The first tremor came just before Waypoint 3: a hitch in the yaw—slight, almost like a wind push except the skies were still, and nothing on Shannon’s readout suggested cross-drift.
“You feel that?” she asked.
Mara didn't answer immediately. She was looking ahead, jaw tight.
Shannon adjusted trim. “Something’s slipping. Your torque read normal?”
Mara blinked. “Yeah. I…” Her head began to bob, then she slumped forward. Hard.
“Mara!” Shannon reached across, grabbed the front of her vest, and shook hard. “Come on. Stay with me.”
There was no response. Her helmeted head rolled slightly to the side. She was unconscious, breathing, but out cold.
A second later, red lights lit up across the dash.
HYDRAULIC PRESSURE FAULT
TAIL ROTOR MISALIGN
Shannon’s heart slammed once as she remembered the note left on her bed.Sabotage.Thanks to her mother’s photo albums, she knew what it looked like. She’d seen birds die from real damage. This wasn’t wear and tear. It was targeted.
The tail kicked. The nose dropped.
“Shit.”
She wrestled for control, flipping to backup hydraulics, adjusting collective just enough to keep them level. The trees were rising fast now. She hit the comms. Fast.
“MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY, this is Blue Bird One-Niner, training bird going down, loss of controls, estimated grid five-three-niner by four-eight, copilot incapacitated, repeat?—"
Static. The transmission cut off mid-sentence.
The rotors screamed. The left side of the bird clipped a branch, then a pine tree. Then the whole tail snapped clean. The bird spun sideways, struck dirt, and bounced.
Once.
Twice.
And folded.
Metal shrieked. Glass blew inward. The cockpit was crushed in a spray of shattered gauges and snapping steel. Then there was stillness.
Smoke leaked up through a fractured hull panel. One engine wheezed. Popped. Inside the wreckage, Shannon’s fingers twitched once against her harness. Her leg was twisted wrong. Her hip flared with fire. But she was breathing. Mara didn’t move at all.
FORT NOVOSEL – COMMAND OPERATIONS BAY – 0632 HOURS
The alarm was just sharp enough to cut the morning fog. Colonel Prescott walked in fast, flight brief in hand, headset crackling as he keyed in. “We’ve lost contact with Blue Bird One-Niner. Last check-in was three minutes prior to Waypoint 3. MAYDAY received, partial grid only.”
Silence fell across the ops bay.
Rhodes stepped forward, already buckling her vest. “I’ll go.”
Carter followed, shouldering her medpack. “You’re not going without me.”
Prescott gave a curt nod. “SAR Team 1, take Bayridge side. Airlift authorized.”
A third voice joined. “I’ll go.” Krueger. Calm. Casual. Gloves already on.
Prescott looked at him. “You flew with Johnson this week?”
