PART 2
I pressed the transmit button.
For one second, only static answered.
Rain hammered the windshield in silver sheets. Lightning flashed somewhere inside the storm, illuminating the cockpit in sharp white bursts. Warning lights blinked across the panels like angry eyes.
Behind me, the businessman was still breathing hard.
The first officer stared at my hand on the radio as if I had just reached into a locked grave.
Then I spoke.
“Raptor Guard, this is Valkyrie Seven.”
The words left my mouth quietly.
But they changed everything.
The veteran in row 37 went completely still.
I could feel him behind me, standing somewhere beyond the open cockpit door, hearing the name I had promised myself I would never use again.
For ten years, Emma Parker had been my name.
Before that, in another life, above deserts, oceans, and burning horizons, I had been Valkyrie Seven.
Static cracked.
Then a voice came through.
Calm.
Sharp.
Military.
“Valkyrie Seven, authenticate.”
The cockpit froze.
The businessman’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
The first officer whispered, “Oh my God.”
I swallowed once.
“Valkyrie Seven authenticates Delta-Niner-Blackbird.”
A pause.
Then another voice.
Lower.
Older.
Stunned.
“Valkyrie Seven… this is Raptor One. We read you.”
Something inside my chest tightened so violently I nearly lost my breath.
I knew that voice.
Major Caleb Ross.
At least, he had been Captain Ross the last time I heard him.
Ten years ago, he had been the last pilot in the sky who still believed I was alive.
“Raptor One,” I said, steadying the aircraft through another violent roll, “civilian aircraft Flight 728, Boeing 747, Seattle to Los Angeles. Captain incapacitated. First officer impaired. Aircraft encountered severe systems disruption in storm conditions. I have control for now.”
“For now?” Raptor One repeated.
“We have intermittent instrument failure, altitude instability, and unknown electrical faults. Request immediate escort and emergency diversion.”
The response came instantly.
“Valkyrie Seven, two F-22s inbound. We are approximately one hundred twenty miles northwest of your position. Maintain heading if able.”
If able.
I looked at the instruments.
The numbers were not my friends.
Altitude still falling in small, ugly increments. Airspeed fluctuating. The artificial horizon flickering like it could not decide whether to tell the truth. Rain and turbulence battered the aircraft with the force of something alive and furious.
“Unable to guarantee,” I said.
The first officer made a choking sound beside me.
I glanced at him.
He was pale, shaking, one hand pressed against his chest. His eyes were open but unfocused.
“Breathe,” I told him.
“I can’t,” he whispered.
“Yes, you can. Look at me.”
He did.
Barely.
“What’s your name?”
“D-David Keller.”
“David, I need you to listen. I am flying the aircraft. You are going to monitor altitude and call out any major deviation. Nothing else. One job.”
He nodded, but terror still had its claws in him.
“One job,” I repeated.
“Altitude,” he whispered. “Altitude. Right.”
Behind me, the businessman finally found his voice.
“What is happening?” he demanded, but his tone had changed. Less command. More fear. “Who are you?”
I did not look back.
“Get out of the cockpit.”
“You can’t just—”
The veteran from row 37 appeared in the doorway.
He was in his late fifties, broad-shouldered, gray at the temples, with the quiet authority of a man who had given orders under gunfire.
“She told you to get out,” he said.
The businessman turned on him.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Someone who knows enough to shut up when a pilot is saving my life.”
The word pilot struck the cockpit harder than thunder.
Pilot.
Not flight attendant.
Not little girl.
Not somebody in the way.
The businessman stepped back, shaken by the veteran’s certainty.
“Sir,” I said without turning, “secure the door area. No passengers past this point.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The veteran did not hesitate.
That, more than anything, told me he knew.
Not guessed.
