She reread it twice. Folded it back up. Then stood and began to unpack.
By 1600,she’d been through three briefings, two uniform checks, one lunch she didn’t finish, and eight new faces whose names she wasn’t sure she remembered. Everyone moved like they had something to prove, but no one spoke above a mutter.
It wasn’t fear. It was quiet competition.
In the hallway after sim orientation, Shannon heard footsteps catch up to hers. “You the one with the name?”
It was Rhodes. She was compact, confident, eyes sharp under short blond hair.
“I’m sorry?” Shannon asked dryly.
“Johnson. As in Meagan Johnson?” Rhodes asked. “The CSAR pilot from Kandahar?”
Shannon kept her face even. “That was my mother.”
Rhodes let out a low breath, like she wasn’t sure if she was impressed or annoyed. “Didn’t know Air Force pilots trained Army-side.”
Shannon shrugged. “Didn’t know warrant officers opened with family questions.” That got a look.
Rhodes grinned, just a little. “Good. Smartass. Let’s see if you fly as tight as you talk.”
She walked off before Shannon could answer.
That night,Shannon lay on her bunk with the lights off. Her roommate still hadn’t shown. Crickets pulsed outside the window. The room was finally starting to cool, but not by much.
Her phone lit up in the dark. One unread message.
Dante:Don’t burn out before they let you fly.
She stared at it for a long moment, then tapped delete.She rolled over and closed her eyes. Tomorrow, it started.
The next morningbegan the way military mornings always did: too early, too bright, too loud.
Shannon stood outside Flight Wing 3 in formation by 0450. Her boots were laced sharply, her uniform spotless. Her duffel sat at her feet. Sweat already gathered under her collarbone, but her expression never moved.
Inside, they were shuffled into a briefing room, its walls painted the same beige as every other building on base. A projector blinked through the names of parts they weren’t allowed to forget: rotor mast, swashplate, tail boom, pitch horn. The instructor at the front, Chief Warrant Officer Marston, didn’t bother with introductions.
“This is where we start,” he said. “If this looks boring to you, leave now. This is your new religion. You don’t fly unless you worship the systems.”
No one moved. Shannon didn’t blink.
Sim rotation began at 0730. Two-person teams.
Shannon was paired with a man she hadn’t spoken to yet. He was tall, wiry, with steady hands and a Navy tattoo just under his sleeve. He offered a quick nod. “Cruz.”
“Johnson,” she said.
They didn’t talk again.
The simulator was cold and black inside. Every button backlit, every vibration dialed in to mimic reality.
The instructor’s voice filtered through the comms, “Startup checklist, Johnson. Cruz, you monitor inputs. I’m calling out curveballs.”
Shannon ran the checklist with no hesitation.
When the system jolted into a false fire warning mid-start, she tapped the breaker without flinching.
“Good catch,” the instructor muttered through the comm. “That’s how you keep from dying.”
