THE TARMAC
The sun was already hot by the time Shannon was called back to the tarmac. Marston waited in the shade of the hangar, clipboard under his arm. “You flew clean today,” he said without greeting.
Shannon nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
“Better than clean,” he added. “Esten runs high-speed patterns. Most rookies bleed under that kind of pressure.”
“I kept up.”
“You led,” Marston corrected. “On that last descent? That was your bird. Not hers.”
She waited.
He didn’t smile. “I’d watch her,” he said. “And I’d watch your back. Not all pilots are team players.”
Shannon stood a little straighter. “Understood, sir.”
He handed her a copy of the flight log. Signed. Initialed. “Good flying, Johnson.” Then he walked off.
BARRACKS STEPS
Later, Shannon sat outside on the back step, boots off, elbows on her knees. Esten dropped beside her without a word and tossed her a half-warm bottle of water. “You stole the day.”
Shannon unscrewed the cap. “Wasn’t the plan.”
“That’s why it worked.” Esten didn’t press, but after a beat, she added, “He was watching.”
“I know.”
“You made him look small.”
Shannon didn’t smile. “Not small enough.”
Esten tilted her head. “He’s going to try something.”
“I’m ready.”
“You shouldn’t have to be.”
Shannon’s fingers curled around the bottle. “Life’s not fair.”
Esten looked straight ahead. “No. But I am.” And that was all she said.
They leftsomething on her bunk. Small. Folded. Tucked just under the edge of her blanket. She found it an hour later. Alone. It was a page from the flight manual. Emergency autorotation. Malfunction response. Someone had circledPilot error remains the leading cause of fatality.
There was no name. No threat. Just fact. And her stomach turned to ice.
TWENTY-TWO
CHASE SECURITY TRAINING CENTER – DC
It had been a grueling seven months since Shannon left. The forest was black and wet, thick with mist and silence. Bravo Team moved in staggered file. Fourteen bodies, three-klick spacing, full rucks, night vision blinking green across the underbrush.
It wasn’t the gear that made the exercise brutal. It was the map. Land navigation under no stars, minimal light, shifting waypoints. No digital assist. No pace counters. Just the old-school stuff of a compass, gut, and grit.
The point man went down hard at hour four. It was a bad angle on a creek bed jump. He cracked his ankle. He was dead weight they couldn’t and wouldn’t leave behind.
Paulsen called a halt with a short, sharp signal. The team crouched and waited. No one panicked, but no one moved either.
