Part 1

The smell. That’s what grounded me. Three years of it. The sharp tang of hydraulic fluid, the ozone from the diagnostic rigs, and the faint, dusty smell of the Arizona desert baking the steel hangar. It was my penance. My hiding place.

For 1,095 days, I was Revena Blackwood, the ghost of Hangar 7.

I pushed a broom. I emptied trash cans. I methodically swept the massive concrete floors around aircraft I used to fly in my dreams. I was invisible. The young airmen called me “the Ghost.” I never spoke unless spoken to. I kept my eyes down. My uniform was worn, my badge simply reading “Maintenance Staff.”

It was a perfect mask. Because Major Revena “Talon” Blackwood was supposed to be dead.

Killed in a “training accident” six months after Operation Shadowfall. A training accident conveniently arranged after I filed a report on Operation Kingfisher—a report that tagged senior officers, including the man about to walk into my hangar, for weapons trafficking.

They gave me a choice: a casket or a broom. I chose the broom. I chose to stay close, to watch, to wait. To be the ghost in the machine.

That morning, the air was thick with tension. Not mine; theirs. A delegation was visiting. I kept sweeping, my movements economical, precise. Tactical. A habit I couldn’t break. I moved around my bird, tail number AV107. My Warthog. The one that carried me through hell and back. The one I’d saved 37 souls in, including a young Captain named Winters.

I could feel her metal skin humming under the lights. She remembered me, even if no one else did.

A commotion at the door. “Attention on deck!” Master Sergeant Briggs bellowed.

I didn’t stop. Ghosts don’t stand at attention. I just shifted my sweeping pattern, moving toward the far wall, my back to the wall, my eyes on the entrance. Always know your exits.

Admiral Dela Cruz entered like he owned the air everyone breathed. Polished shoes, perfect uniform, and a constellation of stars on his shoulders that he hadn’t earned in combat. He was a politician in a warrior’s uniform. And he was the man who had personally overseen the cover-up of Kingfisher. My stomach tightened, a cold knot of ice.

He walked with Colonel Mercer, the base commander. She was sharp, professional. I didn’t know if she was clean, but she was competent.

“The A-10 fleet remains one of our most reliable platforms,” Mercer was saying. “This unit, AV107, has seen more combat hours than any other…”

“Relics,” Dela Cruz cut her off, his voice dripping with condescension. He ran a manicured finger along the fuselage, checking for dust. My dust. I had cleaned it an hour ago. He found none and frowned. “The future is unmanned, Colonel. Psychology doesn’t win wars. Technology does.”

I gripped my broom. He had no idea what psychology—what the fear that the BRRRT of a Warthog’s cannon inspired in the enemy—actually meant. He’d never been pinned down, praying for a sound he’d never heard.

I kept working, moving around them. My path was methodical. I needed to get to the other side of the hangar. As I passed behind the delegation, my broom handle accidentally struck a metal toolbox.

Clang.

The sound was sharp, metallic, and loud in the sudden lull.

Every head turned.

Admiral Dela Cruz, interrupted, fixed his eyes on me. It was the first time in three years any high-ranking officer had ever truly looked at me. His gaze was cold.

“How long has she been working here?” he asked Mercer, not bothering to lower his voice, as if I were a piece of equipment.

“Blackwood? About three years, sir,” Mercer replied, her voice tight.

Dela Cruz stepped toward me. I stood still, broom held at my side, eyes forward, chin down. The perfect, subservient posture.

“You sweep with remarkable precision,” he said, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “Almost like you’re following a flight pattern.”

The hangar went dead quiet. The whir of the ventilators seemed to fade. I could feel the eyes of the entire maintenance crew on me. This was it. This was the moment I had dreaded. He was playing with me. Did he know?

“Sir,” Colonel Mercer stepped forward, “perhaps we should continue. We have a tight schedule.”

“No, no,” Dela Cruz waved her off, his eyes still locked on me. He was enjoying this. The predator toying with the mouse. “I’m curious.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small and metallic. It caught the high bay lights.

The ignition key for AV107.

He dangled it in front of my face.

“Go ahead, sweetheart. Start the Warthog,” he mocked. “Show us how it’s done.”

Laughter rippled through his entourage. Even some of the maintenance crew, guys I’d worked alongside for years, snickered. Humiliate the ghost.

“Sir, that’s not appropriate,” Mercer said, her voice sharp.

But Dela Cruz ignored her. He just kept dangling the key.

I stared at it. The cold metal. The worn teeth. I knew that key.

This was a test. But not the one he thought. He thought he was proving I was nothing. He was giving me an impossible choice.

If I refuse, I’m just the timid janitor. He wins his little power game and moves on. If I try and fail, I’m humiliated. If I… if I succeed… my cover is blown. Three years of work, of waiting, of gathering the fragments of evidence on Kingfisher… all gone.

He knew. He had to know. This wasn’t random. This was a public execution of my cover. He was forcing my hand.

I felt a sudden, cold calm settle over me. The same calm I felt during a rocket attack. My decision was made in a microsecond. You don’t corner something that has nothing left to lose.

Slowly, deliberately, I set my broom aside, leaning it perfectly against the workbench.

I pulled off my worn work gloves, finger by finger, revealing the calloused hands of a pilot, not a janitor.

I took the key from his hand. My fingers brushed his. He looked… surprised. Clumsy.

The laughter grew louder. “Ten bucks says she tries to put it in the weapons bay,” a lieutenant whispered.

I walked to the cockpit ladder. I didn’t hesitate. I climbed up, my movements fluid, practiced. Home.

I settled into the pilot’s seat. The laughter faltered.

The smell of worn leather, old wiring, and faint, lingering sweat. My home. My hand hovered over the instrument panel. My fingers automatically traced a small, faded emblem of a talon I had etched into the metal years ago, hidden beneath the paneling.

The hangar fell silent.

Across the bay, a door opened. Lieutenant Colonel Thaddius Winters—the man I’d pulled out of Shadowfall—walked in, holding a stack of logs. He froze, his eyes widening, recognition dawning. He was the only one here who had seen me in a flight suit.

I inserted the key.

My hands moved. Not of their own accord, but from a place deeper than memory. A place reserved for survival.

I didn’t just start the engines.

I initiated a classified, rapid-start override sequence. A sequence developed for hostile conditions, known only to elite combat pilots with specific clearances. A sequence I had created during the Gulf of Cidra incident.

Flip. Toggle. Prime. Engage.

The massive twin engines didn’t just start; they ignited. A perfect, smooth roar that shook the dust from the rafters. The gauges didn’t flicker; they snapped to perfect operating thresholds.

The laughter was gone. Replaced by a vacuum of stunned, terrified silence.

Winters dropped his logs. Papers scattered. I heard his voice, barely a whisper over the perfect idle of the turbines: “That’s a combat startup sequence. Classified. Gulf of Cidra…”

I ran the checks. Flaps. Hydraulics. Avionics. All green.

Then, just as smoothly, I began the shutdown sequence.

The engines spooled down, their whine fading back into silence.

I climbed out of the cockpit with the same deliberate grace. I walked back to the Admiral. His smug expression was gone, replaced by a mask of pale, confused rage.

I held out the key.

“Thank you for the opportunity, sir,” I said. My voice was clear, level, and carried across the silent hangar. It was the most I had spoken in three years.

He took the key automatically, his hand trembling slightly.

I turned, picked up my gloves, and retrieved my broom. I went back to sweeping, my movements precise, economical, as if nothing had happened.

But everything had. The ghost was no longer invisible. And the hunt had just begun.

Part 2

The rest of the day was a blur of whispers. The maintenance crew, men who had looked through me for years, now couldn’t look at me. They’d stare, and as soon as I glanced up, they’d find something fascinating about a bolt on the floor. I was no longer the Ghost. I was a phantom, a question, a problem.

I finished my shift. Precisely on time. I clocked out. I could feel Dela Cruz’s eyes burning into my back as I walked out of the hangar. He hadn’t moved. He was still standing there, processing his mistake. He hadn’t just exposed me; he had declared war.

The walk to the civilian parking lot was the longest of my life. Every sound was magnified. The crunch of gravel under my boots. The distant cry of a hawk. The click of the security gate. I expected a hand on my shoulder. A black van.

Nothing.

I got into my beat-up, 12-year-old pickup truck. The engine turned over with a comforting, familiar rumble. I checked my mirrors. Habit.

A black SUV, government plates, parked two rows back. It didn’t move.

I pulled out.

It pulled out two cars behind me.

They weren’t trying to be subtle. This was intimidation. A message. We see you. You’re not a ghost anymore.

I drove home. Not to my real home, but to the sterile, impersonal apartment I’d rented for three years. I took three different surface streets, made two unnecessary U-turns, and slowed to let a car pass me. The black SUV stayed with me, maintaining a perfect, professional distance.

I parked. I walked up the exterior stairs to my second-floor unit. I could feel their eyes on me. I unlocked the first lock. The second. The deadbolt. I entered, closed the door, and engaged the two additional locks on the inside.

My apartment was spartan. A bed, a dresser, a small table, two chairs. No photos. No personality. Nothing to prove “Revena Blackwood” was a person.

I went to the kitchen, filled the kettle, and set it to boil. The ritual was calming. While it heated, I did my sweep. I checked the adhesive seals I’d placed on the windows. All intact. I checked the micron-thin filament I’d strung across the closet door. Unbroken.

They hadn’t been inside. Not yet.

I moved to the bedroom. I knelt, rolled back the cheap rug, and pulled up a loose floorboard I’d engineered. Beneath it was a small, fireproof metal box. The combination was 1-0-7. For AV107.

Inside was my life. My real life. My dog tags. A single photograph, the edges scorched, from my time in the sand. It was me, younger, grinning in my flight gear, arm-in-arm with my crew chief. His face was burned away by the “training accident” fire that was supposed to have claimed me. I traced the un-burnt part of my own face.

I pulled out a small, encrypted laptop. I didn’t turn it on. Not yet.

The kettle whistled.

I ignored it. I sat on the floor, the box in my lap, and I let myself feel it. The fear. The cold, burning rage. For three years, I had been a nun in a convent of my own making, praying for a justice that would never come. Today, Dela Cruz had kicked open the door and dragged me out.

My phone—a burner I kept in the box—vibrated. A single text from an unknown number.

Winters is accessing Shadowfall files.

It was my network. The small web of other “ghosts” I’d found. Disgraced analysts, retired mechanics, forgotten soldiers. People who, like me, had seen something they shouldn’t.

So. It begins. Winters, the man I saved, was now hunting the woman who saved him. He was the good soldier. He would connect “Talon” to Shadowfall. He would find my “death” certificate. And he’d find Colonel Mercer, and they would dig.

I put the phone back. I pulled out a micro-storage device. It contained everything. The Kingfisher files. Shipping manifests. Bank transfers. All implicating Dela Cruz and a cabal of officers that reached higher than I dared to think. It was my insurance. My bomb.

And Dela Cruz knew I had it. His “joke” wasn’t a joke at all. It was a provocation, designed to flush me out, to see if the ghost was still “Talon.”

And I had just confirmed it.

The black SUV was still outside. They were waiting. They wanted me to run. If I ran, I was guilty. I was a spy. They could “legitimately” hunt me down.

I wasn’t going to run.

I put the box back. I put the floorboard down. I rolled the rug over it. I went to the kitchen, poured the boiling water, and made a cup of tea. I sat at my small table, facing the door, and I waited.

The next morning, I drove to the base. The SUV was gone, replaced by a different one. A dark blue sedan. They were rotating.

I arrived 15 minutes early, as always. But the civilian contractor entrance was different. Two armed Military Police stood with the regular security guard.

I presented my badge.

The guard scanned it. He looked at his screen. He looked at me. His eyes were wide with a mix of fear and curiosity.

“Ms. Blackwood,” one of the MPs said, his voice artificially deep. “Please step aside. You’ll need to come with us for additional verification.”

This was it.

They didn’t handcuff me. Not yet. That was for show. They were “escorting” me. We walked, one in front, one behind. We walked right back to Hangar 7.

Dela Cruz was there, holding court. Base security, his own staff. He looked like he hadn’t slept. His arrogance from yesterday was replaced by a brittle, furious energy.

“Yesterday’s incident represented a significant security breach,” he was saying, his voice echoing in the hangar. “We need to identify how this information was obtained and whether it represents a larger intelligence threat.”

Colonel Mercer arrived, Lieutenant Colonel Winters at her side. Winters looked haunted. He knew. I could see it in his eyes. He had seen the file. He had seen the face of the pilot who saved him, and now he was looking at the janitor who swept his floors. The two images were tearing him apart.

The MPs marched me to the center of the group. I stood at parade rest, my eyes on a spot on the wall just over Dela Cruz’s head.

“Miss Blackwood,” Dela Cruz spat the name. “You’re being detained for questioning regarding potential security breaches and identity falsification.”

Two MPs moved forward with handcuffs.

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. I just waited. My hand twitched. I was calculating the distance to the nearest fire extinguisher. I could take out the two MPs, maybe even Dela Cruz’s aide, but not the whole room.

“On what grounds, sir?” Mercer’s voice was ice.

“Security breach. Potential espionage. Take your pick, Colonel,” Dela Cruz snapped. “Civilians don’t know classified startup sequences.”

“Unless they’re not actually civilians,” Winters said. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the hangar.

Dela Cruz turned his furious gaze on Winters. “Explain yourself, Lieutenant Colonel.”

Before he could, the hangar doors burst open. A senior NCO marched in, carrying a sealed envelope, and handed it directly to Colonel Mercer, bypassing the Admiral completely. “Priority transmission from CENTCOM, ma’am. Urgent.”

Mercer broke the seal. She read it. Her face went pale. Then she regained her composure, her spine turning to steel.

“Sir,” she said to Dela Cruz, her voice lethally formal. “I’ve just received direct orders regarding this matter.” She handed him the document.

He read it. His face, already red, turned a blotchy, sick white. “This can’t be right. This authorization code… it’s from the SecDef.”

“It is,” Winters confirmed. “Stand down, Admiral. This takes precedence.”

Dela Cruz looked from the paper to me, his eyes wide with a new kind of fear. The fear of a man who just realized the pawn he was toying with was actually a queen. “Who… who exactly are we dealing with here?”

All eyes turned to me. The janitor. The ghost.

Winters limped forward. “Release Miss Blackwood. Now.” The MPs looked at Dela Cruz, then at Winters, then at Mercer. They stepped back.

“Admiral,” Mercer said, taking control. “We will continue this in my office. Miss Blackwood, you will accompany us.”

We walked out. The three of us: the base commander, the decorated survivor, and the ghost. The entire maintenance crew watched us go. I didn’t look back.

Mercer’s office was soundproof. She closed the door and activated a privacy screen.

Dela Cruz started pacing. “I want answers! How does a janitor know…”

“Perhaps,” Winters interrupted, “because she isn’t a janitor at all. Perhaps she’s Major Revena ‘Talon’ Blackwood.”

Dela Cruz froze. He knew the name. Of course he knew the name.

“That’s impossible,” he scoffed, but sweat was beading on his forehead. “Major Blackwood is dead.”

“Is she?” Mercer asked. She turned to me. “Miss Blackwood. Or should I say, Major?”

The mask was gone. There was no point. I let my shoulders straighten, let the years of military bearing I had suppressed snap back into place. I wasn’t the ghost anymore.

“My ‘death’ was fabricated, Admiral,” I said. My real voice sounded strange to my own ears. Strong. Cold. “It was arranged after I filed a report on Operation Kingfisher. November 12th, 2015.”

Dela Cruz stopped pacing. He stared at me. “Kingfisher is classified above top secret.”

“Because I was there,” I shot back. “I led the mission. I saw the unauthorized weapons shipments. I tracked the diversions. And I filed the report that landed on your desk.”

His color drained completely. “That’s a slanderous accusation.”

“Is it?” I took a step toward him. “Eight senior officers. Billions in black-market arms. Three have since been promoted. One is currently standing in this office.”

The room was silent. Winters had moved, almost unconsciously, to a position between Dela Cruz and the door. Mercer’s hand was under her desk.

“You have no evidence,” Dela Cruz whispered, his rage turning to panic.

“The evidence is why I’m still alive,” I said. “It’s my insurance. Buried. And you, Admiral… you just triggered the dead man’s switch. You forced my hand. You couldn’t leave the ghost alone, could you? You had to come and poke the bear.”

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” he hissed. “You won’t survive the week.”

“Is that a threat, Admiral?” Mercer asked, her voice dangerously quiet.

“It’s a fact.”

“Then we have a problem,” I said, “because it’s not just about Kingfisher anymore. You didn’t just come here to poke me. You came here on business. Three days ago, I intercepted a communication. A major shipment is being prepared. Destination: unknown. Payload: tactical nuclear components.”

Silence. Winters and Mercer looked at me, horrified. The weapons trafficking was one thing. This was another.

Dela Cruz’s face told me everything. It was true.

“That’s why you’re here,” I pressed. “To use this base as a stopover. To ensure security was either compliant or blind. And you just blew it all up because your ego couldn’t resist humiliating a janitor.”

“Admiral,” Mercer said, her hand coming out from under the desk. “Your communication privileges are suspended. Security is waiting outside to escort you to guest quarters. You will remain there until the Secretary of Defense’s representatives arrive.”

“You can’t do this!” he roared.

“I just did.”

The door opened. The MPs were there. As they took him, his eyes locked on me. Pure, unadulterated hatred. “You’re dead,” he mouthed.

“I’ve been dead for three years,” I mouthed back. “I’m used to it.”

He was gone. The room felt… lighter.

“Major Blackwood,” Mercer said, letting out a breath. “I believe you. But we have a critical problem. That transport from the SecDef? It’s been diverted. A ‘security concern.’ And Dela Cruz’s people are already moving. Base security just reported unmarked vehicles gathering at the perimeter.”

“He’s not waiting,” Winters said. “He’s moving to contain this. He’s coming for us, and he’s moving that shipment tonight.”

“We know,” I said, pulling the micro-storage device from a hidden pocket in my boot. “My network just confirmed. A remote airstrip, 50 miles north. Classified as a weather station. The shipment is scheduled for 2200 hours.”

“We’re cut off,” Mercer said. “No authorization. No backup.”

“We have one thing,” I said, looking out the window, toward Hangar 7.

Winters looked at me, then at the hangar. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his scarred face. “AV107.”

“Briggs,” Mercer said, already on her intercom. “Master Sergeant Briggs. My office. Now. No, not through channels. Find him.”

We had three hours. Three hours to stop a nuclear shipment with no authority, a compromised base, and a single, ‘obsolete’ aircraft.

“It’s suicide,” Winters said.

“It’s the job,” I replied, feeling the old adrenaline, the purpose, flooding back into my veins. “I’ve been sweeping the floor for three years, Colonel. It’s time to take out the trash.”

The lockdown was instant. Mercer was a miracle of efficiency. She declared an unscheduled basewide security drill, Protocol Zulu. It sowed just enough confusion, cut off external comms, and bought us precious minutes. We ran—not walked—to the auxiliary hangar.

Master Sergeant Briggs was there, his face grim. He and his most trusted crew had AV107 prepped. Full combat load. No flight plan.

“Major,” he said, saluting me. It was the first time. “I… for three years… I had you…”

“You did your job, Master Sergeant,” I said, cutting him off. “You treated me like I was invisible. That’s what kept me alive. Now, I need you to do it one more time. Make this launch invisible.”

“She’s ready, ma’am,” he said, his voice thick. “Show them hell, Talon.”

I climbed in. Home. The cockpit embraced me. I strapped in, my hands flying across the panels, the muscle memory absolute. Winters was in the bunker, our only link, feeding me data from my network via a secure, independent channel.

“Revena, they’re on to us,” Winters’s voice crackled in my ear. “The DIA is here. A Director Hargrove. He’s relieved Mercer of command. They’ve got her detained. They’re claiming you’re the security threat.”

“They can claim whatever they want,” I muttered, firing up the engines. The roar was my answer.

“They’ve ordered the tower to stop you. Force if necessary.”

“Tell them to get in line.”

The hangar doors opened. I saw them. Two military police SUVs, sirens flashing, racing across the tarmac to cut me off.

I pushed the throttle.

The A-10 isn’t fast, but she’s a monster of torque. She leaped forward. The SUVs swerved, trying to block the runway. Too late.

I pulled back on the stick. The wheels left the ground. The weight of the world, of three years of hiding, fell away. I was flying. I was me.

“Talon is airborne,” I said, my voice steady. “Proceeding to target coordinates. Give me eyes, Winters.”

“Understood,” his voice was tense. “Satellite shows the target. It’s hot. They’re loading a C-130. They’re moving fast.”

I flew low, using the terrain to mask my approach. The desert night was a familiar blanket. 19 minutes. That’s all I had.

“Five minutes out,” I reported.

“They see you, Revena! They were warned. Thermal imaging shows multiple defensive positions. They’ve got anti-aircraft.”

“Expected.”

The facility lit up. A cluster of lights in the vast darkness. And then, the sky exploded. Tracer rounds, fiery green lines, reached for me.

“So much for the diplomatic approach,” I grunted, banking hard. The A-10’s titanium ‘bathtub’ shuddered as a few rounds pinged off the armor. This plane was built to take a beating.

“Revena, they’re moving the package! They’re loading it now!”

I couldn’t destroy the transport. I couldn’t risk detonating the components. This had to be surgical.

I lined up on the runway, ahead of the C-130. I selected my munitions. Not the gun. Not yet. Precision.

I pickled the bombs. They tore into the tarmac, creating a beautiful, impassable trench of fire and shattered concrete. The C-130, which had just started its taxi, slammed on its brakes, skidding to a halt.

“Runway is disabled. Transport is grounded,” I reported, pulling up hard.

“They’re not giving up!” Winters yelled. “They’re splitting the package! Three vehicles, east side, they’re bugging out! They have to be the components!”

I saw them. Three black trucks, tearing off into the open desert.

“I see ’em.”

I banked the A-10, dropping low, the ground rushing up to meet me. This was my element. The hunt.

I switched to the main weapon. The GAU-8. The Avenger.

I didn’t aim at the trucks. I aimed in front of them.

BRRRRRRRRRRT.

The gun’s roar vibrated in my teeth. The 30mm rounds, each the size of a milk bottle, ripped the ground apart 100 yards ahead of the lead vehicle. The earth erupted.

The convoy swerved, terrified, and bunched up. They were trapped.

“Targets stopped,” I reported, circling them like a hawk. “They’re not surrendering. They’re deploying.”

Armed men poured out, taking positions. One man stood apart, directing them. I zoomed in with my targeting pod. My blood went cold.

“Winters,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. “I have visual confirmation on the man in charge. It’s Colonel Victor Reynolds.”

“Reynolds? He’s supposed to be in Germany. This… this goes all the way up.”

“It always did.”

I broadcast on the open emergency frequency. “Colonel Reynolds. This is Major Revena Blackwood, callsign Talon. Your operation is over. Dela Cruz and Hargrove are in custody. Reinforcements are 20 minutes out. Stand down.”

For a long moment, nothing. Just a dozen guns pointed at me from the ground.

Then, slowly, one by one, they dropped their weapons. Hands went up. Reynolds stood there, defeated, and slowly raised his own.

“They’re standing down,” I reported. “Package is secure.”

“Confirmed, Talon,” Winters’s voice was thick with relief. “Spec Ops is inbound. And… Revena… General Chambers is here. He… he took the base back. It’s over.”

It’s over.

I kept circling, my wings a protective shadow over the secured convoy, until the first of the rescue helicopters appeared on the horizon.

As dawn broke, I landed AV107 back at Davis-Monthan. The entire base, it seemed, was on the flight line. Colonel Mercer—reinstated. Lieutenant Colonel Winters. And at their head, General Chambers.

I shut down the engines, the silence ringing in my ears. I climbed down.

Every single person on that flight line, from the General to the youngest airman, snapped to attention. They saluted. Not the janitor. Not the ghost.

Major Revena “Talon” Blackwood.

I returned the salute.

“Major Blackwood,” General Chambers said, his voice rough with emotion. “Welcome back to the living.”

Three months later, I stood in that same hangar. It was clean. Packed with personnel in dress blues. They pinned the Air Force Cross to my chest. They read a citation about valor, about a three-year deep-cover operation. They talked about integrity.

After the ceremony, I found myself next to AV107. She was freshly painted. Under the cockpit, where a pilot’s name goes, it read: Maj. R. “Talon” Blackwood.

“They offered me a task force,” I told Mercer and Winters, who had walked up beside me. “To hunt the rest of Reynolds’ network. More shadows. More hiding.”

“Are you going to take it?” Winters asked.

I shook my head. “I’m done with shadows.” I ran my hand along the Warthog’s fuselage. “General Chambers approved my transfer. I’m taking command of the A-10 training squadron. I’m going to teach the new pilots what it means to fly.”

“Good,” Mercer smiled. “God knows they need a leader who understands what integrity actually costs.”

As I walked to my jet for that first training flight, I saw Master Sergeant Briggs. He nodded, gesturing to the nose of the plane.

The maintenance crew had added something. A new emblem, painted just beneath my name. It wasn’t official, but it was perfect.

A small, simple silhouette of a broom, crossed with a pilot’s wings.

Underneath it, two words:

FROM SHADOWS TO SKY.