PROLOGUE
ANDI
Twelve Years Ago
Grass stretches endlessly in every direction at Arlington National Cemetery, dotted with white headstones that stand in perfect rows like silent soldiers. I force myself to watch as gloved hands fold the flag that draped my father's casket, each movement crisp and deliberate. Triangular folds, one after another, until only the blue field with white stars remains visible.
Mom stands beside me, her hand gripping mine so tightly that my fingers ache. She has always been the strong one, the steady presence who kept our family grounded through every deployment, every missed birthday, every dinner where Dad's chair sat empty. But right now, she looks like she might shatter.
The honor guard captain approaches with the folded flag cradled in his white-gloved hands. His voice carries across the quiet cemetery as he presents it to Mom. "On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Navy, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol ofour appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service."
Mom accepts the flag, her fingers trembling as they close around the fabric. Tears streak down her cheeks, but she doesn't wipe them away. She just stands there, holding the triangle of red, white, and blue that represents everything Dad believed in, everything he died for.
Rifles crack in the distance, sharp reports that echo across the silent cemetery. Once. Twice. Again and again until the volleys blend together in my memory. This is supposed to honor fallen warriors, but all I can think is how Dad should be here watching jets fly overhead instead of lying in that flag-draped casket.
A bird strike. That's what the investigation called it. A flock of seagulls during carrier operations, catastrophic engine failure, ejection seat malfunction. Clinical words that don't tell me what Dad was thinking when the engines failed. Clinical words that don't explain why someone didn't follow the protocols that could have saved him.
Proper protocols existed. Wildlife management procedures that could have prevented the strike. Launch windows that accounted for bird activity patterns. Someone should have been paying attention. The rules designed to keep pilots safe should have been followed.
But they weren’t, and now Mom holds a folded flag while I stand in a black dress that itches against my skin and makes me feel like I'm suffocating.
Mourners murmur condolences as they pass, their words blurring together into meaningless noise. They mean well, but none of them understand. None of them can give me back what was taken. What I believe was preventable.
I stare at the casket, at the perfectly aligned rows of headstones stretching toward the horizon, at the endless skywhere Dad used to fly. Something shifts inside me, settles into place with weight that feels permanent.
This ends here. With him. With our family's loss.
Other families won't stand where I'm standing because someone didn't follow protocol. Other daughters won't watch their mothers accept folded flags while swallowing screams. Other pilots won't die in accidents that proper procedures could have prevented.
I'll make sure of it.
O'Rourke. I'll keep Dad's name, carry his legacy forward into whatever future exists beyond this terrible moment. Every time someone speaks it, they'll remember what he stood for and that his death should have been prevented.
My fingers curl into fists as Mom's shoulders begin to shake with silent sobs. I wrap my arm around her waist, holding her steady while my own heart fractures in ways I know will never fully heal.
But I can still stand. I can still fight. I can still make this mean something.
I'll make it mean something, Dad. I promise.
1
ANDI
Present Day
Dawn breaks over Ridgeway Airbase in shades of amber and rose, painting the wetlands in golden light. I breathe in the cool morning air, savoring the quiet before the roar of jets drowns out everything else. This is my favorite time of day, when the base is still waking up and the birds own the sky.
My boots squelch through muddy grass as I make my way toward the retention pond near the eastern runway. Binoculars hang around my neck, and my field tablet is already powered on, ready to log observations. A pair of Canada geese drift across the water's surface, their reflection perfect and undisturbed. They shouldn't be here, not this close to active runways, but that's exactly why I am.
Six months ago, Ridgeway had a bird strike problem that nearly cost a pilot his life. Six months ago, they brought me in to fix it. Now, strike incidents have dropped by nearly half.
I crouch near the water's edge, watching the geese through my binoculars. They're comfortable here, which means they've found food sources and nesting areas they like. My job is tomake this habitat less appealing, to encourage them to relocate somewhere that won't put them in the flight path of aircraft moving at deadly speeds.
Dad understood this work before it became my career. Lieutenant Commander Michael O'Rourke knew that attention to detail and proper protocols saved lives. He died because someone didn't follow those protocols, and I've spent the last dozen years making sure no one else pays that price.
Geese take flight as an engine roars to life in the distance. I note their departure direction and time in my tablet, adding observations about their behavior and wind patterns.
"Morning, Miss O'Rourke."
