and waiting silhouettes—armed— some in American military gear, some very much not.
Kallen and Reeve stiffened.
Krueger’s smile widened. “Gentlemen,” he murmured, “welcome to the part of the world where your rules go to die.” His hungry, black ambition stirred like a predator waking up.
THIRTY-FOUR
BARKSDALE AIR FORCE BASE – SHREVEPORT, LOUISIANA – 0515 HOURS
The sky was the color of steel wool and still after hot July rain.
Seventy-seven days after her crash, Shannon Johnson stepped out of the Chase security SUV, her boots hitting pavement with a dull finality. This wasn’t a simulation. This wasn’t a private facility. This was the Air Force.
This was her real clearance—physical and flight. No exceptions. No excuses.
The rehab tags had been pulled. The meds had been stopped for forty-eight hours. Her system was clean. If she couldn’t run, lift, carry, climb, and fly under her own power today, she wasn’t going back.
Behind her, Mike Johnson and Dante Olivetti, silent and watchful, got out of the car. Neither tried to speak. She didn’t want a speech.
A uniformed officer stepped out from the terminal building, Major Lisa Greer, Flight Clearance and Evaluation Division. She stopped in front of Shannon, who snapped a salute. The major extended a hand. “Second Lieutenant Johnson,” she said crisply. “Welcome back.”
Shannon met her grip. “Ma’am.”
“You’ve got two evolutions today. PT in the morning. Flight in the afternoon. You’ll complete both in front of a panel of three observers. You fall short on either, the Air Force defers clearance, pending medical discharge. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Major Greer eyed her for a half second longer than necessary then nodded once. “Let’s see if you still belong in the sky.”
BASE FITNESS COMPOUND
The track was slick with dew. Shannon stood in a tight row with three other returning officers. One was fresh off maternity leave, one was recovering from shoulder surgery, and one was post-COVID complications. This wasn’t a competition, but it felt like one.
She moved through the push-up evolution first with clean form, every rep counted by a grim-faced master sergeant with a clipboard and zero patience. Shannon didn’t falter. She thought of Dante in his role at the Academy.
Sit-ups followed. Hers were sharp and controlled.
Then came the mile-and-a-half run. With a deep, cleansing breath and her thoughts drifting to Dante, she ran. Her legburned by the halfway mark—not sharp pain, but dull and pulsing. Her injury was ghosting her. She’d been running three miles twice a day with Dante, but this run felt different.
Mom, I could use a little push.
She gritted her teeth and found a rhythm. The finish line came up slower than she liked, but she didn’t falter. She crossed the tape with a grunt and dropped into a controlled walk.
Greer raised a brow. “Time’s within spec.”
Shannon didn’t smile.I’m still in the fight.“Thank you, ma’am.”
AIRFIELD TARMAC
At one, she stepped onto the strip. The MH-139 sat gleaming on the pad, borrowed from the base’s training fleet, painted in classic USAF gray. The helicopter was geared for a variety of missions, including patrol, firefighting, search and rescue, VIP, troop and cargo transport.
The pilot examiner, a no-nonsense captain from Greer’s team, gave Shannon the brief. “No surprises. You will navigate a full circuit, handle an obstacle avoidance scenario, a recovery maneuver, and complete a solo landing.”
Dante watched from the fence line, his arms folded and his eyes unreadable behind sunglasses. Mike stood beside him, wearing the silence of a man who had spent his life flying death machines and now couldn’t protect his daughter from altitude or velocity.
After surveying the aircraft, Shannon stepped up into the bird. She strapped in, checked her instruments, breathed once and took it up off the field.
The sky was calm, the air light. The MH-139 responded to her like it remembered her touch. The navigation circuit was clean. The emergency diversion was near perfect. Her hands were steady. She brought the bird in low over the tarmac, adjusting for wind shear, throttle tight. Her touchdown was firm, not showy or soft. It was what she wanted, professional and clean.
