits like a punch to the lungs. I fall fast, arms tucked in tight, body slicing through the wind. The storm tries to flip me, but I stay steady, letting my training take over. Altimeter beeps. My hand finds the cord. I pull.

The chute snaps open hard, jerking me upright. Everything goes quiet except for the hiss of snow as I glide down into the dark.

Below me, the Rockies stretch out like a shadow, broken by flashes of light and the red pulse of the crash beacon. Somewhere down there, a pilot is waiting for me. I won’t let him down.

I drop through a layer of clouds and finally see the slope. Trees sag under heavy snow. The crash site is a mess—twisted metal barely visible in the storm. I aim for a narrow opening between two trees, adjusting as the wind tries to shove me off course.

I hit the ground hard, knees bending deep in snow. I roll, release my chute, and pack it down before the wind can drag it away. Then I move low, night-vision goggles helping me pick out the shapes of trees, rocks, and what’s left of the trainer aircraft.

“Ridgeway, Hawthorne on the ground,” I murmur. “Two minutes out.”

“Copy that. Rescue bird inbound. ETA six minutes,” Lexi says in my ear.

“Make it four,” I say, already moving.

The crash looks worse up close. The nose of the plane is smashed in, glass shattered, metal crumpled like paper. The snow is stained in places I don’t like.

I trudge through waist-deep powder, heart pounding, and finally reach the cockpit. One pilot. Slumped forward. Mask hanging loose. Helmet cracked.

I press two fingers to his neck.

Pulse.

Weak, but there.

“Hey, Lieutenant,” I say gently. “Pararescue. Name’s Crewe. We’re getting you home.”

He lets out a sound—could be a laugh or a groan. Either works. He’s alive.

I cut through his seat harness, careful with his neck and limbs. Something’s wrong with the way his collarbone sits, so I brace it. I work quickly—compression pads, thermal blanket, gear check. Every move has a purpose. The cold gnaws at my hands, but I keep going.

Far off, the helicopter’s rotors hum through the snow. That’s our ride out. I flash my infrared beacon, guiding them in.

“Pedro Two is on station,” the pilot confirms.

“LZ’s just below me. Watch the trees—tight clearance. We’re running hot on fuel, so let’s make this clean. Ready on hoist.”

“Copy that.”

But something moves in the snow. My instincts snap tight.

Then I hear it—a sharp, high whine cutting through the wind.

I turn, spotting a strange little drone drifting toward the helicopter. No green or red lights. No markings. Just four rotors and bad intentions.

What the hell is a drone doing out here?

“Ridgeway, we’ve got an unmarked drone in the area,” I call in. “It’s not friendly. Looks autonomous.”

“Say again?” Lexi says sharply.

“Unknown drone. Acting hostile.”

The thing zips through the air, circling the chopper’s hoist cable like it’s hunting it. I don’t need a manual to know this isn’t some civilian toy.

Its movements are too familiar. Too precise. I’ve seen this behavior before—on base, during a test demo. Riley Willow’s drones move just like this.

Except this one’s not wearing her name.

“Pedro Two, what’s your status?” I ask.

“Hover is steady. Visual on the drone.”

“Hold hover. I’ll handle it.”

I dig a jammer from my harness, jam it into the snow, and flip it on. A pulse of interference rolls out, enough to throw off most cheap drone systems. The quadcopter stutters in midair—then adjusts and pushes forward.

Okay. Not cheap.

I pull out the collapsible net launcher from my pack. The guys laughed when I picked this up. I didn’t.

The drone zips low, aiming for the chopper’s cable. That’s when I make the call.

“Pedro Two, trust me. Six seconds.”

“Trusting you, Hawthorne. Make it count.”

I hold my breath. Wait.

Now.

I fire. The net spreads midair, tangling in the rotors. The drone spirals down like a kicked wasp and crashes in the snow at my boots. It whines once. I stomp. It doesn’t whine again.

“Drone down,” I say. “Hoist on three.”

I get the pilot into the rescue cocoon and strap him to my chest. This should’ve been a simple lift. But nothing’s simple anymore.

“One, two, three…”

The cable lowers from the bird, gleaming under my night vision. I clip in. The winch hums. We lift into the storm, my arm locked tight around the unconscious pilot. The snow howls and the rotor wash batters my gear. The floor of the chopper slams under my boots. A crewman hauls us inside.

“Nice takedown,” he yells over the roar. “You kiss that thing first?”

“Next time I’ll bring flowers,” I shout back.

The chopper banks hard toward Ridgeway.

I work fast. Cut away the pilot’s sleeve, find a vein, get warm fluids flowing. His eyes flutter open.

“You with me, Lieutenant?”

“Went a little long on the landing,” he slurs.

“Ten out of ten for drama,” I say. “One out of ten for style.”

The crew laughs. The kind of laugh you make when the danger’s passed and you remember you’re alive.

The debrief room smells like burnt coffee and feels like a dentist’s waiting room—dull walls, buzzing lights, and chairs no one wants to sit in. My team lines up across from me, steam rising off our gear as the storm melts off our shoulders. We're still cold, but the adrenaline is fading.

Major Lexi Chen stands at the front of the room, tablet in hand, pacing like she’s trying to burn through the floor.

“First off—good job,” she says, nodding at me and the med techs. “Pilot’s stable. Broken bones, some frostbite, but he’s alive. You got him out.”

“Copy,” I say. Praise isn’t the point. Alive is the only thing that matters.

She taps her screen, and a blurry image fills the monitor behind her—a drone, frozen mid-hover. Four spinning rotors in a stormy blur. Somebody caught it on video. Probably the crew chief. He records everything, just in case.

“This,” Lexi says, pointing at the image, “should not have been in our sky.”

“No markings,” I say, watching the video play out. “Went after the helicopter’s hoist cable. That’s not something a store-bought drone would do.”

She looks over her shoulder at me. “What do you mean?”

I watch the footage again. The drone’s movements aren’t random. It tilts into the wind before it even hits. Adjusts. Reacts. Like it already knows the terrain.

“That’s not hobby gear,” I say. “It moved like something trained. Military-grade, or close. Like the ones from the lab. It’s not the same model, but it’s thinking like one of ours.”

Lexi taps again, switching the screen to code—just lines of text that mean nothing to most people. But she’s already done the digging. She points to a single line near the top.

“We ran the drone’s digital signature against everything built here at Ridgeway,” she says. “It matches one of our programs. Ninety-two percent.”

I already know the answer, but I ask anyway. “Which one?”

She looks at me. “Riley Willow’s drone system. Her rescue platform. It’s either hers—or someone used her code to make it look that way.”

The taste of coffee goes bitter in my mouth.

Outside the window, the storm pushes against the glass like it’s listening.

“So what you’re saying,” I ask slowly, “is someone took our rescue drone and turned it into a weapon? Used it to try and take out one of our own during a mission?”

Lexi nods, her mouth tight. “Whatever tried to hit your hoist line had our signature all over it.”

Nobody speaks.

Somewhere down the hall, a metal door slams. The sound makes the silence feel louder.

On the screen, the drone floats again. Small. Cold. Calculated.

“Find out who did this,” Lexi says, voice sharp and low. “And make damn sure they never get near our people again.”

I stare at the image and see a flash of Riley’s hands—the way they trembled the first time she launched a drone in the lab, only to smile when it soared.

Someone took her work—something meant to save lives—and twisted it.

“Copy,” I say quietly. “We’ll start in the lab.”