Dante stood beneath the rotor wash as the chopper lifted, arms braced, face blank.
She disappeared into the sky. And he was left with silence.
NORTH TRAINING WING
Cadet Fourth Class Shannon McKenna had vanished. At first, rumors said she was injured, that she’d slipped during morning PT. That she’d wandered into a restricted zone. That she was recovering. Then the details started to fray.
The rumor mill ran quiet. Too quiet.
No one was talking, not even the loud ones. And that was when he knew. She hadn’t just survived—she’d been found. And whoever found her hadn’t buried it.
Krueger turned from the window. He didn’t feel panic. Panic was for cowards and incompetents. But the timeline had changed. Fast.
He opened his footlocker and removed a plain black notebook, one of several, all perfectly numbered, catalogued, dated. He flipped to the most recent page.
Cadet McKenna – Timeline
BCT, Week 1: Saw too much.
Week 2: Friction begins.
Week 3: Documents.
Week 4: Pressure. No break.
Day 24: Intervention. Survived.
He closed the notebook and adjusted his cuffs. If she woke up, she’d talk. And if she talked, someone might finally listen. He needed a new plan. And fast.
ELEVEN
HELO EN ROUTE TO DENVER
Tim Holland didn’t look up as the helicopter lifted into the cold Colorado sky. He was already working. He snapped open a compact field kit against the bulkhead and barked orders at the Chase flight medic over the rotor noise. “She’s going to crash. Boost the saline temp another five degrees. I want a central line now, not later.”
The medic nodded fast. “Vitals are slipping.”
Holland peeled back the blanket covering Shannon’s chest. Her skin was gray, purple where blood was pooling beneath the surface. He didn’t flinch.
“Apply pacer/defib pads now.” He turned to the bag and reached for a wide-bore syringe, stabbed it into the line without hesitation, and slowly injected a warm bolus.
She made a low sound. Her fingers twitched once, then stilled.
“Shannon,” Holland said evenly, hovering near her face now. “You need to stay with me. You’re not done.”
She didn’t respond. Her chest barely rose. Her oxygen levels began to plummet. He couldn’t hear her chest over the rotors.
“Six and a half tube. She aspirated.” He palmed the laryngoscope and slid the tube into place. He cursed as he suctioned thick dark secretions. He checked her temperature again. 89.6. She was barely responding to any interventions.
“Come on, Shannon,” he whispered. “Stay with me. Your dad’s in the air. He’ll meet us in Denver.”
Next he rechecked her pupils with a penlight. Still slow but reactive. That meant the brain was still alive. That meant she still had a shot.
SAME TIME – BASE PERIMETER, FALCON FIELD
Dante stood outside the wire. Wind cut across the asphalt. The helipad was already empty, the rotor wash long settled, the last trace of her departure blown into dust and exhaust.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. His hands were fists in the pockets of his field jacket, and every breath felt like it scraped something raw on the way in.
