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.”
