Logan
Hampton, Virginia—Langley AFB
The crowd is already buzzing by the time we step onto the tarmac.
Thousands of eyes are fixed on the sky, waiting for the show to begin.
It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve done this—every flight demonstration feels like a new kind of pressure.
And this one? At Langley, our home base? That pressure is doubled.
My best friend, Ryan Carter—Spartan—is beside me, pulling on his helmet, his easy grin firmly in place. “Big crowd today, James. You nervous?”
I smirk. “I don’t get nervous, Carter. You should know that by now.”
“Right,” he says, rolling his hazel eyes. “That’s why you’ve checked your gear three times in the last ten minutes.”
“Just being thorough.”
Ryan laughs, the sound carrying over the distant hum of the crowd. “Sure, buddy. Let’s just hope you’re as thorough up there as you are on the ground.”
“Focus, Spartan,” comes a sharp voice from behind us. Our flight commander, Major Nick Townsend—Bishop—strides toward us, his crisp flight suit and commanding presence ripping through the tension like a blade.
We immediately stand at attention and salute.
“This isn’t the time for your usual antics—,” Townsend continues, returning the salute.
“Yes, sir,” Ryan says, though the corner of his mouth twitches in defiance.
Townsend’s eyes land on me, his expression unreadable beneath his aviators. “You’ve both done this before, but remember, this isn’t just about looking good. It’s about representing the Air Force and Raptor Nation. No mistakes. No missteps. Got it?”
We nod sharply. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Townsend says, his tone clipped. He turns, heading toward the stage at the center of the tarmac. He’ll be narrating our demonstration.
Ryan watches him go before leaning closer to me. “He’s wound tighter than usual today.”
I shrug, my attention already shifting toward the fighter in front of me. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s get this done.”
***
The cockpit of my F-22 is home.
I slide into the seat, the familiar leather cushioning molding around me as I strap in, fingers moving through the preflight checks with practiced ease.
The faint scent of hydraulic fluid lingers in the air, and the low hum of the avionics coming to life reverberates through my bones.
Every switch, every screen, every glowing button syncs with me, as familiar as the back of my hand.
The canopy seals shut with a hiss, enclosing me in my own world. I take a steadying breath, the oxygen mask cool against my face, and let the quiet anticipation settle in my chest.
My crew chief steps into view, flashing me a grin as he spins his finger in the air—the universal signal to start engines.
I give him a thumbs-up as the Raptor wakes beneath me.
He taps his headset, mouthing, You good?
I nod, and he slaps the jet’s nose. Then comes the ritual—he steps back, feet shoulder width apart, and throws me a crisp salute before breaking into our signature send-off: mimicking a jet with his arms, he sprints down the flight line, “taking off” alongside me.
I laugh, shaking my head as I taxi to the runway, the adrenaline already kicking in.
“Tower, this is Viking. Ready for takeoff,” I say into my comms, my voice steady despite the adrenaline already thrumming in my veins.
“Copy that, Viking. You’re cleared for takeoff. Spartan, you’re up next.”
“Roger,” Ryan’s voice cuts through, sharp and laced with mischief. “Don’t mess it up. I don’t want to have to show you up in front of the whole base.”
I smirk, flipping a few final switches as the jet vibrates with energy, alive and waiting. “Good luck with that.”
The engines roar as I push the throttle forward and the Raptor surges down the runway like a predator unleashed. The acceleration slams me back against the seat, the g-forces clawing at my chest, but the second the wheels leave the ground, the weight disappears. I’m free.
Everything fades—the noise, the nerves, the ache of things left behind on the ground. Up here, it's just the jet and me.
Ryan’s Raptor joins me in the sky, slipping into formation like we’re tethered by an invisible thread. We carve through the air with precision, slicing across the blue expanse as one. The initial passes are smooth, effortless, the crowd below nothing but a blur. But the real show is just beginning.
“Ready for the split?” Ryan’s voice crackles through the comms.
I flex my fingers around the stick, feeling the slight resistance of the controls. “On your mark.”
“Mark.”
We break apart like a detonation, our jets streaking across the sky in opposite directions, leaving trails of white vapor in our wake.
The force shoves me into my seat as I bank hard, the horizon tilting wildly.
My helmet presses against the headrest, the g-forces biting down, but the Raptor handles it like a dream, responding to the slightest twitch of my hand.
Ryan dives into a high-speed pass, skimming low over the runway before rocketing into a vertical climb. His jet slices through the sky, sunlight glinting off the metallic skin.
“Show-off,” I mutter, grinning as I line up for my own maneuver.
I push the Raptor into a steep climb, then cut the throttle and flip into a controlled fall, the jet spinning downward like a leaf before I kick the engines back in, the thrust slamming me forward. The sheer power of the jet pulses through me, the sound of the engines a low, thunderous growl.
The next sequence is a coordinated ballet in the sky—barrel rolls, inverted passes, and sharp loops that make my vision tunnel. We cross paths at breakneck speeds, the distance between our jets razor-thin, and the trust, absolute.
“Looking good up there,” Ryan says, his voice steady despite the intensity of the maneuvers.
“You too, Spar,” I reply, sweat trickling down my spine as I grip the stick tighter, lining up for the grand finale.
The simulated dogfight. The part everyone comes to see.
We chase each other through the clouds in a carefully choreographed display of aggression, twisting and rolling through the sky like it’s a living, breathing battlefield.
My heartbeat thrums in my ears, but my focus sharpens to a point.
The Raptor and I become one, it responds to every command like it knows what I want before I do.
Ryan swings around in a tight arc, trying to shake me, but I throw the jet into a Herbst maneuver, flipping the nose up and pivoting in place. The Raptor almost hangs in the air for a beat before snapping around to slot neatly behind him.
“Nice,” Ryan breathes, grudging respect lacing his word.
I can’t help the grin tugging at my mouth. Up here, in the sky, in this jet—I feel invincible.
By the time we touch down, the crowd is on their feet, cheering loudly. I taxi the jet back to the tarmac and toward the hangar, the rush still coursing through me.
I climb out of the cockpit, my boots hitting the ladder’s rungs with practiced precision.
Once I’m on solid ground, I turn to the ground crew and offer a sharp salute.
They snap to attention, saluting back before moving to secure the jet.
Major Townsend stands off to the side, watching.
I meet his gaze, giving him the required salute.
He returns it with a slight smirk, and I grit my teeth, lowering my hand.
“Good work,” he says simply. The words are fine, but the tone’s as cool as ever.
We’ve been working together almost two years now, and it’s always been like this—professional, polite, and stiff as hell.
Maybe it’s the demo scene. Maybe it’s the fact that we haven’t bled together yet.
You can log all the flight hours you want, but until you’ve walked through fire with someone, it’s just muscle memory and protocol.
“Thank you, sir,” I reply, keeping my voice neutral.
Ryan’s grinning widely. “Not bad, James. You might actually be getting the hang of this.”
I roll my eyes. “Careful, Carter. You’re starting to sound impressed.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Townsend cuts in, his sharp gaze sweeping over both of us. “Raptor Nation can wait ten minutes. I need you two in the briefing room first.”
“Yes, sir,” we say in unison.
As Townsend walks away, Ryan turns to me, his grin fading slightly. “Man, he really knows how to kill a vibe, huh?”
I chuckle, rolling my eyes as we head toward the doors. I feel a strange mix of pride and unease. The demonstration went off without a hitch, but something isn’t sitting right.
The low rumble of the Thunderbirds taking off crackles through the air.
One F-16 doesn’t hit as hard as an F-22, but six of them?
That sound digs in. It’s nostalgic—the way the Viper’s engine echoes through my bones, sharp and merciless.
Flying one brought some of my best moments in the Air Force, some that made me feel untouchable, and some I still can’t outrun, no matter how fast I fly.
I blink, grounding myself, ready to shake it off.
But then I see her.
It’s been six years, but I’d recognize her anywhere.
Lila.
My body goes rigid, hit by a wave of emotion that knocks the breath from my lungs. Shock. Disbelief. And something else I don’t want to name.
She’s not supposed to be here.
But then again, I’ve spent more time than I’d ever admit wondering where she ended up, what became of the girl who turned one night in Vegas into something I could never quite shake.
And now, here she is. In the last place I’d ever expect.
I drag in a breath, trying to find my footing, but my pulse is spiking like I’m pulling gs.
She moves, opening the door to the briefing room.
There’s a grace to her, a fluidity that’s mesmerizing.
And somehow, she’s even more beautiful than I remember.
Long dark hair cascading down her back. Tiny frame wrapped in a loose sundress that sways around her legs.
She’s all soft lines and color in a world built on steel and structure, and I’m drawn to her like a damn magnet.
But with that pull comes the weight of everything we didn’t say.
The memories hit fast, one after the other.
Her eyes on me in the crowded bar. Us weaving through the Strip surrounded by neon and laughter.
Me on one knee in front of strangers who thought it was real.
My hand wrapped around one of hers and her heels dangling from the other.
Her back against the wall. Under me. On top of me. Gone.
I swallow hard, trying to compose myself, following her into the room.
It suddenly feels too small, the air too still.
Her green eyes lock with mine from where she stands on the other side of the room and seem to pierce right through me.
Gathering my courage, I take a step forward, ready to close the distance between us.