Page 3 of Aviatrix

“She was eating in the mess hall,” I call over my shoulder. “I’ll find your dad. Go!”

He pivots hard and disappears through an open door.

I veer toward the bathrooms. If Gary’s not with his son, there’s only one other place he could be. The man is infamous for taking a solid hour in there after lunch.

I bang on the men’s bathroom door. “Atlas! You in there?”

The toilet flushes.

Another impact shakes the walls. Distant screams echo down the corridor. The whole base is spiraling and Gary is taking his sweet time. Good thing he flies faster than he moves on the ground.

The door creaks open and the muscled, graying pilot shuffles out, raising his bushy eyebrows at me like I just interrupted a nap. “What’s going on?”

“We’re under attack,” I say.

Gary sighs. “Operation Thundershock is in effect as of right now.”

Several months ago, Gary swore he got intel from an old friend. Something about a coordinated attack by extraterrestrials, maybe even one orchestrated by our own leadership. I waved it off, called it paranoia. But Gary handpicked a few pilots anyway. Started prepping them for a secret underground mission he coined Operation Thundershock. At the time, I thought he’d lost it.

Now, I’m not so sure.

“Let’s move,” he says, already taking off down the hall.

I follow the lieutenant.

By the time we reach the hangar, the chaos has doubled. Mechanics scramble to move equipment. Pilots shout over each other. No one seems to know who’s in charge.

That’s what happens when command falls into bed with his secretary instead of preparing for war.

My instincts override the noise. The checklist blazes through my mind. Fuel, oxygen, countermeasures. I scan the rows of fighters. Some fueled, some not. My jet, Titan-7, is near the front, still prepped from last night’s drill.

Thank God for muscle memory.

Scooter and Thea burst through a side door. We lock eyes. No words needed.

We move in sync. The four of us—Gary, Scooter, Thea, and me—cut across the hangar at full sprint, weaving through the madness toward our aircraft.

And that’s when my name thunders above the roar.

“Captain Quay!”

I stop short, annoyance coursing through me like a blast.

Lark.

He’s marching across the hangar floor, trying to look composed, but his shirt is misbuttoned and his hair is still a tangled mess. If an alien ship hadn’t just leveled our runway, I’d deck him.

“You are not cleared to fly,” he barks loud enough to cut through the mayhem. “You’re grounded.”

“What?” I gasp. “Why?”

“After your emotional outburst in my office, you’re a liability.”

Is he shitting me right now?

“Me?” I laugh, sharp and humorless. “I wasn’t the one screwing my secretary.”

Despite everything—the alarms, the shouting, the incoming fire—heads turn. My face burns, but I hold the line.