“We’re lifting in thirty,” I say. “Stay strapped until I say otherwise.”
The rotor reaches speed. I pull collective, increase throttle, and the ground falls away smooth and controlled.
The forest spreads beneath us, dark green and endless. The mountains rise ahead in jagged layers, snow clinging to the highest peaks. Light breaks through the clouds in shafts, painting the ridges gold and shadow.
Through the headset: “It’s beautiful.”
I glance back. Ember’s leaning against the window, her face lit with wonder.
Our eyes meet in the reflection.
For half a second, the helicopter doesn’t exist. The mission doesn’t exist. There’s only her expression—open, awed, alive—and the way something in my throat tightens in response.
Then I force my attention back to the instruments.
“God, look at that.” It’s Mara. “If ever there was an Instagram moment, this is it. Turn to the side, Ember. I want to get a shot of your profile against that backdrop.”
“Mara, keep the commentary to a minimum,” I say. “I need to focus.” It’s a lie. I could do this in my sleep. But something’s left me unbalanced today.
“Copy that, Captain Killjoy.”
I ignore her.
The flight path takes us along the northern ridge system, following valleys carved by ancient glaciers. Below, the terrain is raw and unforgiving: sheer cliffs, dense forest, ravines that swallow light. The kind of landscape where something scaled and massive could hide for centuries.
Twenty minutes in, the turbulence starts.
It’s subtle at first. A wobble in the airframe. The stick fighting me slightly on a turn. I compensate, adjust trim, but something feels wrong.
The instruments flicker.
Once. Twice.
“Luke?” Ember’s voice carries a thread of concern.
“I feel it.” I keep my tone even. “Could be magnetic interference. This region has irregular fields.”
The console goes dark.
Shit!
For one second—two—the instruments are dead. Then they flicker back, but the altimeter is spinning, the artificial horizon tilted at an impossible angle.
“That’s not interference,” Mara says.
“No.” My hands move automatically, checking circuit breakers, backup systems. “Something’s jamming us.”
The helicopter lurches sideways. Hard. Mara’s gasp crackles through the headset. Behind me, I hear Ember’s sharp intake of breath.
The stick goes loose in my hand.
“Hydraulics are failing.” I’m already running scenarios: autorotation, forced landing, emergency protocols. But the terrain below is unforgiving. No clearings. No open ground. Just forest and rock.
The rotor pitch changes. The whine turns guttural, wrong. Smoke begins to curl from the console; acrid, chemical, burning my throat.
“Luke, what’s happening?” Ember’s voice is steady, but I can hear the fear underneath.
“Electrical failure. Some sort of interference.”
